The fluorescent light on the computer screen is not glaring.
But in the dimly lit studio, the newly opened email appeared almost hot to the touch.
The email contained no small talk, no roundabout pleasantries.
The first line of the main text is a string of numbers that have been specially bolded and highlighted in red.
As of this morning, nationwide physical book sales of "The Ferryman" have reached 3,120,000 copies.
[Only five days after its launch.]
Lin Que leaned back in his ergonomic chair.
He casually set aside the can of bubbling Coke in his hand.
Three million copies.
In an era when the physical publishing industry is practically on its deathbed, it's time to pull the plug on its ventilator.
This number can only be described as a miracle.
Lin Que scrolled through the chatterbox, his gaze skipping over the polite small talk.
It directly locked those rows of data that were highlighted in red.
The light from the screen reflected in his pupils, and Wang De'an's barely concealed excitement seemed to overflow through the words.
Lin Que could even picture the editor-in-chief, who was over fifty years old, typing away on his keyboard at that moment.
He held the purple clay teapot in his hand, his face beaming with the elation of someone who had found a treasure.
[Teacher Jian Shen:]
Given the current impressive circulation figures, the publishing house has unanimously decided to increase your royalties from 16% to 18%.
Thank you again, Professor Jian Shen, for your trust.
The company's phone lines have been ringing off the hook with calls from distributors these past few days.
Not only Xia Hua Bookstore, but even small bookstores that previously only sold teaching materials and self-help books are frantically restocking.
The printing press machines have been running continuously for over a hundred hours.
There is something I must report to you:
Due to excessive demand for replenishment
The stock of high-grade wood-based paper at three major paper mills around Jiangsu Province is running out.
Industry insiders jokingly refer to this as the "deep-sight effect" causing a surge in demand for paper in Wuhan.
Those experts who once predicted the demise of print media are now studying your phenomenal data.
Seeing this, Lin Que raised an eyebrow, picked up the cola beside him, and took a sip.
These days, even paper can be sold out; it seems everyone has been starving for a long time.
He swiped the mouse down.
There is a pre-settlement statement in the attachment.
That was my first royalty payment.
Looking at the long string of zeros following the number, Lin Que silently did the calculation in his mind.
This money, combined with the previous royalties and revenue sharing from Hongguo.com, is enough for me to live comfortably for the rest of my life.
Lin Que turned his chair around to face the huge floor-to-ceiling bookshelf behind him.
The bookshelves were empty.
Only two books stood there all alone.
The Miracles of the Namiya General Store and The Ferryman.
Even including the unpublished "The Little Prince",
In addition, there are "The Human World is Like a Prison" and "The Ferryman" written by the "Dream Weaver".
Compared to the vast treasure trove of civilization contained in his mind,
This little bit is nothing, not even a drop in the ocean.
We have the money.
But looking at the empty bookshelves, Lin Que didn't feel the euphoria that comes with sudden wealth.
Instead, it gave rise to an inexplicable sense of urgency.
Five thousand years of Chinese history, those brilliant names
—Lu Xun, Mao Dun, Lao She…
He was just a mediocre torchbearer.
However, the efficiency of this fire-transferring process is currently too low.
The cultural soil of this world is too barren.
It's so barren that any seed you throw in will grow into a towering tree.
But precisely because of the poverty, people's aesthetic sense remains at a very primitive stage.
Curing alone is not enough.
Sarcasm alone is not enough.
He needs to make a plan.
The left hand is Jian Shen, using the gentlest knife to carve the soul of this world.
The right hand is the dream weaver, using the most extreme fear to awaken those numb nerves.
There should be more.
Lin Que tapped his fingers lightly on the armrest, the rhythm very slow.
Since God sent him here with the spark of that world, he can't just light a candle.
He wants to burn it.
It burned out a piece of sky.
Lin Que snapped out of his thoughts and turned his gaze back to the screen.
Wang De'an's email wasn't finished yet.
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