Nine minutes after the post was sent.

Lu Zhixian was washing dishes in the kitchen. His phone was on the living room sofa, its screen lighting up incessantly.

He dried the dishes, put them in the cupboard, walked back, picked up his phone, and glanced at the comment section.

Nine minutes, two thousand four hundred comments.

The top few were from fans.

"Holy crap, is the Godfather expanding into a new territory?"

"God Lu: I'm in a good mood today, so I'll write a novel for fun."

"Ahhh! I knew it!! I knew he wouldn't just stay idle!!"

As he scrolled down, the tone changed.

"A piano champion writing a novel? Heh, does he really think he's a polymath?"

"Music and literature are two completely different things, okay? Just because you play the piano well means you can write a book?"

"I'm begging you, if you make music, just stick to making music. Don't come and ruin the literary circle."

Lu Zhixian flipped through a couple of pages and put his phone down.

The reaction was within his expectations. It was even a bit milder than he had anticipated.

He thought some people would just start cursing directly.

As it turned out, it was just sarcasm and cynicism.

"Not bad," he muttered to himself, sat back down at his computer, and continued typing.

At nine-thirty, the matter began to ferment.

Several literary Big V bloggers posted on Weibo one after another, all pointing their spears in the same direction.

The book reviewer "Between the Lines," who had over three million followers, posted a long article. The tone was very polite, but every sentence was barbed:

"Teacher Lu Zhixian's achievements in the field of music are beyond doubt; the Xiao Hua Competition championship was well-deserved.

But literary creation and musical creation are completely different things. Melody can rely on talent, but writing requires experience, accumulation, and a deep understanding of human nature."

A crowd of people cheered in the comment section.

"That's so true. Writing a novel isn't something that can be handled just by posting a status update."

"Does he think the literary circle is like the music scene, where you can just cross over and win an award?"

Another blogger specializing in literary criticism, "Cold Eye on Books," was even more direct, with just one sentence:

"Another crossover contestant blinded by traffic; literature doesn't need this kind of hype."

This Weibo post was shared over ten thousand times.

The fans, of course, wouldn't stand for it.

Lu Zhixian's fan base was very diverse. There were those who joined after hearing 'dispelling sorrow' early on, those drawn in by his performance of 'La Campanella,' and newcomers after the Xiao Hua Competition. The only thing these people had in common was that they had seen the script of 'being doubted first, then slapping faces later' too many times.

A big fan took the lead in digging up Lu Zhixian's resume, from 'dispelling sorrow' being mocked as a 'no-name song that couldn't possibly become a hit,' to his performance of 'La Campanella' being called 'flashy but soulless,' to his prediction of being 'eliminated in the first round' of the Xiao Hua Competition, and finally winning the championship with a unanimous full score.

The caption was just one sentence: "Every time you say he can't do it, he insists on doing it. I suggest the teachers in the literary circle fasten your seatbelts."

Fifty thousand shares.

The two sides quickly clashed in the comment section.

"Being great at music doesn't mean you're great at literature. That's basic logic, okay?"

"Who are you to say he's not great? Have you seen a single word he's written?"

"I haven't, and that's why I'm saying I'm waiting to see a joke."

"Fine, remember what you said today. Don't delete it when the time comes."

The topic #Lu Zhixian Writing a Novel# rushed to the eighteenth spot on the hot search list at ten o'clock, and rose to ninth half an hour later.

By twelve o'clock noon, it was third.

Old Zhao's call came in at ten-fifteen in the morning.

Lu Zhixian was currently typing the part where Youqing was dragged off to donate blood. His fingers didn't stop as he propped the phone against his shoulder to answer.

"Did you see the hot searches?" Old Zhao's voice was tight with anxiety. "Several Big Vs from the literary circle have entered the fray, you know that?"

"I know."

"And you're not reacting at all?"

"I am reacting."

Lu Zhixian finished typing a line. "I'm currently writing."

Old Zhao was silent for two seconds.

"I mean, do you want to post a Weibo to respond? Or I can arrange for some PR to control the comments?"

"Control what?"

"Control... those people saying your crossover is going to be a disaster."

Lu Zhixian let out a chuckle, his fingers still racing across the keyboard.

"Old Zhao, when have you ever known me to win using my mouth?"

Old Zhao fell silent again.

"Did I explain myself during 'dispelling sorrow'? Did I explain myself when I played 'La Campanella'? Before the competition, when Andre said I only had hand speed, did I explain myself?"

Old Zhao's breathing could be heard from the other end of the line.

"They can argue all they want; I'll write what I want."

"When the book comes out, the words will speak for themselves."

The call hung up.

Old Zhao sat in his living room, holding the phone to his ear for a long time without putting it down.

He took a deep breath, tossed the phone onto the coffee table, and leaned back.

"It's like this every time," he rubbed his temples and muttered.

"It's truly a case of the emperor not being worried while the eunuch is losing his mind."

"Damn it, why does it feel like I'm insulting myself?"

In the afternoon, the public opinion continued to ferment.

The news reached the music circle.

He Zhiyuan posted a status on his Moments.

"With some people, you can never guess what they'll do next. But it doesn't matter; you just need to wait to be amazed by him."

He didn't name names, but everyone knew who he was talking about.

Jiang Cheng shared Lu Zhixian's post on Weibo with an even simpler caption: "Waiting to see."

A fan asked him below: "Brother Jiang, do you think Teacher Lu can pull off writing a novel?"

Jiang Cheng replied: "You're asking me? When I spent one yuan to collaborate with him back then, I didn't think he could pull it off either. And what happened later?"

This reply was screenshotted and shared tens of thousands of times.

The opposition wasn't idle either.

A public account called "Old-school Bookworm" published an article with a striking title: "Why Should a Musician Write a Novel?"

The entire eighteen-hundred-word piece had one core viewpoint.

Every profession has its specialty; crossing over isn't a cure-all, especially since literature is one of the art forms with the highest threshold. It's not something you can touch just because you're famous.

The last paragraph of the article was quite blunt:

"I hope Mr. Lu Zhixian doesn't treat literature as the next stamp in his collection. Readers aren't fans; they won't buy your book just because you play the piano well."

When Lu Zhixian saw this article, he had just finished typing the part where Fengxia became mute due to a fever.

He looked at the title for three seconds and didn't click in.

He went back to typing.

The sound of the keyboard echoed in the living room all day long.

—

Nine o'clock in the evening.

Lu Zhixian stopped.

He glanced at the word count in the bottom right corner.

Thirty-two thousand.

This typing speed was, honestly, a bit slow.

He stretched his fingers and cracked his neck from side to side.

Then he picked up his phone and opened Weibo.

The topics about him were still on the hot search list. #Lu Zhixian Writing a Novel# had risen to second, followed by a bunch of derivative topics like #Just Stick to Making Music# and #Crossover Disaster Predicted#.

He opened the edit box.

He didn't type a single word of explanation.

He didn't respond to any doubts.

He took a screenshot.

The word count bar at the bottom of the document.

Thirty-two thousand words.

The caption had only four words: "Progress is okay."

Send.

After this update was posted, the style of the comment section changed.

The fans were the first to react.

"Wait, thirty-two thousand? In one day?"

"He posted this morning at six saying he was going to write a novel, and now it's nine. You're telling me he wrote thirty-two thousand words in a single day???"

"As a web novel reader, I can tell you that an author who updates six thousand words a day is considered diligent. What kind of concept is thirty-two thousand words in a day???"

"Wait... is this output speed even humanly possible?"

A top-voted comment read:

"LMAO, you're still debating whether he can write well, while he's already written over thirty thousand words in a single day. You've been arguing all day and probably haven't even come up with a title yet."

Eighty thousand likes.

The opposition was also momentarily stunned.

"A high word count doesn't mean high quality..."

"Exactly, thirty thousand words could just be complete nonsense."

But the voices were noticeably weaker than during the day.

Because no matter what, the figure of thirty-two thousand words in a day was inherently oppressive.

A Big V from the web novel circle saw this update and posted a Weibo:

"Regardless of the content, just looking at this output speed and execution, I'm impressed. How many people say they're going to write a book and don't pick up a pen for three years? He went from announcement to production in fifteen hours."

In the comment section, some of the previously firm opponents began to waver.

"Fine, at least it shows he's serious and not just talking."

"Let's wait for the content... hope it's not thirty thousand words of filler."

In the early hours of the morning.

Lu Zhixian sat back on the sofa and scrolled through his phone.

Lin Shiya sent a message: "Thirty-two thousand? Did you weld the keyboard to your hands?"

Lu Zhixian replied: "No, I even had a cup of coffee in between."

Lin Shiya: "...Are you trying to annoy people on purpose?"

Lu Zhixian: "When have I ever done anything on purpose? I've always been very sincere."

Lin Shiya sent a face-palm emoji and stopped talking.

Old Zhao, on the other hand, had become much quieter.

After seeing the screenshot of the thirty-two thousand words, he only sent one message: "Fine, as long as you're happy."

Lu Zhixian could tell that Old Zhao had entered the 'I don't care anymore, let him be' psychological stage.

It was the same process every time. First collapse, then struggle, and finally give up on treatment.

Just as he was about to turn off his phone and sleep, a Weibo notification popped up.

The notification was from an account named "Song Yuanzhi."

Verified as: Well-known literary critic, special contributor for 'Contemporary Literature' magazine, and visiting professor in the Chinese Department of a university.

Over four million followers.

Lu Zhixian didn't recognize the name, but he understood the title 'well-known literary critic.'

Song Yuanzhi shared his 'Progress is okay' update.

He only wrote one sentence.

"I will read every single word to see exactly what kind of joke this piano champion can write."

The comment section had already exploded.

"Teacher Song has personally entered the fray??"

"This guy is famous for his poisonous tongue. Song Yuanzhi has roasted ten times more books than he's praised."

"It's over, it's over. If someone like Song Yuanzhi thinks your writing is trash, he will pick out every sentence and mock it word by word."

Lu Zhixian looked at this share for about five seconds.

I'll show you what a King Bomb is.