The next morning.

Lu Zhixian typed the final period.

On the screen, the cursor rested at the end of the document.

He didn't stretch, didn't lean back in his chair with a long sigh of relief, and didn't show any of the excitement a 'completion of a masterpiece' should have in a movie.

He just sat there, staring at the word count in the bottom right corner of the screen.

He had been typing since six o'clock yesterday morning; it had been almost twenty-nine hours.

He had slept for less than three hours in between.

Lu Zhixian's hands were still resting on the keyboard, unmoving.

The curtains in the living room weren't drawn, and only the light from the computer screen illuminated his face. His eyes were fixed on that number, but his focus was not on the digits themselves.

He was thinking about Fugui.

Not as a 'transcriber,' but as someone who had read it, experienced it, and walked through it all over again.

The text integrated by the system was etched into his brain. His twenty-nine hours of work were essentially just 'porting'—moving the contents of his mind onto the screen.

But during the process of porting, he had experienced it once more.

When he finished the last word, he glanced out the window.

He said nothing.

Now he sat here, with a complete 120,000 words before him.

The entire life of an old man named Fugui.

Lu Zhixian moved the mouse, scrolled up, and returned to the first page.

The first line of text reflected in his eyes.

He looked at it for a few seconds, then hit save.

There were no unnecessary sentiments.

His legs were a bit numb when he stood up. He held onto the table for a moment, then walked to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

He was halfway through the water when the doorbell rang.

"It's open."

Old Zhao pushed the door open, carrying two bags of breakfast. As soon as he entered, he smelled the coffee in the room and wrinkled his nose.

"You didn't sleep all night?"

"I slept for over two hours."

Old Zhao put the breakfast on the coffee table, glanced at the pile of empty coffee cups and sandwich wrappers next to the sofa, and said nothing.

Then he saw the computer screen.

On the screen was the first page of the document, with two words for the title.

«to live».

Old Zhao walked over, scanned his eyes downward, and then looked at the word count in the bottom right corner.

"One hundred and twenty thousand?"

"Just about."

Old Zhao turned his head to look at Lu Zhixian. Lu Zhixian was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, drinking water.

"You finished writing?"

"Yeah."

"120,000 words?"

"You just saw it."

"From yesterday morning until now?"

"Almost twenty-nine hours."

Old Zhao opened his mouth.

Then he looked at the screen again, then at Lu Zhixian, then back at the screen.

"Were you possessed by someone last night?"

Lu Zhixian chuckled. "Maybe the God of Literature worked overtime."

Old Zhao didn't laugh. He walked to the computer and sat down, his hand on the touchpad. He hesitated for a moment. "Can I read it?"

"Go ahead."

Old Zhao stared at the first page and began to read.

Lu Zhixian ignored him, washed his face, and returned to the living room. Old Zhao was still reading, flipping through page after page.

Five minutes passed.

Old Zhao didn't speak.

Ten minutes.

Still no words.

Lu Zhixian munched on the bun Old Zhao had brought, watching the words on the screen scroll past line by line before Old Zhao.

Old Zhao's expression changed from initial curiosity to seriousness, and then to something Lu Zhixian rarely saw.

Focus.

Complete focus.

Old Zhao was a manager, not a literary critic.

He wouldn't analyze narrative structures or understand techniques like line drawing. But he was a thirty-five-year-old man.

He had experienced things, suffered losses, and seen too many people rise and fall in this industry.

He understood it.

At the twenty-minute mark, Old Zhao reached the section about Youqing.

His hand stopped.

His whole body leaned a bit closer to the screen.

Lu Zhixian watched from the side, remaining silent.

A few more minutes passed, and Old Zhao looked up.

His eyes were a bit red.

"This..."

He cleared his throat, his voice slightly hoarse.

"You wrote this?"

"You saw it for yourself."

Old Zhao looked at him, opened his mouth, and closed it again. It took several seconds before he could speak a complete sentence.

"I think you should contact a publisher."

Lu Zhixian swallowed the last bite of the bun and wiped his hands.

"I'm not contacting anyone."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not publishing it."

Old Zhao was stunned. "You wrote 120,000 words and you're not publishing it? Then what are you doing?"

"Posting it online."

"Online? Which site?"

"Tomato Novel."

Tomato Novel was the largest original literature platform in the country, with over a hundred million users, primarily focused on web novels.

Old Zhao's expression changed.

"You're going to put this book on a web novel platform?"

"Yes."

"Paid or free?"

"Free."

Old Zhao stood up.

"Lu Zhixian."

"Yeah."

"Do you know that if this book goes through publishing, with your current popularity and this quality of content, the first printing would be at least—"

"I know."

"Then why do you want it to be free?"

Lu Zhixian walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight streamed in, and he squinted slightly.

"You just read for twenty minutes, and your eyes turned red."

Old Zhao didn't respond.

"I don't care how much money this book is worth. I care about how many people can see it."

He turned his head to look at Old Zhao.

"Let people see it first."

Old Zhao stared at him for a long time.

Old Zhao sat back on the sofa, covered his face with both hands, and took a deep breath.

"Fine."

He lowered his hands.

"We'll do it however you say."

Lu Zhixian smiled. "Old Zhao, you've improved. This time it only took you five minutes to figure it out."

"Get lost."

Two o'clock in the afternoon.

Lu Zhixian registered an author account on the Tomato Novel platform.

He used his real name.

His profile picture was a solid black image.

The bio only had one sentence: "I make music."

Then he opened Weibo and edited a new post.

“«to live», full text of 120,000 words, finished. Tonight at 8:00 PM, it will be released for free on the Tomato Novel platform. No payment required. Come if you want to read.”

Send.

He put down his phone and went to the kitchen to brew himself a cup of coffee.

Before the coffee was ready, his phone started ringing.

He didn't check it.

Ten minutes later, he returned to the living room with his coffee and picked up his phone.

The Weibo comments had already exceeded 30,000.

"Free?? 120,000 words for free??"

"To be honest, regardless of whether it's well-written or not, I respect this attitude."

"Hahaha, he actually finished it. 120,000 words in two days. This output speed has straight up silenced the web novel circle."

"Releasing it for free is just hype; don't be fooled."

"Wait... Tomato Novel? He's putting serious literature on a web novel platform? I don't understand this move."

"LMAO, if it's badly written, it doesn't matter where you put it. Making it free is even more embarrassing."

He scrolled down a few pages and saw Jiang Cheng's repost.

Jiang Cheng's caption was just one word: "Read."

He Zhiyuan also reposted, writing a bit more: "Some people don't need reasons for what they do, because the results will be more persuasive than any reason."

Lin Shiya's message was sent privately.

"You really finished it? In two days?"

Lu Zhixian replied: "Twenty-nine hours."

Lin Shiya: "..."

Half a minute passed.

"Lu Zhixian, are you sure you're not an AI?"

"Handsomer than an AI."

"Can you be serious for one second?"

"I am very serious. I am indeed handsomer than an AI."

Lin Shiya sent a "Goodbye" emoji, but she didn't actually leave. A moment later, she sent another: "I'll be reading it tonight at eight."

Lu Zhixian suddenly felt that this sentence mattered to him more than all the previous evaluations combined.

He didn't reply and put his phone down.

Four o'clock in the afternoon.

Song Yuanzhi's Weibo was updated on time.

He reposted Lu Zhixian's post with a clean and sharp caption.

"Free does not mean noble, and fast does not mean excellent. Tonight at eight, I will read it."

The comment section erupted.

"Teacher Song is waiting to perform the autopsy."

"It's over. Song Yuanzhi is going to do a live stream of picking apart every single word. I can't bear to imagine the scene."

"Seriously, if even Song Yuanzhi says it's good, then the book is truly good. If Song Yuanzhi says it's trash... then Lu Zhixian will completely lose face in the literary world."

"Grab your stools, see you at eight."

The hashtag #ToLiveFreeReleaseTonightAtEight started climbing from four in the afternoon.

Old Zhao was at home constantly refreshing his phone, sending messages to Lu Zhixian: "Are you nervous?"

Lu Zhixian replied with a photo.

The photo showed his kitchen stove with a pot on it, and inside the pot were stewing ribs.

"Want to come over for a meal?"

Old Zhao slammed his phone face down on the table.

7:45 PM.

Tomato Novel Literature Platform Headquarters.

The technical director stared at the backend data panel, the coffee in his hand already cold.

An operations colleague next to him leaned over. "How many reservations now?"

The technical director didn't speak; he just turned the screen around.

When the operations colleague saw that number, his expression froze.

"This... this is for a free novel?"

"Yes."

"How can the reservation numbers be four times higher than the major title we pushed last month?"

The technical director didn't answer. He picked up the internal phone on the desk and dialed.

"Operations? This is Li Xu. Add two more sets of servers."

"What? Didn't we just add some?" The voice on the other end sounded a bit panicked.

"Not enough." The technical director looked at the numbers jumping every second on the screen, his voice very low.

"The servers might not hold up."