Chapter 4: The Failed Experiment

“If you can bear it, stay; if not, just leave. No one will miss you here.”

“Another self-proclaimed expert trying to teach the author how to write—ridiculous.”

“If you’re so talented, why don’t you write a novel yourself and see if it’s better than the author’s?”

...

Comments about Jiang Zheng were mostly like this. The few voices in his favor were quickly drowned out, some even deleting their own posts to avoid relentless ridicule.

Jiang Zheng hadn’t expected his comment to provoke such a backlash. At first, he was bewildered; soon, anger welled up. He’d merely posted an ordinary critique. He’d left similar comments before, but never faced such hostility.

Jiang Zheng always adhered to the principles of respectful reading and civil discourse: critiques aimed solely at the book, never at the author or their family.

Just as he prepared to respond, the system’s voice sounded suddenly:

[Mission activated: Words are less convincing than action. Prove yourself to them.

Requirement: Write a novel that becomes a nationwide sensation within three months.

Temporary skills granted:

Inspiration Unleashed: Ideas flow like a spring while writing.

Speed Demon: Your typing speed skyrockets—fifty thousand words daily is no longer a dream.

Elegant Prose: Your writing style is enhanced.

Rhythm Master: You possess complete control over the pacing of your novel.]

Stunned, Jiang Zheng hesitated, then joy flickered in his heart—another system mission had begun.

But once he saw the task details, worry set in.

This mission was daunting.

Writing a novel wasn’t too difficult; Jiang Zheng had penned some back in high school. The challenge lay in crafting a novel that would set the internet ablaze.

Those wildly popular online stories often seemed ordinary at first glance, nothing particularly outstanding. Was that really so?

Certainly not.

Novels that become hits must possess exceptional qualities: perhaps exquisite prose, masterful pacing, witty banter and clever references, ingenious structure—whatever the case, they all share one vital trait: the ability to tell a story clearly.

This is the most basic requirement, yet precisely what defeats most aspiring writers.

Jiang Zheng was among them.

Writing a complete novel was already a struggle for him; to create one that would become a sensation in three months was unimaginably harder.

There was no option to refuse the mission. He had no choice but to accept.

Fortunately, the system granted him four temporary skills this time; otherwise, he’d have completely given up.

“Guys, I’m turning off the lights.”

Yang Po called out.

The dormitory was plunged into darkness.

After all the events of the day, Jiang Zheng felt exhausted in body and mind. Once the lights were out, he drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Jiang Zheng slept until almost noon.

Zhou Quanyi, who was putting on his shoes, noticed Jiang Zheng waking up. He asked, “Fourth, are you coming to eat with us, or should we bring something back for you?”

Jiang Zheng thought for a moment. “Bring me a meal, please.”

“Alright,” Zhou Quanyi replied, and left with the others.

Jiang Zheng lay in bed, pondering the novel he needed to write.

He had no idea what story to tell.

The system’s temporary skills were promising, but the real question was: what should he write? Without a concrete idea, those skills were useless.

The more he thought, the more his head ached; nothing seemed suitable.

Suddenly, inspiration struck.

If writing a novel wasn’t feasible yet, could he use the system’s skills to compose something else?

This had nothing to do with the mission—it was Jiang Zheng’s own whim, a little experiment. If it succeeded, it would mean a great deal to him.

No sooner had the thought occurred than he acted. He hurriedly got out of bed, sat at his computer, and opened a blank document.

He decided to write an essay—not one with profound meaning, just something to test his abilities.

Compared to a full-length novel, this wasn’t particularly difficult; in high school, Jiang Zheng had written plenty.

He picked a random topic and began structuring the essay in his mind.

Soon, he had a rough idea and started typing.

As he wrote, Jiang Zheng felt something was off: he sensed no surge of inspiration, his typing speed hadn’t increased, his prose style was unchanged.

The skills didn’t work!

Disappointment washed over him.

If these temporary skills could be used outside the mission, they’d be far more versatile.

Unfortunately, they couldn’t.

Jiang Zheng had hoped to exploit a loophole in the system.

With the experiment failed, he abandoned those thoughts and turned his attention back to the mission.

He began considering what kind of novel to write, what sort of story to tell.

Before he could settle on an idea, Zhou Quanyi and the others returned from lunch, bringing Jiang Zheng’s meal.

After eating, Jiang Zheng declined Zhou Quanyi’s invitation to join a gaming session, and continued pondering his story.

For a seasoned bookworm like Jiang Zheng, inventing a story wasn’t difficult. The challenge was ensuring it was fresh enough to captivate readers.

As he mused, the dormitory door suddenly swung open.

Yang Po had returned.

He was rarely in the dorm; he was either out with his girlfriend or on his way to meet her.

Another seldom-seen roommate was Yu Qingkui, but unlike Yang Po, he spent every free moment in the library, preparing for graduate school.

“Second, why are you back? Did you break up again?” Zhou Quanyi turned his head and asked.

“Get lost!” Yang Po retorted, laughing. “No breakup. I just came to tell you guys something.”

“What’s up?” Zhou Quanyi asked.

The others perked up, listening.

“Well, I’m thinking of arranging a mixer between our dorm and my girlfriend’s dorm tonight. We’ll have dinner together.”

Zhou Quanyi rolled his eyes. “A mixer now? At this hour, where would we even go?”

“Just dinner, then maybe some karaoke,” Yang Po replied.

“No interest,” Zhou Quanyi said, returning to his game.

Liu Hua chimed in, “Second, what’s the point of a mixer? We’re not freshmen anymore. Might as well play a few more games.”

Back in freshman year, everyone thought dorm mixers would help them find girlfriends. In reality, after one mixer, there was no further contact.

“Exactly,” Wang Bing agreed.

Yang Po grinned. “My girlfriend says her roommates are all beauties. If you’re not interested, I’ll let her know.”

“Wait! Second, if you say that, I’m suddenly not tired anymore. Are they really all beautiful?” Zhou Quanyi asked.

“I’ve met them, and they’re all quite pretty,” Yang Po insisted.

Hearing this, Zhou Quanyi said, “Alright, let’s go. It’s been a while since we all went out together.”

He trusted Yang Po’s taste—whatever else he lacked, he had an uncanny eye for attractive women.

If Yang Po called them beautiful, they surely wouldn’t disappoint.

A mixer might not guarantee anyone would find a girlfriend, but a mixer with a dorm full of beauties? One had to go. Who knows, maybe luck would strike.