Chapter Fifteen: The Novel Becomes a Sensation

The moment he plunged into the water, Feng Yuan understood that he wasn’t dreaming; everything was real. So—he had to swim upward quickly, or he’d drown.

“Feng Yuan, are you alright? Hold on, I’ll save you!” Zhang Zhen shouted anxiously from the mouth of the well. He spun around and tossed down a wooden bucket tied with rope, aiming straight for Feng Yuan’s head. Feng Yuan hurriedly dodged, and the bucket crashed to the side.

“Damn it, you idiot! Are you trying to save me or kill me?” Feng Yuan glared at Zhang Zhen and cursed.

“Heh, sorry, I panicked and my hand slipped!” Zhang Zhen replied sheepishly.

Feng Yuan shot him another fierce glare, then grabbed the rope and slowly climbed up.

“Feng Yuan, why did you jump into the well for no reason?” Zhang Zhen looked at him, completely baffled.

“I was looking for a bit of excitement. I’ll go change my clothes first,” Feng Yuan replied, then headed toward the bedroom. Zhang Zhen watched him, still puzzled, wondering silently if Feng Yuan had been possessed by a ghost. That would be a disaster. He’d better leave before he got caught up in it too. Wait, no, if he left, there would be no chicken drumsticks. He couldn’t leave—the chicken drumsticks meant he had to stay. Leaving would be disloyal.

Before long, Feng Yuan returned, dressed in fresh clothes. He’d figured it out; last night really was a dream. Otherwise, there was no way to explain his aching back—it must be from catching a chill after sleeping without a blanket. That was the only possible explanation.

He needed to take down and burn that painting in the second courtyard; otherwise, he couldn’t rest easy.

“By the way, Fatty, what did you rush here for? Hungry for chicken drumsticks?” Feng Yuan asked, looking at Zhang Zhen.

“Oh, come on, do you think I’m the kind of person who only comes to see you for chicken drumsticks?” Zhang Zhen protested.

“Is there any doubt?”

“Alright... I admit, sometimes I am. But today, I swear it’s not about the chicken drumsticks!” Zhang Zhen said seriously. “I came for the novel. The one you wrote yesterday—it’s gone viral. After those scholars read it, word spread like wildfire. This morning, the academy was in chaos—over a thousand scholars crowded in to read it, nearly crushing the place. Everyone’s waiting for the next installment. Have you finished it yet, Feng Yuan?”

“So popular, eh?” Feng Yuan smiled, not surprised, perfectly calm—he had expected as much.

“Have you written it? Let me see it first!” Zhang Zhen urged impatiently.

“Not yet. I’ll write it now,” Feng Yuan replied.

Zhang Zhen’s face fell in disappointment.

“By the way, where’s Hu Xiao? I haven’t seen her.”

“I think she’s sick. She opened the door for me this morning and then went back. Her face was pale, she looked really weak, but she wouldn’t say anything,” Zhang Zhen explained.

Feng Yuan’s brows furrowed at once. He quickly turned and strode toward the side room, stopping at the door to knock and ask, “Xiao Xiao, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“Master... your servant feels a little unwell, but it’s nothing serious. I just need a bit of rest,” came Hu Xiao’s soft, feeble voice from inside, even weaker than when she’d been brought back yesterday. Clearly, it wasn’t just a minor discomfort.

Without another word, Feng Yuan pushed open the door and entered the room, Zhang Zhen following behind. Inside, they found Hu Xiao lying on the bed, covered with a blanket, her face deathly pale—obviously seriously ill.

Feng Yuan checked her over quickly; she hadn’t caught a cold, wasn’t feverish, and her foot injury hadn’t worsened. Her weakness likely stemmed from her frail constitution—she needed nourishment.

With that in mind, Feng Yuan turned to Zhang Zhen, saying, “It’s almost noon. Go buy some food—get some chicken soup for Xiao Xiao to help her recover.”

He handed Zhang Zhen fifty copper coins.

“Alright, I’ll go right now!” Zhang Zhen grinned happily at the sight of money, imagining chicken drumsticks.

“Wait…”

Hu Xiao called out to Zhang Zhen, then looked at Feng Yuan, embarrassed. “Master... could you buy a bit more? I have a large appetite.”

Feng Yuan instantly recalled yesterday’s meal—Hu Xiao’s appetite was impressive. Fifty coins probably weren’t enough, so he handed the rest of his money to Zhang Zhen, telling him to buy as much as he could.

“My goodness, you really are bankrupting me with your eating!” Feng Yuan said helplessly to Hu Xiao on the bed.

Hu Xiao blushed, apologetic. “Master, I’m sorry. Once I’m well, I’ll serve you diligently.”

“Enough, just rest well. I’ll pour you some water,” Feng Yuan said, rising to fetch water from the table. As he stood, he noticed a neatly folded white cloth with a large dark red stain—a patch that resembled blood.

Feng Yuan picked it up, frowned, and turned to Hu Xiao. “What’s this?”

Hu Xiao’s face changed dramatically. “Master, that... that…”

“Wait, you don’t need to explain. I understand,” Feng Yuan interrupted. Seeing the folded cloth, Hu Xiao’s pale face and tense expression, he realized her weakness was likely due to her period. Fifteen years old, she should be having it. The cloth was her makeshift pad.

“Here, drink some water and rest. When I’ve made some money, I’ll get you proper nourishment,” Feng Yuan said with a smile, handing her a cup, then turning to leave.

Hu Xiao watched him go, letting out a long sigh of relief.

Zhang Zhen hadn’t returned with food yet. Feng Yuan went back to his study, sat down, and began to grind ink and write his novel. He was penniless now, and needed to rely on his writing for income that afternoon.

As the characters danced across the page, suddenly golden rays of light leapt from the written words, flying toward Feng Yuan and entering his body.

Yet Feng Yuan seemed unaware, continuing to write energetically. With every word, the golden light increased, soon enveloping him entirely.

Then, wisps of black mist emerged from his body, especially from his back and the base of his skull. The golden light quickly surged and wiped away the black mist.

Soon, the black mist stopped appearing, and the golden rays gradually faded. The characters on the page ceased to glow.

After half an hour, Feng Yuan had written over three thousand words. Suddenly, he felt a wave of comfort—his back no longer ached, and his head, once heavy, was now clear.

“How strange! Writing can relieve pain and dizziness?” Feng Yuan murmured in astonishment.