“Tap!”
Lu Xiao typed the final period and let out a long breath, slumping in his gaming chair like a salted fish with all its bones removed. On his computer screen, the title of the Word document stood out painfully: The Canglan Sword Master, Finale (First Draft).
Outside, the night was as dark as ink. Only a few lights glimmered in a distant campus building, along with scattered stars overhead. In this rented room in Linjiang University’s old faculty housing complex, the soundproofing was practically nonexistent. The second-time grad school applicant next door turning pages, the young couple upstairs whispering, and the aunties downstairs chatting after their square-dancing session all blended into a uniquely noisy lullaby of the night.
Lu Xiao rubbed his sore eyes and glanced at the word count: 30,542. Great, another three thousand words of padding... no, another three thousand words of hard work. A third-year history student and struggling online novelist, he spent his days bouncing between dusty archives and imaginary worlds. By day, he studied how the bureaucracy worked in the Veritable Records of the Ming; by night, he built a fantasy world ruled by the sword, one called the Canglan Realm.
“Ugh, I killed off another one,” he muttered, picking up the instant coffee beside him, long since gone cold, and taking a gulp. The bitter taste made him frown. In the chapter he had just finished, his heroine, the brilliant and icy Frostblade Sword Venerable Ling Shuang, had blown up her life-bound sword core in Meteor Valley, taking her enemies down with her as she defended her sect’s legacy against traitors and demonic cultivators.
“It’s necessary for the plot. It’s necessary for the plot.” Lu Xiao tried to convince himself, speaking to the empty room...
