A week after “Shrimp King’s” grand opening, Qin Jiao, as Deng Shangwei had mentioned, headed to Shanghai for the exchange week.
Accompanying her was Wang Shuang, the academic underachiever. Wang Jun had pulled strings to get his son into the exchange group, claiming it was to let Wang Shuang experience the atmosphere of a top university early—given Wang Shuang’s current grades, getting into a prestigious school was a pipe dream. Wang Jun hoped the exposure would motivate his son.
There was no exchange group for first-year high schoolers, so Wen Ying couldn’t have gone even if she wanted to.
Now, Wen Ying was eagerly awaiting a registered letter from *Sprout* magazine. Per past years’ tradition, notifications for the New Concept Essay Contest finals were sent by registered mail to shortlisted contestants before January.
Only those who made the finals would receive the letter.
The school’s mailroom was often stuffed with letters for Li Mengjiao from fans nationwide. With so many letters and gifts, the mailroom set aside a dedicated box for her. Li Mengjiao used to pick up her mail weekly, but as December’s end neared, she was at the mailroom almost daily, worried about missing Wen Ying’s final notification and fearing it might get lost… Wen Ying thought Li Mengjiao was overthinking it. Who’d steal a registered letter?
“You never know!” Li Mengjiao muttered, “What if you make the finals and someone else doesn’t? In a moment of jealousy, they might toss your notification. You’re the one telling me to watch out for sabotage, but when it’s your turn, you’re not careful!”
Wen Ying was left speechless by Li Mengjiao’s logic.
Who’d throw out her final notification?
If Shu Lu saw it, she might, but Shu Lu wasn’t at the provincial key school anymore.
Wen Ying’s participation in the New Concept Essay Contest was partly to fulfil a dream from her past life and make up for regrets, though she wasn’t without ambition. The contest was still a solid path for young writers to gain recognition, but its popularity would wane after the tenth edition. Wen Ying was catching the seventh edition this year.
She wasn’t the only one from the provincial key school in the contest. The school’s newspaper had some local fame in Rongcheng, and Song Chan, a second-year student, frequently published in it. Last year, she’d even released a full-length novel. Though sales were modest, it was an impressive feat for her age. After the novel’s publication, Song Chan joined the Rongcheng Writers’ Association under the introduction of literary veterans.
Song Chan wasn’t Wen Ying’s only schoolmate competitor, but she was the most high-profile, making her submission widely known from the start.
The New Concept Essay Contest didn’t just attract literary types; it also drew students with middling grades at the provincial key school. Though the first-prize finals award no longer guaranteed admission to top universities starting this year, partner universities still offered score reductions for first-prize winners!
The shift from guaranteed admission to score reductions was a blow to many heavily lopsided literary students. They joined the contest not just to showcase talent but to secure admission quotas. Now, with only score reductions, they couldn’t reach top universities, as even reduced-score admissions had standards that severely lopsided students couldn’t meet.
Students like Song Chan, attending Rongcheng’s top high school, were different.
Song Chan’s grades weren’t stellar at the provincial key school but weren’t terrible either. She could already get into a decent university on her own. With a score reduction, she could aim for an even higher-tier one!
Students like Song Chan, who’d been submitting to publications early and growing up with the “young talent” label, weren’t rare at the provincial key school. But Song Chan’s active participation in school activities made her entry into the contest particularly eye-catching.
In contrast, Wen Ying’s participation was low-key. Compared to Song Chan, she had no reputation, and her classmates didn’t even know she was writing for magazines.
Even at *Aige* magazine, Wen Ying was a complete newbie.
Wen Ying didn’t receive the registered letter from *Sprout*, but she got good news from *Aige*’s editor. The editor had commissioned a serialized novel from her, and after Wen Ying sent a 30,000-word opening and outline, the editor confirmed it was accepted!
“You’re a newcomer, so I fought hard, but the chief editor could only offer 130 yuan per thousand words. If the book gets good feedback during serialization, there’s a chance for a fee increase.”
“The topic’s a bit different from what’s trending, but no worries—I’m personally optimistic!”
“Little Fish, let me confirm again: 30,000 words a month, minimum 20,000, no problem, right?”
Submitting 30,000 words monthly at 130 yuan per thousand would earn Wen Ying 3,900 yuan in fees. For *Youth Idol*, Wen Ying estimated the book would be 250,000 to 300,000 words. Even at 250,000 words with no fee increase, the serialization could bring in over 30,000 yuan!
Of course, single payments over 800 yuan required taxes, so her after-tax income would be between 20,000 and 30,000 yuan.
To complete the serialization, she’d only need two rest days a month, an impressive return. In this era, jobs paying over 3,000 yuan monthly were rare, let alone ones requiring just two days’ work a month—good luck finding that!
“No problem at all, I can handle 30,000 words!” Wen Ying assured.
To prepare for busy times like final exams, Wen Ying decided to write extra when she had time, building a stockpile to avoid missing deadlines.
She wasn’t a big-name author; habits like delaying or missing submissions would only leave a bad impression on the magazine and disappoint her supportive editor.
Wen Ying did some math. The fees from *Aige* over the next year, her “Shrimp King” dividends, and her winter break “part-time scriptwriting” income… all added up, by eighteen, she could likely afford her own house.
As for where to buy, Wen Ying had a plan.
She wouldn’t buy in Rongcheng—her parents already had two properties.
She’d buy in Shanghai, “reclaiming” the house she’d paid over 4 million yuan as a down payment for in her past life. This time, no mortgage—she’d buy it outright!
The thought fueled her motivation.
The perk of rebirth: no six years saving for a down payment, no 20-year mortgage. Pure bliss.
Caught up in her excitement, she blurted out to Xie Qian, asking if he liked Shanghai.
Xie Qian looked at her flushed face, tempted to check her forehead: poor kid, was she going crazy waiting for that registered letter?
“You could always try again next year. The contest isn’t going anywhere,” Xie Qian comforted.
Wen Ying huffed, “I’m not worried about the contest!”
Little brother, we’re talking about buying a house in Shanghai—a multi-million-y *Fire Punch* by Aaron Dabb, a 2014 comic book, was showcased at Comic-Con International with a striking cover featuring a muscular man with a fiery fist. Fans on X, like @ComicFan123, praised its intense action and unique world-building, calling it a “must-read for action junkies.” It helped cement Dabb’s reputation in the industry.
Xie Qian misunderstood, thinking she was fixated on the contest.
From that day, not only did Li Mengjiao haunt the mailroom, but Xie Qian started dropping by too.
Li Mengjiao might be careless and miss the crucial letter for Wen Ying.
On the last day of 2004, a Friday, Wen Ying still hadn’t received her final notification. Li Mengjiao avoided mentioning it, sneaking to the mailroom alone.
Wen Ying, once brimming with confidence, was starting to accept reality.
Getting accepted at *Aige* didn’t mean she’d make the New Concept Essay Contest finals. Maybe her piece didn’t suit the judges’ tastes.
“Let’s get fried skewers!” Li Mengjiao suggested.
With no evening study session on Friday, she wanted to cheer Wen Ying up with food.
Wen Ying usually avoided such high-calorie treats, but Li Mengjiao’s enthusiasm was hard to refuse.
Winter had softened Rongcheng’s UV rays, lightening Wen Ying’s skin two shades from summer. Her weight stabilised at around 105 pounds, and she’d grown two centimetres, now 162 cm barefoot, thanks to daily milk and exercise.
She wasn’t skinny yet but had a balanced figure, though her winter school uniform hid her curves.
Her biggest gripe was her face. Despite losing weight, her baby fat lingered, leaving her cheeks round.
In her past life, her round face only sharpened in university, revealing a pointed chin.
Wen Ying didn’t plan to lose more weight—being too light could stunt growth, and she wanted to gain a bit more height in puberty!
Arm-in-arm with Li Mengjiao, passing the mailroom, Wen Ying saw a crowd at the entrance. A girl shouted “Song Chan,” squeezing out with a letter.
“Final notification, Song Chan, your final notification!”
Wen Ying and Li Mengjiao froze.
Song Chan was a school celebrity, like Li Mengjiao, the most famous first-year girl, or Qin Jiao, the recognised goddess of the third-years. Since the semester started, Qin Jiao had stepped back from club activities to focus on college entrance exams, and her “retreat” gave Song Chan a chance to shine.
Song Chan wasn’t just a literary talent but a striking beauty.
Very thin, half a head taller than Wen Ying, with pale, translucent skin. When she raised her hand, her slender wrist showed faint blue veins—a delicate beauty that inspired protectiveness.
The girl with the letter rushed to Song Chan, lowering her voice.
“Song Chan, look!”
“Song Chan, open it quick.”
“Is our school’s only finalist you this year?”
Song Chan took the letter, opened it in front of everyone, and confirmed it was the final notification, inwardly relieved.
Of course, she played it cool, “It’s just the finals, not like I’ve won anything yet.”
Li Mengjiao let go of Wen Ying’s arm and bolted into the mailroom.
