Li Mengjiao’s fans stormed *Under the Banyan Tree*, only to find themselves at a loss.
The place was already a battlefield before they arrived—should they jump in or not?
After sizing things up, they noticed some weren’t bashing Li Mengjiao but still trashing the contest and Xiaoyu.
Well, hell, dissing Xiaoyu was basically dissing Jiaojiao—why hold back? Sleeves rolled, they dove in!
Li Mengjiao’s fans were a force, clashing fiercely with Banyan Tree’s literati.
Wen Ying’s career fans, bolstered by the backup, were electrified.
“They’re too good!”
“…Are we too useless?”
“Learn, quick, learn!”
A golden chance to study up close, aiming to win without outside help next time!
Banyan Tree rarely saw such posting volume. A haven for literary youth, its vibe was distinct from other forums.
Today’s new logins wondered if they’d stumbled into the wrong place.
Is this Banyan Tree or Tianya’s entertainment section?
Why’s it all about celebrities?
Oh, it’s still about the writing contest.
Milder literary enthusiasts noticed something else.
Reader voting!
This contest’s reader-voting system was bolder than the New Concept Composition Contest.
Writers might be a bit lofty, but who didn’t crave recognition?
Some stubborn literati saw the “Tianjiao Spark Cup” as a vulgar invasion, but less rigid ones saw opportunity.
, If readers vote, why can’t my work win?
, Given a platform, I can conquer the market too!
Once sparked, the idea burned like a flame in their minds, igniting passion. Missing this chance would be their loss!
The catch: no details on rules, genres, or word limits.
While Banyan Tree’s flame war raged, savvy folks anxiously tracked contest updates, hungry for more info.
Even established youth literature authors at the industry’s peak quietly watched—not for prize money or to enter, but for Tianjiao, the sponsoring film company.
What was their angle, adapting winning entries into film or TV?
Either way, it sounded great.
In 2005, literary adaptations existed, but mostly for veteran authors in wuxia or romance. *Immortal Sword Saga*, aired earlier that year, pioneered game-to-drama adaptations, but youth literature authors hadn’t yet reaped film/TV dividends.
Now, an opportunity seemed to emerge.
If Tianjiao was picking stories from unknowns, why not established bestsellers?
Famous youth authors were itching to drop their pride and reach out to Tianjiao.
They were overthinking it.
If Yuan Fenghui wanted youth literature, why not adapt *Teen Idol* instead of seeking far-off works?
She wasn’t adapting *Teen Idol* not because it wasn’t good, but because the timing wasn’t right!
Besides, many bestselling youth novels, stripped of lengthy descriptions and emotional prose, lacked standout plots.
As novels, their evocative writing won readers.
But for TV or film? Beautiful prose couldn’t be slapped onscreen as narration. Words didn’t translate to visuals, slashing adaptation value.
Three promos aired, and Yuan Fenghui wanted to gauge their impact. No surveys needed—Tianjiao’s phones were ringing off the hook.
Netizens, somehow digging up Tianjiao’s number, called in droves.
Random callers could be handled by anyone, but media calls went straight to Mrs. Wang, whose business cards from the launch were now paying off.
Her phone hadn’t rung this much before.
Wang Jun came home wanting to chat with his wife, only to find her busier than him.
“You’re—”
“Shh, I’m busy!”
Mrs. Wang, annoyed at Wang Jun’s noise, covered the receiver and stepped outside.
Wang Jun’s time with his wife shrank, all for their son Wang Shuang. His fatherly warmth faded. When Wang Shuang got home, Wang Jun snorted loudly through his nose.
“Hmph!”
Wang Shuang: …?!
What the heck? Suddenly, Mom was swamped with work, and Dad was giving him the stink eye. Was he no longer their little treasure?
Tianjiao wasn’t alone—Chengdu Literary Publishing House was flooded with calls too. Unable to find *Spark* magazine, netizens tracked down the publisher.
They knew how to enter but not the rules!
Among these callers were Wen Ying’s readers, eager to confirm if she’d appear.
The publisher’s standard reply: “Wait for tonight’s reveal.”
Exactly what readers wanted to hear.
No denial meant confirmation.
“Xiaoyu’s really on tonight?”
“With Yun Chen, Zhang Yangning, and Li Mengjiao, it’s gotta be Xiaoyu’s turn!”
“Whoa, I’m so excited—”
They got why Li Mengjiao’s fans went wild.
Chasing stars was chasing stars, but chasing an author was too!
Stars appeared often; Xiaoyu never had. Readers’ anticipation was bursting.
Amid this buzz, evening arrived.
Zou Weijun, after a long day at work, rushed home to find Sister Liu glued to the TV.
Oh, and her TV-averse son Xie Qian was there too, pretending to read a book… Zou Weijun smirked.
Lin Lin once worried Xie Qian was antisocial, but she hadn’t said that in a while.
“Started yet?”
Zou Weijun asked. Sister Liu took her bag and poured water, “Right on time! The past two nights aired just after eight, tonight will too!”
“It’s just a promo, not a one-time thing. Miss it, catch the rerun.”
Xie Qian’s voice was calm, his face expressionless.
Zou Weijun’s lips curled, *Sure, son, then get off the couch.*
He clearly wanted to watch it live!
She didn’t call him out, just teased lightly, “Reruns exist, but watching live shows active support for Wen Ying. Different meaning, right?”
Xie Qian’s face didn’t change, but his mood did.
Different meaning?
Manufactured sentiment, the least meaningful thing. Why was he doing this?
No answer after much thought. The top student’s brain didn’t slack, so he made one up: it’s because his friendship with Wen Ying was special. She’d been outraged by his injustices, so as a friend, what’s wrong with witnessing her spotlight moment live?
With an answer, Xie Qian relaxed, readily agreeing with Zou Weijun, “Right, I misspoke. Watching live versus reruns has different meaning.”
Wow, admitting fault so fast?
Where’s the fun in teasing him? When Mrs. Wang teased Wang Shuang, he’d wail loudly!
Zou Weijun decided she needed tips from Mrs. Wang.
As Xie Qian and his mom sat by the TV, at Wen Ying’s house, Wen Dongrong had the TV on Hunan TV since early, never switching channels. Even Chen Ru, rarely resting, skipped studying tonight.
Eight o’clock.
Wen Dongrong checked his watch, confirming with Wen Ying, “It’s really airing tonight?”
“Why would I lie? It’s tonight!”
Old Wen was acting weird, Wen Ying thought, puzzled.
Chen Ru, knowing her husband better, saw his antsy demeanor and grew suspicious, “Is it airing or not that important to you?”
Wen Dongrong coughed, “I told Big Brother and Wen Ying’s aunt’s family—relatives, you know? No harm in sharing, right? They’re all waiting to watch. If it doesn’t air, they’ll wait for nothing—”
So typical of Wen Dongrong.
The dog was bragging again!
Chen Ru’s face darkened, “Not just relatives, who else?”
“No one… well, just Old Li, I mentioned it in passing!”
Not boasting about royalties, just the promo—Old Li could handle that, right?
Chen Ru wanted to scold him, but the TV cut to ads.
Wen Ying piped up softly, “You guys still watching? It’s starting.”
Yes, the promo began.
Chen Ru shut up, Wen Dongrong sat up straight.
Yuan Fenghui built three days of anticipation with Yun Chen, Zhang Yangning, and Li Mengjiao’s promos. Now, countless eyes awaited the fourth.
*Rustle, rustle, rustle.*
First, Wen Ying’s hand appeared.
A pen scribbled on draft paper, writing the Ant Kingdom story—her New Concept Composition Contest entry.
Logically, a “Tianjiao Spark Cup” promo shouldn’t mention a rival contest. Zhang Guangzhen, scripting, had checked with Yuan Fenghui, who greenlit the scene.
The New Concept Contest was Wen Ying’s foundation.
She didn’t rise to fame through it, but she did win first prize—part of her resume, why hide it?
New Concept and Spark Cup were both literary contests with different focuses. Yuan Fenghui wasn’t afraid of comparisons.
In a pristine classroom, the pen’s scratching was music.
Outside, wind rustled leaves, not bleak but youthful, vibrant.
Next, the finished draft was sealed in an envelope, stamped, and dropped in a mailbox.
A registered letter carrying dreams.
The camera caught Wen Ying’s back, biking with a swaying schoolbag—utterly ordinary, no stage, no dazzling melodies, yet so real, like a dreamy youth film.
Countless lonely nights drafting.
Excitement and nerves getting a semifinal notice for Shanghai.
Dejection from her first magazine rejection.
Joy from her first accepted submission and fee.
The pain of revisions.
The focus wasn’t Wen Ying’s looks—her face wasn’t even shown. The shots wove a story of her journey, a writer’s life.
No whining, no sentimentality—creation demands enduring solitude.
Talent can’t be hidden. Her first novel, *Teen Idol*, was published. Readers lined up at bookstores. Outside, a girl with a bike paused. The camera zoomed in, revealing her face—Wen Ying’s first full appearance in the promo.
This was Xiaoyu?
Not quite what readers imagined.
They thought she wouldn’t be pretty.
In this era, any decent-looking youth author loved the spotlight—promoting themselves promoted their books.
With her looks, why didn’t the publisher push signings? Unscientific!
But if not Xiaoyu, who else could it be?
No fancy clothes, no heavy makeup, yet it proved the saying: *Poetry in your heart, elegance in your presence.*
“You are the next me.”
“You will surpass me.”
“I’ll wait for you at the first ‘Tianjiao Spark Cup’!”
*Boom!*
Something exploded in viewers’ minds.
This promo, longer than the first three, was just three minutes.
Cramming so much without chaos showed Zhang Guangzhen’s scripting prowess.
Not just a promo, it was a micro-film—simple yet real.
Real was good. Real resonated, moved people.
Upstream Fish, an ordinary high schooler, a dreamer of literature, a breakout bestseller.
She did it.
Why can’t you?
She’s inviting you, all who love writing!
Subtitles appeared: *Tianjiao Spark Cup seeks the best creative stories. Short story first prize: 200,000 yuan. Novel first prize: same publishing terms. Outstanding works may be adapted for film or TV…*
Will you accept this invitation?
, Holy hell, anyone stopping me from entering is my mortal enemy!!
