Just because I wrote "Zhu Xian," the school beauty sent me razor blades.

Without hesitation, Zhou Ming skipped the usual procedures, marked the manuscript with an expedited label, and forwarded it to the editor-in-chief at lightning speed.

[Editor-in-Chief, *Zhu Xian*, a new Xianxia novel, submitted by a new author. Read it now, it's going to be a hit!]

After sending the message, he sat at his workstation, tapping his fingers on the table, his heart beating faster than he had in the past three years of reviewing manuscripts.

Twenty minutes later, the editor-in-chief, Jiang Cheng, called directly.

Jiang Cheng, the long-time editor-in-chief of Red Eggplant, has been in the industry for twelve years and has read countless articles. He is usually as steady as a stone Buddha—when the editors are praising a new book, he only replies "Let me take a look"; when someone calls it a masterpiece, he only replies "The data speaks for itself".

As soon as the call connected, he couldn't contain his excitement.

"Zhou Ming, is 'Zhu Xian' just an alias for a famous author?"

Zhou Ming took a deep breath.

"Newbie. Account just registered, no previous works."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"A newcomer?"

"right."

Are you sure this isn't some big shot using an alternate account?

"I checked, the backend is completely clean."

Silence fell again.

This silence carried the shock of a gentle kick to an adult's worldview.

After a long pause, Jiang Cheng slowly spoke: "I've been reviewing manuscripts for over a decade, and I've never seen a newcomer produce an opening of this caliber. There's no deliberate attempt to cram in exciting moments, yet as you read on, your heart is gripped. This kind of opening has a powerful staying power."

Zhou Ming nodded repeatedly, even though the person on the other end of the phone couldn't see him.

Jiang Cheng's tone quickly regained its decisiveness: "Don't wait any longer, contact the author immediately. An A-level contract, guaranteed at least five thousand, with the highest revenue sharing for newcomers."

Zhou Ming's eyelids twitched.

Class A contract.

The platform typically offers a minimum of 1,000 RMB for new C-level users as a trial; B-level users are already under close observation.

Grade A is usually awarded only to new books with an extremely high level of completion in the opening chapters and obvious potential to become bestsellers.

This isn't a regular signing. It's like the platform has already hung up the banner before the food has even been served.

At the same time, on Lin Yuan's side...

The computer refreshed the background and "Zhu Xian" passed the review in a lightning speed of one and a half hours.

Lin Yuan was slightly taken aback.

Having worked in the online novel industry in his past life, he knew the review process all too well. It was common for new authors to wait two or three days for initial review, and even the fastest would take at least half a day.

An hour and a half is either enough time for the platform to be so idle that it could count the floor tiles, or for the editors to prioritize the review.

It is clearly the latter.

Before I could think about it, a private message popped up on the page.

Editor Zhou Ming:

[Dear author, your work is of exceptional quality. The editor-in-chief and I unanimously agree that it's the best Xianxia (fantasy/martial arts) novel opening in recent times. The platform can offer you an A-level contract with a guaranteed minimum of 5,000 yuan. Would you be willing to sign it?]

Lin Yuan glanced at it and smiled calmly.

For a regular manuscript, the editor politely replied, "The quality is acceptable; we can sign a contract."

The slightly better ones "have some potential".

But when the entire vocabulary list of phrases like "outstanding," "unanimously recognized by the editors," and "best recently" is brought out—

This tells us one thing: they're in a hurry.

Pulling out "Zhu Xian" in this cultural wasteland is no different from a max-level character returning to a newbie village. While the opposing side is still locked in hand-to-hand combat, his second battalion commander has already set up the Italian artillery.

He replied with just two words:

【Can. 】

Zhou Ming stared at those two words and fell into a brief silence.

That's it?

That's all?

Other newcomers who received A-level contracts were as excited as if they had won the lottery, and they wished they could kowtow electronically on the spot.

This guy, on the other hand, just said two words. He was as calm as if he were replying to a food delivery rider: "Leave it at the door."

He couldn't help but press further:

[May I ask, have you had any writing experience before?]

[This is my first time submitting a submission, and I've never written one before.]

Zhou Ming stared at these eight words and remained silent for a long time.

This is my first submission, and I've written this kind of opening. The differences between people are sometimes greater than those between humans and single-celled organisms.

The contract was sent over quickly.

Lin Yuan didn't rush to sign; he spent twenty minutes going through all the terms. Guaranteed minimum, profit sharing, update requirements, liability for breach of contract, scope of authorization—he read each clause in great detail.

Having spent his previous life in the online novel industry, he knew all too well that a contract may look like a piece of paper, but signing the wrong one can be a shackle.

A moment later, only one line was modified.

We will safeguard all derivative IP rights, including those for film, games, comics, and audiobooks, and will only grant licenses for electronic serialization.

When Zhou Ming saw this modification, his brow twitched.

A complete newcomer who claims to have never written a book, signing his first contract and immediately retaining all derivative rights?

This isn't caution. This is meticulously studying industry rules and taking notes along the way.

I dared not make a decision on my own, so I reported it to the editor-in-chief.

Jiang Cheng finished reading and remained silent for two minutes.

Finally, he replied with a single word:

【allow.】

In short, it means: the platform made concessions for the sake of this book.

The contract officially took effect at 7 p.m.

Without the slightest hesitation, Zhou Ming immediately gave "Zhu Xian" a prominent new book recommendation spot.

Then a message was sent in the editor group:

[A dark horse in the fantasy genre has emerged. The new author's masterpiece, *Zhu Xian*, is of exceptionally high quality—read it now!]

The moment the group message was sent, a row of question marks appeared.

[Newcomer?]

[Fantasy/Culture?]

[Zhou Ming, are you hallucinating from reviewing the manuscript?]

Zhou Ming sneered and bluntly said:

Don't ask, the answer is this: you'll regret not reading it.

The group was silent for two seconds.

Then someone casually clicked on the link.

Ten minutes later, the group chat exploded.

Holy crap.

Is this writing style from a newcomer?

I cried. The part about Grass Temple Village made me cry. Can anyone tell me this was written by a newcomer??

[Zhou Ming, you better share any good articles you come up with in the group right away, don't keep them to yourself.]

Messages kept popping up, and the editor group, which is usually as quiet as a nursing home, was as lively as a New Year's celebration today.

The editors from the neighboring channel also clicked in out of curiosity, and after reading it, they all fell silent.

Someone replied with only four words:

The aftereffects are too strong.

Zhou Ming looked at the group messages, reopened the "Zhu Xian" page, and stared at the opening sentence.

Heaven and earth are ruthless, treating all things like straw dogs!

He slowly leaned back in his chair.

The stagnant pool in the Red Eggplant Immortal Realm is likely to be overturned by this "Old Rascal of Mount Akina" with a single stomp of the accelerator.