I asked you to write a light novel, but you wrote about living?

Although he put his hands back on the keyboard, Yu Wen did not open a new document.

There are already more than 10,000 words stored in the backend's draft box.

In this era where everyone uses AI to generate hundreds of thousands of words with a single click, the real predicament he faced was not his hand speed, but the red lock icon stuck in the upper right corner of the screen.

That's the "anti-depression mechanism" of the Weiguang platform.

In this underlying algorithm that operates based on the dopamine threshold, "To Live" was identified as a "high-risk source of mental pollution" because of its excessively high textual repression value.

The daily update limit has been forcibly locked at 4000 words by the system.

Yu Wen opened the comments section of "To Live".

Because of the pitifully short word count, the few comments that were already there were filled with the irritability unique to readers in the cyber age.

[4,000 words a day? Is your crappy AI out of power? Which large-scale model doesn't generate 30,000 words per second these days?]

[Although the plot is a bit bizarre and quite gripping, this update frequency isn't even enough to feed a digital dog. I'm off; I'll come back after I've saved up 100,000 words.]

[Does the author suffer from brainstem deficiency? Are people still using scarcity marketing these days? Go back to the last century.]

Yu Wen looked at these comments.

If it weren't for the daunting prospect of a three million yuan penalty for breach of contract, he could have shut down the backend and continued serializing the story at his own pace.

But at the edge of the retina, the miniature number symbolizing the countdown to the forced execution of debt is still ticking second by second.

In this urban area, which is highly monopolized by capital, once the penalty for breach of contract expires, what awaits him is being dragged onto an operating table in the dark streets and having all the organs that can be used to pay off the debt harvested while he is still alive.

He has no right to be aloof.

Yu Wen moved the mouse and clicked on the "Author's Note" section at the end of the serialized chapter.

The mechanical switches of the keyboard made a clicking sound as he typed a passage of purely human text into the blank input box, text that had not been modified by any AI.

To all readers of this book:

I apologize for the limitation of only being able to update 4,000 words per day.

[I have enough drafts to serialize the story, and I haven't deliberately controlled the update frequency. However, because of the tone of "To Live," it triggered the platform's "anti-depressive mechanism," and my account's update permissions were locked at the highest threshold. Until the system lifts the restriction, I can only send 4,000 words per day.]

Yu Wen paused for a moment, looked at the mottled walls of the basement, and continued knocking.

The only way to overcome this algorithmic limitation is to increase the book's weight within the system.

I've already submitted "To Live" to this year's "Spark Cup" competition. In this race where you have to write 300,000 words a day, my word count is practically non-competitive. But I'm currently burdened with huge debts, and this book is my only lifeline.

[If you find the hardships of the wealthy story realistic enough, and if you can still enjoy this story without mechs or sudden riches.]

Please cast your free recommendation votes and Spark Cup competition tickets for "To Live".

[Help me push this data up to the top, break through the algorithm blockade. Once permissions are lifted, I'll release all the saved drafts at once.]

Please.

Yu Wen checked for typos, didn't use any exclamation marks to evoke emotion, and clicked send directly.

This straightforward, even slightly awkward, "Author's Note" was quietly attached to the end of the latest chapter and uploaded to the massive database consisting of hundreds of billions of words of code.

……

Weiguang Literature Headquarters, Deep Data Monitoring Room.

Liu Feng leaned back in his ergonomic chair, looking at the newly uploaded "Author's Note" on the retinal projection screen.

"The anti-depression mechanism has locked update permissions..."

He swiped his finger to switch back to the main data package of "To Live".

As a reviewer who has to endure hundreds or even thousands of mass-produced online novels every day through a high-frequency brain-computer interface, Liu Feng's nerves have long been numbed and nauseated by the monotonous killings, betrayals, and dopamine stimulation.

However, he left this copy of "To Live" in the backstage temporary storage area instead of throwing it directly into the recycle bin.

He was still savoring some of the sentences in it.

Liu Feng recalled a word his professor had used when he took an elective literature course at a higher education institution: literary talent.

In today's cyber age of explosive computing power, large AI models can instantly access the entire vocabulary database of human history and construct extremely ornate, well-structured, and magnificent rhetoric.

They can write a mecha battle like an epic symphony, and depict the starry sky as more magnificent than the real universe.

But that was just a combination of data; it lacked the "living quality" that the old professor described.

Liu Feng's gaze fell on a line of text.

My dad's getting old, and so is his poop; it's not easy for him to poop out.

Liu Feng stared at the sentence for a long time, a barely perceptible smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

These sentences are so interesting.

It's vulgar, seemingly a nonsensical statement, but it conveys a raw sense of reality.

AI's logic tree is built based on optimal solutions and aesthetics. When describing a person's aging, it will only output "white hair", "functional decline" or "declining vital signs".

No sophisticated algorithm would connect "father's aging" and "difficulty in excretion" in such a colloquial way that carries a hint of helplessness and self-deprecation.

AI can never calculate sentences like these, which only carbon-based organisms that have rolled in the mud could write.

Liu Feng closed the main page and brought up the underlying management console of the Weiguang platform.

He entered his employee ID key and accessed the permissions management interface of "Living".

The red lock icon is still displayed next to the "Daily Updates" parameter.

"The system's judgment is still too rigid."

Liu Feng muttered something to himself and placed his finger on the "Manual Intervention" button.

"Click".

The red lock icon on the screen instantly turned green, representing unobstructed access.

Afterwards, Liu Feng switched back to the comments section of "To Live".

Below the somewhat embarrassed "Author's Note," he switched to the "Reviewer 073" account, which had the official verification mark, and typed out a cold, rational official reply:

[System Notification: After review by a human reviewer, the word limit for this work has been removed due to the "anti-depressing mechanism".]

[Human Review Opinion: While the current plot of this work has a heavy tone, it has not yet reached the absolute threshold of mental pollution as determined by the system. The recent death of the elderly father is logically foreshadowed in previous chapters, given his advanced age and declining health, and is a reasonable and natural plot development. Although the protagonist's current situation is tragic, the overall writing logic is consistent, and there is no forced tendency to induce depression that violates ethics or is antisocial. Therefore, the AI ​​lock command is rejected, and normal update privileges are restored.]

After typing the last word, Liu Feng pressed the Enter key.

This reply, bearing a dazzling official logo, was pinned directly to the top of the otherwise quiet comment section for "To Live".