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

Yu Wen leaned back in the old wheelchair.

His hands hung at his sides, and the muscles in his forearms were twitching slightly uncontrollably from the prolonged, high-frequency tapping.

His fingertips still bore traces of dried sweat and dust.

The dim light bulb overhead flickered occasionally, emitting a slight electrical hum.

The water pipe in the corner was still dripping water into the rusty iron bucket.

"Tick-tock".

Yu Yin walked over carrying a chipped enamel mug.

The jar was filled with about half a cup of warm water.

She walked to the corner of the table and gently placed the teacup down.

"Brother, have some water."

Upon hearing the sound, Yu Wen slowly turned his head.

He looked at his sister's pale face, which was sallow from a lack of sunlight and nutrition, and at her clear, worried eyes.

Then, he looked up at the teetering light bulb above him and the mottled water stains on the wall.

He raised his still slightly trembling right hand and casually wiped away the last bit of water from his chin with the back of his hand.

Then, he looked at Yu Yin, tugged at the corners of his slightly chapped lips, and revealed an extremely tired yet incredibly relaxed smile.

"I'm done writing," he said.

After a while.

The secondhand computer on the table, with its cracked screen, suddenly started vibrating.

A virtual private line with advanced encryption privileges popped up on the screen.

Yu Wen pressed the answer button.

"Hello, Teacher Yu, I am Chang Liren from the Weiguang Literature Platform."

The middle-aged man's voice came from the speaker, speaking slowly and with a humble posture.

Yu Wen leaned back in his wheelchair: "President Chang."

"I just saw your work environment during the live stream."

Chang Liren paused for a moment, his tone somewhat restrained:

"The platform held a short meeting. Originally, Weiguang took one-third of the tips, but to show our sincerity, we will only take one-tenth of all your tips. In addition, we have decided to allocate a special creative fund for you to help improve your living conditions."

"General Manager Chang."

Yu Wen interrupted him, his gaze fixed on the fluctuating data on the computer screen:

"The special fund is no longer needed. Just settle my share according to the new distribution."

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

Chang Liren picked up the water glass on the table, took a sip, and then continued:

"Teacher Yu, it's like this, right now the emotions of all the readers on the internet are at a critical point. Everyone is very reluctant to say goodbye to this story. I wonder if you... have any plans to write some side stories for this work? Even just a brief account of Fugui's daily life later on would be helpful. All the users on the site are waiting for it."

In the basement, Yu Wen paused for a moment, his hand holding the mouse still.

Extra?

He stared at the black period on the screen.

In his past life, the great writer Yu Hua left all his ink on the ridges of the fields at dusk, and stopped writing completely when he wrote about the old man and the old ox.

If I were to add another side story myself, it would be a complete waste of time and energy.

Yu Wen did not answer immediately.

There is only a slight background noise in the communication channel.

In his office in Zhongcheng District, Chang Liren's palm, which was holding the communicator, was sweaty.

He stared at the holographic screen, subconsciously slowing his breathing, his chest remaining still as it rose and fell.

Ten seconds, twenty seconds.

There are no side stories.

Yu Wen's voice carried over calmly:

"This story is now complete, and it ends here."

Chang Liren sighed in his leather seat.

He leaned back in his chair and didn't try to persuade him any further.

Come to think of it, with only one old man left among the characters in the book, there really isn't much room for writing side stories.

"However, I can add an epilogue."

Yu Wen's voice followed immediately.

The story cannot be continued, but in various interviews and prefaces to the reprint, the great Yu Hua has talked extensively about his creative process for this work and the dialogue between man and fate.

It would be good to extract these thoughts and write them as an epilogue.

"postscript?"

On the other end of the phone, Chang Liren suddenly stood up from his leather seat.

His knee slammed against the edge of the solid wood desk with a dull thud.

"Okay! Write a postscript!"

Chang Liren's voice instantly rose in volume, echoing in the spacious office, and his mind began rapidly working on the publicity plan:

"Teacher Yu, no matter when you write it or when you finish, just upload and update it directly in the backend! I'll immediately notify the operations and technology departments to reserve the highest-level recommendation slot on the entire site in advance. As long as you upload it, the platform server will definitely support you! Thank you so much, Teacher Yu! Thank you so much!"

The president, who wielded immense power in the central district and held supreme authority over Weiguang Literature, was bowing repeatedly to the communicator, his words filled with barely suppressed excitement, completely lacking the composure he usually displayed as a leader.

……

Lower City, outside the Seventh Slum.

A black hovercar with peeling paint and riot-proof steel mesh was parked at the entrance of the alley.

The carriage smelled of synthetic tobacco.

In the passenger seat, a man with a buzz cut and a metal prosthetic right arm exhaled a puff of smoke.

He lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the light screen in mid-air.

The bald man in the driver's seat held a tablet in his hand, the cursor hovering over the last line of the last chapter of "To Live".

"Finished watching?" the bald man asked.

"I've finished watching it."

The man with the buzz cut stubbed out his cigarette and tapped the control panel twice with his metal fingers. "My grandson choked to death on beans, leaving only an old ox."

The carriage fell silent. Raindrops pattered against the steel mesh on the roof.

"This book is brilliantly written."

The bald man took a shriveled synthetic energy bar from his storage compartment and took a bite:

"Seeing Erxi get crushed to death reminded me of my dad. Back then, he was cleaning up waste outside a nuclear fusion plant when his protective suit leaked. The plant compensated him with 300 star coins. I used that money to get this optic nerve implanted."

"Who isn't?"

The man with the buzz cut leaned back in his seat, looking at the neon signs outside the car window:

"My prosthetic body installment payment was overdue last month, and the interest ballooned to 20,000. Sometimes I feel like we're no different from that old ox in this downtown area. We're whipped and forced to keep going until we die."

The bald man chewed on his energy bar without replying.

The swiping screen with the buzz cut switches to the black-and-white poster interface of Weiguang Literature.

"What was the person who wrote this book thinking? These 120,000 words have silenced the entire internet. The donations tonight alone could probably kill someone."

The bald man looked at the data on the tablet:

"With this kind of popularity, I'm guaranteed to make several million star coins; I won't have to worry about the rest of my life."

"Financial freedom, huh?"

The man with the buzz cut clicked his tongue, his eyes fixed on the light screen:

"They're probably in a floating villa in the upper city right now, drinking natural glacial water and watching the numbers in their account jump up. Unlike us, we're still squatting in this shabby alley in the middle of the night."

The dashboard panel in the driver's seat shimmered with a faint yellow light.

The countdown timer on the collection terminal displays: [11 hours and 45 minutes remaining until enforcement].

The bald man glanced at the time, tossed the tablet onto the dashboard, and pressed the button to recline the seat.

"Go to sleep, we'll get to work at eight tomorrow morning."

The man with the buzz cut placed a black stun gun beside him and pulled an old jacket over himself.

"This job was so boring. Three million in breach of contract fees—does that rat in the basement even have the guts to come up with that?"

"You have to go even if you can't afford it; it's your job."

The bald man closed his eyes and pulled his coat over his shoulder:

"Tomorrow morning, smash down the door, plug in the freezer, and after you've dug out the eyes and organs, head straight back to the company to report back."

"understood."

The overhead lights in the carriage were turned off.

The bread cart disappeared into the shadows at the alley entrance, leaving only the red countdown timer on the control panel ticking away in the darkness.