Chapter 48 – Epilogue

Chapter 48 – Epilogue

Lin Ze came to my place. I handed him an iPad with the formatted txt file already opened, had him sit on the balcony to read. A light rain was falling outside, so I also gave him coffee and a box of tissues.

Lin Ze waved it off. “No need. I never cry when reading books or watching movies.”

I said earnestly, “Better keep them handy, just in case.”

Lin Ze didn’t argue and started reading from the beginning. After a while, he looked up. “Why did you change the title? Wasn’t the original one good enough? The Reporter Who Sold Vegetables on a Tricycle—sounded nice.”

I replied, “That title was too long. On the homepage, it would get cut off halfway and become The Reporter Who Sold Vegetables on a…—it’d just stop there. So awkward. Might as well give Longfor a free ad. The first time I saw this place name, I thought it fit well.”

I had altered many parts of the story, revamped the character settings, and the plot had diverged significantly from my initial idea when I first met Lin Ze. The narrative direction had also undergone new refinements. I knew some readers might click away halfway, but Lin Ze definitely wouldn’t—because this was his own story.

We started drinking coffee at nine. I worked on my own tasks while Lin Ze read on the balcony. By midnight, even my Pig-Bear had gone to sleep, but Lin Ze was still reading.

I deliberately played Xu Fei’s Left Half of a Wing to help set the mood.

That night, we stayed up all night. He read from nine until late, occasionally laughing out loud. At one point, he stopped, put down the iPad, and stared into the night for a while—probably thinking of Xie Chenfeng.

I grabbed my camera to capture him crying, but he ruthlessly stopped me.

“You’re too cruel,” Lin Ze whispered, his voice trembling. He lay on the balcony sofa, looking up at the night sky, swallowing hard, then exhaled, pinched his nose, furrowed his brows, and kept reading. After a few pages, he muttered, “I can’t take this. I need to wash my face.”

He washed his face in the bathroom, leaning over the sink and crying.

A long while later, he came out with red, swollen eyes. I commented, “You read pretty slowly.”

Lin Ze nodded. “I didn’t dare read too fast. You wrote it really well.”

Around six in the morning, his eyes reddened again. He walked around the living room, then sat across from me, tears streaming down his face. When I asked why he was crying, he murmured, “How… did you know that when I called that guy, he was crying too?”

I explained, “He told me himself. Keep reading—it’s all explained later.”

Lin Ze continued reading, laughing again after a while.

“Crying and laughing—you’re killing me,” he groaned. By the time he finished, it was already bright outside. He hadn’t even noticed Pig-Bear leaving for work, lying on the balcony like a zombie, utterly drained.

I asked, “How was it, dear guest? Are you satisfied with what you’ve seen?”

Lin Ze smiled.

(Here, 3,000 words of Lin Ze’s heartfelt praise are omitted.)

…

Listening to him, I couldn’t help but tear up…

Lin Ze groaned, “You made Zheng Jie and Xie Lei seem way too good…”

Me: “Stop! At this critical moment when we’re about to succeed, let’s not reopen old cases. This is completely unnecessary—just keep it to yourself.”

Lin Ze lay there a while longer, then called his boyfriend to ask if he was awake. “No need to buy breakfast. I just missed you.”

His boyfriend probably told him to come home, and Lin Ze agreed he’d be back soon.

“Copy this for me,” he requested, sitting down. “Will this book really earn royalties? I don’t recall you mentioning it much.”

“It will,” I assured him.

“You’ve worked hard,” Lin Ze added. “Just because of a casual promise, you spent so much time on this. I only mentioned it offhand at first—I never thought you’d actually finish it.”

“It’s a passion,” I said with a smile. “Like that saying… What wakes us up every morning isn’t an alarm clock but our dreams. If I weren’t writing this, I’d be writing something else. No big deal.”

“How much have you earned so far?” he asked.

We’d discussed the use of royalties twice before, though I didn’t include those conversations in the story. When Xie Chenfeng’s story began, we’d planned to find something to pass the time while also supporting volunteer Wen Dao.

The conversation went like this: One day, I joked with Lin Ze, “When this book’s first installment of serial royalties comes in, I’ll treat you to a trip. We’ll split the earnings—should be enough for food, lodging, and pocket money.”

Lin Ze countered, “How about this? I’ll treat you, and you can donate my half to Wen Dao.”

Instantly, Lin Ze’s image in my mind grew taller, radiating a blinding golden light that nearly seared my dog eyes. Compared to him, I suddenly felt small and shabby. To prove I was no less noble, I cheerfully said, “How about this? You treat me to a day trip to Ciqikou, and I’ll donate all the royalties to Wen Dao.”

Lin Ze grinned. “No problem. Uncle will take you on a boat ride.”

I didn’t include this earlier for two reasons:

First, I don’t like flaunting donations. I wanted to emulate a certain awe-inspiring senior on Jinjiang who donated tens of thousands in royalties without ever mentioning it—a move so bold it avoided any suspicion of using charity for publicity. My initial plan was to just transfer the money quietly.

But early in the serialization, I gave Wen Dao the earnings from the new story’s “Overlord Votes” as an advance. Wen Dao, however, couldn’t keep it quiet and spilled the beans on Weibo. (Why is it that even donating money has to be done so discreetly these days, as if it’s some scandal? Ridiculous…)

Second, if I’d mentioned this at the start, some readers might’ve bought the book purely out of charity—regardless of whether they liked it or even wanted to read it. The idea of “I’m buying your book to support charity, not because I want to read it” would’ve wounded my pride as an author. (I may lack principles, but I do have some pride.)

But Lin Ze once again changed my mind.

“Your royalties come from readers’ support—why not tell them?” he asked. “This money passed through your hands from theirs. Isn’t it a happy thing for them to know their contribution helped others? Why hide it? Writers and journalists are the two professions least afraid of criticism…”

“You’re too persuasive. No one can argue with you.” This time, it was my turn to admit defeat, tears streaming down my face.

I showed Lin Ze my author earnings dashboard. Many readers often wonder about royalties, and I believe most are concerned about whether I can make enough to sustain myself—worried I might quit writing due to poverty. Rest assured, as that saying goes… What wakes us up every morning isn’t an alarm clock but our dreams. Writing is joyful—the spiritual fulfillment it brings far outweighs monetary gains.

As of today, October 22, 2012, with the story up to Chapter 45 (nearly 300,000 words), the earnings are:

– Online earnings: 285,152 points

– Wireless earnings: 177,279 points

– Total: 462,431 points (¥4,624.31)

I’ll cover the 14% tax (about ¥500–600) out of pocket, and Lin Ze will chip in another ¥400 to round it up to ¥5,000. Screenshots of earnings and transfers will be attached in the