WP 2

Si Ye, currently the number one god-tier author in the male fiction category, was known for his unusual storylines and a writing style that felt grand and untouched by vulgarity. His prose often gave readers the same rush as a great river crashing down from a high place, fluid and powerful with a natural sense of exhilaration. His attention to detail was precise, and his control of pacing seamless. The only downside was his romance scenes, which came off either stiff or hollow. The disconnect was so jarring that it became the one thing readers mocked him for without mercy.

“Say what you will, but Feng-ge flirting is textbook-level awkward. The goddess must be blind to fall for that.”

“Feng-ge can only conquer the harem with his looks. His mouth is useless.”

“I’m begging here, someone from the romance side please teach Master Si how to write feelings. His romance scenes are so bad they’re unreadable.”

“Master Si’s never been in love. Confirmed.”

His recently completed long novel was about to be adapted into a drama, and pre-production hype had just started. On Weibo, trending hashtags like #WhoWasSiYe’sFirstLove and #SiYeHasNeverBeenInLove sat right there on the hot topic list, stirring chaos in the fan forums. Some argued that just because he couldn’t write romance didn’t mean he’d never been in love. That logic didn’t make sense. Others were convinced Si Ye was just a greasy uncle who drank soda all day and genuinely had no dating experience.

The hot topic tags only stayed up for a day, but the show’s actors quickly stole the spotlight. Hashtags like #FengGeFlirtsWithTheGoddess and #FengGeTeachesYouHowToLove gained traction, shifting the public’s focus from the original work to the adaptation.

Si Ye, real name Si Shaorong, had no idea any of this was happening.

He didn’t like using Weibo. When he wasn’t writing, he didn’t enjoy typing either. He preferred phone calls and voice messages. Right then, his chat with his assistant was filling with one voice note after another.

“Romance is your only weak spot. You need to fix it,” his female assistant said, her voice cold and her words sharp. “Right now people are still teasing you. If this keeps up, it’ll turn into full-blown ridicule. You’ve always let your work speak for you. But if you don’t improve, what are you going to say then?”

The mainstream progression novel that had cemented Si Shaorong’s status took three years to write from beginning to end. Along the way, there had been plenty of “accidents.” He was getting framed, getting plagiarized, being accused of twisted values.

At one point, a group of haters intentionally stirred up trouble by blowing a minor harem subplot out of proportion. They twisted it into a gender equality issue, leading to a wave of people who hadn’t even read the book believing it was sexist, straight-guy garbage where women were treated like property. A mob of blind so-called feminists came charging in with their banners raised. Back then, his assistant had been the one handling his Weibo, and the whole place turned into a cesspool. It was a total mess.

But none of this affected Si Shaorong. He believed in letting his work speak for him. So he buried himself in writing for three silent years, building momentum slowly until he exploded into popularity overnight.

Even after thousands of readers begged him to return to Weibo, Si Shaorong, who had been traumatized by internet trolls, still refused. His account remained entirely managed by his personal assistant.

That assistant was Zhen Zhen, a Capricorn workaholic. Before working for Si Shaorong, she had held all sorts of assistant roles such as comic assistant, executive secretary, former talent agent, and several others. She eventually applied to be his personal assistant because she liked his stories, and her goal was to turn Si Shaorong into a multi-talented idol author.

That road was clearly still a long one. For now, this future multi-talented idol author was facing a serious problem. It had something to do with his writing, at least loosely. He had fallen out with his former roommate. The reason was too complicated to get into for now, but what mattered was that he urgently needed a new roommate.

“In conclusion,” Zhen Zhen cleared her throat and finally wrapped up her long speech. “I suggest finding your next roommate with romance in mind from the start. It might even help inspire your writing. What do you think?”

“Most people fall in love before moving in together,” Si Shaorong replied coolly. His voice had a clear, aloof tone. “You want me to move in first, then fall in love?”

“Why not try a ‘marriage-before-love’ storyline?” Zhen Zhen shot back. “It doesn’t have to be long. Just treat it as practice before your next big novel.”

To be honest, Si Shaorong was a little tempted. He genuinely loved both writing and reading. Even the parts he struggled with, he wanted to get better at.

The moment someone brought up ideas for his next project, his fingers would start itching. He wanted to type something, anything.

So he opened his laptop and saved a new file in his outline folder. Temporary title: Marriage Before Love.

Writing outlines was one of the few things he was fairly good at. His favorite part was character design. To improve immersion and use the opportunity for hands-on practice, he planned to use himself as the template for the male lead. But as he wrote, he realized his own character settings were actually pretty dull.

Mild germaphobe. Prone to insomnia. Not talkative. Not social.

Was his personality cold and distant? Not exactly. He just didn’t like dealing with people. It felt like a waste of time.

“Estranged from family,” Si Shaorong thought while typing. Even when his phone screen lit up, he didn’t notice.

Once he started thinking about a story, he could easily tune out everything around him.

“Master Si? Are you listening to me?”

“Master Si? Are you writing another outline again? How many have you done lately? Pick one already, will you? What about a modern urban setting? Something grounded might be easier for practice.”

“If you need any material, just tell me. I already accepted an in-person meetup dinner on your behalf. A few local authors will be attending. Some big names, some smaller ones. I’ll send you the list later. You might find a suitable roommate.”

Several messages popped up in the chat. It took a while before Si Shaorong noticed. He picked up his phone and listened to them one by one, then frowned. “Offline gathering? I never go to those.”

“You’re looking for a roommate, aren’t you? There will be plenty of female authors there. Maybe you’ll find someone you like,” Zhen Zhen said. “Same profession, mutual understanding, matching schedules. It’s better than picking a stranger.”

Si Shaorong said, “When did you switch careers and start matchmaking? Can’t I just move back home? I do fine living alone.”

“No way.” Zhen Zhen’s voice came through instantly, urgent enough to sound like she was about to crawl out of the phone. “Did you forget what happens when you live alone? You leave the kettle boiling until it burns dry. You skip meals for days unless someone checks in. When you do eat, it’s instant noodles. Your entire schedule gets wrecked. That’s how you ended up with chronic gastritis in the first place.”

There had been a news story not long ago about a novelist who died alone at home and wasn’t discovered until days later by their editor. Zhen Zhen took that as a serious warning.

Si Shaorong fell silent.

After a long pause, he finally said, “Fine. Send me the time and location.”