Chapter Seventy-Seven: A Spectacle Beyond Compare

“Hey, Sun Ziqi, you’re really going, huh?”
“Sun Ziqi, hurry back!”
Then came the sound of a drinking game, and after a moment, the door swung open. In walked a middle-aged man with a splendid beard, his face flushed with drunkenness, squinting as he sized up Liu Ping.
Liu Ping had been listening to the boisterous sounds of drinking and games from within, and his heart, filled with anticipation, had plummeted to the depths. The Wanderer’s Book Publishing House truly seemed unreliable, and Zhu Yingtai’s words were not without reason. He began to doubt whether this man would simply send him away without even looking at his manuscript.
Sun Ziqi, upon seeing Liu Ping’s youthful appearance, felt a wave of disappointment. He had harbored some hope, thinking perhaps a novel worthy of publication might appear, but instead, here was a young lad, barely out of adolescence. Instinctively, he felt a hint of disdain—how could someone so young write a good novel? How could he possibly bring a publishable manuscript?
He wasn’t impatient, merely disheartened. With three quick steps, he moved to the chair before Liu Ping, sat down without concern for cleanliness, and said, “Hand me your manuscript, I’ll take a look.”
Few people ever submitted to Wanderer’s Book Publishing House; since its founding, there was never a concept of collecting manuscripts for later review. Everything was immediate—accepted, read, and judged on the spot. If rejected, advice was given; if the work had potential, it was passed on for further review by the editors, and then the chief editor would decide whether to publish.
Liu Ping nodded, appreciating the prompt evaluation, and handed over the manuscript.
Sun Ziqi took the manuscript, absentmindedly opened it, but after a brief glance, his eyes brightened—what beautiful handwriting!
“Is this your handwriting? Truly exquisite... ‘Fengshen Three Kingdoms’—that title, isn’t it a social novel? Hmm!” His initial carelessness gave way to surprise at the opening poetry—such elegance! Sun Ziqi inwardly marveled and began reading in earnest.
After finishing the first chapter, his eyes sparkled, much of his drunkenness evaporated. He took a deep breath and continued, quickly reading through all ten chapters, his appetite whetted and unsatisfied, swallowing as though savoring fine wine, only for the cup to be empty. He blurted out, “Is that all?”
Only after speaking did he realize his impropriety; as an editor, he ought not to ask such a question.
Looking up at Liu Ping, Sun Ziqi’s previous disdain vanished, replaced by solemn respect. Rising to his feet, he said repeatedly, “Young man, your novel has passed the initial review. Please wait a moment—I’ll take it to the other editors for further evaluation, and then the chief editor will decide on publication!”
“Very well.” Seeing Sun Ziqi’s reaction, Liu Ping felt his tension ease and nodded.

“Bring tea! The finest! Hurry!” No sooner had he stepped out than Sun Ziqi barked at the attendant, “And some pastries—did you hear me? Move quickly!”
His respectful attitude was a stark contrast to his earlier indifference. Liu Ping, though relieved, still worried whether Wanderer’s Book Publishing House, beset by financial troubles, would really publish “Fengshen Three Kingdoms.” Whatever the outcome, all he could do was wait.
Sun Ziqi held the manuscript for “Fengshen Three Kingdoms,” his eyes filled with joy, striding briskly, feeling a surge of energy like never before. As a scholar, he had come to Wanderer’s Book Publishing House to work as an ordinary editor, not for the money, but out of a passion for novels. He loved literature, nothing more.
He had once been full of ambition, but the days that followed were agony. The publishing house’s decline drove many editors to leave, yet he and a handful of others stayed, trying everything to stem the tide, but nothing could halt the decay.
By now, the Wanderer’s Book Publishing House was nearly forgotten, not one submission received. At first, he was heartbroken and angry, but eventually, even that faded, leaving only numbness.
How many times had it happened? He’d lost count. Countless times he wished for a novel that could become a sensation and save the publishing house.
Stories of a single book rescuing a publisher were rare—mere fairy tales—hopes pinned on illusions.
Reality was harsh: those best-selling books would always choose the famous Green Mountain Publishing House, with better channels, better pay, better treatment. From any angle, his wish was naïve.
Yet still, he clung to it, as did the other editors, because there was nothing else to do; all attempts had failed to change their fate.
It was this hope, born of desperation, that kept them going, though disappointment time and again forced many to abandon such childish dreams.
Sun Ziqi was no different, so he expected nothing from Liu Ping’s manuscript. Before seeing it, he thought perhaps it might have publishing potential; after meeting Liu Ping, he abandoned even that faint hope. No hope, no disappointment—a simple truth.
But when he read Liu Ping’s novel, it was as if his blood reversed course, leaping and boiling with excitement! He felt a fire raging in his heart, a wild urge to shout, to declare—opportunity! At last, opportunity had arrived!
Day after day, night after night, he had hoped and prayed, only to be met with sorrow and resignation. Who could have guessed that today, fate would turn?
This “Fengshen Three Kingdoms” was simply magnificent!

It was, to date, the most brilliant novel he had ever read. If any story could rescue Wanderer’s Book Publishing House, surely it was this one!
No doubt in his mind, he believed it! Though lacking the sentimental entanglements of social novels or the ghostly romances beloved by scholars, it depicted a grand war of the immortals, heroism, and passion, opening up a whole new world.
He had a premonition: “Fengshen Three Kingdoms” would set a new trend and lead the era’s literary movement!
This was a historic moment.
With this thought, Sun Ziqi felt his blood boiling and cheering, striding almost at a run to the rear of the building, flinging open the door.
The drinking editors looked up, about to call him over to join, but he shouted, “Clear the table! Come look at this novel! And summon the chief editor!”
“What’s gotten into you?” the editors grumbled.
“Indeed. What’s so great about a novel? Even if it can be published, given the state of the publishing house, what’s the point?”
“Why call the chief editor? If he sees us drinking, we’ll surely get a scolding.”
“Is the novel any good? What’s it about?”
“This is a masterpiece!” Sun Ziqi’s eyes burned with fervor as he spoke each word slowly and clearly, “If any novel can change the fate of Wanderer’s Book Publishing House, it must be this one! It must! It’s spectacular—truly unparalleled!”
Hearing this, the other editors knew he wasn’t exaggerating, and exchanged glances full of curiosity. Could this novel really be so remarkable, to earn such praise from Sun Ziqi?