165: Chapter 165 Take this masterpiece to slam your fist on the table with the editor-in-chief

Song Siyi was satisfied. She tossed her phone by the pillow and fell backward onto the bed.

She was wearing loose cotton pajamas, and her hair was messily clipped behind her head with a plastic shark clip.

A face mask was still on her face, and she was in a state of excited, semi-manic frenzy.

In her years as an editor, she had seen too many fantasy and mythological novels on the market.

Eight out of ten of their world-building settings were cobbled together and full of holes.

But the story Jiang Fan told at the Orphanage was completely different.

Every setting was seamless and natural.

Once something like this was published—

She tossed and turned on the bed, unable to sleep at all.

Song Siyi simply threw off the quilt, got out of bed, and walked to the desk.

She pulled out the chair, sat down, turned on the computer, and pulled up a contract template for Zhongdian Literature.

It was a standard web novel contract.

The revenue share, copyright ownership, and film adaptation rights—the clauses were dense.

A normal author's revenue share was fifty-fifty, while god-tier authors were given sixty-forty.

She wrote "seven-three" on a piece of paper.

She stared at the number for two seconds, then poked two black dots on the paper with her pen tip.

Then she crossed it out.

If the book really had the quality she anticipated, even seven-three wasn't enough.

Song Siyi threw the pen down and leaned back against the chair.

Forget it, she would wait until she saw the manuscript tomorrow. What if Jiang Fan just talked a big game but wrote a total mess?

She closed the contract template and crawled back into bed.

She grabbed her phone, opened Weibo, and searched for Jiang Fan's homepage.

He had over 23 million followers.

She scrolled down a few screens; the comment section was filled with young girls lining up to call him "husband."

Song Siyi pressed the lock screen button with a blank expression.

She buried her face in the pillow and muttered a curse.

"You little brat, you've grown up and your wings have gotten stiff."

——

The next day.

9:47 AM.

Zhongdian Literature editorial department.

Song Siyi sat at her desk, tapping her index finger on the left mouse button. This was the twelfth time she had refreshed her inbox.

A colleague passed by with a mug, stopped, and glanced at her.

"Sister Siyi, what's wrong with you today? Are there nails on your chair? You're so restless."

"It's nothing," Song Siyi said, staring at the screen. "Waiting for a manuscript."

Her feet were shaking non-stop under the desk.

9:55 AM.

Song Siyi picked up her phone, opened WeChat, and pulled up Jiang Fan's chat box.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, and she typed the three words: "Where's the manuscript?"

She paused for two seconds, then deleted it.

They agreed on ten o'clock; she would wait another five minutes. An editor needed self-control.

9:58 AM.

A crisp "ding" sound came from the computer speakers.

A new email popped into her inbox.

Sender: Jiang Fan.

Subject: The first seven chapters of journey to the west.

Song Siyi's hand tightened around the mouse.

She moved the mouse over, double-clicked to open the email, and saw a Word document attachment.

She dragged the file to the desktop. Just as she was about to click it, she stopped.

She stood up, walked to the break room, and poured herself a fresh cup of hot coffee.

She walked back to her desk and sat down. She adjusted the height of her ergonomic chair and straightened the backrest.

She wiped her palms on her skirt twice. She double-clicked to open the document.

Title: journey to the west.

Chapter 1: The Divine Root Begets the Source; The Mind's Cultivation Brings Forth the Great Way.

"Overseas, there is a land called the Aolai Nation. The nation is near the sea, and in the sea, there is a famous mountain called Flower-Fruit Mountain..."

Song Siyi's eyes were glued to the screen, scanning line by line.

Ten minutes later, the coffee beside her stopped steaming; she hadn't taken a single sip.

She didn't know how much time had passed.

Fifty thousand words, finally finished.

She took off her gold-rimmed glasses, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temples hard with both hands.

Her mind was filled with images of the monkey wreaking havoc in the Heavenly Palace.

Song Siyi clicked the 'x' to close the document, leaned back against the chair, tilted her head up, and stared at the fluorescent tube on the ceiling.

She stared for a full two minutes.

Once this thing was released, the entire Xianxia category of the web novel world would have to be reshuffled.

She picked up her phone, found Jiang Fan's number, and dialed. It rang three times. It connected.

"Jiang Fan."

"Finished reading?"

Song Siyi turned her chair halfway, facing away from the noisy office area, covered her mouth with her hand, and lowered her voice.

"Give it to me straight. How much more is there?"

"About one hundred chapters."

Song Siyi's fingers tightened around the phone.

"About the contract, please consider it." She cleared her throat, trying to make her tone sound as professional as possible. "I can give you the highest revenue share percentage in the history of Zhongdian Literature."

"How much?"

Song Siyi bit her lower lip, her teeth sinking into the flesh.

"Eight-two. You get eight, the platform gets two."

"Sister Siyi, can you make the call on this number?" Jiang Fan laughed.

"Even if I can't, I'll make it happen for you. At worst, I'll take the manuscript and slam it on the boss's desk."

"Alright." Jiang Fan agreed readily. "You draft the contract. But I have a few conditions."

"Go ahead."

"First, all film adaptation rights belong to me."

Song Siyi opened her mouth, a lump in her throat, then closed it again.

Film adaptation rights were the fattest piece of meat in the copyright library.

Under normal circumstances, platforms would hold onto this tightly when signing contracts; at the very least, they would take half the profits.

But this "journey to the west"—

She glanced at the document icon on her computer desktop.

"I need to apply for that," Song Siyi replied.

"Second, I'll set the update frequency myself. I have a lot on my plate and can't guarantee daily updates."

Song Siyi pinched the bridge of her nose.

If it were any other author under her, daring to make such a demand, she would have already tracked them down through the internet to scold them.

"You have to at least give me a baseline." Song Siyi sighed. "How many chapters a week?"

"It depends. When I'm busy, maybe two or three chapters a week; when I'm free, I can write fifty thousand words in a day."

Two or three chapters a week? The readers would tear the comment section apart and use it as firewood.

Song Siyi suppressed the urge to curse.

"Fine. I'll draft the contract today and email it to you tomorrow. Have that assistant of yours—what was his name again—"

"Li Cheng."

"Right. Have Li Cheng look over the terms for you. If there are any issues, we can change them at any time."

"Alright."

The call ended.

Song Siyi threw her phone on the desk, grabbed the armrests of her chair, and spun around twice in place with the chair.

The colleague next to her leaned over, looking confused.

"Sister Siyi, who were you talking to just now? You're smiling like you found money."

"None of your business. Get back to work."

Song Siyi put her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and opened the contract template on her computer.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. In the revenue share column, the cursor blinked. She typed "80%."

After filling it in, she stopped and stared at those characters for two seconds.

She moved the cursor down.

It stopped at the "Film Adaptation Rights" column.

She selected all the terms regarding the platform's rights, pressed the Delete key, and deleted them all.

She rewrote it to: "Film adaptation rights and related derivative rights belong entirely to the author."

After typing this line, Song Siyi let out a long breath; even she felt this clause was crazy.

Song Siyi printed out the contract, took the fifty-thousand-word printed manuscript, stood up, smoothed out the hem of her clothes, and strode toward the Editor-in-Chief's office.