Just as Li Xiu'er had said, the food on the third floor was noticeably more refined than what Chu Lian had seen in passing on the first and second floors. It seemed this floor was meant for students with a bit of spending money or those looking to host small gatherings.
She ordered a few dishes that looked colorful, aromatic, and flavorful—and found, to her surprise, that they tasted even better than expected.
The appetizer was a small dish of young ginger slices. Just one bite brought a tingly spiciness that opened up her appetite.
The rice, served in a delicate porcelain bowl, was soft and fluffy, carrying a faint fragrance.
A small spoonful of lotus-root soup tasted sweet and fresh, with a gentle hint of lotus.
She picked up a piece of roast duck, and with a single bite, crunched right through the bone.
After eating all that, she was already full. But at Li Xiu'er's recommendation, she tried a few more simple side dishes. Though each was only a small portion, the flavors were distinct and surprisingly delicious.
The food was so good that Chu Lian, who was no slouch in the kitchen herself, felt like apprenticing under the cafeteria chefs just to learn their secret techniques.
Even if she could only learn 70–80% of their skills, that would be enough to cook for herself every day in the future.
After finishing the exquisite meal, Chu Lian sat off to the side to rest. She noticed quite a few students sweating and fanning their mouths while still refusing to stop eating, which puzzled her.
She turned to ask Li Xiu'er and learned that they were eating the famous Mapo Tofu. Apparently, the chef who made it came from a long-standing culinary family in Sichuan and was especially skilled at Sichuan cuisine. His Mapo Tofu was one of the most well-known dishes in the entire cafeteria.
Chu Lian was immediately tempted. Her supposedly full stomach seemed to whisper for her to try it. And as a foodie, how could she go against her stomach's will?
So she insisted on trying a bite—and ended up nearly in tears from the spiciness. If there hadn't been water nearby, she might've had to make a mad dash to the restroom. Realizing that her current self couldn't handle such intense flavor, she wisely decided to give up. It was delicious, sure—rich in flavor, fragrant and savory, with silky tofu—but it was simply too spicy for her limits.
After resting for a while and letting the fiery taste fade, she pulled Li Xiu'er to the cafeteria's small snack shop, where they ordered a few drinks and sipped them slowly. Li Xiu'er sat quietly across from Chu Lian, listening to her share interesting stories, often giggling softly behind her hand.
Of course, what made her happiest was hearing that Chu Lian was already planning her second book. Though The Wonderful Wizard of Oz wasn't very long, its stories were endlessly rereadable. The strange characters and fantastical settings had even appeared in her dreams more than once.
For someone introverted and shy like Li Xiu'er, discovering a story series she loved so deeply was a rare joy. No wonder she treated Chu Lian so kindly—sometimes even forgetting her own timid nature when talking or playing with her.
After resting through lunch, Chu Lian's thoughts had become much clearer. She knew that simply submitting a song might give her a decent chance of being selected. But if she included the sheet music too, there would be no doubt—the performance would be hers.
The problem was, while she could remember lyrics to songs, it didn't mean she could recall their melodies. And even if she did remember the tune, transcribing it was another matter entirely. These were real headaches.
But at a certain moment, when she accessed the system for help, she saw a few notifications that instantly cleared her worries:
"Hardcore fan count has reached 10,000. Reward: 30,000 Culture Points."
"First work The Wonderful Wizard of Oz has sold 500,000 copies. You have gained some fame in the author community. Reward: 50,000 Culture Points."
"Total fan count has reached 50,000. Reward: 50,000 Culture Points."
These three messages had appeared sometime between last night and today. The system had said before that unless the information was critical, this kind of announcement needed to be checked manually inside the system.
She naturally understood that this was the result of the video she uploaded Friday night—Glad You're A Lolicon. According to the system's explanation, "hardcore fans" were those willing to spend money on her work simply because they liked her. It seemed many of these fans had gone on to buy her books, which triggered the system's recognition.
What she hadn't expected was that after just a few months, her work had sold 500,000 sets. That's right—sets. Although her The Wonderful Wizard of Oz wasn't split into 21 volumes like the original, she had broken it into seven volumes according to her own preferences. Each volume was priced at 15 yuan, while a full set was offered for 100 yuan.
That meant, based solely on the number of sets sold, and using the 8% author royalty she received, even after accounting for various expenses, the total profit was nearly 37 million yuan, and she herself had earned almost 3 million. If she included sales to those who only bought one or several volumes, she likely had made over 3.5 million.
She knew this wasn't purely a result of her writing ability. Much of the success came from her popularity and the promotional backing she had.
After all, her parents were both senior executives at a major cultural company in the country, overseeing two subsidiaries. With their connections—and given that she herself was already a hot topic—it was only natural for her to have access to a wealth of company resources.
She had also studied the differences between the literary business model in this world and the one in her past life. What she found was that publishing and cultural companies here earned much higher profits.
There were three main reasons for this: First, Huaxia offered a wide array of favorable policies for the literary field. Second, a positive social environment encouraged people to read seriously. And third, advancements in printing technology had dramatically lowered the cost of producing books.
As a result, publishers often saw profit margins exceeding 50%. Some elite publishing houses even achieved 60–65%. Authors also enjoyed greater benefits. The price paid for publication rights wasn't artificially suppressed, and royalty percentages were much higher.
Of course, the broader the market, the fiercer the competition. For debut authors with no fame or buzz, royalties usually ranged from 4% to 6%.
If a new author had talent and some attention—even without fame—they could attract publishers' interest. Royalties might start at 7% and go as high as 12%.
Beyond that were the high-royalty authors.
Some of them were already very famous, with widespread name recognition. Even if only a small fraction of non-fans paid attention to their books, it still amounted to considerable income. These authors typically had millions of fans.
Many of them had achieved success in other fields before turning to writing, giving them a much higher starting point than ordinary authors.
Their books were highly likely to be bestsellers. Publishing groups were more than willing to offer generous royalty percentages based on their fame and the quality of their work.
Then there were authors with outstanding talent but little buzz. They might have won numerous international awards, but due to their lack of mass appeal or their work being out of sync with mainstream tastes, they remained underappreciated.
If, for some reason, one of these authors suddenly rose to fame, the resulting wave of attention would be enormous. Their books would naturally sell as well. Mo Yan, the Nobel Literature Prize winner from her previous life, belonged to this category.
Finally, there was the rarest kind: authors who had both buzz and skill, who had remained stalwarts of the literary world for years. Every one of their books was a guaranteed bestseller—intellectually rich yet in tune with social trends. Tanaka Yoshiki of Japan was the ideal example of this type.
These authors were the cornerstones of major publishing houses. Their books selling millions of copies was standard. Often, they also sparked broader social conversations. They were legendary figures in literary circles—true treasures of the writing world.
So Chu Lian wasn't too shocked that her book had sold so well. While 500,000 sets sounded impressive—seven volumes each totaling 3.5 million, and possibly 4 million individual copies when including partial buyers—she understood the numbers were inflated by the multi-volume format.
The real number of buyers was probably under 700,000. Compared to bestselling authors whose new releases were snapped up by millions, she still had a long, long way to go.
If her next series failed to meet expectations or capture readers' interest, many fans would be disappointed. In that case, forget 700,000—even 300,000 would be a struggle. That's why she didn't feel proud of herself. On the contrary, this made her more aware of what she needed to do.
Still, for now, these 130,000 Culture Points couldn't have come at a better time. With them, a lot of things became possible.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she made up her mind to start writing her next book as soon as possible. Not Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone—that was being saved for later.
While Li Xiu'er lay resting, Chu Lian entered the system space and began browsing through the novel redemption menu. Right now, she needed a book to solidify her place in the minds of her readers. And this genre, this story, was undoubtedly the right choice.
Her new book—it was decided. Once she got home tonight, she'd redeem it and write it out. Then she'd set it aside until her parents recovered and returned home to review it. Only after that would she decide when to publish.