After Writing Four Big Shots into Danmei Novels - Chapter 2

One hour!

After more than twenty years, Gu Jue once again felt the urgent pressure of running out of internet credit.

He closed the notification box and began searching for ways to make money.

The official search engines of the Interstellar Era were far more advanced than those of the past; advertisements underwent rigorous screening, meaning there was almost no scam information. Unfortunately, the salaries for the job postings that popped up were depressingly low. An Elf needed to absorb 2,000 calories worth of spirit plants daily to maintain health. Aside from being the staple food of the Elven race, spirit plant meals were considered “wellness meals” by the upper-middle class, and their prices were significantly higher than ordinary food.

For someone like the original owner, who lacked academic credentials, a clerical job paid a monthly salary of about 1,500 to 3,000 credits. Hard manual labor could reach over 10,000, while sales or commission-based jobs varied. However, by the time he escaped the Song family, he was severely malnourished and physically incapable of selling his labor for a high wage.

10,000 credits was the monthly subscription price for a spirit plant wellness meal plan on the Star-Net Mall.

It was the lowest grade with the smallest portions, accompanied by a “thoughtful” highlighted artistic font: [Top Choice for the Poor].

What a confusing statement.

Gu Jue: “…My life is too hard.”

The monthly rent for the original owner’s cramped single room was 1,200 credits.

Factoring in miscellaneous utilities and internet fees, he would need to earn at least 12,000 credits a month just to survive on the Federation’s main star.

Living is too difficult, Gu Jue wept humble tears in his heart.

In his past life, he made his fortune through writing, so he understood better than anyone that writing wasn’t a quick fix for an emergency. A newcomer with no foundation wanting to make quick cash would be better off handing out flyers. A web novel usually needs to hit 300,000 words before it starts generating real revenue. Waiting for a ranking to provide exposure is like waiting for reincarnation; if you underperform and the readers don’t like it, you might just “reincarnate” as a stray beast.

Since ordinary channels weren’t working, he had to go all-in on his best skill!

[00:50]

Only fifty minutes of internet time left.

Gu Jue opened every entertainment and literature website on the Star-Net, the virtual pages blurring before his eyes. Relying on experience, he selected the one with the highest traffic: Muse Literature.

[00:48]

Eras had changed, but the ranking systems hadn’t evolved much.

The most prominent categories were the [24-Hour Bestseller List], the [Star-Ticket List], and the [Collection List], categorized by month, quarter, and half-year.

Gu Jue immediately downloaded the top three titles from every list to his optical brain to prevent being cut off when the connection died.

Although he only had the free public chapters, it was enough for an old pro like Gu Jue, who was used to following trends and hot topics. It was like standing in a river of big data—ordinary readers were carried away by the current, while professional web writers had to feel and master the flow of the water.

Fortunately, the internet limit only applied to the live connection; novels could be read offline.

[00:40]

Gu Jue did a preliminary check of the Muse Literature contract process. It wasn’t much different from his past life. When a novel reached 30,000 words, it would enter the backend for editorial review, and editors would extend an olive branch to works they deemed valuable.

The difference was the higher level of freedom and convenience.

R-18 content was allowed, though it was restricted to readers with age-verified accounts.

Authors could also pay to activate the “Vip Brain-Hole Identification” feature, which used an algorithm to push novels based on specific tropes the reader craved. No more would readers have to post on forums saying, “I have a friend who wants to see a novel where the younger student Shou leaves in despair and the Professor Gong has a ‘crematorium’ chase to win his wife back,” only to be met with the soul-piercing question: “Is this ‘friend’ actually you?”

Authors could decide when to put their novels behind a paywall (entering “V”). Some “Big Gods” were arrogant and confident enough to charge from the very first chapter, unafraid of losing readers.

Copyright protection in the Interstellar Era was excellent, and consumers had developed a strong copyright awareness. They were very willing to spend money on entertainment. Most consumers firmly believed that every cent spent was a vote for the kind of world they wanted to see.

A powerful beauty ‘Shou’ should suffer a Waterloo and be pinned down to be treated ‘this way and that way’!

Bah, ‘Beautiful-Strong-Miserable’ is the standard for a ‘Gong’; I want to pair him with a thoughtful and cute ‘Little Cotton Jacket’ (sweet) Shou.

Don’t ask “should I” or “want to”—spending money is justice.

The category that best exemplified this was the Short Story Column. These were small stories restricted to 30,000 words, with the first third being a free trial. If you wanted to see the ending, you had to pay.

Compared to long-form works that offered tens of thousands of free words, the Short Story Column was a much faster way to make money. Gu Jue noted this in his mind.

[00:35]

Muse Literature cooperated with many downstream industries. Many animation and film companies posted bounties in the [Bounty Shop] section. Once a script was approved, the two parties would negotiate; all communication happened within the site, protecting the author’s rights. This prevented the embarrassing situation of pouring one’s heart out about a concept only to receive no response, only to find one’s idea stolen and released a month later.

Gu Jue glanced at the Bounty Shop.

On the Star-Net, writers were ranked as Black Iron, Bronze, Silver, Gold, Platinum, Diamond, Emerald, and Pinnacle. Generally, a writer who could make a living full-time had to be at least at the Gold or Platinum level. Some bounty boards were only open to high-level writers. It was said that Emerald and Pinnacle writers could receive bounties from famous filmmakers.

As an unregistered “little rookie,” Gu Jue shared the bounty section with Black Iron:

[Vibration Short Video seeking scripts. Requirements: Sense of internet trends, humorous, willing to refine script. 100-200 credits upon adoption, depending on quality.]

[Streamer seeking ‘bits/memes.’ Requirements: Funny, knows latest E-sports news, proficient in abstract culture and profanity. 200 credits base pay, bonuses for high popularity.]

[Can’t finish homework. Seeking 1,000-word essay. Topic provided after acceptance (scared of teacher seeing!!!). Poor student can only give 50 credits. Take it if you can.]

These kinds of cheap gigs were decent side-hustles for people on remote planets. For Gu Jue, who was in dire need of money, they weren’t enough. Plus, it was all “dirty work”—writing short pieces is often more mentally taxing than long ones.

With only 32 minutes of internet credit left, Gu Jue disconnected to save what remained.

Since he couldn’t feel hunger in the virtual world, he focused entirely on reading the popular novels of the Interstellar Era.

The Youthful Days with the Imperial Prince

Synopsis: A pure love story of a noble lady and an Imperial Prince who encourage each other as study partners before walking down the aisle.

Love Wandering the Universe

Synopsis: On a scientific research ship that experienced space-time turbulence, two astronauts support each other through anxiety and persist in finding the route back to their home planet.

Equality, Great Love

Synopsis: Martin, who insists on doing good deeds every day, finally meets his fated lover while helping the 999th person.

…

Gu Jue’s pupils shook violently!

No, wait.

Although he was indeed a “Dog Blood Big God” with no bottom line in the hearts of his peers and readers, even ordinary web novels shouldn’t look like this! He squandered 2 minutes of his connection time to go back and confirm he had clicked the “Popular” channel and not some “Pure Literature” category.

Refusing to believe it, he picked the first three chapters of each book and read them carefully.

His interstellar peers had elegant, concise prose and strong atmosphere-building skills, telling stories of gentle, slow-burning love. Gu Jue saw noble and simple sentiments, undying devotion, and the lovely interests of a peaceful life… and he felt a wave of dizziness, feeling entirely out of place due to his own “vulgarity.”

He was “dirty.”

Just a second ago, he was thinking that since R-18 was allowed, he could openly write content similar to Haitang (a site known for explicit smut), letting the culturally diverse interstellar people enjoy a high-speed car chase! Get it started! Go, go, go!

Was the world too noble, or was he too vulgar?

Gu Jue fell into a brief moment of self-doubt.

He had originally planned to be a “trend-following dog” who bowed to the power of money—writing whatever was popular on Muse Literature. He had no “thunder points” (triggers); “Young Stepmom” literature was fine, “M-preg” Danmei was okay, and “Scum-Gong/Cheap-Shou” was a breeze. But he never expected that the trend of the Interstellar Era would be simple, civilized love!

Youth stories without abortions, ABO without forced pregnancies, “civilized” love where the Gong lets go the moment the Shou says no…

It was like non-fried potato chips without ketchup.

Healthy, but it lacked that zing.

It’s over. My ‘Haitang’ dreams are dead. What am I even doing? Should I just be a copycat? Just copy the serious literature from my last life. A dejected Gu Jue hallucinated for a moment before hitting his second obstacle: the most serious works he had read in his past life were Marxist Philosophy and Maoism from his college electives.

Fine. He wasn’t worthy.

“What is this…”

Gu Jue covered his eyes, feeling truly lost.

The idea of being a copycat was just a fleeting thought. A “Dog Blood” author has principles; other people’s melodrama isn’t as fragrant as the kind you cook up yourself. Spend time imitating “pure love”? He couldn’t learn it, and even if he could, it would take time—time this body didn’t have.

In the empty virtual room, Gu Jue stared blankly for a luxurious minute. The original owner was so poor he couldn’t afford decorations; there wasn’t even a chair in the virtual space.

Gu Jue suddenly bit the tip of his tongue, the pain forcing him back to reality—

Screw it!

He was best at “Dog Blood” novels. It was the only thing he could write, and he wrote it best. Whether it was giving up his strengths to change his image or stealing someone else’s work, neither was his style.

“What should I write? Wealthy old men and M-preg were popular recently. I’ll just have to change the setting for the Interstellar world.”

Art comes from life. He needed to know what types the interstellar netizens worshipped to build his character archetypes.

Gu Jue talked to himself to organize his thoughts, spending another five minutes of internet credit to research current events.

[00:25]

Standing at the peak of the Interstellar world were four men:

Duke of the Feng Family: An old-money noble.

The Emperor of the neighboring Empire: Located far from the Federation, shrouded in a mysterious and noble veil.

The Chief of Staff: A handsome man with power over the entire government.

The Grand Marshal: A man at the peak of combat power, said to have fought his way through the universe. Unfortunately, he was at the front lines year-round and rarely appeared on camera.

On the Federation’s network, there were many fanfictions about these four. Since they had a positive impact on the image of the Empire, the Emperor had publicly stated on behalf of himself and the other three that they welcomed free creative works.

What an open-minded group! Gu Jue marveled.

He usually didn’t do “Real Person Slash” (RPS); if he did, he’d keep it private. But since the officials had welcomed fanfiction, being hesitant would be petty. However, shipping real people was risky—the subjects might go off and get married or have kids mid-story. So, Gu Jue decided to take only their titles and status without digging deep into their personal data, lest the writing feel too much like a biography.

Gu Jue downloaded a free basic writing program and, with a flourish of his pen in the optical brain, wrote eight large characters:

《The Wealthy Old Duke Falls in Love with Me》!