Year Seven of the New Ming calendar.
Chengcheng County, Gao Village Family.
With the founding of the New Ming state, most of the old-timers from Gao Village Family had already moved to the capital. The village committee, in particular, had practically uprooted itself entirely and relocated to the imperial city, transforming into the central administrative machine that now kept the whole nation running.
The main fortress of Gao Village Family, once treated with a prestige not unlike the Forbidden City itself, had quietly stepped down from history. Now it was nothing more than an old residence, meant purely for living, its former glory tucked away like an overpraised ancestor in a dusty genealogy scroll.
Very few families still lived there.
But Gao Sanwa and his mother remained, stubborn as ever, with not the slightest intention of moving out.
"San Niang!"
The old village chief's voice echoed down the worn corridor, as if it had done so for decades and saw no reason to stop now.
"Winter's coming, and these old bones of mine can't take it anymore. Bring me a couple of those San Niang brand down jackets of yours."
"Coming right up!"
Gao Sanniang hurried over, almost trotting, carrying the jackets with both hands. These days, she was the CEO of the San Niang Clothing Group, a name that carried weight across the entire New Ming economy, yet in front of the old village chief, she was still the same obedient girl from years ago, all warmth and no airs.
"Uncle Village Chief, you're still as strong as ever," she said sweetly, layering compliments like extra padding in a winter coat.
The old man chuckled. "Strong? Not a chance. I'll be lucky if I last a few more years." Then his eyes lit up with a different kind of energy. "By the way, where's Sanwa's new work? These days, I wake up every morning just hoping there's something new from him."
"You can't call him Sanwa anymore," Gao Sanniang said with a helpless smile. "You have to call him Third Young Master now. He cares about that title a lot. A few days ago, Gao Shan came back to visit and called him Sanwa, and the two of them nearly argued for half a day."
The old village chief burst into laughter. "Ah, the boy's grown up, got himself some standards now. Fine, fine, I'll call him Third Young Master."
He turned toward the study and raised his voice.
"Third Young Master! Got any new work? Let your grandpa take a look!"
A head popped out of the window, drenched in sweat.
"Grandpa Village Chief, please, just call me Sanwa," Gao Sanwa said quickly. "Don't go calling me Third Young Master, I really can't handle that."
The old chief waved it off. "Why fuss over something so small? Back when Dao Xuan Tianzun still came down to play, didn't he call Flat Rabbit 'Lord Rabbit' all the time?"
Gao Sanwa gave a helpless laugh. "I don't have that kind of thick skin."
He passed a manuscript through the window. "Here, Grandpa Village Chief, this is the original draft of my new book. Reading the manuscript is way better than those second-rate printed copies."
The old man's face lit up. He took the manuscript eagerly, adjusted his posture, and read the title.
"Excellent Servant."
His brows rose. That was new.
As he flipped through the pages, he realized something even stranger. This time, Gao Sanwa had completely abandoned his usual style of fights, cultivation, and mystical nonsense. Instead, he was telling a historical story.
A man educated under the new era of Gao Village Family somehow transmigrates into a parallel feudal world… and ends up working as a servant for a young noble lady.
"Oh ho…"
The old village chief leaned back, already hooked. By the time he reached a few chapters in, he was grinning from ear to ear, thoroughly entertained.
"This one of yours," he said, slapping the manuscript with satisfaction, "is going to sell like crazy."
He looked at Gao Sanwa with approval that carried a hint of disbelief.
"You brat, you're getting more and more impressive."
Gao Sanwa scratched his head and grinned. "I'm trying to transform. I can't just keep writing the same old fantasy and immortal cultivation stuff. I also want to write proper novels now, not just picture books…"
"That makes sense," the old village chief said, nodding slowly. "More and more people are getting educated. Literacy is going up. In the future, there will definitely be more people reading novels than picture books."
Then he narrowed his eyes.
"But you little rascal… you didn't study properly back then, did you? Drawing picture books is one thing, but writing novels? Are you sure you can pull it off? What if your prose is complete trash?"
Gao Sanwa laughed. "Plot comes first, pacing comes second, and prose only ranks third. I know exactly what kind of story people like to read."
The old village chief clearly didn't believe him. In his mind, prose was everything.
Even Gao Sanniang quietly felt that her son was about to walk straight into disaster.
And yet…
Year Eight of the New Ming calendar.
Gao Sanwa abandoned picture books and officially entered the novel scene, releasing his first work: "Douluo Continent."
Among traditional writers, it was practically treated as garbage. The leading literary figure of Jiangnan, Qian Qianyi, dismissed it as "shallow writing," criticizing it as flat, lacking descriptive skill, riddled with grammatical errors, and packed with typos.
And yet, in the market, it exploded.
Bookstores across the country sold out almost overnight. Emergency reprints followed, then more reprints, and then even more, wave after wave that refused to stop.
Soon after, storytelling performances, comedic dialogues, stage plays, television adaptations, and even films based on "Douluo Continent" flooded the scene, turning it into a phenomenon that no one could ignore.
Meanwhile, the works of Qian Qianyi and his fellow traditional "literati" were utterly crushed. His meticulously crafted "Chronicles of the Heroes of the Early Nation" couldn't even match a fraction of its sales.
He had no way to fight back.
Seeing his approach validated, Gao Sanwa pushed forward relentlessly, releasing one work after another. "Stellar Transformations," "Shrouding the Heavens," "Slaying the Immortal," "Immortal Reversal," "Sacred Ruins," "Chronicles of the Wood God"…
He wrote at a terrifying pace, producing novels ranging from one to three million words every single year, while traditional authors struggled to write even ten thousand words annually.
This kind of assault was something the old guard simply could not withstand.
Year Fifteen of the New Ming calendar.
There was no longer any space left for traditional literature. Bookstores everywhere were filled with Gao Sanwa's works, along with countless imitations written by authors chasing his style of so-called "simple writing."
A strange debate erupted across the literary world.
What should a novel actually be?
Literature, after all, was something that could only be judged subjectively. There was no objective measure, no definitive answer.
Debates dragged on endlessly, producing nothing.
But sales figures… those were real.
And for professional writers who relied on their work to eat, questions without answers were a luxury they could not afford.
To hell with depth.
All that mattered now was making money.
Making money.
Making more money.
And amid the chaos of the literary world…
Year Twenty of the New Ming calendar.
Gao Sanwa suddenly changed his name to Gao Family Third Uncle.
At first, no one thought much of it. He was getting older, after all. Transitioning from Third Young Master to Third Uncle sounded reasonable enough.
But what followed caught everyone off guard.
Along with the new name came a complete shift in style.
He abandoned fantasy and cultivation entirely, and without warning, released a book titled "Grave Robbing Notes."
It felt like a door had been kicked open into an entirely new world.
Readers were stunned.
Year Forty-Five of the New Ming calendar.
Gao Family Third Uncle announced yet another name change.
Everyone assumed he would become Gao Family Third Elder this time.
Instead, he chose something no one expected.
Gao Family Sanmao.
This time, his work shed both fantasy and mystery, returning to something painfully simple.
The story followed a child from the late Chongzhen era. His parents died in a devastating drought. He wandered, begged, drifted from place to place, enduring hardship after hardship. War swallowed the world around him, and he struggled just to survive.
Until one day, he encountered the militia of Gao Village Family.
For the first time, he picked up a weapon.
His story was called "The Wandering of Sanmao."
This time, all those who had once mocked him as a writer of shallow, trashy fiction fell silent.
They read.
They sank into the story.
They said nothing.
And yet…
The sales of this book did not even reach a tenth of his previous works.