Chapter 125: Isn't It Just a Hundred Dollars?

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Zhang Ye had always believed that no matter how fragrant wine might be, if it was sealed beneath a lid and shut away at the end of some long alley, its aroma could never drift to the street ahead, where those who loved wine might catch its scent.

Promotion was likewise an important and highly effective way of making people aware of his Fantasy Youth. Through Wang Mengzi’s connections, Zhang Ye’s publishing house, named Heavenly Dream Magazine, was fortunate enough to secure a reasonably prominent spot in the Li Hua Morning Post, where it received a modest but eye-catching advertisement.

In terms of circulation, the Li Hua Morning Post ranked first throughout Li Hua County. Its feature on Wang Mengzi revealed her identity as a famous author and a beautiful writer whose books had sold over a million copies. As a result, Heavenly Dream Magazine instantly attracted extraordinary attention across Li Hua County. In turn, the newly released inaugural issue of Fantasy Youth was sold out the moment it appeared in bookstores.

Whether they liked it or not, everyone wanted to see it at once.

And when they discovered that Fantasy Youth was entirely different from other magazines—and that its cover was unlike the traditional covers, many of which bore portraits of national leaders—their enthusiasm only grew stronger.

Most teenagers had the habit of passing around and borrowing anything they considered worthwhile. Once they learned about the novels within Fantasy Youth—the immortal-cultivation world of Immortal Slaying, the cultivation setting of Journey of the Ethereal, the interstellar backdrop of The Legend of a Lowly Soldier, and the Western magical world created by Wang Mengzi in Magic—they found themselves facing a world that was entirely unfamiliar, yet vast beyond imagination.

That transcendent imagination captivated them completely. An urgent desire to keep reading took root in their hearts, spreading, spreading, and spreading still further...

Then they discovered that although the inaugural issue was a substantial fifty-six pages long, the settings and stories of the several novels had revealed only the faintest glimpse of their true horizons.

“Is there more? Where is the second issue? When will the second issue be released?”

Countless readers cried out, raising their brand-new magazines high above their heads, their eyes red with the intensity of their longing.

But the answers they received from the bookstores left them bitterly disappointed. Then they heard that anyone who subscribed for the following year’s complete run of Fantasy Youth would receive this year’s first six trial issues free of charge. Some teenagers whose families were better off gritted their teeth, hurried home, pried open their little savings jars, took out every coin they had saved, and rushed to the post office to fill out a remittance form.

It was only a hundred yuan, wasn’t it?

They had it. They had it...

...

The first inaugural issue of Fantasy Youth was printed in thirty thousand copies. That sounded like a great many, but once distributed among countless teenagers across the country, the number that actually reached each person was pitifully small. Thus, when Fantasy Youth became a nationwide sensation, the limited first issue was treated like an early postage stamp. Countless enthusiasts collected the copies and locked them away in their most precious boxes, where their value continued to rise.

Apart from those damaged by accident, every copy of this beautifully produced, finely illustrated magazine was carefully preserved by its readers. They were even reluctant to let their closest friends take a glance. Only when the mood struck would they sit alone in their rooms, smiling contentedly as they admired this cherished memory from their youth.

...

Shang Xiangyang’s home was near the city center. It was the National Day holiday, and the streets outside were exceptionally lively. Countless people who normally worked had put aside their tasks to enjoy the rich festive atmosphere. Shang Xiangyang, however, remained at home, restless and irritated.

His family was comfortably well-off, which had given him the opportunity from an early age to read extracurricular books that few of his peers could obtain. Among them, the martial-arts novels brought back from Pearl Harbor had captivated him from the very beginning and become his absolute favorites.

Taking advantage of his father’s frequent business trips to Pearl Harbor, he had filled an entire bookshelf at home with every kind of martial-arts novel. Famous or obscure, conventional or innovative, he had read more books than he could count.

But no matter what it was, seeing too much of anything eventually bred weariness. That was especially true of a single genre when every new work merely followed the latest trend, was carelessly produced, and offered nothing original. Under such circumstances, the boredom became even more intense.

Today, on National Day, he had planned to spend the holiday devouring several new novels his father had recently brought back from Pearl Harbor. Yet the plots and stories were so familiar that the moment he began reading, he felt as though he had swallowed a fly.

“Can’t there be any novels with a little more originality?”

Shang Xiangyang picked up The Deer and the Cauldron from the edge of the nearby table. It had been read so many times that its pages had curled, and some sections were even damaged. Although he had read it countless times and could recite its entire plot fluently from memory, he was quickly drawn in again the moment he opened the book, captivated by its words and story.

At the same time, the creative impulse within him grew stronger than ever. Ideas he had conceived long ago resurfaced in his mind. It was also a martial-arts story, but in his imagination it was broader and more magnificent. He had once taken up his pen and begun writing it, but abandoned the effort before long.

It was not that he was incapable of writing it. Rather, he felt that the story had already broken free from the original conventions of martial arts. The characters’ individual fighting abilities had been elevated to an almost absurd degree, making it seem no longer like a martial-arts novel at all.

He felt ashamed to let anyone see it.

Bang!

At that moment, his tightly closed door was flung open. A fat boy came rushing in, his tiny eyes almost completely hidden beneath the folds of his flesh. His whole body was round as a ball, and he was shouting excitedly as he ran.

“Xiangyang, look at this! The novels in this magazine are incredible—far better than that pile of martial-arts books you have!”

With a loud slap, he planted the magazine heavily on the desk, his face full of smug delight.

Shang Xiangyang was utterly exasperated by the interruption from this unwelcome visitor. The little fatty was his uncle’s son. He had followed Shang Xiangyang around like a shadow ever since childhood. After Shang Xiangyang developed a passion for novels, the boy became interested in them as well, and at times was even more fanatical than Shang Xiangyang himself.

Unfortunately, his boisterous personality had made Shang Xiangyang—who preferred to settle down quietly with a book—laugh helplessly more times than he could count.

“A novel magazine?”

The first thing to catch his eye was the white, block-lettered title Fantasy Youth. Beside it were rows of bright, colorful words: Immortal Slaying, Journey of the Ethereal, Magic, The Legend of a Lowly Soldier...

Beside those smaller titles stood a collection of beautifully drawn, highly distinctive, and irresistibly appealing animated characters. Some carried a distinctly Western flavor, while others possessed the forms of traditional Eastern figures. Two of them stood with their feet upon flying swords, their long hair streaming in the wind, creating an especially powerful impression. Another was an old soldier on a battlefield, radiating the atmosphere of smoke and war.

Shang Xiangyang immediately took a liking to these characters. Naturally, this also awakened a measure of interest in the magazine’s contents—though only a little.

...For some inexplicable reason, this feels a little desolate. Please give me some recommendation votes.