I, Zong Jun, make a living writing novels. I wouldn't dare call myself a novelist or writer—I'm just someone who enjoys writing and earns decent royalties from it.

If my acquaintances knew I wrote novels, I'd be so embarrassed I'd want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. So when introducing myself, I only say I do work within my capabilities. I'd never confidently declare, "Hey, I'm a writer."

In junior high, during free time, I wrote a youth romance novel titled "Mischief, Lilith!" and sent it to a publisher. It was ruthlessly rejected. Disheartened, I posted it online under the pen name Qian Niao. Unexpectedly, it received good reviews.

For years after, I strived to become a professional writer while studying and writing. Thanks to my first book's success, I gained many fans. My new novels performed well. I never experienced the agonizing newbie struggles others faced. This gave me the illusion that "maybe I'm a genius."

But reality proved it was just an illusion. My new books did worse and worse—so badly the website often cut them. Readers complained with heartbreaking comments: "A worthless writer living off past glories," "Just Lilith's book with a new cover," "This is trash, I'm done."

When royalties dropped below living standards, I started writing two or even three books at once. As a fast writer, I barely kept up with daily updates. But the huge workload caused another quality drop.

I, as Qian Niao, had reached the point where readers abandoned me en masse.

Honestly, the pressure then was immense. I couldn't sleep night after night. I had zero inspiration for moving stories.

After talking with my editor and getting a harsh scolding, I decided to focus on one novel and try a new genre.

Thus, a detective novel titled "The Midnight Logbook" was born. It gained many fans upon release. It didn't make me wildly rich overnight, but it far outperformed my past romance novels. Its popularity matched my debut, "Mischief, Lilith!"

I knew I had fans, but I never expected my lovely daughter to be my No.1 fan.

A week had passed since I discovered Bai Yu streaming online. I still remembered her wearing that so-called Ilisa cosplay outfit. She looked good in it, sure, but...

Why didn't I, the original author, know what Ilisa's cosplay looked like?! That outfit completely failed to capture the desolate beauty of my desperate heroine!

My works are serialized online. Though popular, they never got manga or anime adaptations. I couldn't afford illustrators, so there were no official art. That cosplay was just fan-made based on imagination. Honestly, I wasn't satisfied at all!

I carried a cup of hot milk upstairs. At the stairwell, I heard beautiful singing from Bai Yu's room.

"Always, my dear child ♪"

"Who takes such good care of me ♫"

"To all who listen ♫"

"Thank you, thank you ♬"

It was a lovely Japanese song. Though I couldn't understand it, the cheerful rhythm and Bai Yu's sweet, childlike voice were perfect together! If she held a concert, scalpers would jack up tickets to ten thousand yuan each.

How lucky I was to hear it for free!

I stood at her door with the milk, waiting until the song ended. Then I gently knocked.

Knock knock...

No response.

Knock knock knock...

Still no answer.

Bang bang bang!!

The door finally opened. Bai Yu hid behind it, half-opening it, her face full of displeasure. "What?!"

"Um, I was wondering if you'd like some milk," I said, lifting the cup.

"No! Don't bother me when I'm working!" Bai Yu snapped, her face sour, and tried to shut the door.

Since her streaming was exposed and I didn't strongly oppose it, Bai Yu moved out of her rented apartment. She started streaming from home.

"Wait!"

"What else?"

She was clearly unhappy, but I hesitated and encouraged her: "Uh... you sing beautifully. Keep it up."

Bai Yu's face flushed slightly. She turned her head away, pouted disdainfully, "Hmph!" and slammed the door shut.

It was clear... our relationship hadn't improved. Well, that was only natural.

I hadn't told her I was Qian Niao. She didn't know her favorite author was her guardian under the same roof. Telling her might fix our strained father-daughter bond, but...

I just couldn't say it!!

Readers liked romance, so I added lots of it to my works. I subtly wrote about... you know, intimate stuff between men and women. Things like... breasts.

I didn't mind at first. But thinking of my lovely daughter reading my slightly explicit novels made me want to die of shame.

I'm a total virgin who's never even held a girl's hand. Writing these novels, I feel so sorry for my readers!

But if someone asked, "If you're so shy, why not stop writing?"

I'd jump up, grab that person's shoulders, shake them hard, and shout:

"What's wrong with liking breasts?!!!!"

…

After drinking the milk, I returned to my second-floor room. Sitting at my computer desk, staring at the blank document, I encouraged myself.

"You can do it, Zong Jun!"

My fingers flew across the keyboard, clacking away. The detailed outline for the next volume of "The Midnight Logbook" was done. Writing now was much easier. Except for polishing details, most time was just expanding outline items into coherent text.

Normally, I write about three thousand words per hour. If smooth, I hit four thousand. But when stuck, it's agonizing—taking who knows how long. My speed isn't fast. I've heard some in the industry write ten thousand words hourly. Those people must not be human—just tentacle monsters disguised as humans.