A few days later, it was time for another club activity session.

In the Literature Club’s multimedia classroom, Gong Xinyan glared at me, teeth clenched.

“You haven’t come to see me *at all* this whole week?”

“W-well… haha, yeah.”

I scratched my head with an awkward laugh. Then I saw her knuckles crackling as she clenched her fists—cold sweat instantly beaded on my forehead. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Truth was, I hadn’t forgotten. I just… didn’t want to come.

*Forgot?* Her voice shot up three octaves, spitting out the last word—*“Teacher!”*—like venom.

I knew I’d regret staying silent.

“I won’t let it happen again. I’ll check in at least twice a week. Please… spare me this time.”

Only after my apology did her expression soften. She shoved several thick stacks of manuscripts from the podium into my hands. “Here. My latest drafts.”

I took them, eyes wide. “This much? Are you *pulling all-nighters* every day?”

“All-nighters?”

“Staying up writing till dawn.”

*Pulling all-nighters* was writer slang—a joke among us. I often cranked out drafts late too, but crashing by midnight meant I always *failed my cultivation*.

And failing meant weekend lockdowns in Miss Jinmu’s “Editor’s Dungeon.” *That* was the real nightmare.

Gong Xinyan’s own dark circles looked deep enough to hold ink. She hadn’t been sleeping much either.

“You don’t have to push this hard. Rest sometimes.”

I flipped through the pages as I said it.

She shook her head. “I’ve got no natural talent. Hard work’s all I have.”

*Impressive drive*, I thought. But raw effort couldn’t fix everything. Veterans could grind for years with nothing to show, while hobbyist newbies sometimes blew up overnight.

Life wasn’t fair. Finding your true strength mattered more.

I kept that wisdom to myself. Newcomers burning with passion never listened—until they’d bled on the pavement.

As I read, Gong Xinyan hovered beside me, tense and watchful. Three short stories meant this’d take time.

I made small talk to fill the silence.

“President, why’s the club always empty during activity hours? Are you the only official member… and me just some stray?”

“N-no! It’s usually packed. I… sent everyone away today.”

“Hmm. Is that so?”

My noncommittal reply made her flush. She bit her lip, then huffed. “Just read the drafts.”

Each story ran around 20,000 words—borderline novella length. All romance, dressed in different skins: campus life, apocalypse, futuristic cyber-city.

*This girl’s clearly dreaming of love*, I mused. *Cast her as the lead in some tsundere rom-com, and she’d nail it without acting.*

She’d tried new techniques, but the old flaws remained: stiff prose, sluggish pacing, flat plots. I’d pointed them out before. No improvement.

When I listed the issues again, her face darkened.

“So… I still can’t do it?”

Every time her mood shifted, my heart lurched. This brute-force girl scared me senseless. I rushed to soften the blow. “You *have* improved, though.”

“Improved? *Where?*”

“Well… where do *you* think?”

“You’re the *teacher*! Shouldn’t *you* tell *me*?” Her words cut sharp—not angry, but relentless.