Chapter 19: The Money-Burning Mode

At ZeYue Creation, manpower was insufficient and the number of website authors was limited. The editors’ main responsibility was to guide authors on how to use the website, so the technical and editorial teams were initially combined. However, as the number of authors surged, editors needed to devote more effort to selecting good works, arranging recommendations, and engaging with authors about storylines. It became clear that merging the technical and editorial teams was no longer appropriate; a more specialized division of labor was necessary.

A Technology Department was established to handle website development, daily maintenance, and defense against hacker attacks.

Regarding hacker attacks, Song Yun had reported twice to Zhao Zejun. Since ZeYue’s launch, it had faced three hacker attacks. Fortunately, Zhao Zejun had been willing to invest from the start, ensuring the servers were robust enough to prevent serious damage to the site. This also served as a warning: while the troubles at ZeJian Company might come from thugs or disgruntled migrant workers demanding wages, ZeYue, rooted in the online world, faced a different kind of threat—mostly cyber hackers. It was crucial to take preventive measures.

Fortunately, technical talent was not hard to find—University of Science and Technology was a ready-made cradle for such expertise. For now, Song Yun would serve as the interim head of the Technology Department. Though not the strongest technically, he had been with Zhao Zejun from the beginning, and his loyalty and affection for ZeYue outweighed pure technical skill. Song Yun was tasked with selecting several key technical personnel from the previous project team, and if necessary, conducting campus recruitment to build the department.

An Editorial Department was also established to form a professional network novel editorial team. While assembling technical staff was relatively straightforward, sourcing editorial talent proved more challenging for Zhao Zejun. The creation of an editorial department was not merely superficial; it was a strategic move to prepare for future author contract signings.

To professionalize network novel authors and commercialize the sector, signing business contracts with authors was essential. Although the signing system was not yet ripe for full implementation, allowing authors to taste financial rewards first would encourage acceptance, paving the way for future contract rollouts. Signing promising works would become a primary editorial duty, demanding editors with sharp insight—not only skilled in network novel writing techniques but also familiar with industry patterns and possessing management and communication abilities.

Since the network novel industry was still emerging, mainstream views did not regard network novel editors as genuine talents, making suitable candidates scarce. Currently, domestic editorial talent knowledgeable about network novels was concentrated mainly at Qidian and Huanjian, especially Qidian, which was their greatest advantage. Thus, the plan was to select some personnel from the existing project team while conducting recruitment, with Zhao Zejun temporarily serving as editorial director.

This left ZeYue’s editorial department in a somewhat awkward position: strong leadership but modest staff capabilities, with Zhao Zejun himself handling much of the core work.

“Everyone, I believe you have all read the tales of the Three Kingdoms. Today, the domestic network novel scene has essentially entered a Three Kingdoms style contest for supremacy,” Zhao Zejun solemnly concluded at the meeting’s end. “The history of the Three Kingdoms is clear: division breeds unification, and in the end, only one can dominate the realm. Work hard, and do not let ZeYue, or your efforts, become stepping stones for others’ achievements.”

...

After ZeYue announced its Diligent Writing Award system, the domestic network novel community erupted in shock.

If the previous tipping system mostly benefited mid-level and senior writers or those with a certain reputation and reader base, this new diligent writing award was indiscriminately open to all writers. Anyone willing to write diligently, persistently typing away, even if their work was atrociously bad and had no readers at all, would still earn a steady monthly income of three hundred yuan.

Three hundred yuan equated to over half a month’s living expenses for an average university student in a second-tier city, or a full month’s stipend for a typical graduate student.

In other words, ZeYue had inaugurated a new era: all writers earning profits.

Though the current earnings were modest, this was undoubtedly a groundbreaking boon for the entire network novel industry, fundamentally reversing the longstanding dilemma of writing novels without monetary reward.

“Where does ZeYue get all this money?!” Kong Decheng of Huanjian was the first to react—not with anger, but with bewilderment—upon hearing the news.

ZeYue’s scale was no longer small. Three hundred yuan per author per month, multiplied by thousands of authors, meant at least one to two hundred thousand yuan spent monthly. How much money did Zhao Zejun have to burn to afford this? Had he found new investors? If he had that much money, why not invest elsewhere? The network novel industry itself had limited prospects.

“President Kong, I’m not sure why he dares to do this either, but the effect is obvious,” Rizhao said grimly. “Our preliminary estimates show that less than half a month after the diligent writing award was announced, ZeYue’s author count nearly doubled.”

“All of them poached from us?!” Kong Decheng frowned.

“Fortunately, only part came from us at Huanjian, some from Qidian, and some are new writers entering the industry,” Rizhao analyzed. “His policy is ruthless—not only attracting existing authors but also stimulating many who didn’t write novels before to join the industry. Objectively, it’s driving the entire industry’s growth.”

“Let’s put that aside for now. I just can’t understand why he’s willing to throw money around so recklessly.”

Kong Decheng’s mindset was fundamentally different from Zhao Zejun’s and Rizhao’s. Zhao and Rizhao aimed to build the industry bigger and stronger, while Kong sought quick investment returns. Zhao’s approach seemed strange to him.

Investing over a hundred thousand yuan monthly—did Zhao genuinely believe the industry could someday yield returns in the tens of millions or more?

“President Kong, I studied it carefully. Although the policy sounds generous, it hasn’t actually cost much,” Rizhao smiled wryly.

“How’s that? He announced rewards—he can’t just backtrack now; that would ruin his reputation.”

Rizhao explained, “Think about it: with more authors, there are more readers, and thus more tipping income. A portion of the award money comes from these tips. Also, this diligent writing award is paid every three months. So far, by offering this incentive, he has attracted a large number of authors and readers, but in reality, ZeYue hasn’t spent a cent out of pocket—apart from developing a new website feature. This is an incredibly clever move: he painted a tempting picture and drew all the writing talent to ZeYue.”

“Yes, President Kong, we can’t just watch ZeYue grow like this,” even Ting Ge from the tech team spoke up. “Our traffic hasn’t declined, but the traffic at ZeYue and Qidian is rising rapidly, especially ZeYue’s. This means these two are capturing nearly the entire new market.”

“President Kong, should we imitate ZeYue and offer some benefits to our authors too?”

“Let’s hold off on benefits for now,” Kong Decheng’s inner conflict was evident. He knew his colleagues were right—if they didn’t find a way to retain authors, Huanjian would be hollowed out. But the problem was he simply didn’t have the funds to compete. If he gritted his teeth, he could scrape together about a million yuan, but what if he got trapped? Besides, unless a stable, profitable business model for network novels emerged, how long could he keep burning through hundreds of thousands of yuan monthly like ZeYue?

He couldn’t understand Zhao Zejun’s motivation. Even with tipping and the three-month diligent writing award buffer, the site itself still wasn’t profitable, at best breaking even or slightly subsidizing losses. After all the effort, the benefits all went to the writers. Why was Zhao Zejun doing this?

“What about Qidian?” Kong asked Rizhao.

Rizhao could only smile bitterly. “Qidian also launched a tipping feature and is reportedly planning to imitate ZeYue by rewarding all writers. The exact reward plan hasn’t been finalized.”

Kong’s expression darkened. With both Qidian and ZeYue playing the financial game, it meant the network novel industry had officially entered a money-burning phase.

“In that case, let’s develop a tipping function ourselves. Also, contact Qidian’s management. We need to sit down and talk. This kind of unchecked spending benefits no one.”