Chapter 28: The Tables Turn

"Burning money" is just as the name implies: you need to have money to burn it.

Kong Decheng’s first thought was to seek new capital injections for Huanjian. Increasing the base of authors was a good thing in the long run; the massive number of low-to-mid-tier writers were the true bedrock of online literature. As long as the site could weather this period and wait for a batch of authors to mature, there would be great potential in the future.

But he soon discovered that this path was a complete dead end.

First, providing welfare to all authors was a bottomless pit. There was no way to know how long it would last, how many new authors would flood in, or what kind of returns those authors would bring in the future. Kong could not answer a single one of these questions posed by investors.

The last question was particularly damning: future returns. Were they really expecting to rely on the meager tips harvested from a small fraction of these tens of thousands of readers?

To make matters worse, it was all Zeyue's fault. Before Zeyue appeared, capital judged the value of an online literature site primarily by its traffic. However, after Zeyue introduced a tipping system, investors realized that online literature could actually make money. Even if the amount was small, it was at least a viable path to profit, which meant valuations were no longer based solely on traffic.

The second point was the most fatal.

Even if one wanted to invest in online literature, why would capital choose Huanjian? Hot money is fickle, and its greatest characteristic is chasing winners and ditching losers. Why would they invest in a struggling, beleaguered Huanjian instead of the thriving Zeyue Chinese Network?

Although Zeyue’s current scale was not yet as large as Huanjian’s, it was like a healthy, growing young man, whereas Huanjian had become a bloated, sickly, and obese giant. The quality of the investment was self-evident.

Having failed to secure funding and with his cash reserves running dry, Kong was forced to implement a new policy. He made the decision through gritted teeth, fully aware of the horrific negative impact it would have. But there was no other way; if he kept burning money, he wouldn't just be selling his house—he simply couldn't afford to keep going.

"In light of the recent surge in authors and out of a sense of responsibility toward them, the site will re-collect data to plan a better welfare system. Effective immediately, author welfare for newly opened books will be suspended until the new system is established, at which point it will be paid out retroactively..."

The original authors were unaffected, but for the newly joined ones, the welfare was cut off. Although it was described as a "suspension" with promises of "retroactive payment," the site was met with a storm of abuse. The previous promotion had been overwhelming, painting Huanjian as the perfect place for new authors. How could they suspend welfare after only a few days? Who knew when a new system would even be built?

When people are given money, they are all smiles. Having tasted the sweetness of those benefits, being told they were suddenly gone was far worse than never having received them at all.

The new authors suffered a massive psychological blow and began to lash out, while the old authors also grew anxious. Was the upcoming system going to be better or worse? Huanjian's original welfare was already inferior to Zeyue's; if it were weakened, there would be no reason for them to stay.

Suddenly, a wave of netizens targeting Huanjian and Qidian appeared on the site’s own forums and various literature-related discussion boards. The Longkong Forum, famous for its commentary on online literature, was almost entirely filled with condemnations of the two sites.

"If you can't even provide basic material freedom, you might as well be begging."
"They used flowery propaganda to lure authors in, only to be completely irresponsible."
"The result of the money-burning war is clear: Huanjian and Qidian have run out of capital and are forced to break their promises."
"Rumor has it that Huanjian's boss, Kong Decheng, has begun divesting and is looking to sell the company..."
"I suspect Qidian and Huanjian will eventually have to follow Zeyue's path and adopt a contract system."
"Why do these two sites just follow trends and eat the leftovers from others?"
"No wonder Boss Zhao of Zeyue is called the Godfather of Online Literature. Look at him—any policy he rolls out is immediately mimicked by everyone else. If you don't follow his lead, you won't survive!"

...The rumors were rampant. Junzi’s "Red Team" and "Blue Team" were once again doing what they did best as professional trolls.

Most of the authors at Huanjian and Qidian lacked a strong foundation to begin with, and now, filled with panic, they couldn't focus on writing. Instead, they poured their energy into these discussions. On the sites, book abandonments, hiatuses, reduced update counts, and rushed endings became commonplace.

In a sense, Zhao Zeqi’s covert strike had actually promoted the "prosperity" of the Longkong Forum. Conversely, Zeyue, which had previously been berated, became the only reef left standing in the storm. Junzi’s teams didn't forget to contrast Huanjian and Qidian with Zeyue.

"No pain, no gain."
"Zeyue isn't a charity; why should they give money to authors for nothing?"
"Zeyue's welfare is getting better and better; I'm so envious..."
"Actually, looking at it another way, signing a contract protects the author's interests. As long as you are under contract, the site must pay you. They can't just stop paying like Huanjian..."

Eventually, it wasn't just Junzi’s people posting; most of the positive sentiment came spontaneously from writers who were actually benefiting from Zeyue. Many realized that if they wanted to make money, they had to go to Zeyue. After all, Boss Zhao, the Godfather of Online Literature, had once declared that he welcomed both new writers and those who had left Zeyue to return.

But Zeyue had changed. Not every writer could get a contract. After posting thirty thousand words, editors would review the work and selectively sign authors based on quality. Many then remembered that when Zeyue first introduced the contract system, there was a notice stating that while everyone who applied at the time would be accepted, future contracts would be selective based on quality.

The people who had left back then were filled with regret. Why had they jumped ship? If they had signed back then, they would be earning a steady income every month, rain or shine. Now, their new employers were in a precarious state, potentially facing a sale, and couldn't even pay basic benefits. Even if they wanted to return to Zeyue, there was no guarantee they would be offered a contract.

Despite this, many still chose Zeyue. Before, people had only seen the constraints of Zeyue's contracts, but after this incident, they realized the other side of the contract was security. As long as you had the skill to sign with Zeyue, your benefits were legally protected. Furthermore, people are capable of judgment; after months of infighting, it was obvious which site was more trustworthy and had a better future.

Amidst the chaos, Kong Decheng finally couldn't sit still and reached out to the head of Qidian to meet.

Huanjian was suffering, and Qidian was just as uncomfortable. It was just that because Huanjian was the long-standing industry leader, it was always at the center of the storm, while Qidian was a new player with far less public scrutiny.

What Kong Decheng didn't know was that in this life, with Zeyue’s sudden rise, the one truly doomed was Qidian. Even without Zeyue, Huanjian—which couldn't keep up with the times—would have been destroyed by Qidian within a year, leaving Qidian to dominate the industry. In this life, Zeyue had taken the role that Qidian would have played; however, Zhao Zeqi’s punch had not only killed the veteran master, Huanjian, but had also crippled the young, rising star, Qidian.