After accepting the fact that writing eight thousand words wasn’t that impressive, Cui Geng neatly divided his edited 8,439 words into four chapters, opened the author backend, and uploaded them.
Don’t ask why there were over two hundred extra words—if asked, he’d say he just added a few sentences to improve the flow of the article.
When uploading the last chapter, Cui Geng felt somewhat emotional.
In the past, he would write and publish as he went, with at least a two-hour interval between chapters.
But now, publishing four chapters at once meant four times the joy, giving him a dam-breaking sense of relief.
Cui Geng felt his excitement was hard to suppress, yet difficult to express, so after thinking for quite a while, he just added an exclamation at the end of the chapter.
“Holy crap!!!”
After seeing the words “Publishing Complete,” Cui Geng felt a weight lift off his shoulders.
Comfortable!
Satisfied!
Relaxed!
Although he normally procrastinated with righteous confidence and complete freedom, when evening came around, he would still feel somewhat disappointed.
It was that feeling of “I didn’t get around to doing anything and the day is already over”—a certain emptiness and melancholy.
But today he didn’t have that feeling. He wouldn’t think “I didn’t get to do anything” because today he had written eight thousand words!
“Dinner’s ready!”
“Tonight, everyone is free to do what they want. Go back to the hotel or go out to play, as you wish.”
Zhu Xing’an had also finished his day’s work and called everyone to arrange the Slackin’ takeout food on the conference table.
One by one, white porcelain bowls were opened, releasing the aroma of steaming food.
The authors gathered around the conference table and began eating and chatting.
They had also eaten Slackin’ takeout for lunch, so Cui Geng had already expressed his admiration for these exquisite and healthy meals at noon.
At the long conference table, Zhu Xing’an distributed the dishes everyone had ordered. For some reason, this scene made Cui Geng involuntarily think of The Last Supper painting.
The authors began eating and chatting, discussing topics like “how many words did you write today,” “it seems like writing efficiency is really high here,” and “the chair is so good that my neck didn’t hurt today.”
Cui Geng didn’t have much to add to the conversation. What he most wanted to brag about was writing eight thousand words today, but in this setting, it didn’t seem like something worth showing off—it might even be a bit embarrassing.
Out of boredom, Cui Geng took out his phone to check the comments on his new chapters.
The place didn’t block mobile signals, though there was no WiFi, so authors could still use their data to go online.
Of course, even so, no one would spend the whole day playing on their phones here.
Everyone was busy writing, and if you were constantly on your phone, you’d feel guilty.
Besides, this workshop wasn’t mandatory. If someone truly had no interest in writing, there wouldn’t be much point in forcing themselves to stay. They might as well leave early and play however they wanted at home.
It was like a student who didn’t like studying going to a study room—no matter how much they didn’t want to study, they would still absorb a little knowledge in that atmosphere. It was certainly easier to immerse oneself in studying there than in a dormitory.
It must be said that although Cui Geng was a notorious procrastinator, his writing was actually quite good, with quite a few loyal readers.
The new chapters had only been out for a few minutes, and readers were already commenting.
“???”
“What am I seeing? Four chapters in one update?”
“Ah, I must have overeaten today and started hallucinating!”
“Did the Procrastination King take the wrong medicine today? Not only did he update four chapters, but he didn’t even ask for votes!”
“He hired a ghostwriter!”
Reading this, Cui Geng’s heart skipped a beat.
Damn, he had been in such a hurry when uploading that he’d forgotten to ask for votes!
Updating multiple chapters but forgetting to ask for votes felt like losing a hundred million.
He continued reading.
“What’s with the ‘Holy crap’? I don’t think I’ve seen this kind of exclamation at the end of a chapter before.”
“I bet this Procrastination King has been kidnapped, and the kidnapper is pointing a gun at him, forcing him to write eight thousand words, then leaving a secret code at the end of the chapter!”
“Mr. Kidnapper, these two votes are for you. If you see this, please keep him kidnapped for a few more days, thank you!”
“I’ll add one more vote—keep him for two more days!”
“Tentacle Girl, if you’re encountering difficulties in life, just say so, so we can prepare in advance. Otherwise, what will we do when your problems are resolved?”
“Really? Procrastination King, if you’ve been kidnapped, just blink your eyes quickly, so I can thank the kidnapper!”
Cui Geng read these comments with exasperation.
What do they mean by thanking the kidnapper?
Is this how they see me? Only able to update diligently when kidnapped at gunpoint?
Am I that kind of person?
Hmm? I guess I am.
Never mind then.
Cui Geng thought carefully. If it weren’t for this workshop locking him in the Dark Room to focus on writing, he really wouldn’t have been able to produce eight thousand words.
Anyway, no point in dwelling on this.
The point is, I wrote eight thousand words today, which is awesome!
Tonight I need to have some fun!
Cui Geng fiercely swallowed a piece of braised pork and asked his roommate in a low voice: “Bro, want to go out and have some fun tonight? I heard there’s a chain of internet cafés in Jingzhou called Slackin’ Internet Café. It has high-end equipment and a great environment—super enjoyable!”
His roommate shook his head: “No thanks, Brother Cui. Tonight I plan to go back to the hotel and write another chapter on my laptop, then organize my outline to prepare for tomorrow.”
Cui Geng: “…”
It inexplicably reminded him of living in a dorm with studious classmates during university.
…
…
January 17, Monday.
Pei Qian woke up naturally, sat up in his bed, and rubbed his eyes.
“So annoying, it’s Monday again.”
“Have to go to work again.”
“Hmm… I feel like there was something important to do on Monday, but I can’t remember what it was.”
“Whatever, let me order takeout first and think while eating.”
Pei Qian took out his phone, ordered Slackin’ takeout, and then checked his unread messages.
Ma Yang: “Brother Qian, IOI has officially begun testing in Europe and America! I heard the data is really good—check it out!”
Oh?
Pei Qian immediately became alert.
He quickly opened his browser and searched for information related to “Finger Company” and “IOI testing.”
On Finger Company’s official website, there was a detailed introduction of IOI’s advantages, such as having a professional battle network with automatic matching based on players’ hidden skill rating “ELO points” to determine player levels and start quick battles, automatic team-matching for group play, and plans to open a ladder system in the future.
On the forums, Pei Qian also found some player feedback. Although some people complained about certain bugs in the game, the overall response was mainly positive.
Pei Qian didn’t read too much—with his Level 4 English proficiency, he couldn’t say he didn’t understand at all, but reading was quite strenuous.
He was more concerned about the related discussions on domestic forums.
After IOI began testing overseas, the news quickly spread to China. Many Chinese players were very interested in this game and hoped that the Chinese server would start testing soon with a Chinese client.
Some players couldn’t wait and had already gone to try it on the American server.
After reading all this news, Pei Qian’s feelings were somewhat complicated.
He wasn’t quite sure whether he should hope for IOI to be a hit or a flop…
But regardless, the script was finally developing as he had anticipated!
Previously, Pei Qian had noticed IOI hadn’t started testing in the U.S. and had received a lukewarm response, making him worry that the game might flop.
Although IOI flopping would mean the 20 million investment would be wasted, when he looked at his own GOG, the outlook immediately became less optimistic.
Now the script was developing according to plan—IOI was a hit in the U.S., and following this trend, it would undoubtedly become a global phenomenon sooner or later.
Which meant…
He could stop worrying about GOG for now!
Pei Qian didn’t have much system funds at the moment; otherwise, he would immediately invest another sum in GOG.
After finishing his takeout, Pei Qian prepared to go to the company to look around and check on GOG’s development progress.
Just then, he received another message, this time from Huang Sibo.
“Mr. Pei, our movie has wrapped up filming!”
Pei Qian was stunned for a moment. So fast?
Well, it wasn’t that fast. Thinking carefully, it was slightly slower than expected, but counting the time, it was about right.
Wrapping up meant the filming tasks for the movie were complete. Although there would still be editing and post-production work ahead, generally speaking, after wrapping up, the crew would disband and go their separate ways.
So, most movies celebrate after wrapping up, because at this point, all crew members are still present.
Hearing this, Pei Qian immediately became wide awake.
Celebrating after wrapping up—doesn’t that mean a dinner?
Doesn’t that mean spending a few good days playing in Jingzhou?
These people had come from far away and worked hard to make this movie. As the host, shouldn’t he treat them well?
Pei Qian immediately typed a reply: “Don’t let anyone from the crew leave!”
“I’m treating!!!”