Three days later.
The circulation of the Capital Morning Post had hit ten thousand copies. It was no longer free. People were paying two copper coins for it—not for the paper, but for the next chapter.
The revenue stream was significant, but the influence was priceless.
In the imperial palace, within the Six Fan Gate (the Empire's special police force for martial affairs), a high-ranking officer slammed the paper onto her desk.
Chief Constable Xiahou Di. She was a woman of iron and blood, dressed in red armor, her presence as sharp as a spear.
"This... Capital Morning Post," she growled. "Who is behind it?"
"The Star-Moon Sect, my Lady," a subordinate reported, sweating. "Specifically, a man named Xue Mu. He has no cultivation."
"No cultivation? And yet he has half the capital debating the morality of the righteous sects?"
Xiahou Di picked up the paper. She read the latest chapter. Despite her anger, she found herself skimming to the end to see if the protagonists escaped the trap. She scowled when the chapter ended abruptly.
"Damn cliffhangers," she muttered.
She tossed the paper down. "This is dangerous. The Star-Moon Sect is changing its image. They are no longer hiding in the shadows; they are controlling the conversation. If the populace starts sympathizing with the Unorthodox paths, the stability of the Empire is at risk."
"Should we shut them down?" the subordinate asked.
"On what grounds?" Xiahou Di asked. "Writing fiction? Reporting grain prices? If we ban a story because it makes us look bad, we prove them right. We prove we are tyrants."
She stood up, pacing the room.
"This Xue Mu... he is playing a game we don't know how to play. The game of... Public Opinion."
She grabbed her helmet.
"Prepare my horse. I want to meet this 'Scholar of Sadness'. I want to see if his tongue is as sharp as his pen."
Back at the manor, Xue Mu was in a meeting with the city's merchants.
"Gentlemen," Xue Mu pointed to a layout of the newspaper. "This square here, next to the climax of the novel? This is prime real estate. Ten thousand eyes will see it every morning."
"I'll take it!" a silk merchant shouted. "Fifty taels a month!"
"Sixty!" a weapon smith countered. "I want my swords associated with Zhuo Yihang!"
"Sold to the smith," Xue Mu said, banging a gavel. "Next spot. The 'Gossip Column'. Who wants to sponsor the rumors?"
As the bidding war erupted, Yue Xiaochan leaned over to Meng Lan.
"He's selling empty space on a piece of paper for more than we make in a week of performing," she whispered. "Is he a genius or a con artist?"
Meng Lan smiled, looking at the frantic merchants. "Perhaps, Young Master, the difference is smaller than we think."
Xue Mu sat back, watching the money pile up. He was building an empire. An empire of ink, paper, and dreams.
But he felt a chill. The cyan tattoo on his palm throbbed slightly.
Trouble is coming, he thought. The authorities won't sit idly by while I rewrite their culture.
He smiled. Good. A story needs conflict. Let them come.