Chapter 9: My Sister’s Friend

The shop’s backroom had ten computers arranged in four directions: three on the top and bottom, two on each side.
A large ceiling fan hung overhead.

Chen Qiao’s usual computer was in the upper-left corner by the window.
Outside was the kitchen’s smelly ditch, rarely passed by.
If the curtain fluttered, passersby on the street saw only his back—a safe spot.
In a pinch, he could climb out the window to escape.

The cafe’s computers lacked a net cafe system.
Shutting down didn’t reset data, so Chen Qiao’s game saves remained.
The downside: clicking pop-up ads or downloading viruses could crash the system.
He’d installed security software like PC Manager on each machine.
Though these programs were shady themselves, they tamed smaller threats—a poison-against-poison approach.

Chen Qiao booted the computer, sipped water, dialed up the internet, and logged into QQ—his and his sister’s accounts.
He’d set up her QQ, picking a memorable nine-digit number.
This year, ten-digit numbers started appearing.

His sister cared surprisingly much about her QQ level, despite her excellence and maturity.
Deep down, she was just a middle school girl.

He opened the farm game, harvesting and planting crops, and played the parking game.
His sister had few friends on QQ—just him in the family category.

Another group, “Best Friend,” had one person: Summer Sky Blue, a tame name in an era of flashy Martian-style usernames.

Her avatar was a girl in Lanhe Junior High’s sports uniform, back to the camera, standing on the school field at sunset, making a peace sign framing the sun.
Not a stock image—clearly Lanhe’s shabby field, low-res with blurry motion, yet oddly poetic.

Her other friends were in a “Classmates” group.
Besides Chen Qiao, her brother, she likely added them via classmates’ phones, maybe this Summer friend.
A phone that took such photos wasn’t cheap, even if a knockoff.

His sister often charged boarders’ phone batteries at home with a flashing universal charger.

Chen Qiao’s friends were just his cafe buddies.
His first big friend add was from the class yearbook before graduation.
Shyly, he’d asked everyone to write a page.

He opened Sword and Fairy 1, its familiar BGM stirring childhood memories.

Wait—he was back in childhood.

His save was at Li Xiao Yao stealing the phoenix egg, caught by A Nu—a character heavily altered in the TV adaptation.

He’d beaten the game that summer, then played Sword 3 and 4.
He admired his current self’s patience—grinding for gear or levels felt rewarding then.

Sword 3’s sister with dual personalities, a sword spirit, sparked his sister complex.

As an adult streamer, with money and less struggle, he bought the full Sword series to support it but couldn’t get into it—too restless.
Had he changed, or the games?

He closed the game, opened KuGou Music, and played “Ten Years” by Eason Chan, slipping on earphones.

The cafe’s earphones were cheap knockoffs, not cool headsets like in proper cafes, but store-bought ones.
They worked well enough.

He created a blank .txt file.
Compared to feature-heavy Word, Notepad opened fast and used little memory.
With no autosave and frequent summer power outages in rural areas, saving often was crucial to avoid losing work.

Chen Qiao planned to write novels for money—his old trade.
As a failed writer, he never hit it big but got published, earning modest fees, barely enough to live, like factory wages, yet better than many writers.

The platform’s welfare system was decent now, with author donation channels open.

Every struggling writer dreamed of returning to the wild early days of web novels, outshining the greats.
Chen Qiao wasn’t that arrogant.
What seemed cliché now, those pioneers mastered—better prose, phrasing, foreshadowing, or emotional pull.

Even starting a new genre, if you wrote poorly, others would copy and surpass you.
That was web novels’ brutality.

But competition was lighter now.
Readers, less exposed, were less picky.
The environment was favorable, despite annual clean-up campaigns.
The big ones were in 2007 and the landmark 2014 purge, a turning point for web novels.

2009 was the “Double Fight” year.
Chen Qiao opened the platform’s site, seeing familiar big-name authors.
After Shengda acquired it last year, it went on a buying spree, like Tencent Literature later, snapping up novel sites.

He wouldn’t plagiarize novels.
As a copycat, he only vaguely recalled plots—impossible to recreate fully.
He’d rewrite his own old works.

His early efforts were middling in cutthroat times.
Reworked now, vetted by readers, he could fix flaws.
With years of experience and reading, he could improve, especially writing bolder, making him eager.

Since they were his, the memories were vivid—especially the harshly criticized parts, crushing his spirit.

Soon, he typed a rough outline.
His first draft had no plan, just stream-of-consciousness writing.
Now, he’d make a detailed outline for faster writing, though internet fees were a cost.

He’d write on paper first, then type.

No royalties came before publication—about two months to wait.
Signing was laxer now; minors could sign if the work was good.
No ID?
Attach a household registry to the contract.

Using his dad’s ID was an option, but Chen Qiao wanted his own name in the web novel world.
Teen prodigies weren’t rare.

Next year, mobile reading would start charging, wireless reading rising with mobile internet, gradually overtaking PC shares.

He planned to finish and release this novel slowly this year, then write a wireless novel next year, using royalties to invest in Bitcoin.

For dropshipping, many items didn’t ship free, only to the county.
Online payments needed a bank U-shield.
Cash on delivery?
Buyers might reject it.
Returns were a hassle with shaky systems.

Buying wholesale to sell locally for profit risked unsold stock in a small town market.

Becoming a town agent for delivery points, charging one to two yuan for remote areas, more for big items, was viable—others started this in a few years.
Offering free dropshipping at delivery points, a one-stop service, was more feasible.
No path?
Build one.

Besides hustling, being a rich second-gen was nice—make his parents the rich first-gen.
His dad only knew driving and valued “brotherhood” with fair-weather friends.
After the accident, only two lent money.

His dad’s experience and connections got him jobs first.
Too busy, he’d pass work to friends, some of whom still badmouthed him.

Chen Qiao wanted his dad to start a dump truck fleet or a hauling company.
With his ability to land jobs, he could take commissions or let the company profit.
Companies were tougher than solo operators.

No need to stick to this small town.
Peng City had more jobs—constant construction, no space for dirt, needing long hauls or even buying back fill dirt.

His mom was ultra-conservative, unlikely to invest.
Work was her path.
Convincing her to buy property would be a win.

His sister, the star, should pitch ideas—her words carried weight with their parents.
To them, Chen Qiao was still the naughty kid.

As he thought of his sister, the female QQ penguin icon flashed in the bottom-right corner.

Didi—

The familiar notification sounded.
His sister’s avatar blinked—someone messaged her.
It was Summer Sky Blue.

“You there?”

Classic opener.

“Nope, not her.”

“I know it’s not her.
Fei Fei’s right here doing homework.”

Must be her desk mate.

“Study hard.”

“Who are you?
How do you know her QQ password and keep her level up?”

“Her brother.”

“Oh, right.
Fei Fei mentioned a super naughty little brother.
No computer at home, so you’re at a cafe, huh?”

“You’re playing on your phone in class, not studying.”

“Not scared I’ll tell your sister?”

“Nah, just don’t disturb her studying.”

Chen Fei Fei knew he went to cafes—she’d set up his QQ.
She kept it secret from their parents, warning him to stop or she’d cut off his loans.

He wasn’t here to play tonight—just business, so he felt justified.

“Ha, bold little brother.
Teacher’s coming—talk later.
886…”

This best friend of his sister’s lost contact later, didn’t she?

Chen Qiao never saw his sister with close friends or heard her mention any.

He kept typing his detailed outline.

It was Monday.
Town middle and high schoolers had evening study.
Delinquents hadn’t found this cafe yet, preferring the main one where they knew the staff.

Chen Qiao came alone, practically reserving the place.