Chapter 33: Spring Has Arrived

The implementation of a pay-to-read system sent shockwaves through every layer of the industry, irrevocably entangling readers, authors, and websites alike in what would become the greatest earthquake in the history of web novels.

Authors—or rather, writers—were the first to bear the brunt of this change. Since the paywall directly impacted their financial interests, they were naturally the most attentive. The new rule was simple: once a story crossed the 300,000-word mark, an author could earn money regardless of how well the book performed. This was not the erratic, luck-based income of tips; it was a stable stream of revenue. As long as one was willing to write, the money would flow month after month.

Driven by excitement, almost every writer began to do the math. If an author received one cent for every thousand words read, and they wrote 5,000 words a day—hitting the standard for the "Diligent Writing Award"—they would earn five cents. Five cents didn’t seem like much—it felt like nothing—but that was for a single reader. If a hundred people read it, that was five yuan. If a thousand people read it, they could earn fifty yuan a day, totaling 1,500 yuan a month just from royalties. In this day and age, how much did the average adult earn in a regular job?

Furthermore, there was no limit to how far one could climb. If a writer struck gold and became famous, what if three thousand, five thousand, or even ten thousand people read their work? A monthly income exceeding ten thousand yuan was entirely within reach. The mere thought of it made their mouths water. To earn a high salary without having to punch a clock, endure a boss’s temper, or commute in the early morning and late evening—all while working from home—was the dream. A single author could out-earn several white-collar workers, making the goals of buying a house, a car, and starting a family seem just around the corner.

Zeyue Chinese Network fueled this fervor by launching a promotional slogan: "Write novels, make a fortune, and reach the pinnacle of life!"

Of course, most writers possessed a healthy sense of reality. They didn't need ten thousand readers; even a thousand paid subscribers was an incredible milestone. But this was a path paved with hope. With the web novel industry booming, persistence could lead to success. Even setting aside the dream of ten-thousand-yuan months, a writer with some talent could aim for a more modest goal: two hundred subscribers. At two hundred subscribers and 5,000 words a day, that was 300 yuan a month. If they pushed themselves to write an extra thousand or two, combined with occasional tips and the website's diligence awards, they could easily clear a thousand yuan a month.

In the eyes of the average person, one thousand yuan was a significant benchmark, enough to cover basic living expenses. In a second-tier city, a university graduate might only start at just over a thousand yuan, with 1,500 being considered a decent salary. In other words, as long as one’s skill wasn't abysmal, writing for platforms like Zeyue or Qidian offered a job where one didn't have to answer to anyone. If they worked even harder, pushing out eight or ten thousand words a day, they could match the income of a standard office job.

For the mid-to-high-tier authors, this was a way to turn their passion into a career. But what of the bottom-tier writers—those whose books had no audience or struggled to reach even a hundred subscribers? Their perspectives generally fell into three categories. The first group consisted of hobbyists who weren't in it for the money; they were drawn to Zeyue for its large readership, user-friendly interface, and clean layout. The second group consisted of those who, despite current struggles, were genuinely passionate and confident in their craft; they naturally gravitated toward Zeyue and Qidian, especially Zeyue, which offered a more mature author development program. The third group were the "drifters" who couldn't even secure a contract. Previously, they might have scraped by on the Huanjian platform, but now that Huanjian had also implemented a contract system, they realized that if they were going to put in the effort to get signed, they might as well do it for the platforms where the potential earnings were higher. For authors, all roads now led to Zeyue and Qidian.

As for the readers, the reaction was exactly as Zhao Zejun had anticipated. Traffic on Huanjian and Qidian dropped noticeably in the short term, and their national rankings fell several spots. However, most readers eventually accepted the pay-to-read system. They, too, did the math. At two cents per thousand words, a reader following several books—each with 4,000 to 5,000 words a day—would spend less than a yuan a day, totaling only twenty or thirty yuan a month. For working adults, this was the price of two packs of cigarettes. Even students, with their limited allowances, found that twenty yuan a month was not an insurmountable burden. Most importantly, readers were reasonable people. They understood that writers spent all their spare time laboring over their keyboards, burning brain cells, and sacrificing their social lives. It was only fair to pay for the fruits of that labor.

While a tiny minority of readers were disgruntled or faced genuine financial hardship, the majority accepted the change after a brief adjustment period. As for piracy, it remained an option, but even most "legit" readers would occasionally read pirated content. They might pay for the one or two books they loved most while reading the rest elsewhere, so the platforms didn't suffer a significant loss of users.

In fact, piracy was not as devastating as one might expect. In 2002, copyright protection was far less stringent than in later years, yet the impact of piracy was surprisingly muted. Zhao Zejun realized that piracy thrives on the success of the original; the industry was still in its infancy, and the total library across the top three websites was less than 100,000 books. Piracy was a weed growing in the soil of the original work, and since the soil was not yet rich, the weeds were few. Unlike the future, where pirated chapters would appear within five minutes of a legitimate release, piracy at this time often lagged by days for lesser-known works. For the average reader, waiting days for a free chapter was a choice that required no deliberation when they could pay a few cents for instant gratification.

All doubts regarding Zhao Zejun’s policies vanished among the staff at Zeyue. The company’s accounts were the most powerful proof of success. The spring of the web novel industry had arrived overnight, and for Zeyue and Qidian, the revenue flowed in like a torrential rain.