Headache onset

Inside the grand arena of the Mecha World Cup, the massive stadium, capable of accommodating 300,000 spectators simultaneously, was packed to maximum capacity. Waves of cheering fans rolled through the stands, and the aerosol barrier dispensers operated around the clock, spraying a terrifyingly high concentration of neutralizers. Even so, they could barely suppress the boiling adrenaline and pheromones saturating the crowd.

Behind the transparent anti-collision particle shields, the swirling sand and dust from the arena floor refused to settle. A fierce match had just concluded, and the tournament’s heavy favorite, [The Prisoner], had secured an effortless victory. He leaped down from his mecha’s cockpit, stomping his right foot firmly onto the platform, and executed a dashing leap onto the stage, turning around to wave nonchalantly to the crowd of over a hundred thousand fans.

Behind him, the gargantuan display screen perfectly captured [The Prisoner’s] handsome, rebellious face in flawless 5K ultra-high definition.

The spectators screamed uncontrollably:

“Prisoner! Prisoner! I’m willing to become a ghost beneath your blade!”

“Hurry it up, hurry it up! I want to see The Prisoner kiss the championship trophy!”

Of course, there were also dismissive voices in the crowd: “Don’t count your chickens just yet. There are still six rounds left in the tournament; it’s too early to say who’s taking the crown.”

A person nearby turned and asked, “Bro, who are you backing then?”

The man crossed his arms, boasting proudly, “The biggest dark horse of this tournament, of course: [Ad Space for Rent].”

“[Ad Space for Rent]?” The other swiped through the brackets on his match screen, looking puzzled. “There’s no one by that name on the list at all.”

“Huh? Let me check… Holy shit! He changed his ID! He changed it to [Down with Imperialism]. What kind of garbage name is that?!”

[The Prisoner] walked past the two spectators in the front row, casting a casual glance their way before retracting his gaze as if nothing had happened.

The temperature inside a mecha cockpit was notoriously high, and a pilot required rapid cooling upon exiting. His small personal assistant scrambled forward immediately, presenting a pre-chilled towel while holding a micro-electric fan, adjusting it to a gentle breeze setting to cool [The Prisoner’s] spine.

Assistant: “Brother Prisoner, are we heading back to the lounge now?”

[The Prisoner] tossed the towel casually over his shoulder. “To the VIP box.”

The assistant understood instantly. This was a mandatory protocol to report his consecutive three-match winning streak to his grand financial backer.

The VIP boxes were situated right along the arena’s centerline, occupying the absolute best vantage points in the entire stadium, offering a 360-degree panoramic view of the field. A single-day rental for a box cost 100,000 credits, and a full-tournament reservation easily ran into the millions. In particular, the two most luxurious, custom-outfitted suites right adjacent to the podium carried an official public listing price close to 24 million.

However, simply having money wasn’t enough to secure a seat in those boxes. The people inside were either international political dignitaries or bigshots sitting at the absolute pinnacle of the interstellar pyramid.

[The Prisoner’s] backer belonged squarely to the latter category, Lan Qi, the second young master of the Argus Shipping Group, an interstellar commercial shipping empire.

Lan Qi was a Bluefin Tuna of colossal proportions, capable of reaching a body weight of 680 kilograms. He possessed a fanatic love for extreme sports; not only did he enjoy personally piloting mechas for atmospheric freefalls or booking entire snow-capped mountains for high-altitude jumps, but he also loved keeping a stable of pilots just to watch them shed blood and wage war in the arena.

The more brutal the fight, the better. If a pilot managed to draw blood from their opponent, the Tuna Master would hand out extra cash bonuses on the spot.

[The Prisoner] was the strongest and most promising championship contender among the sixteen pilots he sponsored. Consequently, he was granted a certain level of privilege, allowing him to proactively visit the box to pay his respects.

But when they arrived at the entrance of the suite, the interior was completely empty.

The assistant, being well-connected, refreshed the internal group chat and had an epiphany: “The boss must have been held up at the security checkpoint. The chat says someone opened fire near the security lounge, and the target seems to have been someone from Gorgon. They’re re-screening everyone outside right now.”

[The Prisoner] looked somewhat surprised. “Gorgon? That military weapons corporation?”

“Yes. That world-famous arms manufacturer.”

[The Prisoner] grew thoughtful, sensing that this incident would inevitably kick up a massive storm. Sure enough, ten minutes later, Lan Qi arrived with a retinue of bodyguards. Even separated by six towering, burly guards, one could palpably feel the second young master’s atrocious mood.

“What kind of garbage does Gorgon think it is? Nothing but a washed-up, bankrupt relic of the Old Empire, yet they dare block my path and subject me to random searches!”

Although Lan Qi’s biological form was massive, his wealth gave his human form the appearance of a thoroughly elegant, wealthy young noble. He was barely in his early twenties, and his slightly curved peach-blossom eyes gave him a brilliant, captivating look.

Yet if one looked closely, a trace of cold detachment could be detected deep within those eyes. A person who could survive a cutthroat family blood feud and successfully wrestle away Argus’s second-largest share of stocks was by no means an ordinary character.

[The Prisoner] found himself momentarily dazed by the sight of him. It wasn’t until a pair of gloves was hurled straight at his face, striking him with a cold apathy, that he snapped out of his trance, scooped up the gloves, and followed him into the suite.

Lan Qi reclined casually against the lychee-grain leather sofa, casting a careless glance over him as if he didn’t even register his presence.

“Report.”

[The Prisoner’s] spine stiffened. He instinctively glanced around the room; it was packed with people. A quick count of personal nannies, assistants, chefs, and bodyguards revealed no fewer than ten individuals.

He hesitated for roughly two or three seconds, stepped forward to push the coffee table aside, and felt his knees begin to tremble slightly. Finally, with a heavy thud, he dropped to his knees, positioning himself right where Lan Qi could rest a foot on his shoulder with a single step.

“Today’s results: Match one against the Atlantic Sturgeon, victory, 500 points gained. Match two against…”

[The Prisoner] detailed his record word by word, but the Tuna Master listened with complete indifference, cutting him off mid-sentence:

“Who is your next match against?”

[The Prisoner] recalled the brackets. “[Down with Imperialism].”

Lan Qi’s expression froze. Thinking the pilot was shouting a political slogan at him, he asked in a sinister tone, “What did you say?”

The assistant standing to the side hurriedly stepped in to diffuse the tension: “That’s a pilot’s ID, sir. He was originally called [Ad Space for Rent], but he changed it to this later on.”

“[Ad Space for Rent]…” Lan Qi searched his memory, his eyes gradually narrowing. He vaguely recalled that this [Ad Space for Rent] was a pilot heavily promoted by Gorgon.

It just so happened that he wanted to knock Gorgon down a peg or two, and here was the perfect opportunity delivering itself right to his doorstep.

Lan Qi tilted his gaze downward, his eyes narrowing as he directed his words to [The Prisoner]: “In the next match, beat him mercilessly. Ideally, drag [Ad Space for Rent] straight out of his cockpit, pin him to the edge of the field, and beat him until he coughs up blood.”

“…Understood,” [The Prisoner] conceded.

“You’re dismissed.”

“Alright.”

Lan Qi halted him instantly. “Hold on. The rules I taught you, have you forgotten them already?”

[The Prisoner] brought his legs tight together, striving to bow his tall spine as deeply as possible, and re-stated his response:

“Your will is done.”

Only then did Lan Qi let him go.

When The Prisoner stood up, he noticed that the people around him kept their eyes straight ahead, clearly long accustomed to scenes of this nature. The Prisoner rubbed the bridge of his nose. He used to fight in black-market matches and had only been scouted this month; he was not yet used to this kind of… feudal behavior.

Besides, he was nearly thirty, being significantly older than this young master. Kneeling face-to-face and reciting these rules was incredibly embarrassing.

Fortunately, The Prisoner possessed a wild, untamed personality. He was the type who did the job as long as he got paid; so long as it didn’t cross his bottom line, he couldn’t care less. Staying by Lan Qi’s side for three months yielded the equivalent of three years of his past earnings. With this money, he could continue his unfinished interstellar travels.

Furthermore, unlike other sponsors, this young master didn’t require him to share his bed. This invisibly made The Prisoner feel that the Tuna Master possessed a certain touch of refinement.

The assistant leaned in, asking Lan Qi curiously, “Second Young Master, you seem to really dislike Gorgon?”

The assistant was actually the young master’s personal staff, merely on loan to The Prisoner. He held a formal labor contract and wasn’t a “racehorse” handpicked by the young master from the black market, so he wasn’t required to constantly kneel and bow.

Lan Qi popped a plump, glistening cherry into his mouth, slowly savoring the juices. “Gorgon ruined my plans.”

Half a month ago, he was preparing to collaborate with the Power King, Power, to construct a space elevator on the Capital leading directly into orbit. The blueprints and capital were fully locked in, just waiting for the final signatures to launch the project.

Right at that critical juncture, the Power King kicked the bucket. The remaining assets were entirely acquired by Gorgon at rock-bottom prices. Within less than a week, the power conglomerate’s shareholders were rotated out, completely replaced by capitalists aligned with Gorgon’s interests. When it came time to renegotiate the collaboration project, Gorgon completely turned its back and refused to acknowledge it.

Although Lan Qi didn’t lose much money on the failed venture, Gorgon’s haughty, dismissive attitude was utterly infuriating.

Young and aggressive, Lan Qi let out a cold sneer: “I hope that sniper’s aim is true enough to blow apart the old kidneys of Gorgon’s shareholders.”

The assistant flattered him, saying, “Rest assured, sir. Gorgon’s sun set long ago. Their corporate financial reports show consecutive years of losses. Even if they grew a pair of wings, they couldn’t dream of catching up to our transport group’s daily torrents of gold.”

Lan Qi nodded with satisfaction. “True enough.”

Military industrial enterprises require high development cycles and long product phases. Before a new generation of weapons debuts, immense capital must be sunk into the pipeline, making it incredibly difficult to break even anytime soon. In the interstellar stock market, defense stocks are highly volatile, rising and falling entirely at the whim of political winds.

If Gorgon were still the Empire’s state-run design bureau backed by fiscal subsidies, it naturally wouldn’t have to bear its own profits and losses. But the Gorgon of today is a mere shadow of its former imperial glory. If these losses persist, it will face bankruptcy liquidation within a few years.

Lan Qi mocked, “Hmph. Unless an interstellar war breaks out right now, allowing Gorgon to make a massive fortune from a war economy and line its pockets to the brim. Otherwise, it can just wait to become a subsidiary of Argus.”

He lifted his crystal chalice, and the assistant timely poured in a pink sparkling wine.

“A toast to Athena!”

The assistant looked puzzled. “Is there a story behind that, sir?”

Lan Qi caught the fruit wine’s crisp fragrance, speaking meaningfully: “Our shipping conglomerate is named Argus. In Greek mythology, it was a vessel carrying heroes toward the shores of victory. Ares’ goddess, Athena, granted it her ultimate blessing, rendering it invincible.”

“As for the name Gorgon…” Lan Qi swirled the liquid, his expression carrying a trace of rakish contempt. “The Gorgons refer to the three serpent-monster sisters. You’ve surely heard of the most famous one: Medusa.”

“Legend has it that Medusa was a voluptuous, golden-haired beauty possessing incredibly stunning long locks. But she was so arrogant that she dared to challenge Athena in a beauty contest. Athena cursed her, transforming her long hair into serpents, and instructed a hero to sever her head, ridding the people of an evil plague.”

Having listened to the story, the assistant had an epiphany: “So, luck and justice are on our side. Gorgon is a major villain destined for defeat.”

Lan Qi noted leisurely, “Precisely.”

Inside the box’s integrated open kitchen, The Prisoner was consuming his nutritional meal.

The so-called nutritional meal was not a dish crafted from fresh vegetables and meat, but an entire pouch of meal replacement rich in essential human vitamins. The Prisoner inserted a thick straw to drink it down more smoothly.

The chef walked over, handing him a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. “This is a reward from the Second Young Master.”

The Prisoner accepted the juice, feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the favor. With fruit prices sky-high this winter, this single small glass likely required 200 credits worth of fresh oranges.

The Prisoner drank it slowly, enjoying the soothing sensation of real fruit pulp sliding down his throat. He couldn’t resist licking the rim of the glass, a trace of inexplicable emotion flickering through his heart before he rapidly suppressed it behind a rakish grin, setting the glass down on the counter:

“Is it alright to leave it here?”

Nanny: “That’s fine, Brother Prisoner.”

The Prisoner froze for a moment, lowering his voice: “You don’t have to call me by my handle. I have a name, it’s—”

With a heavy thud, the nanny tossed his used glass straight into the trash chute. The automated disposal unit whined as it ground the glass into fine powder.

The Tuna Master had extreme germaphobia; permitting him to eat in the kitchen was already an act of grace. As for retaining a glass used by an outsider… It was absolutely out of the question.

Wiping down the counter, the nanny turned her head to ask, “What did you say, Brother Prisoner?”

The Prisoner tightened his lips. “…Nothing.”

With his rest period over, he had to rush to the staging arena as quickly as possible. Walking along the path, he inexplicably recalled [Ad Space for Rent], who had randomly altered his ID.

Pilots like them were called ‘sponsored assets’ to sound nice, but in reality, they were no different from horses running on all fours at a racetrack. Their speech, actions, social interactions, and even their IDs required the sponsor’s explicit permission to proceed. For instance, the handle “The Prisoner” was given to him by the Second Young Master. Everyone in his immediate circle called him “The Prisoner,” and over time, he had nearly forgotten his birth name.

Before long, The Prisoner spotted his opponent for this round, [Ad Space for Rent]… oh right, now it was [Down with Imperialism].

In the spirit of the rules, competition first, camaraderie second, the two of them needed to exchange a brief handshake. The Prisoner extended his hand, and the other party locked onto it with a powerful grip. The younger man’s fingers felt incredibly hot, as if he were running a fever.

Driven by a strange impulse, The Prisoner asked, “Did your sponsor… that Gorgon entity, actually permit you to alter your ID?”

Bai Ling was scanning the arena floor. Hearing the question, he replied carelessly, “Yeah, he doesn’t really care to micromanage me.”

The Prisoner asked further, “Does your sponsor call you by your circle handle too? ‘Down with Imperialism,’ this one.”

“No.”

“Then what does he call you?”

Bai Ling seriously pondered for two seconds, his tone cool: “Darling.”

The Prisoner: “…”

Confirming he still had two minutes before stepping onto the field, Bai Ling asked The Prisoner, “Do you mind if I listen to a ‘darling’?” He held up his terminal interface; the call was already dialing out.

The Prisoner: “…Suit yourself.”

Bai Ling walked to the side, creating a bit of distance to speak comfortably. It was merely a sudden whim, wanting to tease the other party before his match, intending to exchange a few casual words and hang up.

On the field, the announcer was passionately reading out the past achievements of the current pilots. The glaring spotlights rendered everything exposed in blinding detail, looking almost harsh to the eyes. Bai Ling narrowed his grey eyes, turning his body toward the shadows as he heard the communicator chime and connect on the other end.

Simultaneously, inside the VIP box directly adjacent to the Tuna Master’s suite.

Water dripped inside the bathroom, the gold faucet glinting with a gloomy shimmer as a cool stream trickled down the drain, yet it couldn’t wash away the rapidly deepening crimson stain.

The mercurial mirror surface reflected a pale, robust male torso. He resembled a sculpture sitting in a museum’s main exhibition hall. His muscle definition vividly carved, rivaling a mythological masterpiece beneath Michelangelo’s chisel, bursting with the vigor and power of an apex male specimen.

—If one ignored the wound beneath his ribs.

Yu Chen’s green eyes were lowered. Driving the tip of a blade into his flesh, his wrist executed a precise flick to pry upward. Blood instantly welled and surged out, descending across his abdominal muscles row by row like water overflowing a terraced field, disappearing beneath the rim of his tailored trousers. He extended his hand into the wound without a shred of hesitation, feeling around meticulously as if it weren’t his own body.

Clink.

A bullet fell into the basin, rolling slightly before getting caught against the stainless-steel drain stopper. With his fingernails stained completely with blood, he pinched the projectile to examine it.

Within the mirror’s reflection, his blood-streaked golden hair leaned to the side, clamping the terminal between his ear and shoulder. He slowly asked, “Have you stepped onto the field, or are you slacking off?”

The other end of the communication paused for two seconds before suddenly asking, “What is wrong with you?”

“Mmh?” Yu Chen methodically pulled some gauze, wiping the blood from his abdomen. With his level of recovery capability, a 5-centimeter wound could achieve surface closure within two minutes.

Bai Ling asked hesitantly, “Your breathing sounds rather heavy…”

Yu Chen’s breath hitched, his head snapping up to face the mirror instantly.

Disheveled, chaotic, plastered entirely in a sticky sheen of blood—

It was thoroughly unseemly.

The Little Bird he was hand-rearing possessed a mind delicate enough to detect even a microscopic variation in his breathing.

The corners of Yu Chen’s lips curled slightly as he toyed with the bullet between his fingertips, speaking in an indolent drawl: “A headache onset. Why? Are you looking to abandon your career to come back and keep me company? Welcome, welcome.”

“Heh. I’m stepping onto the field. See you later.”

Listening to the flat dial tone signaling the disconnection, Yu Chen’s consciousness turned somewhat hazy. He stole another glance at the mirror; beneath the tangled mess of gauze, darker visceral blood seeped out like a demon’s talons, thoroughly soaking his sharply breathing lower abdomen.

He had been far too conceited.

Now the bleeding wouldn’t stop.

---

Author’s note:

Little Bird: (Rolls up sleeves) (Prepares to rage) That’s what you get for being arrogant! Look at you now.

Old Merman: (Wags tail) (Crawls around gloomily) (Waiting for wife to come home)

---

jjwxc’s huge comment but i think it’s cute

(this is a comment from when author edited a chapter 12 months after writing it. idk if I already translated it, but author left their home, lived alone, was hospitalized bcs of health issues, got sick, lots of things happened to them and like most authors on jjwxc they wrote daily updates so it’s a heavy burden to serialize novels in jjwxc bcs of the unrealistic work expectations) (also they prob deleted their author’s comment bcs when I went back to the og chapter it only has the character theather)

“Huh?! Who said Codfish is causing us trouble? (grabs a giant sword)

Editing the story is great! It makes it even better, and for us readers following along chapter by chapter, it honestly feels like we’re getting extra content for free! Codfish is the one taking the loss here (financially speaking), and you’ve not even been feeling well lately, which breaks my heart. The story is written so beautifully. You give us the best possible reading experience, and this is genuinely the happiest I’ve ever been while following an ongoing novel. Whenever I have free time, I’m thinking about the merman and the little bird— they’ve completely infiltrated my mind. Haven’t you noticed that in the comments section I’ve already thrown away all sense of dignity? I’ve completely let myself go. I absolutely, unbelievably, thunder-and-lightning-level love this story. (dry, inadequate words)

[I finished my exams today, and I wanted to say something from the bottom of my heart. I’m not very good at being emotional or eloquent, so I can only say simple but sincere things. Maybe my words are awkward, clumsy, or don’t fully express what I mean, but I’m genuinely trying my hardest to use the fewest words possible to show how much I love Codfish, this book, the old mermaid, and the little bird.]

???

Watching Mr. D and his Lodestar make their journey all this way, I really felt like I’d stepped into the story itself, as if I were standing beside them watching everything happen. (Old Mermaid, don’t interrupt me while I’m staring passionately at Little Bird, ahem.) From my omniscient-reader perspective, every smile, every frown, every grievance, every emotional entanglement— the love, the hate, the complicated relationships—moved me over and over again. I cried so much that the next day my eyes were swollen like walnuts. (Sob… I was planning to leave a proper long review after the novel finished, but after reading the author’s note, my heart hurts so much.) When I was reading the chapters where Mr. D and his Lodestar were finally about to meet, I even dreamed about them at night. I got completely immersed in my own imagination, swept up in that uniquely romantic rhythm tinged with sadness. I don’t remember exactly how many dreams I had, just that there were several in one night, all involving my imaginings of the Old Merman and the Little Bird.

But one dream I remember very clearly:

They were standing with their backs to a crowded sea of people, kissing at the place where light and shadow intertwined. The closeness of lowered eyes and lifted gazes. It felt like: “Let the world remain noisy; I will still go my own way.”

In the dream I could even feel things like gunpowder smoke, tangled thorns, rotting roses, white doves soaring into the sky, rough hands like old tree bark, and the texture of wrinkles carved by time.

The feelings were chaotic, yet somehow solemn, so solemn that they made me instinctively fall silent.

That dream left such a deep impression on me.

For a novel to affect me so much that I dream about it is incredibly rare. That alone shows how captivating this book is.

(The cover art gets me too. Unless it’s for publication, please don’t change the cover, it suits the story perfectly.)

????

Codfish, if you’re not feeling well lately, please don’t force yourself. We’ll wait for you. You don’t need to put such enormous pressure on yourself. I’m genuinely worried that if this continues, your physical and mental health will suffer. I really am worried. When I saw that chapter that only cost seven coins, I felt bad because you’re already exhausting yourself and still putting so much pressure on yourself. Some pressure is fine, but too much isn’t. And then in your author’s note you used words like “causing trouble” and apologized so cautiously.

(Eyes widening in outrage.)

You don’t need to be like that. If you’ve chosen to write, then naturally there will be obstacles along the way. Nothing can be smooth sailing forever. There will always be some negative comments. You can’t let those small things occupy most of your attention and leave you anxious and unsettled, worrying that readers won’t like your work anymore. You even used words like “letting people down.”

Honestly, judging from how tense you’ve sounded lately, I think that’s a bad sign. I can’t necessarily analyze every plot thread or literary detail in the story. The Merman and the Little Bird occupy almost all my attention, so I’m not good at deep literary criticism. I’m just looking at this book through the eyes of an ordinary reader. Maybe my thoughts are shallow and clumsy compared to others. But following this novel has genuinely given me motivation. Most of my real life is kind of a mess too. Maybe that’s just the unique trouble that comes with being young.

Whenever I talk about romance or beautiful things, I often feel empty inside, as though my feet aren’t touching the ground. I’m kind of a loser myself, honestly. lol

So I feel lucky to have encountered a story like this. Every time I read it, I feel grounded and yet still hungry for more. Even those ridiculous comments I leave are partly because I want to make people laugh. Though my love for the Little Bird is absolutely genuine. (Otherwise I wouldn’t be drooling over him all the time.)

(Embarrassing, but I guess that’s a unique form of affection.)

I’m surprisingly shameless online.

What I’m really trying to say is:

This book has had a huge impact on me.

So Codfish, smile a little more.

Look, there are people who are completely enchanted by the world you’ve created.

You’re truly talented.

Mr. Yang Jiang once said something I’ve always treated as a personal motto:

“No matter what stage of life you’re on, there will always be people looking down on you and people looking up to you. If you look up, you’ll feel inferior. If you look down, you’ll feel complacent. Only by looking straight ahead can you see yourself clearly.”

I want to give those words to you too, Codfish. Your dedication to this book is obvious to anyone who reads it. Why are you taking it so seriously? Because you care. As long as you can face yourself with a clear conscience, that’s enough. You don’t need to become overly sensitive or burden yourself with unbearable pressure. Personally, I think the revisions are excellent. I don’t see any problem with them at all. If anything, I got to read more content. For a binge-reader like me, that’s great. (CEO-style chin-stroking.jpg)

The revisions feel quiet, subtle, and deeply flavorful. Honestly, I feel like I’m the one benefiting. I remember seeing one of your replies about publication. You said publication depends on the numbers. Maybe this book won’t get published after all. But Codfish—

even if you have to burn your boats behind you, write because writing makes you happy. Write something you feel is worthwhile and can face with a clear conscience. If most readers think it’s good, that’s already wonderful. Let me give you that confidence. Keep writing.

Just don’t let your mental health suffer.

And please take care of your body.

It’s nearly midnight. I opened my notes app at eleven and spent over an hour typing all of this because I couldn’t stand seeing an author I love feeling this way. (Anxious, anxious.)

Honestly, Codfish is far more impressive than I am. I have dreams of writing too. Back in seventh grade, I spent an entire afternoon passionately discussing novel ideas with a friend. That very day I wrote several thousand words in one sitting. Then a week later all my motivation disappeared. So I went back to writing school essays. But the dream of writing never left. Maybe when I’m in my twenties, or when inspiration strikes, I’ll pick it up again. Even if nobody reads it, what’s the harm? Write because it makes you happy.

If the things inside your head can comfort even more people after being written down, that’s even better.

When I write essays, I always take them seriously. I practice constantly. That’s how I’ve earned praise over the years. The process is difficult and winding, but I genuinely enjoy it. There are bitter moments, but I think it’s worth it. Codfish, writing must be exhausting. But I imagine you think it’s worth it too. Still—

Please take care of yourself.

Let the world be noisy; I will do what I do.

In this book I saw unyielding pride, solitary courage, and sincere devotion. I saw drifting lives and lonely boats. I saw joy and tears. Love, hatred, resentment, and longing pulling at my heart. I saw tiny individuals shaking vast worlds. I saw both grand national struggles and intimate human desires. I saw your effort. Codfish, don’t secretly wipe away your tears. Let me wipe them for you. If you don’t know what to do, calm down and adjust. Don’t trap yourself. The Little Bird’s bold, passionate pride. The Old Merman’s calm, strategic composure. You should have those qualities too. If you want to write well, then move at your own pace.

A clear conscience is enough. If you want to rest, then rest. If you want to revise, then revise. Do whatever makes the story best. If I’m willing to throw away all my dignity for the Little Bird, then I’m willing to throw away my reserve for you too. I’ll fight anyone who’s nitpicking and looking for flaws where none exist. I’m genuinely afraid that a few negative comments are putting too much pressure on you. (Sigh.)

Reading your author’s note made me think about so many things. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental. But I really wanted to comfort you. lol

And finally—

A game of chess is not won or lost by a single move, but by every move.

A life is not made meaningful by a single day, but by every day.“