I Became an All-round Artist

Even though Chu Kuang’s previous novel The Prince of Tennis only ran for a few months—less than half a year—the author managed to gather a solid fanbase during that period. These fans had been eagerly following the Silverblue Bookstore, waiting for news of Chu Kuang’s new work. So when the announcement of his upcoming novel finally dropped, excitement and anticipation ran high.

"Faster than I expected!" one fan exclaimed.

Not much time had passed since The Prince of Tennis concluded. Most authors would take a few months off after finishing a book, but it seemed Chu Kuang wasn’t planning to rest. He was diving headfirst into his next project.

“I love how Chu Kuang never follows the rules!”

“The Prince of Tennis made me fall in love with sports fiction. After Chu Kuang finished, I tried reading other sports novels, but none of them quite hit the mark. So many writers are copying him, but they just don’t have his flair.”

“Well, Chu Kuang is the pioneer of the genre!”

“His next book is probably another sports novel.”

“Should we ask if Chu Kuang’s new book is another bromance story?” someone joked.

“Ha! You’ve all ruined Seigaku’s tennis club! Always talking about bromance when it’s clearly a serious sports novel,” one fan commented, pretending to be serious.

Due to its male-centric narrative and well-developed cast of characters, The Prince of Tennis naturally attracted female fans as well. Despite the focus on sports, many of these female readers were more invested in the interactions between the characters, often imagining romantic subtext that wasn’t explicitly there. In some circles, the book became known as a “disguised BL novel.”

This led to an interesting phenomenon: a male-targeted novel that ended up pulling in a significant female readership. While the official story revolved around tennis competitions, the female fans focused more on the characters' daily lives and relationships, fueling their imaginations.

In another world where copyright wasn't such a big deal, The Prince of Tennis would have spawned an endless number of fan fiction spin-offs. The creative power of fangirls should never be underestimated—if they were allowed to go wild, entire male-centric novel platforms could be flooded with their works.

What’s important to note is that almost everyone assumed Chu Kuang would stick to sports fiction for his new project. After all, he had single-handedly popularized the genre. It seemed unlikely that he’d abandon the niche market he had built up with The Prince of Tennis.

It was a logical assumption.

Plus, writers usually care about keeping their fan base happy. Chu Kuang’s pen name was now closely tied to sports fiction and fantasy novels, so if he switched genres, his fans might not be as receptive.

It wasn’t just fans who thought this way. Industry insiders at publishing companies shared this belief. Sports fiction had moved from a niche to a growing market, thanks to Chu Kuang. While it wasn’t as mainstream as other genres, it was still big enough to support a few bestsellers.

As long as Chu Kuang stuck to sports, his new book would likely sell well, and no one in the industry doubted his skill in the genre. In fact, competitors to Silverblue Bookstore were a bit anxious. Chu Kuang’s turnaround time was lightning-fast—no break between finishing one book and starting the next. It felt almost inhuman.

If his next book became another bestseller, The Prince of Tennis ending wouldn’t be a setback for Silverblue; it would be an opportunity. They’d have yet another hit on their hands.

...

As it turned out, the industry was right about Chu Kuang’s work ethic—he really was a machine. But they were wrong about one big thing: Chu Kuang’s new novel wasn’t another sports story. Instead, it ventured into a genre that many found surprising:

Xianxia.

Silverblue didn’t try to hide the surprise. They announced the genre of Chu Kuang’s new book in bold letters the very next day, plastering their website and marketing channels with a powerful slogan:

“The Legend of Zhu Xian, launching July 1st!”

“Watch Chu Kuang redefine Xianxia!”

Fans were stunned.

“What the heck?”

“A Xianxia novel?”

“Why not sports fiction? Chu Kuang’s so talented at it! Even if it’s not tennis, I’d be happy with basketball or soccer or something!”

“This is a huge jump!”

“He’s going from sports competition to some Celestial Demon War or something. But I don’t even like Xianxia... Isn’t that genre outdated? What’s Chu Kuang thinking?”

...

Xianxia hadn’t been popular in years. The most notable work in that genre was The Celestial Demon War, a novel that had been adapted into a TV show and was a nostalgic favorite for many. Most people’s understanding of Xianxia stemmed from that long-ago series.

Even the fans were confused, and so were insiders. They carefully examined Silverblue’s promotional materials and confirmed it: Chu Kuang’s next book was indeed a Xianxia novel. The promotional slogan was brash, simply two lines:

“July 1st, The Legend of Zhu Xian launches!” “Watch Chu Kuang redefine Xianxia!”

Industry insiders were skeptical. Sure, they weren’t completely dismissive—Silverblue wouldn’t pour resources into a bad novel. If Chu Kuang’s work were truly awful, they would’ve quietly rejected it. But could it really be that great?

How good could a Xianxia novel really be?

As for the bold claim about “redefining Xianxia,” people who understood the market weren’t holding their breath. Promotional slogans are always exaggerated. Even the worst movies are advertised as “groundbreaking” before they flop.

“I think I get it,” one insider speculated. “The novel is probably decent. Not great, but passable. They can’t just reject it outright because it’s written by Chu Kuang, a bestselling author. So, they’re giving him a shot.”

It’s a common practice in the industry. When a bestseller submits a manuscript that’s not amazing but not terrible, editors won’t easily dismiss it. Instead, they give it a chance, especially if the author insists. After all, some books rejected by one publisher have gone on to become hits with another.

This was likely the case with Chu Kuang. He enjoyed writing challenging, unconventional genres. The industry had grown to accept that about him.

But the editor-in-chief of DingSheng Publishing wasn’t so sure. He felt something was off. Silverblue’s promotional efforts seemed too serious for this to be just a token gesture to keep Chu Kuang happy.

“Is there something explosive hidden in this?”

After The Prince of Tennis had blindsided him once, he had learned his lesson. He wasn’t the type to make the same mistake twice. Something about this didn’t feel right, and his intuition made him anxious.

What had Chu Kuang written this time?

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