Conquering the Stars and My Haters’ Hearts - Chapter 8

“This author’s prose is actually quite remarkable. It’s unassuming, without any flashy gimmicks, yet it draws you in effortlessly.” Alfred mused to himself.

The interactions between the leads were written with such charm—the friction between the stubborn heroine and the overbearing young master, and the witty banter arising from their clashing worldviews—that Alfred found himself chuckling aloud several times.

Naturally, Alfred subconsciously projected himself onto the male lead. He found the heroine’s personality adorable; if he encountered such a woman in real life, he would certainly admire her. (Though, in reality, if such a commoner actually appeared before him, he likely wouldn’t spare her a second glance.)

The story featured a balanced perspective between both leads, making it an engaging read for both men and women.

“It’s a pity,” Alfred thought. “With prose this good, they’re writing a lighthearted rom-com. It’s excellent, but it feels like it’s missing that ‘weight.'”

In truth, it wasn’t just “excellent”—it was revolutionary. Alfred had never encountered a story that made both leads feel so vivid and endearing. It was a complete departure from the stiff archetypes he was used to.

His initial disdain for this newcomer, Ning Xie, had largely evaporated. He began to look forward to the subsequent plot, never once suspecting a tragic turn. After all, in this world’s literary climate, “light” stories stayed light. They were considered a niche genre, lacking the prestige of “serious” tragedies.

But halfway through, the plot took a sudden, violent plunge. Just as the leads were about to confess their feelings, they were torn apart by a series of misfortunes. The male lead was struck with amnesia, completely scrubbing the heroine from his memory.

To a modern reader, this might seem like a tired cliché, but to these people, it was a gripping, novel twist. And tropes become tropes for a reason—they work.

Alfred’s brow furrowed deeper. He had been lured in by the warmth of the early chapters, and now the escalating “angst” made his heart ache for the characters. When the male lead came tantalizingly close to remembering, only to fail at the last second, Alfred felt like reaching into the pages to shake him.

As he neared the finale, Alfred let out a small breath of relief. The heroine was in danger; surely, the male lead—who was on the same battlefield would rush in to save her, leading to a tearful, happy reunion.

The man who usually lived for “tragedy” found himself desperately wishing for a happy ending. The journey had been so arduous, the daily life so heartwarming, and the characters so lovable that he couldn’t bear to see them separated.

Then he reached the ending. Alfred’s brow snapped together, and he nearly choked on his own breath.

Why did the male lead just die?

Yes, it was a tragedy. Yes, that was the genre. And yes, the foreshadowing was flawless, making his sacrifice both logical and profoundly moving—but it was still utterly devastating!

The writing in the finale was on a different level compared to the rest of the book. The tragedy was rendered with such raw, poignant beauty that it was clear the author wasn’t struggling with their prose—they had been holding back. This emotional ambush was entirely intentional.

Alfred closed the book with a heavy sigh.

“Young Master Alfred?” the butler asked tentatively. “Was the latest issue not to your liking?”

“No, it’s not that.” Alfred couldn’t bring himself to admit it. He, the self-proclaimed king of tragedy fans, had been completely wrecked by this ending. He couldn’t move on.

Looking back at the beautiful beginning, he realized the author’s “malice.” They had lowered his guard with warmth only to deliver a fatal blow at the end. Combined with that perfect prose, he felt genuinely depressed.

When he tried to return to the works of his former favorite, Wade, something felt off. Wade’s stories lacked that “sharpness”—they didn’t hurt quite as much.

This was the difference in immersion. Wade’s stories started sad and stayed sad; the readers were braced for impact. Xie Anning’s story was a “stealth tragedy,” a silent killer that struck when the reader was most vulnerable.

“This author is incredible,” Alfred said, as if making a grand decree. “Butler, go buy a hundred copies of this magazine. Cast every single popularity vote for this story.”

Alfred didn’t overthink it. He simply decided that “Ning Xie” was his new favorite. In an instant, he had transformed into a hardcore fan, already frantic for the author’s next work.

“Young Master, what about Wade?” the butler reminded him, knowing how much Alfred usually championed the author.

Alfred: “?”

Alfred realized he had completely forgotten about Wade. After a pause, he added, “Fine, give him a hundred votes too.”

But the excitement just wasn’t there anymore.

Alfred had no way of knowing that his new idol, “Ning Xie,” was actually the “disgraceful” ex-fiancé he had wished would disappear.

Alfred’s experience was being mirrored across the Empire.

Readers were left in a state of profound gloom, half-tempted to find the author and scream at them. It was a visceral reaction they had never felt with other books. Everything else now felt bland by comparison.

A “love-hate” relationship with Ning Xie was born overnight. Yet, despite their grievances, almost everyone checked the box for Ning Xie when it came time to vote.

Not satisfied with just voting, they swarmed online forums to vent their pain, “recommending” the story to others so they wouldn’t have to suffer alone. They claimed they were merely sharing a masterpiece, definitely not trying to drag others into the same pit of despair.

Thus, despite being a debut short story, its popularity was unprecedented. It shot into the top three—a feat even Wade hadn’t accomplished with his first publication.

Even the Editor-in-Chief personally inquired about the piece and praised Xixi.

Xixi was stunned. She knew the story was good, but she hadn’t anticipated this level of viral potential. She immediately processed the payment and dug out Xie Anning’s contact info. She had a hunch: this newcomer might one day eclipse Wade.

When Xie Anning woke up, his body felt as though he had been used as a punching bag, the lingering side effect of the physique enhancement.

However, as he looked out the window, his vision was noticeably sharper. He felt stronger, more grounded. The original owner had been a shut-in who would pant after a 200-meter jog; now, he felt he could actually hold his own.

[System]: Enhancement complete. Host’s physique can now support Level C abilities.

[Task Complete]: Your novel has reached 50,000/10,000 popularity. Reward: One Random Draw. Due to over-performance, you have received one Stamina Potion.

[System Update]: Dedicated writing tasks are now closed. The Popularity Tracker is now active. Every reader who experiences a “strong emotional reaction” to your work will contribute to your permanent Popularity Points. Points will be recorded and updated in real-time on your dashboard.

Xie Anning wasn’t surprised by the over-performance. Writing was his home turf; it was a much more “normal” result than his accidental success in mecha piloting.

He realized that the “freebies” of the rookie phase were ending. Moving forward, he would have to earn everything through Popularity Points—likely even unlocking new system features.

Checking his stats, he saw he now had 210,000 Popularity Points and four lottery draws banked.

Xie Anning checked his system panel. The popularity points under the “Writing” category were ticking up steadily; clearly, people were still devouring his work. Considering the latest issue of The Galaxy had only been out for half a day, the long-term growth potential was staggering.

Without wasting time, Xie Anning used his recent earnings to rent a high-end apartment and moved immediately. His previous place wasn’t just a dump—it was a security nightmare. With no proper surveillance or guard service, he was a sitting duck for another back-alley beating, and he had no intention of letting that happen again.

He also treated himself to the latest optical computer and a top-of-the-line virtual reality helmet. He let out a long sigh of relief at the thought that he would finally never have to step foot in a cramped, noisy internet cafe to stream again.

Of course, Xie Anning wasn’t the type to settle for mere survival. He wasn’t someone who would grow complacent just because he had food and a roof over his head. His current lifestyle was still a far cry from his true ambitions. While he could endure hardship if necessary, he was a man who loved luxury and aimed for the pinnacle of his chosen fields. This “Popularity System” was, in many ways, perfectly suited for a man who wanted to leave his mark on the world.

More importantly, his identity in this interstellar era made a quiet life impossible. After his parents died in a suspicious accident, a branch of the family had swooped in to seize power. To make matters worse, his older brother had vanished at that exact critical moment, allowing the usurpers to take control. Anyone with a brain could tell this wasn’t just bad luck, it was a conspiracy.

The only reason those people hadn’t killed him yet was because he was a “known loser” and because he attended a high-profile noble school where disappearances would be noticed. Even so, he knew it was only a matter of time before they decided to “tidy up” their loose ends. He also needed to find his brother—if he was alive, he’d bring him back; if he was dead, he’d find the body.

By the time he finished setting up his new life, nearly half of those 100,000 Imperial Credits were gone. Easy come, easy go, he mused. He logged into his streaming dashboard and was immediately greeted by a mountain of messages from Qiushui Changtian.

Qiushui was practically vibrating with anxiety. He had sent a friend request the second the match ended, but Xie Anning hadn’t accepted it until the following day. Qiushui had spent the entire interim spiraling, wondering if he had offended the “Great God” or come off too strong.

Following the recent events, Qiushui had become a hardcore fan, his admiration for Xie Anning bordering on worship.

When the request finally went through, he had sent an essay-length message expressing his excitement and loyalty, then sat breathlessly waiting for a reply. When another twenty-four hours passed in silence, he began to panic, fearing he was being annoying. He had then sent a flurry of desperate apologies.

Xie Anning found the guy quite endearing, certainly more pleasant than the snakes back at school and decided to chat with him.

Qiushui quickly realized that Xie Anning wasn’t the cold, distant “Elite Master” he had imagined. In fact, he was quite easygoing and shared many of Qiushui’s interests. The fan finally felt his nerves settle.

“Honestly, Daddy, you’re just too amazing,” Qiushui said, using the term ‘Daddy’ with such natural ease it was almost impressive. Most of the inner-circle fans used the handle as a nickname now, and Qiushui was fully committed to the bit.

“To actually beat Ferdinand! I was worried he’d hold a grudge and hunt you down in real life, but then he turns around and drops a 100k donation! That is an insane amount of money!”

“I did help him out, after all,” Xie Anning replied. “He seems arrogant, but he doesn’t strike me as a bad person.”

Qiushui mentally Facepalmed. ‘Not a bad person’? The last guy who tried to pull a fast one on Ferdinand was hounded by fans for weeks, doxxed, beaten up, and eventually expelled! Ferdinand is the literal definition of a ruthless predator! He could only conclude that his “Daddy” was just too pure and kind-hearted for this world.

“Anyway, Daddy, why aren’t you entering the Arena Matches? You get way more points there than in regular ranked matches. With your skill level, staying in the rookie bracket is a crime. Plus, the Arena has massive visibility; if you fight there, your viewer count will go through the roof!”

In Qiushui’s mind, anything less than tens of millions of viewers was an insult to Xie Anning’s talent.

“Oh? The Arena Matches?” Xie Anning paused. “What are those?”

Qiushui: “…”

There it was again—that familiar, crushing sense of helplessness.