Preface: The Genius and His Talent

I shamelessly admit that I am a talented scholar. I come to this realization because I find myself intricately connected to the very notion of talent—much like when a beautiful young woman, clad in long leg stockings, stands before me and I can’t help but say, “For some reason, you seem inextricably linked to the word ‘seductive.’”

As for the subtle traces of my talent, I must confess there are several signs that unmistakably mark me as such. First, I possess a thick skin. Second, you could search all year round through every pocket I have and find a total of two yuan and fifty cents. This paltry sum falls a hundred times short of two hundred and fifty yuan, which clearly shows that I am not foolish—just somewhat scatterbrained. Third, I often walk with my head lowered in deep thought, sometimes even sidestepping like a crab. I like to indulge the notion that such behavior is a manifestation of overflowing talent.

Some say talent and beauty come hand in hand, and I possess this trait as well. People who meet me say I am not unattractive; those same people never say I am ugly.

As for the word “poetic talent” that often follows “talented scholar,” it is entirely fitting. Since ancient times, talent and emotion have been intertwined—because I am passionate, I have talent; because I have talent, I am passionate. This kind of poetic talent is aptly reflected in my personal conduct.

For example, I fancy beauty A, but then I set my sights on beauty B, only to secretly adore beauty C. While wandering among A, B, and C, I also yearn to be involved with beauty D. Amid this chaos, I often experience what might be called “losing before loving.” To elaborate, I fail to love any one of them before losing someone I care for. Or put another way, I pursue someone and am rejected; before I can even begin a romance, I have already suffered heartbreak. This state of heartbreak can be likened to my desire for intimacy being met with a swift kick. Yet, whether kicked or losing before loving, I always find myself overwhelmed with emotion, which I pour into words—sometimes straightforward, sometimes subtly twisted, often painting a world in the shape of a parabola.

Why do the words “talented scholar” and “poetic talent” cling to me? I have made this clear. Now you can understand that for a scholar adept at playing with words, “talented scholar” means someone skilled at weaving stories and cleverly arguing right and wrong.

A hundred years from now, I expect I will have long since passed away. I wonder if people then will still read novels, or if anyone will still play with words.

Imagine a book, settled in a pile of dust—either as a physical volume or preserved in the vast expanse of the internet. A pair of adorable little hands brushes away the dust, lifts the book, places it on a table, and begins to read the stories word by word. At first, the child thinks the story is merely okay, then gradually grows fond of it. In that moment, the child might wonder: What kind of person was this old man who lived a hundred years ago?

Having read this book, you will know. The author believes that reading is a way to touch the realm of thought.

Finally, I declare that from this novel onward, each chapter will contain two thousand words, and every two hundred and fifty chapters will complete a novel. I dislike overly long works, so I take the opposite approach—each novel is planned to take three to four years to complete, aiming to improve the quality of online literature.

I plan to write twelve fantasy novels with martial arts themes in my lifetime, along with a collection of fantasy stories. I hope to live long enough to see it all through. Many years from now, whether I remain in this world or not, I hope to be remembered as Wang Lecheng, a writer of fantasy novels.