Guide To Lying Flat And Getting Rich As A Kept Alpha - Chapter 7

7

Cheng Youqing looked innocent: “I didn’t, did I?”

“You didn’t? Then why are you seducing me?” Zhou Chenghuan, also an Omega, gritted her teeth.

Cheng Youqing felt even more innocent. She hadn’t meant to do anything, and how could she have known that Zhou Chenghuan, another Omega, would be affected by her?

“This can’t go on like this. I’ll prescribe you some medicine. Follow the treatment plan properly. Last time, you were all over the place with your doses—don’t think I didn’t notice. This time, you have to take it on schedule. For someone who relies on suppressants daily, if your heat cycles keep going haywire, your body will take serious damage. If this continues, not even a god could save you.”

Zhou Chenghuan grabbed a pen and scribbled a prescription.

“I’ll have someone deliver the medicine later. I know you’re too lazy or too busy to pick it up yourself. I’ll also give you a dietary supplement plan and instruct your household staff to make sure you follow it, since you always forget to eat properly.”

“Telling the staff won’t do much. I barely eat at home anyway.”

“Cheng Youqing!” Zhou Chenghuan’s tone turned stern. “Don’t think I’m joking. If you keep this up, you might not live long.”

Cheng Youqing fell silent.

“Actually, the best solution is to find an Alpha who’s compatible with you. If they mark you temporarily during your heat cycles, not only will these issues resolve, but your overall health will gradually improve. You won’t end up so depleted like this.”

Cheng Youqing gave a noncommittal response: “I’ve managed without an Alpha all these years, haven’t I?”

“Of course, single Alphas and Omegas can survive just fine, but for top-tier Alphas and Omegas, their needs in that area are particularly intense. If those needs go unmet for too long, it takes a toll on the body. Clinical cases show issues like nodules, hormonal imbalances, irregular heat cycles, reduced fertility, cognitive decline, and even cancer.”

Cheng Youqing didn’t respond.

Zhou Chenghuan placed the prescription on the table and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at her. “Don’t brush this off. Your heat cycles are already irregular. Don’t you feel tired all the time? Soon, your memory will start slipping too. If you meet a suitable Alpha, try getting to know them. Or find a clean, young Alpha to be your lover—it doesn’t take much effort, and it’s not expensive.”

Cheng Youqing mumbled an acknowledgment.

Zhou Chenghuan, seeing she’d said all she could, didn’t press further. She knew Cheng Youqing’s emotions weren’t entirely under her own control, let alone anyone else’s.

She sighed. “Such a fine constitution, and you’re wasting it. If a top-tier Omega pairs with a top-tier Alpha, not only do both parties’ health and intelligence improve significantly after marking, but the intimacy is also incredibly satisfying, leaving you both physically and mentally refreshed. If you’re hesitant about choosing a marriage partner, at least have a one-night stand to experience it.”

“That’s no different from being an animal.”

“I’m not saying you should act like an animal in every way. It’s a mutually beneficial, consensual act. Who are you saving yourself for?”

Cheng Youqing had no answer and just waited for Zhou Chenghuan to finish her diagnosis and leave.

On the 20th day of Luo Hetu’s book stall, a woman in a suit, a Beta, approached.

“I’m the deputy editor of Southern Publishing House.” She handed over a business card. “Could we have a private word, boss?”

Luo Hetu glanced at the card and smiled. “Let me finish selling today’s books first.”

The deputy editor looked at the crowd of forty or fifty people surrounding the stall and nodded.

By 10 a.m., the books were sold out, and Luo Hetu sat down at a nearby convenience store. The owner brought over two bottles of orange soda.

The deputy editor, unaccustomed to discussing business at a soda stall, began:

“Are you Luo Hetu?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve heard about someone selling great novels at the South City Market. I read them—engaging plots, truly captivating. Coincidentally, one of our editors noticed a submission with an author name matching the one on your novels. We’ve reviewed your manuscript, and I’m here to discuss the publication of Noble Lady of the Marquis’ Mansion.”

They talked all morning. The deputy editor offered a first print run royalty of 5,000 yuan for 10,000 copies.

Luo Hetu fanned herself lazily. “I sell 20 books a day at 15 yuan each, making 300 yuan a day, and demand exceeds supply. Your royalty is only worth about ten days of my sales.”

“Printing books yourself costs money, and there’s no copyright protection—you’re vulnerable to piracy. Signing with a publisher not only protects your rights but also ensures ongoing royalties from reprints. As your fame grows, your books will sell even better.”

Luo Hetu knew piracy was inevitable, but her books were “borrowed” from another world, so the original authors wouldn’t appear here to claim them. She saw it as a gift from fate. From the start, she hadn’t planned to keep selling books herself indefinitely; her goal was to sell the rights.

Royalties were a steady, long-term income. If the book became popular, it would keep reprinting, providing income for years—a perfect “lie back and earn” business for her personality.

With the internet not yet widespread, people couldn’t access online novels and relied on physical books. Her books would dominate the market for a long time, and she could keep profiting from new releases.

“I write quickly and have plenty of manuscripts. Take Noble Lady of the Marquis’ Mansion—800,000 words, four volumes, all completed and in my hands.”

The deputy editor caught her drift. “Name your price, Ms. Luo.”

“Five thousand copies for the first print run underestimates me. I’ve sold over 300 copies here in just a few days. With Southern Publishing House’s nationwide bookstore distribution, you should print more. I’ll sign all four volumes to you, but I want 10,000 yuan per volume for the first print run—40,000 yuan total.”

This was an audacious demand, on par with the royalties of the country’s top authors.

The deputy editor hesitated. “That’s way over our budget. I’ll need to discuss it with the chief editor.”

Luo Hetu nodded. “Four volumes, exclusive first release. You can print 20,000 copies for the first run—you won’t lose out.”

The deputy editor asked for contact details, and Luo Hetu gave her Ye Qingzhu’s pager number.

She went back to selling her books.

Lately, people from all over Jiang City had been coming to buy her books, including professional “scalpers” who tried to buy in bulk.

Luo Hetu was firm: “One book per person. No reselling in front of me.”

A girl in a school uniform approached, her face lighting up with excitement. “Are you Boss Xiao Luo? Oh my gosh, you’re so cool! And so good-looking!”

Luo Hetu was puzzled. “Who are you? A student? Why aren’t you in school?”

“It’s our school’s sports day.” The girl beamed. “Are you an Alpha? I’m a Beta! You wrote all these books, right? You’re so talented! Want to hang out? I’ll treat you to a soda!”

Luo Hetu declined politely. “No, thanks.”

The girl glanced at her electronic watch in a panic. “Oh no, I’m running out of time! I snuck out. Let’s meet again! I’m Sun Yinuo!”

Ye Qingzhu strolled over, munching on a popsicle, and watched the flustered girl hop into a car.

“Well, well, a rich young lady,” Ye Qingzhu teased, his dimples showing. “Our Xiao Luo’s starting to attract little fangirls. If you set up this stall at a school gate, you’d probably have girls swooning over you every day.”

Luo Hetu replied, “At a school gate, I’d probably get reported by parents.”

“Probably,” Ye Qingzhu said with a shrug, patting her shoulder. “Let’s go eat.”

They ate with a group of local ruffians. After the meal, Luo Hetu looked at Ye Qingzhu and asked, “Are you planning to keep doing this forever?”

Ye Qingzhu raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“I saw you arguing with the market management yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just some pompous jerk making a few hundred yuan a month. He can’t control us.”

Luo Hetu shook her head. “The country’s developing fast, and regulations are tightening. Collecting protection fees and doing shady stuff won’t last. Haven’t more of your crew been hauled to the police station lately?”

Ye Qingzhu brushed it off. “The station’s full of familiar faces. It’s no big deal.”

Luo Hetu sighed. “Things will only get stricter as they build a civilized, law-abiding society. Protection rackets won’t be tolerated. Continuing as a small-time thug won’t make you money. You’ll either turn to petty crime or follow some big boss, and those bosses will either go underground or clean up their act eventually. With so many of you, this lifestyle can’t sustain you. Why not start a legitimate business and earn some real money?”

Ye Qingzhu didn’t respond, just kept eating.

The next day, the deputy editor returned.

“Our chief editor said 40,000 yuan plus two additional novels, each under 200,000 words, and we can sign. But we’ll need to review the manuscripts.”

Luo Hetu bargained. “Add one more.”

“Two. Your books are popular, but a four-volume set for nationwide distribution is a risk. We’re already offering the maximum—top authors are just hitting 10,000 yuan for first print runs.”

Luo Hetu didn’t know the industry rates and had thrown out the number casually. She had plenty of manuscripts, so it didn’t matter much. She reluctantly agreed. “Fine, two. What genres do you want?”

The deputy editor looked at her like she was a freak. “You really wrote these books, didn’t you?”

“Why ask that?”

“It just seems like writing comes so easily to you. If you’re plagiarizing, you’d be bankrupt from lawsuits.”

“I’ll sign the contract. I’m not dumb enough to lose money.”

The deputy editor dropped the subject and answered her question. “For those two books, we trust your judgment. Your other works are popular fiction, so don’t make them too literary. Find the right balance. When they’re done, submit them to the publisher.”

The deputy editor said they’d sign the contract after reviewing the manuscripts. Back at the publisher, she expected to wait months, but the chief editor, worried that Luo Hetu’s self-published “wild books” might get pirated and steal their market share, changed plans. They decided to sign the four volumes of Noble Lady of the Marquis’ Mansion the next day.

But the next day, Luo Hetu showed up at the publisher herself.

“Here are four novels, each under 200,000 words. Pick whichever two you like.” She pushed over a nylon bag.

The deputy editor was stunned.

Was writing books really this easy?