Thriller Paradise Chapter 237: Acting Recklessly When Writing the Title - Novel Cool

Chapter 237: Acting Recklessly When Writing the Title

Chapter 237: Acting Recklessly When Writing the Title

April 19th, Saturday, Feng Bu Jue's home.

Feng Bu Jue, Xiao Tan, and Judge Bao—three close friends—were sitting side by side on the living room sofa, eyes fixed on the TV screen. A spread of takeout food covered the coffee table in front of them, a tangible result of Feng Bu Jue’s royalty fees and TV show compensation.

Feng Bu Jue had remotely synced an audio-video file from his computer to the TV, allowing direct playback. This file contained the episode of I'm a Writer he’d recorded a week earlier.

“This episode will air next Friday. This is the one-hour initial edit version—by the time it officially airs, it’ll be cut down to forty-five minutes.” Feng Bu Jue held up the remote, pausing before pressing play. “Confirm you want to watch this…”

“Cut the chatter,” Judge Bao said. “Hurry up—I’ve got a wife waiting to eat dinner with me.”

Xiao Tan was already bouncing with excitement. “Play it already! This is my first time seeing someone I know on a variety show!”

“Alright, alright…” Feng Bu Jue pressed play.

The screen flickered to life with eerie, grainy footage reminiscent of Ring. But the distortion lasted only a second or two before stabilizing. It was likely a file issue—after all, this wasn’t the final version the TV station would air, so minor editing flaws were expected.

The footage cleared. The camera zoomed in from a wide stage shot to the center.

Modern large-scale variety shows were notorious for their lighting crews—sadistic in their pursuit of blinding audiences with artificial light. This show was no exception. Strobe lights danced wildly across the stage, the camera shaking in sync with the chaotic rhythm.

The contestant area, however, remained pitch-black. Seven contestants sat in a row, spaced over a meter apart, each facing an operation desk. The artificial light struck at an eerie angle, outlining their silhouettes but obscuring their faces.

As music swelled, a host strode onto the stage. Compared to the Death Q&A host who’d entered dancing to Gangnam Style, this man exuded far more poise. Dressed in casual tailoring, headphones around his neck, he strode calmly to center stage. Halting, he spread his arms wide. The lights ceased their frenzy, focusing on him as he bowed slightly. “Welcome to I’m a Writer. I’m your host, Oscar.”

Two seconds later, the lights illuminated the entire stage and spectator stands—except the contestant area, which remained shrouded in horror-film darkness.

“Oscar” was clearly a stage name. In this day and age, audiences accepted any eccentric moniker—so long as they weren’t subjected to a host named “Jin Fugui.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you’ve all been waiting impatiently…” Oscar turned toward the contestant area, raising an arm. “Tonight’s seven contestants include six familiar faces from last week’s episode. I believe many of you can already recognize them by their shadows…”

“Wait—why does he start with ‘I’m sure you’ve all been waiting impatiently’?” Xiao Tan asked, puzzled.

“Because in the final cut, Oscar would’ve just finished reciting a sponsor’s name,” Feng Bu Jue explained. “In recorded variety shows, those segments are usually recorded separately—they need to be clear, and timing’s crucial. They might reshoot them multiple times.” He paused. “Every commercial break also requires inserting sponsor-mandated ads. They’re as long as a crosstalk monologue. Those aren’t in the live recording—they’re added later.”

“Wow… being a host isn’t easy,” Xiao Tan mused.

“Hey,” Judge Bao interjected. “They’re introducing the contestants. Quiet.”

The first contestant’s area lit up—a bespectacled man in his thirties, slightly overweight, dressed casually.

Oscar pulled a cue card from his pocket, launching into the introduction—using only pen names. “Contestant Number One: Xuantian Zong. A renowned online writer, thirty-two years old, author of ten novels exceeding two million words each. His works are wildly popular, adapted into games, films, and TV series. One of the few writers earning over ten million annually. Editor’s comment: Fluid prose, rich characters, thrilling plots. The undisputed king of modern online xuanhuan novels.”

The host paused. Without needing a director’s cue, the audience erupted into applause.

Next, the second contestant’s area brightened. Another man in his thirties, slightly older-looking than Xuantian Zong, with a more mature style of glasses and clothing.

“Contestant Number Two: Bashan Ping. A renowned online writer, thirty-three years old, author of five historical epics. Editor’s comment: Vast knowledge, grandiose prose, profound works. Truly… a man whose pen writes the tales of ages.”

Bashan Ping received equally enthusiastic applause and cheers.

Oscar continued. “Contestant Number Three: Shucai Guaguo. A renowned online writer, holder of multiple records. He began writing at eighteen, specializing in urban fantasy. Over ten years, he’s published over twenty-seven million words, never missing a single update. Consistently topping mobile reading site charts. Editor’s comment: Simple yet smooth prose, master of pacing and tension. The wireless king—a diligent genius.”

Shucai Guaguo, twenty-eight and handsome, drew the loudest cheers. His fanbase was the largest.

“Contestant Number Four,” Oscar paused, smiling at the camera, “is our sole female contestant: Mo Buxiang. Her age… is a secret.”

The audience chuckled.

Mo Buxiang, with a ponytail and delicate features, was slender but not a classic beauty. With makeup, though, she looked camera-ready.

“She began writing five years ago, authoring six novels spanning horror, xianxia, urban, romance, gaming, and history—all published in physical books. Last year’s highest-earning female writer. Editor’s comment: Elegant prose, versatile style. A true literary talent.”

The audience roared again. While her hardcore fanbase was smaller than the previous contestants’, many shameless male viewers now ranked her as their second favorite.

Contestant Five’s area lit up—a man in his thirties with a classic Afro, wearing sunglasses indoors, his build solid.

“Contestant Number Five: Wo Yao Shangchang. A renowned online writer and sports magazine editor, author of thirteen sports-themed short stories. His works emphasize realism, with rigorous settings and rich professional knowledge, beloved by sports fans. Editor’s comment: A writer with depth, creating thoughtful works. Unparalleled in his genre.”

After the applause, Contestant Six emerged. He bore a striking resemblance to Xuantian Zong—similar style and taste in clothing—but appeared older.

“Contestant Number Six: Qishui. A renowned online writer specializing in horror. Author of seven classic horror novels, universally acclaimed. Dubbed the modern terror master. Editor’s comment: Every story Qishui crafts stirs the deepest fears. Exquisite plots, meticulous craftsmanship. The terror master title is well-earned.”

“Ooh! Is it time?” Xiao Tan perked up, realizing Feng Bu Jue’s turn was next.

Suddenly, the camera zoomed in on Oscar’s close-up. “Ladies and gentlemen, the seventh contestant is this episode’s newcomer. This stage is ruthless—each week, someone gets eliminated. Newcomers face a 50% elimination rate this season… Will he survive on this stage? Or will he vanish like a meteor strike? Let’s find out…”

Drums rolled. Spotlights danced wildly before plunging the stage into darkness. The drums halted. Then, the lights snapped onto Feng Bu Jue.

Though Feng Bu Jue stared at the camera with a deadpan, fish-eyed expression, the audience erupted into cheers.

“Actually, during filming, the audience entered the studio with us contestants,” Feng Bu Jue grumbled. “They already saw me. This ‘monster debut’ reaction is all the director’s doing. In reality, it wouldn’t affect the stage effect even if no one recognized me.”

“Quick—listen to how they introduce you,” Judge Bao urged.

Onscreen, Oscar waited for the applause to die down. “Wow, Contestant Seven looks awfully young.” Though he’d chatted with Feng Bu Jue earlier, he feigned first-time recognition. “Some viewers might recognize him. Others might’ve read his novels but never seen him. So… who is he?”

The suspense stretched. Oscar pulled out his cue card. “Contestant Number Seven: Bu Jue. A renowned detective novelist, author of twelve published detective novels. His works have been serialized in online platforms, magazines, and newspapers. His style is witty and humorous, uniquely his own. Regardless of length, his plots are clever and unpredictable. Editor’s comment: If brilliance alone isn’t enough to rise, at least be irreplaceable.”

Feng Bu Jue gave a half-hearted “Hmm.”

Oscar continued, “Bu Jue, you were personally recommended by three of our production team’s editors. They’re all your fans!”

“Is that so…” Feng Bu Jue muttered.

Oscar grinned. “As per our show’s tradition, each newcomer must name this episode’s title.” He approached Feng Bu Jue’s desk. “Bu Jue, you have three minutes to decide. Let’s take a commercial break first.”

“What did you pick?” Xiao Tan asked.

Feng Bu Jue didn’t answer, just pointed at the screen. Since this version had no ads, and Oscar’s next lines were recorded separately, the scene cut straight to the reveal.

Oscar stood beside Feng Bu Jue, glancing at the words scribbled on his desk. His expression shifted subtly—a fleeting sidelong glance, eyes flickering with something odd.

“Let’s see the title Bu Jue chose for this episode of I’m a Writer…” Oscar, ever the professional host, maintained his composure despite Feng Bu Jue’s likely absurd choice.

With a flourish, Oscar gestured. The five characters Feng Bu Jue had written appeared on the giant screen:

Feel Free to Vent

(End of Chapter)

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