Chapter 5: The Elder Number

Jin Yong, Gu Long, Huang Yi, Liang Yusheng, Wen Rui’an—these are all grandmasters of martial arts fiction. Yet in this world, not a single one of them exists. Instead, the ranks are filled with the likes of Wolong Sheng, Sima Ling, Zhuge Qingyun—second-tier martial arts authors—and others whose names Zhang Tan had never even heard before.

“Tsk, tsk. If only I had an encyclopedic knowledge in my mind, this would be a surefire chance to become a martial arts master myself. Unfortunately, I’m only familiar with a few classics, mostly because I watched too many TV adaptations. I can barely recall the original novels. Still, my writing isn’t bad; even if I just retell the TV versions, I could piece together some decent stories.”

Having gone online to learn about this world, Zhang Tan grew ever more confident. The impact of his regression was that many familiar faces and works had vanished.

“But maybe it’s for the best. Your brilliance—I shall inherit it. Rest in peace.” Though he felt a twinge of guilt, inside he couldn’t help his boundless delight.

“So now, I need to decide: what should my debut novel be?”

Truth be told, Zhang Tan couldn’t remember the less iconic works at all. The ones that stuck in his mind were the true classics, the ones that had been adapted into television dramas.

Jin Yong’s “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils,” “The Legend of the Condor Heroes,” “The Deer and the Cauldron,” “Heavenly Sword and Dragon Slaying Saber,” “The Smiling, Proud Wanderer,” and “The Return of the Condor Heroes”—these cycled through every summer vacation, impossible to avoid. Gu Long’s “Lu Xiaofeng,” “The Legendary Twins,” “The Little Li Flying Dagger,” “Chu Liuxiang,” “Meteor, Butterfly, Sword”—though less frequently aired, the original works were compelling, and Zhang Tan had read them many times. Then there were Huang Yi’s “Twin Dragons of the Tang Dynasty,” “A Step into the Past,” “Rain-Covering Clouds,” Liang Yusheng’s “Seven Swordsmen from Mountain Heaven,” “Legend of the White-Haired Demoness,” and Wen Rui’an’s “The Four Great Constables,” all shining in their own eras.

There were others, too: “Ode to Gallantry,” “Sword Stained with Royal Blood,” “Curved Moon Sabre,” “The Book and the Sword,” “Flying Fox of Snowy Mountain,” “The Wandering Swordsman,” “The Romantic Swordsman,” “Sword of the Third Young Master,” and so on. Zhang Tan had long forgotten the details, remembering only the rough outlines.

“In my spare time, I’ll jot down summaries of these novels. When I have time, I’ll fill in the rest.”

Besides the established masters, there were newer works he could eventually write—Feng Ge’s “Kunlun,” Xiao Ding’s “The Immortal Hero,” Sun Xiao’s “The Heroic Will,” Xiao Duan’s “Cup of Snow”…

With these thoughts swirling, a clear direction took shape in Zhang Tan’s mind.

Write martial arts novels, submit them, earn his first bucket of gold, learn to compose, write songs, sing if possible, otherwise work behind the scenes, then plan variety entertainment shows to accumulate original capital. Eventually, learn to produce TV dramas and films. If fate allowed, he’d start a company, develop things like YY Voice, WeChat, and Weibo, and finally marry a beautiful, rich woman and reach the pinnacle of life.

“Yes, I suppose that’s the sum of all my ambitions.”

Leaning back in his chair, Zhang Tan felt his spirits soar.

The internet café was packed, everyone lost in playing Red Alert, Counter-Strike, Chinese Paladin, and other single-player games. Some were chatting away on QQ. Zhang Tan even glimpsed his neighbor watching small windows of action-romance videos.

Such was online life in 2001.

“Looks like I haven’t registered for QQ yet!”

At that time, QQ was just entering a period of rapid growth, having already surpassed two million online users. Both IDG and Hong Kong’s Pacific Digital had each invested $1.1 million for QQ’s development. It was clear that QQ’s dominance of China’s instant messaging market was near at hand.

At this point, QQ was still a simple drop-down menu with no groups, no video, no Qzone, and no QQ games. It only bundled a TT browser and included a feature to view the other party’s IP address. The name hadn’t even officially changed to QQ yet; it was still called QICQ, “Tencent Online Pager” in Chinese.

But the name change was imminent. Since QICQ was modeled after the international ICQ, and the parent company of ICQ had already sued for infringement, it was only a matter of time before the lawsuit failed and, by the following year, QICQ would change its name to QQ to avoid issues.

To capture market share, QQ’s registration process was simple—open a webpage and you could register as many accounts as you liked.

At this time, QQ still had no revenue model, and the numbers were early six or seven digits, unlike the future when eight-digit numbers would be rare and the shorter numbers would be sold for a price.

Taking advantage of this, Zhang Tan tried registering multiple accounts. The first six attempts yielded eight-digit numbers.

Finally, on the seventh try, he got the six-digit number he’d been hoping for—no unlucky fours, three lucky eights, and starting with a one. The account even had a “moon” status, indicating it was a veteran number.

These six-digit accounts with status had been previously used; if unused for several months, they were reclaimed and released back into circulation. At that time, QQ hadn’t become formalized, features were few, and user loyalty was low. Many early adopters abandoned their accounts out of boredom, or, with the internet still new, forgot their passwords and lost their accounts.

And so, Zhang Tan managed to snag a prized number.

“Alright, you’ll do!”

He happily recorded his new QQ number, planning to nurture it as time went on. A six-digit number starting with one—an original account from 2000. As far as he remembered, the earliest QQ number was five digits.

On November 11, 1998, Tencent was founded, and in 1999, it launched QICQ (version 99a), modeled after ICQ. The very first QQ number was 10000—a five-digit number, likely Tencent’s own. That year, QQ only had eighty thousand members, so five-digit numbers were not yet all claimed.

By 2000, QQ had surpassed one hundred thousand users and began releasing six-digit numbers. That year, registrations passed one million, then ten million. As a result, six-digit numbers vanished, seven-digit numbers became rare, and eight-digit numbers became mainstream.

By the following year, 2002, registered users would pass one hundred million, and nine-digit numbers would appear.

A six-digit number was now considered a “cool number.”

Having obtained such a prized number, Zhang Tan was in high spirits and immediately searched for online users, hoping to chat with a female netizen. At this time, netizens were still quite innocent—if the registration said female, it usually meant it.

However, just as he was about to add a friend, Zhang Tan remembered that QQ didn’t yet have video chat, only voice. Both video chat and group chats would only arrive the next year, after QICQ was renamed QQ and updated.

“No video, what’s the point of chatting?”

So Zhang Tan decisively set QQ aside and continued searching for information.

Apart from grabbing a quick lunch, he spent the entire day at the internet café, gathering information he needed. Not until four in the afternoon did he finally check out, reluctant to leave.

Stepping out of the New Wave Internet Café, he stretched and glanced at the newly bought notebook in his hand.

Pages and pages were filled with notes—details all different from his previous life: which stars had disappeared, which films were never made, which songs didn’t exist, who led the country, whether city names had changed—not just domestically, but worldwide.

All in all, the changes in this world were profound, and the treasures awaiting Zhang Tan were just as plentiful.

Finally, his eyes settled on a particular page.

There he had jotted down the mailing addresses and phone numbers for “Hot Wind” and “Legend of Today and the Past” magazines.

“I wanted to look up ‘Martial Arts Stories’ and ‘Legend of Today and the Past—Martial Arts Edition,’ but it turns out neither magazine has even been founded yet. How frustrating.”