“I’m not sleeping tonight!”
After Tom’s performance ended, Wos, holding the fifteen hundred dollars, was in an extremely excited state.
“Tom, Jerry, you two go to sleep first. I’m going to write my novel all night!” Wos waved the draft paper in his hand.
“Tomorrow I’ll take the manuscript to the publishers and try my luck!”
Tom had just taken off his tailcoat, and hearing this, he looked at Wos with concern.
This guy had been acting weird since the afternoon, and now he was going to stay up all night.
Could his body handle it?
“Don’t worry, I’m young!” Wos patted his chest.
“Back when I wrote web novels, pulling all-nighters for a whole week was no problem!”
Tom: “Quit bragging! (〃｀3′〃)”
Jerry climbed onto the table, pointed at the dark circles under Wos’s eyes, then pointed at himself and made a sleeping gesture.
“I know you’re worried about me, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!” Wos sat down at the table and picked up his pen.
“*Reborn in World War II, I Became Captain America’s Comrade*, that title alone is enough to hook people!”
Tom and Jerry looked at each other and saw helplessness in each other’s eyes.
Once this guy got into work mode, nobody could stop him.
“You two go to sleep, I promise nothing will happen.” Wos had already started writing on the paper.
Tom sighed, walked over to Wos, and gently patted his shoulder to show his support.
Jerry jumped onto Wos’s shoulder and stroked his cheek with his tiny paw.
“Thank you both.” A wave of warmth rose in Wos’s heart.
“Once the novel is published, we can move somewhere better!”
Only then did the two little ones go back to their own nests with some peace of mind, but neither fell asleep right away.
Instead, they kept poking their heads out now and then to check on Wos.
Wos took a deep breath and began writing in earnest:
“My name is John Smith, an ordinary military enthusiast. If someone had told me that I would transmigrate to America in 1942, become a mutant, and become comrades with Captain America, I would have been sure they were insane.”
“But now, as I look at the young face in the mirror and feel the strange power surging inside my body, I have no choice but to accept this absurd reality…”
His pen flew across the paper, and Wos was completely immersed in the world of creation.
The protagonist, John Smith, transmigrated to 1942 after a car accident and discovered that he had not only become younger but had also gained a superhuman healing ability.
“This setup is good.” Wos nodded as he wrote.
“The mutant identity can explain the protagonist’s special abilities without being too over the top.”
Time ticked by second by second, and Wos’s writing speed grew faster and faster.
He described how the protagonist adapted to life in 1942 America, how he used his knowledge of history to predict the Pearl Harbor attack, and how, by happy coincidence, he met Steve Rogers, who hadn’t yet become Captain America.
“Steve was still that frail little guy, but there was an unshakable sense of justice in his eyes. I knew this man was destined to become a legend…”
At two in the morning, Tom quietly got up and found Wos still writing furiously.
Tom went to the kitchen, made Wos a cup of coffee, and gently placed it beside him.
“Thanks, Tom.” Wos said without even looking up, then picked up the coffee and drained it in one go.
At four in the morning, Jerry woke up too and saw that Wos was still writing.
The little mouse jumped onto the table and curiously looked at the densely packed text.
“The protagonist and Steve took part in the selection for the Super Soldier Serum experiment together. Although he wasn’t chosen to receive the serum, his mutant identity got him into the special forces…” Wos muttered to himself as he wrote.
Jerry was completely lost, but he still quietly kept him company.
As the sky grew brighter, Wos finally put down his pen.
He rubbed his aching wrist, looked at the manuscript in front of him, and smiled with satisfaction.
“Fifty thousand words! A full fifty thousand words!” Wos counted the sheets of paper.
“From the protagonist’s transmigration to becoming Steve’s comrade, all the way to his first mission, the plot is complete and the pacing is tight!”
Tom and Jerry had woken up long ago and were sitting at the edge of the table watching him.
“Look, this is my masterpiece!” Wos held up the thick manuscript.
“*Reborn in World War II, I Became Captain America’s Comrade*, Volume One!”
Tom clapped his paws to congratulate him.
Jerry gave a thumbs-up.
“It’s seven in the morning now. I’ll go wash my face, then head out to the publishers!” Wos stood up and suddenly felt dizzy.
Tom hurriedly supported him, looking worriedly at his face.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, just a little tired.” Wos waved his hand.
“Washing my face will fix it.”
He walked into the bathroom, looked at the bloodshot eyes and obvious dark circles in the mirror, and couldn’t help but smile wryly.
“As expected, staying up all night writing takes a real toll.”
After washing his face, Wos felt a bit more awake.
He carefully put the manuscript into a folder, then said to Tom and Jerry:
“You two rest well at home, I’m going to make the rounds of the publishers. If all goes well, we’ll get an advance today!”
Tom and Jerry were both worried about his condition, but seeing the determination in Wos’s eyes, they could only silently support him.
“Don’t worry, there are plenty of publishers in New York, and one of them will surely see the value in my work!” Wos patted his chest.
“Wait for my good news!”
With that, he went out carrying the folder.
Tom and Jerry lay on the windowsill, watching Wos’s figure, dark circles and all, walking down the street, feeling both worried and hopeful.
“I hope he succeeds,” Tom thought.
“This guy is really working hard for us,” Jerry also prayed silently in his heart.
Although his body was exhausted, his heart was full of fighting spirit.
“First stop, Random House!” He looked at the little notebook in his hand that recorded the addresses of the major publishers.
“If these big publishers don’t want it, I’ll go to the small ones! Someone will recognize its value!”
The morning sunlight of New York fell on him, a new day, new hope.
Wos’s first stop was Random House, located in the heart of Manhattan.
This thirty-story glass tower shone brilliantly in the sunlight, with sharply dressed editors and writers coming and going at the entrance.
“Holy crap, what a grand place.” Wos looked up at this giant of the publishing world.
“As expected of the biggest publisher in America.”
He straightened his clothes and walked toward the door with his folder.
But as soon as he reached the entrance, Wos realized a problem: his manuscript was still handwritten!
“Damn it!” Wos slapped his forehead.
“Who’s going to read a handwritten manuscript? I have to get it printed first!”
After searching the neighborhood, Wos finally found a copy shop called “Quick Print King.”
“Boss, I need to print some documents.” Wos walked up to the counter.
“A handwritten manuscript?” The shop owner was a middle-aged man in his forties wearing thick glasses.
“That’s a big job. How many pages do you have?”
“About two hundred pages, I’d guess.” Wos made an estimate.
“Typing up handwritten manuscripts is pricier, five dollars per page.” The owner pushed up his glasses.
“And it takes at least three days.”
“Three days?” Wos was stunned.
“That’s too long. Is there a faster way?”
“You could type it yourself. We rent out computers here, ten dollars an hour.”
Wos did the math.
Two hundred pages, even if he typed fast, would take at least ten hours.
A cost of a hundred dollars, so it wasn’t any better than just hiring someone to type it up.
“Forget it, I’ll just print ten copies of a sample first.” Wos compromised.
“Just the first twenty pages.”
“Typing twenty handwritten pages, one hundred dollars, done in an hour.”
“Deal!”
An hour later, Wos, holding ten brand-new printed copies, headed back toward Random House.