Anna glared across the scratched surface of the plastic table. "You better explain this to me," she demanded. Her voice was tight, carrying a sharp edge of genuine anger. "What does that comment mean? What is 10,627?"
Mark opened his mouth to answer her.
But...
A sudden, sharp vibration buzzed against his right thigh. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a single name.
Carlo.
He swiped the green icon and pressed the cold glass to his ear. Anna let out a loud, irritated huff, but she clamped her mouth shut. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and waited.
"Yes," Mark said into the receiver. He listened to the frantic voice on the other end for three seconds. "I'll be going."
He pulled the device away and ended the call.
"Sorry," Mark said, pushing his chair back. The plastic legs scraped harshly against the floor tiles. "I have to go."
Anna dropped her hands flat onto the table. "Wait. At least explain this to me before you leave."
Mark glanced toward the main exit. If he sat back down, explaining the cryptographic structure and the mathematical probability of the chapter count would consume at least ten minutes. He did not have ten minutes to spare.
"I promise to talk to you tomorrow," Mark stated calmly. "I really need to go."
Anna stared at him. Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
Then, a sharp sound cut through the noise of the cafeteria.
Ping.
She blinked, her focus breaking. She looked down at the dark screen of her phone resting on the table.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
The singular notification sounds rapidly blurred together. It escalated into a continuous, deafening chime. The rapid noise drew the attention of a few students sitting at the adjacent tables.
Anna flinched violently. She snatched the phone off the plastic surface and stared at the lock screen.
Her jaw dropped.
"The replies," Anna whispered. She completely forgot Mark was even standing there. "The replies on my comment won't stop. These are all fans of eT14XjMteCsx. They are asking what the number means."
Her thumb hovered over the glass, shaking visibly. "What should I do?"
Before Mark could offer a suggestion, the screen flashed black and white. An incoming call overrode the notifications. The caller ID displayed her little sister's name.
Anna panicked. She tapped the green answer button. Her finger slipped against the screen, accidentally pressing the loud speaker icon just as she brought the device near her face.
"Big sis, what is going on?!"
A loud, frantic teenage voice echoed across the quiet cafeteria.
Anna jumped. She fumbled with the volume buttons on the side of the casing. "Keep your voice down."
"I saw your username posted on Breddit!" the younger girl shouted through the speaker. "They said you received a 'Liked' from eT14XjMteCsx! That community was completely dead and silent a year ago, but now it is exploding. What did you do?"
All the color drained out of Anna's face. She looked entirely sick. "I don't know. I should just delete that stupid comment right now. Just hold on."
"Don't!"
The scream from the speaker was incredibly loud. A student three tables away dropped his fork onto his plate.
"That comment is gold, big sis," the little sister pleaded. Her voice dropped into a fierce, desperate whisper. "That is the only comment eT14XjMteCsx has ever liked. Ever. I have been reading eT14XjMteCsx's book since childhood. If you delete that comment, I will never talk to you about your books ever again."
Anna froze completely. She sat perfectly still in her chair while holding the phone a few inches from her mouth like it was a live explosive.
Mark found the opening.
He turned away from the table and walked fast toward the main doors. He left her staring blankly at the digital display.
Pushing the heavy glass doors open, the dry afternoon heat hit his face. He walked down the concrete walkway, blending seamlessly into the crowd of passing university students.
His mind automatically started running the numbers.
Ten thousand chapters. Assuming an average word count of one thousand and five hundred words per chapter, the total volume reached fifteen million words.
Mark stared at the gray pavement ahead of him.
That mathematical scale is absolutely ridiculous.
I made some research. A standard commercial novel usually contained roughly eighty thousand words. A massive, sprawling fantasy epic might hit four hundred thousand words. Fifteen million words was the equivalent of writing a full-length book every single month for over a decade.
Plot decay is the natural enemy of every long-running series. Characters become stale. The power scaling shatters. The narrative tension vanishes entirely because the author simply runs out of fresh conflicts. Readers usually suffer extreme fatigue and drop a book around the thousand-chapter mark.
But this specific author managed to hold a massive, highly dedicated fanbase all the way to the very end. That required a terrifying level of structural control. Every single narrative arc had to interlock flawlessly. The foreshadowing needed to span across millions of words without the author forgetting their own established rules.
Mark adjusted the heavy strap of his backpack.
Maintaining consistency over that kind of massive volume is not just raw creative talent. It is mechanical discipline. It is treating the plot like a vast architectural blueprint and refusing to let a single brick fall out of alignment.
It made perfect sense why the fanbase is so protective.
I had searched the internet for discussions regarding that pen name few days ago. Several articles claimed the author received dozens of highly lucrative offers from major publishing companies, yet the author never responded to a single email.
The absolute silence built an untouchable myth around the creator.
But the strangest part of the entire situation was the complete blindness of the readers. Thousands of people worshipped the text, yet none of them noticed the pen name itself was a puzzle waiting to be cracked.
eT14XjMteCsx.
It is a string of seemingly random letters and numbers. Most people probably assumed it is just a keyboard smash or an anonymous throwaway handle chosen during account creation.
Mark did not see a random handle. He saw a cipher.
He had investigated the final sentences of twenty-one specific chapters scattered across the massive story. The author left subtle, nonsensical anagrams right at the bottom of the page. It was a classic, old-school method for hiding a secondary message.
Mark did not figure it out because he was a natural genius. He figured it out because he had seen it before.
The exact same cryptographic structure was utilized in volume four of "Welcome to the High School of Meritocracy." Reine Asakura had deciphered a nearly identical puzzle. Mark simply borrowed her way of thinking, applied the fictional logic to the real-world pen name, and decoded the string.
He approached the massive steel gates of the main campus.
A sudden blur of movement caught his peripheral vision.
He turned his head. Chloe was sprinting up the paved walkway from the opposite direction. Her shoes slapped hard against the concrete. She bypassed him completely, heading straight for the cafeteria doors.
She stopped just outside the glass entrance. Bending over, she rested her hands firmly on her knees. She gasped for air, her chest heaving heavily for several seconds.
Then, she pushed the door open and rushed inside.
Mark watched the heavy door swing shut. He did not stop walking. He continued his path toward the main exit.
Wednesday arrived with a bright, glaring sun.
The university dropped the standard uniform requirement for the day. Students wore their casual clothes, turning the wide campus paths into a chaotic display of different fashion styles.
Mark walked past the large brick structure of the library, heading toward his afternoon lecture.
A figure stepped out from behind a thick concrete pillar, directly blocking his path.
Mark stopped.
It was a beautiful girl.
Her name was Chloe. She wore a highly fashionable, asymmetrical jacket over a simple black dress. The expensive fabric and careful coordination made her stand out sharply against the background of tired college students.
She did not move out of his way. She stood right in the center of the walkway, staring directly at his face.
"Base64," Chloe said.
Mark widened his eyes slightly.
He maintained his neutral expression, but a spark of genuine respect flared in his chest. She actually cracked the encryption format.
"A Base64 string," Chloe continued. Her voice was completely steady. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her smartphone. The screen was already unlocked, displaying a messy, rapidly scrolling social media feed.
She held the phone out toward him.
"An F-book group is in a complete mess right now," Chloe stated. "Thousands of fans are losing their minds. They are calling themselves idiots for not realizing the hidden meaning behind the pen name of their beloved author sooner."
Mark looked at the scrolling text.
It clicked. The viral explosion Anna triggered with that single comment two days ago had forced the entire community to look closely at the numbers. They connected the dots. The collective analysis of a thousand obsessed fans tore the code apart in less than forty-eight hours.
He kept his mouth shut.
Chloe twitched. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her phone casing.
She leaned a few inches closer. Her eyes narrowed as she sized him up from head to toe. She inspected his cheap sneakers, his plain t-shirt, and his worn backpack.
"You have a sharp eye," Chloe said. Her tone dropped into a low, calculating register. "But is that all? Did you discover something else?"
Mark cleared his throat.
"What if I do?" Mark asked.
Chloe widened her eyes. Her composed, fashionable exterior cracked for a fraction of a second.
"Tell me," she demanded, taking a quick step forward.
Mark did not back away. He planted his feet firmly on the pavement.
"I will tell you," Mark said flatly. "But you should give something in return."
Chloe blinked. The desperation in her eyes shifted into a cold, transactional understanding.
"I see," Chloe muttered, pulling her phone back. "You want money. Alright. Name your price."
Mark stared at her. He had not expected her to jump straight to financial compensation.
"I owe eT14XjMteCsx a lot," Chloe said. Her voice wavered just a bit. She looked down at the concrete. "That book saved me. It gave me hope when I had absolutely nothing else."
A tiny, solitary tear broke loose and slid down her cheek.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, and quickly wiped the moisture away before anyone else could see.
"I will pay you whatever price you set," Chloe declared, looking back up with fierce determination. "Now tell me. What else did you discover?"
Mark looked at her serious expression. The board was finally set. The pawn was exactly in the position he needed.
"I know a way to talk to that author," Mark stated.
Chloe dropped her jaw.
Her mouth hung wide open. It was a completely raw, unladylike expression of absolute shock. The trendy, untouchable aura she carefully maintained vanished entirely.
Mark did not give her time to recover.
"I will tell you exactly how to communicate with eT14XjMteCsx," Mark said, his voice hard and clear. "In exchange, I want you and your group to take the dance contest seriously and give your all to win."