Redwood Café.
At this time, in December, the southern city had only just stepped onto winter's doorstep, barely brushing against it and not yet fully entering. The café hadn't even turned on the heating, and the cool air, carrying a trace of chill, permeated through the half-open window.
Lin Chuan didn't like those tightly enclosed spaces without air circulation; they felt very stuffy.
Right now,
He was enjoying the slightly chilly air, taking a sip of coffee that tasted somewhat like 'Arabica beans produced in Santos,' with a smile on his lips, "I've written some novels that aren't particularly grand, but you might have heard of them."
Hou and Brother Hao exchanged looks.
Brother Hao thought Lin Chuan couldn't understand Malay, and with a snicker, he said to Hou in Malay, "Novels that aren't fit for the big stage, and still having the nerve to show off about them? Our website used to hold a large share of globally popular novels!"
Cough, even if they were pirated.