Chapter 108: Li Heng Is Too Overpowered (Requesting Base Monthly Votes!)

Jiang Yue leaned over and muttered, “Our Song family isn’t beggars—we don’t just brush off anyone who begs for attention.”

Jiang Yue had always had high standards, something her husband and daughter knew well.

Jiang Yue also had a minor cleanliness obsession, both materially and spiritually—a fact even Song Shi and Song Yu knew.

Her own mother thought Li Heng was clinging to her like a beggar; Song Yu felt a flicker of helplessness but said nothing, instead pointing to the news on the newspaper:

“Mom, take a look.”

What was her daughter up to now?

Jiang Yue reached out, snatched the newspaper, and began reading.

It was a copy of the People’s Daily—the only newspaper the family subscribed to every year.

Jiang Yue was familiar with the paper; the headline read: “To Live,” the 1987 literary masterpiece.

“To Live”?

Wasn’t that the literary work her husband had been utterly obsessed with, reading it over and over five or six times?

At his recommendation, she’d read it too. The novel was truly well-written, brilliantly crafted—she’d stayed up half the night finishing it.

Especially when she read about Fengxia becoming mute after a fever went untreated, and Fugui’s grandson Kugen choking to death from eating too many beans, she’d shed tears without warning, silently blaming the author for giving readers no escape—such a tragic story was too heartbreaking.

But then again, heartbreak was heartbreak. The novel’s quality was like poison—once you picked it up, you couldn’t put it down, no matter how suffocating it felt; you had to read it all the way through.

She didn’t know why her daughter wanted her to read this article, but just seeing it on the People’s Daily was already extraordinary.

For a publication of the People’s Daily’s stature to label it “the 1987 literary masterpiece” was even more astonishing.

Curious, Jiang Yue quickly read through the entire article.

The content was long—nearly two thousand words.

But in summary:

Since its publication in February, the novel “To Live” had sparked intense reactions among readers; the magazine “Harvest” had set a historical sales record, with three consecutive issues surpassing 250,000 copies, standing out among all domestic literary journals.

Not only had readers reacted fiercely, but “To Live” had swept through the entire literary world like a typhoon—critiques appeared everywhere in the press, with unprecedented breadth and participation from critics and writers alike, a rare spectacle in the past decade.

At the end, Jiang Yue saw a statistic: the standalone edition of “To Live” had sold 580,000 copies in just nine days; “Harvest” had decided on a third reprint, with a million copies within reach.

At this point, Jiang Yue looked up and asked her husband: “Lao Song, what level is 580,000 copies sold in nine days?”

Song Shi had already read the article earlier—he’d glanced at it and gone back to sipping his tea, but his eyes kept flicking toward Yu Bao, wondering what his daughter was driving at.

Hearing his wife’s question, he took a sip of tea and said: “It’s extremely high—unprecedented.”

Jiang Yue frowned: “What do you mean? Hasn’t any book ever sold 580,000 copies before?”

Song Shi shook his head: “Five hundred eighty thousand copies is impressive, but you’re missing the point.”

“The publisher of ‘Harvest’ must pay royalties for these 580,000 standalone editions—that’s never happened before in China.”

At this, Jiang Yue began to understand.

She’d been immersed in a piano piece lately and hadn’t read the papers; she didn’t know the public had already sharpened their knives over the royalty issue, targeting “December.” The articles criticizing it were mostly from obscure writers, with few respected critics, and even fewer well-known authors.

Many privately suspected this wave of criticism against “To Live”’s royalties was a coordinated move by publishers, as it severely damaged their own interests.

That also explained why domestic writers had all chosen to remain silent.

Because other writers, too, were tired of earning only a few hundred or thousand yuan per novel—they secretly hoped royalties would become a trend, an unspoken rule—but they dared not offend literary magazines or publishers, so they could only watch quietly.

Fortunately, Old Ba had taken the front line, and fortunately, “Harvest” carried enough weight in the literary world, so the criticism was confined to newspaper columns, and no one had jointly banned the writer “December,” nor had it affected Li Heng in reality.

Now, the outside world was eagerly waiting for the writer “December” to speak out—but Li Heng had been busy with the college entrance exam, had no time to read newspapers, and had no idea a storm of backlash was brewing against him.

Of course, even if he knew, what could he do?

Would he really go argue with every single publisher?

First of all, they hadn’t openly criticized him—they’d merely used proxies.

Even if they had come out openly, with his current stature, his thin arms and legs, he’d be like a mantis trying to stop a cart—he was no match.

After all, they were an organization, state-backed publications—he was just one man.

So, sensing something was off, Li Heng simply chose to ignore it—didn’t read the papers, didn’t rant, just quietly collected his money.

But he hadn’t planned to swallow this insult—he intended to write a new work that would shake the literary world and slap their faces.

Tell them why he was the first to receive royalties.

Tell them, when your strength reaches my level, you deserve royalties.

No matter how loud, how good, or how bad the reviews, strip away the superficial froth—everything ultimately comes down to hard power.

So, Li Heng’s next step was to use hard power to establish his name.

After reading the article again, Jiang Yue looked up: “You mean this novel is even better than what we’ve seen?”

Song Shi nodded: “Of course. In any field, breaking the existing order and carving out new ground is never easy—it faces obstacles and hardships no ordinary person can imagine.”

“Once it succeeds, it becomes a benchmark, forever remembered—not just in numbers, but as a monumental leap in ideology.”

Jiang Yue asked: “So is the writer ‘December’ in terrible straits?”

Song Yu also set down her teacup and looked at her father.

Meeting their gazes, Song Shi paused, then shook his head: “I don’t think so.”

“December is incredibly composed. No matter how much criticism and condemnation he faces, he never shows himself—he has the bearing of a general who stands firm against ten thousand enemies. That kind of poise is what I truly admire.”

Hearing this, Song Yu smiled faintly, picked up her teacup again, and sipped slowly.

After discussing with her husband for a while, Jiang Yue suddenly remembered something and turned to her daughter:

“Yu Bao, earlier I told you about Li Heng—why are you showing me this article now? What’s the connection?”

Song Shi had been puzzling over the link too, but couldn’t figure it out—now that his wife asked, he perked up his ears.

Song Yu looked at her father, teacup still at his lips, then at her mother, frowning in confusion.

She said calmly: “Because Li Heng is December.”

“What?”

Jiang Yue thought she’d misheard—she gasped, eyes locked on her daughter’s face, searching for any micro-expression to judge truth from lie.

Even Song Shi, usually composed, couldn’t hold back—he joined his wife in asking sharply: “Li Heng is a writer? ‘To Live’ is his?”

Song Yu stood up, calmly: “Yes.”

Without looking at her parents’ stunned expressions, she quietly returned to her bedroom.

“Thud”—a soft sound.

The bedroom door opened gently, then closed gently.

For a moment, the living room was utterly silent—only the husband and wife stared at each other, eyes wide with shock.

After a long while, Jiang Yue swallowed hard: “Lao Song, did I hear right? Our daughter said Li Heng is the writer December?”

Song Shi drained his teacup, exhaled slowly: “Earlier, I heard a colleague say an editor from the literary magazine ‘October’ came to No. 1 High School looking for the writer December. I thought it was just idle chatter.”

Jiang Yue said: “Two days ago, I saw the provincial TV station—the host said December is from Shaodong.”

Song Shi replied: “‘Harvest’ has publicly stated the same.”

After that, the couple stared at each other for a long time—this news was too explosive, too unbelievable.

How old is Li Heng?

Eighteen this year—just finished the college entrance exam.

How impressive is “To Live”?

A classic novel—the pioneer of royalties in China.

Eighteen years old + “To Live”—this combination was too outrageous, beyond imagination, outright frying the couple’s brains.

But here’s the thing…

The key point is—this extraordinary writer is courting our daughter.

When she finally snapped back to reality, Jiang Yue, her heart feeling like a thousand ants gnawing, stood up and marched straight to her daughter’s bedroom.

She turned the doorknob—it was locked from inside.

“Knock knock knock…”

“Yu Bao, open up—Mom needs to talk to you.”

“Knock knock knock…”

From inside, faint singing could be heard—the sound of a tape recorder.

Seeing his wife frantic, knocking repeatedly with no response, Song Shi stepped forward and pulled her back.

“Lao Song, if we don’t get this cleared up, can you even sleep tonight?” Back in their bedroom, Jiang Yue said immediately.

Song Shi opened the window to let in fresh air:

“Yu Bao doesn’t want to discuss this deeply with us—have you thought about why?”

Jiang Yue asked instinctively: “Why?”

Song Shi turned to face her: “You already guessed it—Li Heng and our daughter are just good friends.”

Jiang Yue fell silent. Her first instinct had been exactly that.

It matched her daughter’s calm, reserved nature—no exaggeration, no meddling in others’ affairs.

After a while, Jiang Yue, now understanding the full picture, said: “So Chen Zijin and Li Heng are still in contact.”

Song Shi agreed with the inference, adding: “But it’s also possible Yu Bao doesn’t feel anything for Li Heng.”

Jiang Yue grumbled: “They’ve shared an umbrella.”

Song Shi smiled and shook his head: “That doesn’t mean anything—it just means they’re close. Aren’t they desk partners? Of course they’re close.”

At midnight, Jiang Yue suddenly sat up in bed and shook her husband awake: “Lao Song, something’s off here—it feels strange.”

Song Shi rolled over: “What’s strange?”

Jiang Yue analyzed: “If our daughter knows Li Heng wrote ‘To Live,’ then Chen Zijin and the Chen family must know too—so why do they still look down on him?”

Song Shi thought for a moment and said, “Didn’t Song Yu say the Chen and Li families had a falling out? It probably happened before they started writing, and the conflict might have been serious. Even though Li Heng is no longer what he was, the Chen family’s influence might still refuse to compromise.”

Jiang Yue asked, “What exactly was the conflict that made two children suffer?”

Song Shi said, “I don’t know which side was at fault, so I won’t judge lightly. But Li Heng and Chen Zijin started dating so early—maybe that was the spark that ignited the family feud.”

Jiang Yue found this reasonable.

If Li Heng had dated her daughter in middle school, no matter who initiated it, she would have been furious.

Add to that Song Yu’s remark that Chen Zijin and Li Heng had lost contact for a long time, and she felt her husband had guessed the truth.

Seeing his wife lost in thought, Song Shi yawned and said, “Don’t worry yourself over nothing. Whoever was right or wrong, it has nothing to do with us. Go to sleep.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Jiang Yue was slightly annoyed that their daughter had dropped a bombshell and didn’t care whether she slept that night, but no matter how excellent Li Heng was, he was still an outsider—not worth such concern.

…

On the other side.

On the way back to the dorm, Liu Li said, still shaken, “Li Heng, you’re such a bold one. When Song Yu’s mom mentioned Chen Zijin, I was terrified for you—but you acted like nothing happened.”

Li Heng smiled and said, “Actually, I was nervous too.”

Zhang Zhiyong and Liu Li exchanged glances, clearly unconvinced.

Room 215.

The three had barely stepped inside when they were startled by the bunch of beasts inside.

PS: New month, please give me your base monthly votes—let’s push forward!

(End of chapter)