Chapter 38: To Live, a Masterpiece

The manuscript circulated once around the small editorial office, earning unanimous heartfelt praise, leaving Chen Xiaomi feeling deeply comforted and immensely proud.

It was passed around, passed around, until finally it landed in Zhou Chunlan’s hands.

After finishing “To Live,” Zhou Chunlan felt a surge of anger—pure envy.

Yet she was powerless…!

She secretly resented: Maybe, maybe this was just fate?

She had held this position for six years, and countless submissions of decent quality had crossed her desk.

But she had never encountered anything this stunning.

Stunning!

Truly brilliant and extraordinary!

At this moment, she fully understood Dai Shu’s assessment: it felt like the same soul-cleansing experience she’d had when she first read Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea.”

Unlike Dai Shu, however, she was young and still striving—Dai Shu was old, already accomplished, and though he valued fame and fortune, he didn’t crave them as desperately as she did.

Originally, this manuscript had been assigned to her, but she’d foolishly handed “To Live” over to Xiaomi.

Come on, Chen Xiaomi, weren’t you on leave? Didn’t you ask me to cover for you?

Then why are you here today?

Why did you come?

Are you here to steal my fortune?

Thinking of fortune, Zhou Chunlan grew even more depressed, as if heaven itself were deliberately tormenting her—holding her down, refusing to let her rise.

She clenched “To Live” so tightly her fingernails nearly tore off, her heart bleeding—this was boundless wealth! It had been in her hands, and now it was gone.

At this moment, she hated heaven’s injustice! She hated how lucky Chen Xiaomi’s fate was!

But she had self-awareness—she dared not break the rules to seize it, nor could she dare to steal it. She couldn’t afford to offend Chen Xiaomi, nor the Chen family.

Rumor had it that the chief editor of People’s Literature had once been a college classmate of Chen Gaoyuan. With that connection, she wouldn’t dare to act out even if given a hundred dog’s courage!

After sorting out the full context and adjusting her attitude, Zhou Chunlan raised her head, her face beaming with a smile of congratulations:

“Xiaomi, congratulations! This is a manuscript worth a thousand gold—Heaven itself is blessing you.”

Chen Xiaomi was no naive fool.

She had been hardened in the rural countryside, seasoned in scheming and backstabbing—Chunlan’s petty tricks were child’s play to her.

Without a trace, she glanced at the fingernail marks left on the manuscript, then smiled warmly: “I’m just lucky—I never expected to stumble upon something this big. If this works out, I’ll treat everyone to drinks.”

At the word “drink,” the alcohol-loving Dai Shu perked up instantly, waving his hand impatiently: “Of course it will! Who dares let a manuscript like this go unpublished? That’s a crime!

Go find the chief editor—I can’t wait to see little Chen shell out for drinks.

But don’t you dare buy cheap stuff to fool this old man!”

“Don’t worry, it’ll satisfy you,” Chen Xiaomi smiled, quickly swallowing two pills and taking a sip of tea before gracefully walking toward the chief editor’s office, urged on by her colleagues.

The so-called “leave due to illness” was actually because her throat was inflamed, swollen and painful, making her voice hoarse.

She had originally scheduled an appointment with an old Chinese doctor, but he suddenly suffered a stroke and was hospitalized, so she had to rush to a Western clinic instead and was prescribed medicine.

Fortunately, she ran into a college classmate who had just returned from studying abroad—they had breakfast together and chatted happily, which was why her mood had been so good that morning.

“Knock, knock, knock…”

The chief editor’s office was in the northeast corner; after regulating her breath, Chen Xiaomi raised her hand and knocked gently.

“Come in!” came a strong, resonant voice from inside.

Though Chief Editor Zhou Mingwei was only in his early fifties, half his hair was already white; if not for his vigorous energy, he’d look like an old man at a glance.

“Uncle Zhou.”

“Xiaomi, come in, sit.”

They had worked together for two years and knew each other well; moreover, with Chen Xiaomi’s connection to the chief editor of the Literature Society, Zhou Mingwei had always treated her gently—less stern than with others.

But Chen Xiaomi knew how to behave—she never leveraged her family ties to put on airs; she was humble to everyone, easygoing and approachable.

Of course, that was only in public.

Back in the rural village, she had been just like Li Lan—a sharp-tongued, no-nonsense woman who never took a loss; many men feared her, she was formidable.

In her past life, Li Heng had suffered her scorn and sarcasm countless times, infuriated to the point of losing his appetite for ten or even fifteen days.

“I heard the commotion outside—did you find a good manuscript?” The editorial offices were separated only by a single door; Zhou Mingwei had a general sense of what had happened.

If he hadn’t been on the phone just now, and if he hadn’t been constrained by his position, he would’ve already walked out.

“There is one. Dai Shu and the others thought it was good, so they urged me to bring it to you for review.”

Knowing she couldn’t hide what had happened, Chen Xiaomi spoke openly.

“Oh? Dai Shu liked it too? Then I’d better read it carefully.” Zhou Mingwei set his pen aside and took the manuscript.

“To Live…”

The title seemed meaningful—it directly pointed to the theme.

Thinking this, Zhou Mingwei flipped open the cover and began reading without looking up.

“When I was ten years younger than I am now, I took up a lazy profession: collecting folk songs in the countryside.

That entire summer, I wandered like a restless sparrow through villages buzzing with cicadas and bathed in sunlight…”

The plain, straightforward prose and first-person narration immediately captured Zhou Mingwei’s attention, compelling him to keep reading.

In the story, Fugui was originally a wealthy young master, but he didn’t cherish his fortune—he was addicted to gambling. Eventually, he lost everything, reduced to utter poverty.

His father died of rage after seeing his fortune squandered; his mother fell gravely ill from hardship…

It was as if Pandora’s box had opened—misfortune struck Fugui again and again: first, his son Youqing died after being bled to death saving the county magistrate’s wife; then his daughter Fengxia bled to death after childbirth; his wife, worn down by years of labor, died of osteomalacia; his son-in-law Erxi was crushed by a stone slab at the construction site…

Just as he was engrossed, the manuscript abruptly ended. Zhou Mingwei felt unbearable agony—as if thousands of ants were gnawing inside his bones.

Chen Xiaomi watched him closely, silent.

She knew: whether the manuscript was good or not rested solely on the chief editor’s judgment—her hopes and chances lay entirely in his hands.

"That's it?" Zhou Mingwei asked, feigning ignorance, still lost in the story.

“Yes, the author only sent this much.” Hearing the chief editor’s tone, Chen Xiaomi instantly relaxed.

She thought: It’s done! There’s hope!

“How much more is left?” He immediately winced—he realized he’d asked a foolish question.

Seeing the chief editor twice out of sorts, Chen Xiaomi’s eyes brightened; she smiled: “He left a contact number under ‘December.’ I’ll check with him later.”

Zhou Mingwei slowly closed the manuscript, his eyes fixed on the word “December,” silent for a long while before speaking:

“This is a raw, epic tale of struggle and survival, leaving behind profound images of cruelty and kindness.

‘December’ excels at character portrayal—his characters’ desperate struggles are rendered with devastating clarity.

Suffering—joy—suffering again: this is finding joy in suffering, life within death. Such a realm transcends conventional fiction—exquisite prose, profound thought, compelling story, perfectly unified in form and substance. If this level is maintained, it is unquestionably a masterpiece.”

At this, Chief Editor Zhou Mingwei looked up, sighing: “As Dai Shu said, this is a work that will establish its author’s legacy—if published, it will cause a sensation.”

“Legacy” meant immense influence in the literary world—a meteoric rise, with “To Live” becoming the defining masterpiece.

Chen Xiaomi was exhilarated—having received unanimous high praise from both Dai Shu and the chief editor, she already saw her own figure on the path to greatness.

PS: Requesting monthly votes! Requesting follows!

(End of chapter)