Chapter 41: Fated Enemies Meet

Before he could greet her, she looked at him strangely and said:

“Li Heng, maybe I should quit teaching and marry you instead.”

Li Heng was startled; her gaze sent a jolt through him, leaving his whole body tingling.

He instinctively stepped back and said: “Teacher, don’t scare me—I’m still a minor.”

Wang Runwen laughed bitterly, gesturing with a finger. “Come in!”

Li Heng sensed danger and stepped back again: “No, I’m afraid I’ll get beaten.”

Wang Runwen kicked the door shut: “Then leave.”

Li Heng was speechless; after ten seconds, he knocked again.

“Knock knock knock…”

“Creak…”

The moment he knocked, the door swung inward—Wang Runwen stood with arms crossed, glanced at him, then turned and walked inside.

She said: “I spent the whole morning reading your novel.”

“Mm.”

“Thirsty? Pour your own tea.”

“Alright… damn, there’s no hot water left in the pot.”

“I drank the last cup. Boil your own.”

Li Heng picked up the thermos to fill it, waiting as he complained: “Teacher, you’re so uncivilized—this isn’t how you treat guests.”

Wang Runwen sat on the sofa, reading the final pages: “You’re a minor. What kind of guest are you?”

Hey, this woman holds a grudge—I just said ‘minor,’ and she shot right back.

After filling the water and placing the kettle on the coal stove outside, Li Heng smirked slightly: “I’m about to become a famous writer. You’d better learn to treat me well.”

“In the future, if you run into trouble outside, you might even use my name to get out of it.”

The English teacher crossed her legs, sneering: “How? Do you mean ‘Chen Zijin’s husband’? Or ‘Song Yu’s man’? Or both together?”

Damn, she just tore open my wound—this conversation’s over.

Li Heng leaned back against the fabric sofa, keeping an eye on the kettle as he slowly scanned the room.

Honestly, though it was only 1987, the place was surprisingly stylish.

There was a black-and-white TV, a landline phone, a fabric sofa, curtains, a phonograph, and a radio.

In the corner stood a sewing machine—famous Butterfly brand.

Seems the old principal wasn’t as poor as people said.

Rumor had it he and his wife had been at odds for decades. After being transferred to the Normal University Affiliated Middle School, he fell for a female teacher and started a new family.

His wife, furious, immediately took up with a state-owned factory director and remarried.

In short, outsiders said neither was decent—both had violent tempers, and no one could tell who was right or wrong.

That made life hell for the English teacher: her childhood was filled with parents fighting, screaming, smashing bowls and furniture; her mother even tried to slit her wrists several times—though always rescued—leaving her with a lifelong fear of marriage.

For over a decade, no matter how many relatives or friends tried to set her up, she refused outright.

The water boiled, and Wang Runwen finished the last pages of the manuscript. She stared silently for a long while, then asked, voice tinged with sadness:

“It’s written so well. How did you write it?”

Got it—this teacher hasn’t left the book yet.

As for how the book was written, Li Heng had his story ready—he cited his Second Uncle’s life and Li Jianguo’s hundreds of stored books.

Wang Runwen didn’t challenge him face-to-face, though she felt like she was listening to a fairy tale, deeply shaken and incredulous.

But the manuscript of “To Live” was right in her hands—facts spoke louder than doubt.

Watching Li Heng pour two cups of boiled water—one for him, one for her—Wang Runwen sat dazed for a moment, then rose to fetch a tin of tea, pinching two handfuls into her cup.

She glanced at the wall clock and said: “Time’s almost up—just one minute left.”

Li Heng followed her gaze to the clock.

12:19.

He moved the landline closer, then picked up the scalding tea, blowing steadily to cool it.

“Ding-ding-ding… ding-ding-ding…”

As they waited in silence, the red landline rang precisely on time.

The English teacher said: “It’s here.”

“Mm.”

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

“Not yet. Wait a bit.”

To Li Heng, the moment the phone rang, negotiations began—he couldn’t show desperation if he wanted leverage.

The first call rang eight times, completed its cycle, and disconnected automatically.

The agreed time had passed with no answer. Chen Xiaomi in Jingcheng suddenly felt uneasy—was this “December” really that hard to deal with?

But then she reassured herself: communication was unreliable these days, and the other party was a teacher—maybe delayed by student matters.

After all, no one’s perfect. Unexpected delays happened.

Thinking this, Chen Xiaomi calmed down and waited another five minutes before dialing again.

“Ding-ding-ding…”

The ring echoed again in the silent living room. Wang Runwen glanced at his calm face and felt a strange sense of unreality—as if Li Heng’s inner age was older than hers.

Logically, such good news should have sent even older teachers like Wang Qi or the vice principal into ecstatic frenzy—how could he stay so composed?

This time, Li Heng didn’t make her wait—he picked up the receiver after the second ring.

“Hello.”

“Hello” made Chen Xiaomi pause instinctively—why did the voice sound familiar?

Had she heard it somewhere before?

But when she tried to recall, she couldn’t place it.

Actually, it was normal she didn’t connect it to Li Heng.

Chen Xiaomi was a 1980 college graduate who left home early and had worked in Jingcheng since graduation.

Moreover, Chen Gaoyuan and his son moved to Jingcheng at the end of 1980; since then, Chen Xiaomi spent her holidays with them and rarely returned home.

Meanwhile, Li Heng had grown taller over the years, and his voice had changed completely since his puberty in junior three.

Though they’d been in the same room last summer after being caught in bed together, she’d done all the talking then.

Facing Chen Xiaomi, who was as dominant as his second sister, Li Heng—the country bumpkin with no social experience and guilty conscience—dared not speak back.

He’d kept his head down the whole time.

So for her to sense even a hint of familiarity over the phone was already impressive—thanks to her sharpness.

But mostly, she simply never considered him.

After all, “To Live” had such mature writing, such profound storytelling and thought—how old was Li Heng? Just over seventeen, younger than Zijin. If she’d immediately thought of him, that’d be strange.

Chen Xiaomi didn’t recognize him.

Li Heng, too, didn’t recognize her voice right away because of her hoarseness.

Chen Xiaomi assumed she was just overly anxious about this opportunity, so she adjusted her mood and replied:

“Hello, I’m Chen Xiaomi from People’s Literature Publishing House. Are you the author ‘December’?”

What?

What the hell?

Chen Xiaomi??!!

Is this fate? Is this what “fated enemies meet” means?

Is this really that bitch from the Chen family?

Li Heng couldn’t believe it—Heaven was playing tricks. He’d just been thinking of using “literature” to get back at her, and now she walked right into his lap.

This was more precise than China Post delivery!

Hearing no response, Chen Xiaomi asked again: “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m December,” Li Heng replied calmly, suppressing his inner joy.

After all the twists, she’d finally found the author. Chen Xiaomi exhaled quietly, then spoke elegantly:

“Congratulations, December. Your ‘To Live’ has passed our preliminary review. May I ask you a few questions?”

Li Heng said: “Sure.”

Chen Xiaomi asked first: “Are you from Shaoyang?”

Li Heng said: “Yes.”

Chen Xiaomi smiled: “Small world—I’m from Shaoyang too. I didn’t realize we were from the same hometown. Your book ‘To Live’ is incredibly moving.”

Yeah, I know you’re from Shaoyang—I came here specifically for you…

But you keep saying “you” like that—it’s oddly satisfying.

Li Heng smirked inwardly, but outwardly stayed humble: “Thank you. You’re too kind.”

After a few exchanges, Chen Xiaomi felt his attitude was good—better than she’d expected.

She then asked the question Director Dai and the editor-in-chief cared about most: “How many more words are left in ‘To Live’?”

Li Heng answered fully: “The full manuscript is about 135,000 words. I mailed 40,000 to your press; roughly 95,000 remain.”

Chen Xiaomi jotted it down, then said: “The first 40,000 words are excellent. We’ve accepted your submission. When can you send the rest?”

Originally, editors at People's Literature wouldn't be so courteous to new authors.

But Li Heng’s mature version of “To Live” had a profound impact on the editorial team—its prose, story, and intellectual depth were extraordinarily refined, flawless.

Chen Xiaomi believed the author would surely become a great literary master one day, and she had nothing to teach him, so out of a desire to cultivate goodwill, she behaved with great courtesy.

Li Heng didn’t mention mailing the manuscript; instead, he asked, “Can I ask you one question first?”

Chen Xiaomi said, “Please go ahead.”

Li Heng asked, “How much is your publishing house offering me for my manuscript?”

This question left Chen Xiaomi momentarily stunned.

She had been employed for two years and had dealt with countless writers; other authors were already overjoyed just to be published in “People’s Literature”—who would dare ask about payment on their very first contact?

Literature is such an elevated pursuit—how could one be so vulgar as to speak of money so bluntly?

Besides, isn’t the payment always set by “People’s Literature”?

Could this guy be a money-grubber?

But even so, he’s too much of one—can’t he tell the occasion?

She had just thought he was easy to get along with; now her judgment had been shattered so quickly.

As Chen Xiaomi was pondering how to phrase her reply, a voice suddenly came through the phone.

A woman was asking Writer Shiyue: “Is this the ‘Harvest’ magazine?”

Then, faintly, came a hushing sound: “Shh~!”

Oh no!

At that moment, Chen Xiaomi wasn’t just stunned—she felt as if struck by five thunderbolts from heaven, frozen in place, chilled to the bone!

(End of chapter)