Chapter 51: What Is a Benefactor? This Is

Li Heng turned to Zou Ping: “What about you, Editor Zou?”

At this critical moment, Chen Xiaomi and Wang Runwen stared directly at each other.

Meeting their three pairs of eyes, Zou Ping sighed: “Thirty yuan per thousand characters is already the highest royalty standard in the country—Even ‘Shouhuo’ Magazine can only offer this much.”

Hearing this, Chen Xiaomi quietly relaxed, then shifted her gaze to Li Heng, wondering how he would decide.

Sensing the bitch’s stare, Li Heng understood exactly what she was thinking—but he ignored it entirely and instead probed:

“Editor Zou, what about royalties? What percentage does your press set?”

Chen Xiaomi was momentarily confused.

Zou Ping was equally baffled and asked instinctively: “What royalties?”

It was no wonder he asked.

In his decade-plus career, this was the first time a writer had ever inquired about royalties.

Until now, the concept had never even registered in Zou Ping’s subconscious.

Their stunned reactions didn’t surprise Li Heng—he knew the first writer in the future to receive royalties was Wang Shuo, and that wouldn’t happen until two years from now.

But he pressed on: “Gentlemen, I recall the state issued a policy a few years ago establishing a royalty rate of five percent for every ten thousand copies printed.”

“If I say I won’t take a flat fee, but instead propose a royalty agreement based on print run with your press…”

He paused deliberately, studying them with deep implication—his meaning was clear.

His ambitions were vast; he knew it was nearly impossible, knew the chance of securing royalties was near zero—but he still wanted to try.

Or rather, even if this attempt failed, the groundwork laid today might make the next one succeed?

After all, in his past life he’d seen real money; his vision and ambition far surpassed his peers’.

If Wang Shuo could pull it off in his lifetime, why not see if there was even a sliver of possibility to do it two years early?

If he succeeded, he’d have done something great. With this identity, he could charge through the literary world, and every writer would owe him a debt.

If he failed? So what—he’d just slink away quietly. If absolutely necessary, he could switch to another magazine and earn RMB the old-fashioned way.

Hearing this, Chen Xiaomi and Zou Ping stared at each other, utterly stunned—their first thought was that Li Heng was young and arrogant, shockingly overreaching!

Absurd!

Yes, the state had such a policy—but policies on paper meant nothing in practice; no one in reality had ever received royalties.

Even Ba Lao, the revered chief editor of ‘Shouhuo’ Magazine, had never broken the mold—he took his flat fee like everyone else.

Both editors agreed: ‘To Live’ was good, truly remarkable—but it wasn’t good enough for a debut writer like Li Heng to pressure a publishing house into submission.

The two editors wore tight, silent expressions, frozen in place.

The English teacher watched this, heart pounding. She longed to advise Li Heng—but the setting wasn’t right, so she held her tongue.

Seeing that Chen Xiaomi and Zou Ping both remained silent, Li Heng glanced at the wall clock, stood up, and said: “Gentlemen, class is about to start—I must go. Let’s meet again this afternoon.”

Seeing he was truly leaving, Zou Ping couldn’t hold back: “Teacher Li, the royalty-on-print-run matter has no precedent—I can’t give you an answer right away. I must consult the press leadership.”

Li Heng smiled: “Of course. I’m not in a hurry. Please keep my identity confidential. See you later.”

With that, he opened the door and left.

Chen Xiaomi watched his retreating back, frowning. She felt her carefully laid trap had turned to air.

After a while, Zou Ping, having calmed himself, thanked Wang Runwen: “Teacher Wang, thank you for your trouble today. I must now contact the press leadership—I’ll take my leave.”

Wang Runwen saw him to the door: “It was nothing. Editor Zou, you’re too polite. Please go slowly.”

With both gone, the room fell instantly quiet. Chen Xiaomi sized up Wang Runwen, lingering several glances on her full chest, then finally took her leave as well.

…

“Ding ling ling… ding ling ling…”

Shanghai, Chief Editor’s Office, ‘Shouhuo’ Magazine.

After the third ring, the chief editor stopped chatting with Ba Lao across from him, stood, and picked up the receiver.

“Hello, who’s calling?”

“Chief Editor, it’s me, Zou Ping.”

Hearing it was Zou Ping, Chief Editor Liao glanced at Ba Lao beside him and hurriedly asked: “How did it go? What about the next part of ‘To Live’?”

Zou Ping replied: “It’s complicated. But the next part of ‘To Live’ is excellent! Outstanding! Even better than the first forty thousand characters…”

He paused, realizing he was speaking incoherently, then rephrased carefully:

“I haven’t seen work of this caliber in years. This is the highest-quality submission I’ve ever received in my career—I doubt I’ll see its equal for years to come.”

Chief Editor Liao knew Zou Ping well—calm, unpretentious, a man of action. If he kept praising it, ‘To Live’’s continuation was certainly exceptional.

Chief Editor Liao pressed: “Then why haven’t you secured it yet? Did ‘People’s Literature’ snatch it away?”

“Not yet…”

This was a formal request—he dared not hide anything.

He recounted everything: Li Heng’s age, his knowledge and speech, the inspiration from his second uncle, the hundreds of books he’d read, and his demand for royalty-on-print-run—all exactly as it happened.

Not a word exaggerated, not a word omitted—pure, unvarnished truth.

Chief Editor Liao listened patiently, his expression no less stunned than Chen Xiaomi’s and Zou Ping’s.

Long silence. Then he turned to Ba Lao: “Teacher, did you hear that?”

In such a quiet room, of course he’d heard—Ba Lao nodded with a faint smile.

Chief Editor Liao looked astonished: “Seventeen! Under eighteen! He wrote ‘To Live’? Do you believe it?”

Ba Lao remained silent for a long while, then sighed: “Some things are real—they can’t be faked. Didn’t you hear his father works in education? Didn’t you hear about those hundreds, even thousands of books?”

Chief Editor Liao said: “But…”

Ba Lao waved him off: “Little Zou said the rival comes from the same place as this ‘Shi Yue.’ The rival didn’t question the books or the second uncle—so they’re likely real. Very likely.”

Chief Editor Liao asked: “Should Zou Ping investigate?”

Ba Lao shook his head: “Someone who writes ‘To Live’ is a genius. He shouldn’t be disturbed lightly.”

Chief Editor Liao nodded.

In truth, an investigation wouldn’t reveal anything—Zou Ping himself felt inferior just hearing the story. This ‘Shi Yue’ might not be a scholar of five carts, but he was certainly a man of profound learning—with genuine talent.

Realizing this, Chief Editor Liao asked: “Teacher, what about the royalty issue…?”

Ba Lao countered: “What’s your opinion?”

Chief Editor Liao shook his head: “There’s no precedent!”

Ba Lao picked up his teacup, sipped, and said: “Then we’ll have no part in ‘To Live.’”

Chief Editor Liao asked: “You mean ‘People’s Literature’?”

Ba Lao replied: “Under equal conditions, who would you favor?”

Of course, the fellow townsman—he understood perfectly: “But royalty-on-print-run…”

After uttering those five words, Chief Editor Liao fell silent, fixing his gaze on his teacher.

Those words unexpectedly stirred memories in Ba Lao—of past eras when writers starved, when some took their own lives. Long moments passed before he set down his teacup and said:

“Writers have it hard. The literary sky of this new era should be wider, brighter.”

What is a benefactor?

This is!

A final decision!

Chief Editor Liao blinked, understanding what he must do. Moments later, he spoke into the phone:

“We can agree to some of Shi Yue’s demands, but since this breaks precedent, we must impose limits…”

(End of Chapter)