Chapter 6: 《To Live》

The novel《Waste Capital》is Lao Jia’s masterpiece. To put it simply, the work is famous, deeply influential, wildly popular in the market, and has won numerous international awards—he was somewhat tempted.

But soon after, he rejected the idea.

Because the book’s content was simply too explosive; many people bought it back then purely as pornography.

Remember, he’s only seventeen years old now—how would others react if he wrote such a book brimming with experience?

Well, truth be told, he didn’t really care about any of that.

Whether it was domestic history or foreign literary circles, countless prodigies had emerged throughout time—geniuses were never in short supply.

So why couldn’t he be one?

Wang Bo wrote the eternal classic《Tengwang Pavilion Preface》at twenty-six; logically, he could too—no one could rigidly define who deserved the title “genius.”

But his main concern was Chen Zijin.

If he became famous for writing《Waste Capital》，those relentless reporters would surely dig up every detail of his past with this girl.

Right now, he had no power or influence to suppress such explosive news.

What if reporters cornered him and asked: Mr. Li, did you sleep with Chen Zijin?

How would he answer?

Yes?

No?

None of your damn business!

No matter which of these three answers he chose?

No matter whether he answered at all?

It would inevitably inflict a second wound upon Chen Zijin.

Those unscrupulous media outlets, desperate for clicks, might even attribute every explicit scene in the book to Chen Zijin, claiming he drew his practical experience and inspiration directly from her.

In an era when reputation still mattered profoundly, Chen Zijin had barely escaped the public outcry of Shangwan Village—he had once, in his youthful ignorance, harmed her.

After rebirth, he could not hurt her again.

He abandoned《Waste Capital》and turned his attention to《Life Is Like the Sea》and《To Live》.

Both novels were masterpieces—he loved them both, having read each at least five times in his past life.

Especially《To Live》，which sat on his bedside table—he’d said it ten times and still wouldn’t be enough; every detail and passage was etched vividly in his memory.

Both were heart favorites—truly impossible to choose.

Choosing one meant dooming the other—he felt reluctant, after all, he had once loved both authors.

He even began digging into whether his ancestors had ever had feuds with the Yu family or the Mai family.

But the answer was obvious: his ancestors were all peasants; the only one who ever rose to official status was Comrade Li Jianguo—and even he hadn’t warmed the seat before reverting to being a farmer again.

Damn it, with a family background like this, he couldn’t even reach the eighth generation of those families—where would any feud come from?

After long, careful deliberation, Li Heng finally made a difficult decision: he would write《To Live》.

They say art stems from life yet rises above it; no matter how fantastical, a work’s content must at least connect to the author’s own life trajectory.

His seven-year civil service career had turned him into someone with a relatively rigid mindset—he allowed himself minor flaws, but not too many.

After all, no one was a fool; too many inconsistencies would eventually be spotted by someone observant.

Even if they found them, they couldn’t touch him—but still, it was a nuisance, wasn’t it?

And he was precisely the kind of person who hated nuisances.

In his past life, he had read an article stating that Yu Hua wrote《To Live》after hearing the American folk song《Old Black Joe》.

In the song, the old Black slave endured a lifetime of suffering—his entire family died before him—yet he still treated the world kindly, never uttering a single complaint.

How convenient—Comrade Li Jianguo had a cassette tape of that very song.

Though it was a pirated copy, he’d listened to it many times—it was the perfect excuse.

Moreover,《To Live》tells the tragic life of Xu Fugui—a prototype nearly extinct in the future, but not hard to find in this era.

His second uncle was a fitting subject.

In the old days, Second Uncle had been a landlord’s son, indulging in gambling, card games, and taking concubines.

But after enduring the trials of war and the tide of social change, he ended up with his family destroyed, his wife gone, his children scattered—he was now a well-known five-guarantee household.

Even so, he stubbornly lived on, drinking a little wine each day or wading into the river to catch fish—Li Heng learned how to fish from him as a child.

The song《Old Black Joe》plus Second Uncle—perfect writing ingredients, absolutely ideal.

Tell me, Yu Hua, are you panicked?

Just as Li Heng lit a kerosene lamp and began writing furiously, Yu Hua, attending the Lu Xun Literature Institute’s writing seminar in Jingcheng, suddenly felt dizzy, collapsed to the floor, and nearly fainted.

The floor was hard—it hurt like hell.

Groaning as he clutched his buttocks and rose, Yu Hua looked up at the dark night sky and suddenly felt a strange unease, as if something profoundly important was slipping away from him.

The next morning, sleepless and restless, Yu Hua passed a roadside stall and impulsively asked a blind man to read his fate.

The blind man told him: You’ve encountered a malevolent star—your Hua Gai fortune has been stolen.

Yu Hua was startled and hurriedly asked if there was a remedy.

The blind man waved his fingers—money!

Yu Hua reached into his pocket, turned, and slipped away quietly.

…

Though Li Heng was usually lazy and fond of slacking off, once he made a decision, he instantly transformed into another person—his action was swift and decisive.

He uncapped the ink bottle, dipped the pen nib inside, and gently squeezed the barrel with his thumb and forefinger—immediately, it filled with ink.

He pulled out a fresh notebook, spread it open, and prepared to write—only to find the opposite house still banging drums and gongs in ritual ceremonies, making unbearable noise; no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t focus.

Fortunately, rural study environments had always been harsh—he’d grown up accustomed to it, so he didn’t feel like cursing.

He put down his pen, took several deep breaths, then slowly closed his eyes and began cultivating his writing mood.

They say sharpening the axe doesn’t delay chopping wood—sure enough, after ten minutes, Li Heng opened his eyes again; now he had completely shut out the noise outside and was immersed in his own world.

That night, he handwrote five thousand characters in grid lines—from 6:30 p.m. until past midnight—his wrist ached slightly.

Had Li Yan not interrupted his flow, he wouldn’t have realized how late it was—he could have kept writing.

Li Heng turned, annoyed. “Big sister, what are you doing here at this hour?”

Li Yan placed a large bowl of meat noodles before him, beaming. “Brother, eat up—I sneaked this back, no one saw.”

“Look, these are pork chunks, these are beef chunks—so delicious! I just ate three bowls.”

Hearing the word “sneaked,” Li Heng couldn’t help but laugh and sigh—so his big sister knew the Chen and Li families were feuding.

Then why did you go running over to watch the spectacle?

Still, he didn’t blame her—in his eyes, as long as his sister was happy, he let her do whatever she wanted.

Li Heng said: “I’m not hungry. Big sister, take the noodles to your second sister—she eats more than I do and gets hungry at night.”

At the mention of her second sister, Li Yan’s face fell. “I already brought her some—she refused it and called me spineless.”

Li Heng froze, silent.

That was exactly his second sister’s style—she’d rather starve than eat food from an enemy. In this, he had been deeply influenced by her.

Li Yan urged again: “Brother, eat up—the noodles will get soggy if you wait.”

“Oh, okay.”

Li Heng said okay, but moved the bowl aside and told his sister:

“I’m writing an essay—I’ll finish soon. Then I’ll eat. It’s late already—why don’t you go back to sleep?”

His sister had low literacy—she’d been held back three grades in second grade, then quit school in shame amid mockery from her peers.

So she couldn’t understand what Li Heng was writing—she only saw page after page of neat, orderly pen strokes, utterly impressive.

Both his parents were educated, yet she herself couldn’t recognize a few characters—almost illiterate. Li Yan deeply admired and respected education.

Hearing this, she immediately obediently slipped out of the room, moving quietly, afraid of disturbing his reading and writing.

After his sister’s interruption, Li Heng felt a tightness in his chest—his writing mood vanished.

He slumped over the old desk, gazing through the window lattice at the Chen household across the way—people came and went, eating noodles, shouting and laughing, lively as ever.

The familiar scene stirred up memories—he had once been a frequent visitor to the Chen home; every time he came, Chen Zijin and Chen Zitong would cling to his heels, calling him “Big Brother, Big Brother.”

But now…

When they met again, Chen Zitong’s face was filled with unfamiliarity—things had changed, people had changed.

As he sank into childhood memories, his wandering gaze accidentally landed on a corner of the second-floor window across the way.

His eyes locked—his gaze met Chen Zitong’s.

He didn’t know when she’d appeared, but clearly, she’d seen the bowl of meat noodles on his table.

They locked eyes for three seconds—Chen Zitong, expressionless, reached out and yanked the curtain hard—the fabric snapped shut with a swift whoosh.

Fine—she clearly disliked him. This bowl of noodles was impossible to explain away.

(End of Chapter)