Chapter 99

Little brother’s still alive, healthy, and still a man.

If that day ever comes, before I cut myself down, I’ll let all you big brothers know while I’m still a man.

This chapter is to make up for the big brothers who subscribed last chapter. I’ll compile more and release another full chapter later.

My stats were decent before, but this break has probably tanked them. But illness isn’t something little brother can control. Life’s still bearable—I’m not at the point of pushing myself to death while sick. My brain’s not fast enough, and I’ve got no drafts saved, so I’ve just got to pause for a bit. Big brothers, please understand.

Also, I tried a certain poison—it actually worked. That shit sprayed me, seriously…

Still, thanks to all you big brothers for your support.

Thank you, Big Brother (Bloom Poluo ), for tipping 1500 coins and three 3000-coin supports.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Jianghusitiaochong ), for tipping 1500 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Wuanwenxing ), for tipping 1500 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Huazanghanyue ), for tipping 1500 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Shijianfugaidejiyi ), for tipping 1500 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Moxueyiyun ), for tipping 1500 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Liuanhuamingliuyang ), for tipping 500 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Wurenzhijing ), for tipping 100 coins.

Thank you, Big Brother ( Wudaozhiying *), for tipping 100 coins.

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Thank you to all the big brothers who supported with monthly votes. I feel your hearts—I can’t thank you enough.

Thank you to all the older brothers who keep recommending.

Thank you to the older brothers who comment, and those who just read without speaking.

Thanks for your overwhelming kindness, big brothers.

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I really hate writing this stuff. Big brothers, just skip it, okay? Barely read it.

I really hate writing this stuff. Big brothers, just skip it, okay? Barely read it.

I really hate writing this stuff. Big brothers, just skip it, okay? Barely read it.

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Watching Meng Xiaojun raise his index finger, eyes gleaming at the words “United States,” Cheng Dongqing felt immense envy…

With his outstanding professional skills, Wang Yan negotiated a price and delivery deadline with the publisher, then returned to Jingda.

Seeing it was still early, he went straight to the library, found an empty seat, and began translating quietly.

After a long while, he felt someone sit beside him. He turned—Su Mei, the woman he’d seen that morning. He nodded to her but said nothing, lowering his head to continue working.

Su Mei nodded. She hadn’t expected to pick a seat so close to someone she’d just met. Her impression of him? … He ran fast?

Watching Wang Yan’s strong, swift handwriting and his frequent book-checking motions, Su Mei asked curiously: “What are you doing?”

“Translating.”

Su Mei paused. She knew the level required for translation—it wasn’t something just anyone could handle.

“Let me introduce myself—I’m Su Mei, from the Law Department.”

He glanced at her pale, delicate hand, gave it a light shake: “Wang Yan, Chinese Literature Department.”

“You’re from Chinese Literature?”

Wang Yan smiled faintly: “Think it’s mismatched?”

“A bit,” Su Mei said, embarrassed.

“Just read,” he said with a smile, offered no explanation, and returned to his work.

He’d thought about publishing something—his skill level he couldn’t judge, but he believed it was decent enough. But anything he wrote risked clashing with his resume—that’d be fatal. Writing well was hard; writing poorly was just as hard. So he had to weigh, weigh, and weigh again before releasing even small works to test the waters. He wasn’t in a rush—time was on his side.

Seeing Wang Yan busy with serious work, Su Mei wisely didn’t disturb him and settled down to read.

When it neared mealtime, he greeted Su Mei, returned to his dorm to fetch his lunchbox, went to the cafeteria, grabbed food, and ate hastily. Conditions were truly poor—just not starving was enough. Wang Yan didn’t care much.

Time passed slowly. Before long, a month had gone by.

During this period, Wang Yan encountered Su Mei almost daily during exercise or at the library. They’d become acquainted, even got along well. Since learning Wang Yan had the English proficiency for publishing translation, Su Mei occasionally asked him questions—this was the main reason their bond grew.

During this time, Cheng Dongqing followed Meng Xiaojun around, listening to him rave endlessly about the glorious United States. Sometimes he accompanied Wang Yang, mainly to learn authentic American accents and watch how he chased foreign girls.

Of course, he didn’t forget his first friend at Jingda—he’d sometimes seek out Wang Yan to talk, unburdening his worries.

Just like now, in the cafeteria…

“Wang Yan, your English is so good—how’d you train it? They always say I’ve got a Japanese accent.” As he spoke, Cheng Dongqing glanced furtively at Su Mei, quietly eating beside him. He knew Su Mei was close to Wang Yan—he’d even met her through Wang Yan—but he couldn’t help staring.

“No secret trick—just memorize and practice. Everyone goes through it. I can’t help you.”

Wang Yan noticed the obvious signs. But he didn’t care. If anything, he was the one who’d intruded on their relationship. Besides, he’d lived over a hundred years—he had more than enough confidence.

Cheng Dongqing glanced nervously at Wang Yan: “Lately, I’ve been joining activities with new friends. They talk about the United States…”

Wang Yan ate silently. But Su Mei listened intently, her eating slowing noticeably. Cheng Dongqing noticed her reaction and spoke even more enthusiastically… First love, youthful longing—understandable. But if he kept this up too long, it’d be excessive. Wang Yan believed he had some sense…

After that day, Cheng Dongqing, as in the original plot, threw himself into reading and studying. But unlike before, Su Mei wasn’t by his side—because of Wang Yan’s presence.

As for Wang Yang and Meng Xiaojun—Wang Yan didn’t care.

After earning his first money from translation, his articles passed review by several journals and magazines, and he received his first royalty payment.

After the publisher recognized Wang Yan’s ability, he gathered students from the Spanish Department who had sufficient English, had them join the project, and took charge of quality control. This trained their skills, boosted income, and let him teach and reshape their thinking.

Wang Yan’s life grew quiet: reading, writing, translating, and occasionally wandering around scrap yards. He hadn’t specialized in antiques, but they were a subfield of history. He wouldn’t claim mastery, but he understood them well. The more he saw, the better his eye became. In this era, few paid attention to such things—so good items were still plentiful.

In 1984, the first private business license was issued—the true power of the times revealed itself.

That same year, Cheng Dongqing, having avoided romantic entanglement with Su Mei, escaped tuberculosis and graduated on schedule. But he didn’t stay to teach—he was persuaded by Wang Yan to use his savings to start a training school.

Wang Yan didn’t need to get involved—Su Mei was enough. Another strong woman, persuaded by Wang Yan to build something great.

Wang Yan, with outstanding grades and high-quality works, stayed at Jingda as a professor.

At year’s end, Wang Yan married Su Mei. The next autumn, they had a daughter, named Wang Qiu. Su Mei stubbornly refused—she insisted on a son. Wang Yan had no choice—he complied. The following winter, they had a son, named Wang Dong.

Once the children passed their first birthdays, Su Mei fully unleashed herself. Under Wang Yan’s guidance, she expanded her business into absolute leadership of private enterprise.

Wang Yan, besides teaching, spent most of his time caring for the two children. In his spare time, he wrote articles and created—aiming to become a literary giant.

Due to his growth and rising reputation in the literary world, criticism was inevitable—writers have always looked down on each other. But Wang Yan found joy in the battle, and his fame soared—he became one of Jingda’s most popular professors.

Meanwhile, Cheng Dongqing’s training school expanded rapidly, reaching universities nationwide. Wang Yan, watching the movie, thought Cheng Dongqing’s approach was flawed—only sending students out, never bringing them back. He proposed a plan: offering full-service overseas support to clearly motivated students.

With tuition and living costs rising abroad, this was a costly, long-term plan with no quick returns. Even the state sent out only thirty to forty thousand students annually. For Wang Yan to send a few thousand, and bring them back—that’d be miraculous.

Due to funding limits, after verifying family background and personal ability, those who signed contracts promising to work for Wang Yan’s newly founded Huaxing Group after graduation received low-interest student loans, guaranteed overseas placement, guaranteed employment, and guaranteed salary.

The plan caused an uproar—but ultimately succeeded. It offered a new path and choice to those who’d never considered studying abroad—precisely Wang Yan’s target group. As for those who, after leaving, acted like Western citizens, broke contracts, and proved worthless—Wang Yan would show them what real Western society truly meant.

Of course, most couldn’t get loans. But Wang Yan wouldn’t let them go—he had to cleanse them too. So when they failed, they’d remember they still had a home.

At the end of 1991, Wang Yan personally traveled to the old Soviet brother’s territory to broker deals, bringing back goods by trainloads. With limited funds, he inevitably partnered with good brothers, just like in “Infernal Affairs,” to run a little racket. The operation didn’t yield the most profit, but compared to “Infernal Affairs,” he gained far more—he’d prepared better.

With the new high-end machinery and cutting-edge technologies brought back, Su Mei’s company once again accelerated onto the fast track.

Meanwhile, Wang Yan hired an agent in the United States and, through convoluted channels, invested heavily there, helping certain politically vulnerable figures rise to power. He didn’t seek their loyalty to China—but he wanted them to speak up and lend a small hand on key issues.

Notably, in this same year, Meng Xiaojun, who’d been stuck as a lowly waiter in a restaurant, couldn’t hold on any longer. He gritted his teeth and went to Cheng Dongqing, whom he’d once looked down upon. As a senior of New Dream, holding 10% equity, Cheng Dongqing had the authority to help. Later, Wang Yan learned of this—Cheng Dongqing had promoted him, and Meng Xiaojun’s own talent had carried him forward.

As for Wang Yang—he’d long since joined Cheng Dongqing and was doing well.

The great wheel of history rolled forward. Wang Yan could no longer let the company grow unchecked—it was time to transform. After the year 2000, Wang Yan had Su Mei gradually divest unimportant industries, cede market share, and redirect energy into R&D.

By 2016, when Su Mei led a coalition of smaller firms into open conflict with American conglomerates, the 54-year-old Cheng Dongqing, past fifty, stared at a document Wang Yan handed him. It clearly listed every name that had left New Dream and returned over thirty years, with detailed records of their contributions. He stood there, silent, tears streaming down his face…

Wang Yan didn’t know if this was what he’d wanted—but change had come, and it had been substantial. The system had notified him the task was complete.

Wang Yan’s life had been rich and vivid—he’d long since become the leading figure of Jingda’s Chinese Literature Department. Since his children grew up and he had no more domestic duties, he devoted himself entirely to scholarship, teaching, and being the literary world’s top critic. After years of criticism, his status had risen—he was now a major power.

After teaching so many years, he couldn’t avoid having a few bad apples—but he made sure others understood what authority truly meant.

To promote national spiritual civilization and resist cultural invasion, Wang Yan had long ago laid groundwork in the entertainment industry.

For the first time, Wang Yan stepped fully into the public eye. His wife had money and connections; she owned an entertainment company. He had talent and could produce outstanding works. He wouldn’t claim leadership in literature—but in entertainment, he was the undisputed boss. No one dared challenge him.

Looking back on his half-life, Wang Yan felt it was enough—he had no regrets.

That night, the family had dinner together. After Su Mei fell asleep, Wang Yan looked at the woman who’d shared half his life…

Pulled up the interface, selected return.

Blue light flashed…