Chapter 2: Wan Ka

When Mikhail finally arrived at the location he had specified in his letter, his classmate Dmitri Vasilievich Grigoryevich was already waiting for him at the end of the street.

The moment the other spotted him, he hurried over, embracing Mikhail warmly and exclaiming, “It’s been ages, Misha! How’s your health? God be praised—I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.”

“It’s been a long time, Dmitri. I’m much better.” Mikhail’s illness had not fully healed due to his constant busyness, and as the giant of a man hugged him, Mikhail felt he could barely breathe.

But to not disappoint his friend’s enthusiasm, Mikhail forced a reply: “I’m glad you’re still so full of energy.”

Also worth mentioning is that although Mikhail had been a master’s graduate specializing in Russian literature in his past life, he still found Russian names utterly tedious and long, with all their declensions and variants nearly driving him mad.

Fortunately, he still counted as half-fluent in Russian; the rest would require further absorption of the memories in his mind.

Taking his own name as an example—Mikhail Romanovich Raskolnikov—his given name is Mikhail, meaning “God’s incarnation,” Romanovich is his patronymic, and Raskolnikov is his surname, the family name.

Others may address him simply as Mikhail; with greater respect, or when referring to him, they call him Mikhail Romanovich; those close to him call him Misha.

The same applied to his giant of a classmate.

To return to the matter: although Mikhail was currently a law student, he had been forced to temporarily drop out due to poverty. Though the original owner had always avoided socializing and shunned all engagements, he still had one or two classmates he got along with.

Dmitri was one such friend he had met during school—he came from a landowning family; while ordinary Russians were already emotionally expressive, he was a Russian through and through, caring more for others’ affairs than his own.

Compared to Dmitri’s burly and rugged appearance, Mikhail was handsome, with beautiful black eyes and dark brown hair, of above-average height and a lean, balanced build. Had he not been so reclusive and overthoughtful, hesitant to speak up, he would never have driven himself into such a predicament.

These thoughts flashed through Mikhail’s mind; when Dmitri finally released his tree-trunk arms, Mikhail gasped for air and quickly said: “I told you in my letter why I came—did you read it? Here’s my manuscript.”

“Of course, my friend—I never imagined you had such talent.” Dmitri eagerly took the manuscript Mikhail offered from his chest, showing clear interest, yet he did not open it immediately. Instead, he looked at Mikhail, who appeared worn and pale, and said:

“Come on, let’s find a tavern and have a drink first! Eat something—you’re practically wasted away.”

“That wouldn’t be right?” Mikhail’s stomach growled, tempted.

“Come on, you’re still as polite as ever.” Dmitri, dressed neatly, laughed and clapped Mikhail on the back, nearly knocking him over, then pulled him forward: “Let’s go to the tavern on the next street—it’s unusually quiet there, so I can read your novel right away. What’s it about? A hero’s tale?”

“A poor boy’s story.”

“Oh?” Dmitri’s expression grew serious at once: “Then I must read it carefully. You see, I’m writing stories about the poor too, but I always feel my characters fall short of even a fraction of reality.”

“Hmm.”

Indeed, Dmitri, who looked like a bear, was meant to ride on battlefields, yet unexpectedly, he too aspired to become a writer.

Though born into a landowning family, he had always held deep sympathy for the lower classes and never judged friendships by birth—otherwise he would never have associated with a pauper like Mikhail.

This was, in fact, a traditional habit among certain Russian nobles of this era.

The roots trace back to Russia’s 1814 war against Napoleon’s invasion: though many noble youths despised Napoleon’s aggression, upon learning of him, they unconsciously admired the spirit of liberty and democracy in his Code.

After prolonged exposure to Europe’s revolutionary fervor and the suffering of domestic serfs, Russian progressive noble youths had discussed repeatedly, until finally they made a decision contrary to their ancestors.

That was to overthrow the Tsar’s autocracy, emancipate the serfs, and establish a free, equal, and democratic nation.

This became the later-declared Decemberist Movement.

Ordinary people did not understand their actions; they said, “How strange—others rebel because a cobbler wants to become a master, but what do these masters want by rebelling? To become cobblers?”

Though their actions ultimately failed, their spirit endured in some form.

Even today, despite Tsar Nicholas I’s harsh crackdowns on these unusual commoners—including banning Russian nobles from studying in Western Europe, prohibiting the import of Western books, and halting philosophy lectures at universities—

the revolutionary tide beneath the surface could not be fully suppressed; even the original owner had apparently joined some sort of secret group during university…

Wait, that’s me?!

No way, buddy! You’re nearly starving to death, and you’re doing things that could land you on the gallows?!

At this thought, Mikhail’s face turned green.

But as the saying goes, to live well, one must have a bit of green on the head—even if the original owner left behind a mess that could send him to the gallows, he wasn’t dead yet.

Not only was he not dead, he was now sitting in a mid-tier tavern, eating a hot meal: borscht rich with lard and beef, some fried ham, and roasted lamb chops—what more could he ask for?

Just eat!

Mikhail couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a proper meal; due to unpaid rent, his landlady’s three daily meals were barely worth calling broth.

Watching Mikhail devour his food, Dmitri—who had already eaten—shook his head; his friend was truly starving, and thankfully, no longer as proud as before.

While Mikhail ate, though the tavern was somewhat noisy, Dmitri eagerly began reading Mikhail’s novel. Before reading, this bear of a man had set an expectation in his mind:

First novel? Misha probably won’t write well.

So after reading, I won’t say too much—focus on encouragement. If he still wants to write later, we can exchange ideas and improve together.

With this mindset, Dmitri began reading.

The title:

Vanka

(End of Chapter)