Chapter 10: Then Let It Be

Qiao Feng was momentarily stunned into silence; he didn’t believe there was any insider dealing here.

Because his former superior, Wei Anping, had once told him that to boost his wife’s performance metrics, he’d written an article to submit—only to have it rejected by the editor-in-chief.

Wei Anping was a genuine Peking University top student; though not from a literature major, he’d been a key writer in the military, his speech drafts brilliantly crafted—and even he couldn’t get through, yet Wei Ming could!

This Tom is truly a talent!

At this moment, Qiao Feng was certain Wei Ming wouldn’t stay long here; this young man was no ordinary fish in a pond.

“Oh come on, then you write—you write. Today we’re not talking about The Legend of the Condor Heroes.”

Wei Ming smiled: “I haven’t decided what to write yet. This time I’m planning to submit to literary journals.”

“You’re from the countryside, so write about rural life.”

Qiao Feng’s words woke the dreamer.

Although Wei Ming didn’t reject “borrowing” from later-generation successful works, the sheer breadth of options overwhelmed him.

Qiao Feng’s suggestion subtly narrowed his choices and helped him decide quickly.

He thought of Gouzitun where he lived, his parents and younger sister, the villagers with their varied personalities, and the livestock his father often dealt with—donkeys, horses, oxen, sheep.

He recalled Zhao Debiao’s comment during his shower: “You’re such a donkey!”

Donkey!

Got it!

That’s it!

He would write a story about a donkey!

As he recalled the movie and was about to begin writing, the door opened—Zhao Debiao and Mei Wenhua returned together.

Mei Wenhua looked delighted; Zhao Debiao, blunt as ever, immediately revealed the reason.

“Just now I saw Mei Wenhua with a female college student—hey, that girl was gorgeous, stunning!”

“Oh?” Qiao Feng was also pleased for him. “Little Mei’s got a crush!”

Mei Wenhua demurred: “No no no, she’s just an older sister from our courtyard—she’s from the class of ’78. We ran into each other and chatted a bit.”

“Not a planned coincidence?”

“Pure chance.”

“So what did you talk about?”

“Literature, of course. My sister’s with the May Fourth Literature Society. She knew I liked writing, so she asked me to submit something for their journal, The Weiminghu. I thought, we’re from the same courtyard, why not help her out? It’s no big deal.”

Mei Wenhua grew increasingly animated—Peking University’s literary society had asked him to contribute; this was a major win for him.

Qiao Feng never imagined that a tiny campus guard dorm could simultaneously harbor two talents: Wei Ming and Mei Wenhua.

“You two are truly the Dragon and Phoenix among our guards!” he remarked.

Zhao Debiao pointed in shock at his own broad face: “Wait, am I being compared to the Dragon and Phoenix?”

“Who said you?” Qiao Feng pointed to Wei Ming upstairs. “I’ve got good news to announce: Wei Ming wrote an article that got picked up by a magazine—it’ll be published this month!”

After a brief silence…

“What the hell!” Zhao Debiao’s eyes bulged as he leapt onto the top bunk, staring at Wei Ming: “Brother Ming, is this true?!”

Wei Ming nodded modestly.

“Then you’re way better than Mei Wenhua—he might not even get accepted. Do you get a fee?”

“Yes.”

“Mei Wenhua, does your ‘Weiminghu’ pay?” he asked below.

Mei Wenhua stammered: “Ah, well… talking about money is vulgar~ I’m just supporting student… ideals are priceless… Look at how full the moon is tonight!”

Understood—no pay, purely volunteer work.

Zhao Debiao ignored him and turned back to Wei Ming, rubbing his hands: “Brother Ming, now that you’re earning royalties, shouldn’t you treat us a little~” Wei Ming had been planning to slack off in the guard unit and pursue side gigs—this small request was surely fine.

“Sure, when I get my second royalty payment, I’ll treat everyone to a meal at the Changzheng cafeteria.”

“Wait, why the second payment?”

“I’m sending the first one entirely home,” Wei Ming replied honestly.

Hearing this, Zhao Debiao felt a twinge of shame—Brother Ming was from the countryside, not as well-off as them, raised under the imperial capital’s shadow.

He suggested: “How about this—we each chip in a bit and take Brother Ming out to the Changzheng cafeteria to celebrate?”

Mei Wenhua was about to say “Why should I?”, but Qiao Feng declared grandly: “No need for you to pay—I’ll treat you all!”

At that moment, everyone looked at him as if he were the legendary Qiao Boss—Brother was truly a formidable figure.

Qiao Feng earned dozens of yuan a month; a single meal at Changzheng wasn’t even a Peking Duck feast.

Wei Ming thanked him profusely; the other two cheered in unison. Qiao Feng then advised them: “When you get your first salary next month, don’t forget to buy something for your families—even a little means something.”

Both nodded again.

!

Zhao Debiao now gazed at Wei Ming with adoring eyes. Curious, he asked: “Brother Ming, are you writing a wuxia novel like The Legend of the Condor Heroes?”

“No, it’s a fairy tale.”

Zhao Debiao was instantly disappointed—he thought Brother Ming’s eloquence made him just as good as Old Jin at wuxia.

Hearing Wei Ming’s piece was a fairy tale, Mei Wenhua, who’d just lost the spotlight, revived himself.

“So it’s just a children’s fairy tale? Didn’t know you had such a childlike heart, Brother Wei~” Mei Wenhua sneered, then pulled out a new magazine from his bag again.

Wei Ming ignored him, but Zhao Debiao wouldn’t let it slide: “So what if it’s a fairy tale? At least it pays—better than your free labor with no pay.”

Mei Wenhua lifted his chin: “Children’s stories are just tales—no barriers, no literary merit. What I write belongs to literature.”

“Tsk tsk tsk, you’re just jealous.”

At that moment, Qiao Feng spoke: “Little Wei is preparing a new piece—this one isn’t a fairy tale. He’s submitting to literary journals.”

Mei Wenhua froze. “Which journal are you submitting to?”

Wei Ming: “Not decided yet. I don’t really understand these things.”

Mei Wenhua immediately advised: “Among today’s literary journals, the top two are People’s Literature and Harvest. I’ve got this issue of Harvest right here—thirty years of prestige, Ba Lao as editor-in-chief, immense credibility. If you’re submitting, submit to this. If accepted, you’ll be famous nationwide.”

Zhao Debiao gasped: “Holy shit, that’s awesome! Brother Ming, submit to it! Submit to it!”

Wei Ming readily agreed: “Alright, then I’ll submit to Harvest.”

Zhao Debiao meant well—he thought if you’re going to submit, go for the best.

Mei Wenhua was quietly malicious: Harvest came out every two months, with only four or five stories per issue. But due to its top-tier status, those slots were fiercely contested by the nation’s finest writers.

Beyond the quality of the writing, the author’s reputation mattered greatly.

Forget a guard like Wei Ming—even among Peking University’s top students, ask who’s ever published in Harvest!

No one!

Not a single person!

So Wei Ming’s submission to Harvest had only one outcome.

Rejection!

Or rather—

Tragedy!

(End of Chapter)