Chapter 103: Who Gets Wei Ming Gets the Sales (Guaranteed Minimum Update)

Hearing Latin American music in China in 1979 was truly a novel experience.

Several Latin American students longing for home rushed over to copy the tape, including those from the male dormitory, since many of the tracks were unfamiliar to them.

Wei Ming asked Melinda: “How did this auntie get her hands on Latin American music tapes?”

“She said she visited there and recorded them all herself,” Melinda said. “We met through the South Pavilion Art Troupe.”

Wei Ming nodded, guessing she was probably a music teacher—but it was impressive she’d even traveled abroad.

After the students dispersed, Melinda returned to her room; she needed to sleep early and conserve her energy, since she had a tough night ahead.

Wei Ming continued reading the newly released issue of *Beijing Literature and Art*, and by nearly ten o’clock, his classmates Chang Jianying, Xia Xiaohong, and Wang Xiaoping returned together.

After exchanging a few jokes with Wei Ming in the dorm office, Xiao Cha told the two girls to go upstairs first—she wanted to speak with Wei Ming alone.

“Wei Ming, are you going to England with Melinda?”

Wei Ming snapped: “Xiao Cha, is that really how you see me? Don’t I just want her body?”

“No, I was just curious. Actually, I’m planning to study abroad—if you and Melinda both go to England, I’ll choose England too. No big deal. I’m off.”

But after taking two steps, she turned back: “One last question—should I leave the door open for Melinda tonight?”

Wei Ming squinted and made a slashing motion across his throat.

Xiao Cha cackled and hurried upstairs.

Wei Ming was worried—would Xiao Cha gossip about him and Melinda in *Qiang Qiang*? She knew too much. This kid couldn’t be allowed to live!

After locking the gate, Wei Ming went to sleep too, though he didn’t know when Melinda would come down. Before sleeping, he took out three of the safety items she’d stored there.

At two a.m., a red figure slipped quietly downstairs; Wei Ming snapped awake instantly.

Two hours later, Melinda fled in disarray. He’d been her first, yet today she took control, teaching him a lesson.

Had he been pretending before? Or had he found some ancient secret manual in the library?

They say China has a divine book called *Jin Ping Mei*, supposedly about men and women—but he’d never managed to lay eyes on it.

As Melinda drifted off thinking this, Xiao Cha on the other side tossed and turned, unable to sleep—how fascinating could this possibly be? Why did they keep going so late every night?

The next day, Wei Ming completed his first wuxia novel, *Heroes Emerge in Youth*, at around fifty thousand characters.

Now he only needed Long Ao’s illustrations. Though the plot wasn’t overly complex or bizarre, since wuxia novels barely existed in mainland China, this simple storyline was sufficient.

Since he hadn’t decided what to write next, Wei Ming planned to focus on classes for two days—he had over a thousand yuan now, so he wasn’t short on cash. He could afford most things, just not the most expensive ones, and his lifestyle was already very comfortable.

Besides eating meat every meal, he now even craved milk—not Melinda’s, but he felt he needed to supplement with quality protein to avoid burning through his funds.

But cow and goat milk were scarce resources; Wei Ming had no right to order any, so he ate more eggs instead—even if they were expensive.

At noon, Wei Ming returned to the dorm. Feng Ge was gone; only Xiao Mei and Biaozi were there, lying on their beds like two dried salted fish, utterly lifeless.

The school had been tearing down old buildings these past few days, and they’d all been helping out—exhausted, yet still had time to bring Wei Ming meals.

What noble character, what pure class solidarity!

So Wei Ming called out: “Brothers, lunch at Changzheng Cafeteria’s on me—who’s coming?”

Hearing this, the two instantly revived on their beds, calling him “Big Brother Wei.”

Even though they’d already eaten, there was still room in their stomachs for a few more pieces of meat.

Unexpectedly, at lunch they ran into Dan Dan’s future ex-husband, Ying Da, a 1979 psychology major. Their table had four or five others from different departments.

From what they said, they were all theater enthusiasts planning to form a drama club.

Peking University had once had drama groups, but they’d all been wiped out. After the restoration of the college entrance exam, the May Fourth Literature Society had only just been revived last year; all other student organizations were still in ruins.

Compared to literature, drama was even more niche and demanded higher professional skill.

But Ying Da came from a family with theater roots—his father, Ying Ruocheng, was a renowned drama actor who had performed in *Dragon’s Beard Ditch* and *Camel Xiangzi*.

Since Ying Ruocheng graduated from Tsinghua’s Foreign Languages Department, his English was excellent. This year he translated *Teahouse* into English, and later brought Arthur Miller’s *Death of a Salesman* to the stage of the Beijing People’s Art Theatre in Chinese.

He could translate both ways—his skill was truly exceptional, so it was no surprise he could perform in the full-English *The Last Emperor*.

One of Ying Da’s companions recognized Wei Ming and whispered: “Should we go say hello?”

Most students didn’t care that a gatekeeper had become Peking University’s true celebrity—without Wei Ming, they wouldn’t have had a chance to shine anyway.

But for someone like Ying Da, who’d hoped to be the star of Peking University, this was unbearable.

Why him and not me?

So he coldly replied: “I won’t go. I don’t kiss other people’s asses.”

His remark made the proposer feel awkward.

Then a girl said: “But he can write—if he writes us a drama script, that’d be perfect!” Hearing this, Ying Da was tempted—a great new script could rapidly expand their influence. But he ultimately refused: “There are so many masterpieces left by great masters—why do we need him? Besides, I can write scripts myself.”

The atmosphere grew tense. What was wrong with Ying Da? Had Wei Ming stolen his wife?

Just then, Wei Ming’s table received their food, along with three bottles of Beibingyang soda.

The revived Biaozi and Xiao Mei turned their attention back to Wei Ming’s love life.

Wei Ming: “Let’s talk about something else—I don’t want to embarrass you.”

Actually, they wanted to hear about the bedroom scenes, but Wei Ming’s character would never describe just how wonderful Melinda was.

Especially her figure—damn, she was incredible. Wei Ming had seen plenty in his past life, but Melinda’s physique was rare indeed—think Alexandra Daddario, about that level.

“Then tell us about *Heroes Emerge in Youth*—finished?” asked Mei Wenhua. They hadn’t heard the ending yet.

Wei Ming: “Funny—I just finished.”

Biaozi excitedly asked: “What happened in the end? Did they wipe out the Qing dogs?”

His voice was loud. Ying Da at the next table paused mid-bite, his face darkening.

!

Wei Ming smiled: “Of course—the heroes crushed the Qing dogs into the dirt.”

Ying Da grew even more depressed, feeling the remark was aimed at him—but he had no proof. They didn’t even know him, let alone that he was Manchu.

Besides, they insulted the Qing dynasty, not the Manchu ethnicity. Though he felt uneasy, he couldn’t march over and admit he was Manchu just to get insulted. He ate less and less, and as the host, he was the first to leave.

Once he left, the others at his table immediately came over to greet Wei Ming, who responded politely and earned high favor.

After lunch, the gatekeeper told him someone was looking for him.

“Comrade Wei Ming, over here,” said Luo Yihé, a 1979 Chinese Literature major, pointing to a quiet middle-aged man beside him. “This comrade is looking for you—I brought him to the South Gate.”

“Wei Ming, Master Writer, I’ve finally met the real thing. Hello, I’m from *October* magazine—my name is Xie Dajun.”

What a coincidence—later, Luo Yihé would join *October*, but in poetry. This Xie Dajun, clearly, was from the fiction section.

“Oh, Editor Xie, nice to meet you.”

“Shall we find a place to sit?”

After thanking Luo Yihé, Wei Ming led him straight to the underground dorm. Xie Dajun frowned.

“You’re already famous in literary circles—does Peking University really let you live here?” He sounded genuinely indignant on Wei Ming’s behalf.

Wei Ming laughed: “I’m just a guard. A four-person room is already great.”

“But you can’t see the sun.”

“I’m not a sunflower—I don’t need to bask in sunlight all day,” Wei Ming said cheerfully. In his past life, he’d lived in far worse basements with higher density.

Xie Dajun immediately expressed admiration. In truth, he had no new angle—he was just here to commission a piece.

*Harvest* magazine had broken records, and everyone knew it was thanks to Wei Ming.

Even earlier publications like *Beijing Literature and Art* and *Wen Hui Bao* had seen dramatic sales boosts thanks to Wei Ming’s works.

In the world of literary journals, whoever gets Wei Ming gets the market.

So they were desperate for his next work.

“Sorry, I’ve already given it to *Contemporary*.”

“We know that. But if you have a new piece, please consider *October*. We’ll pay the highest rate!”

That was genuinely sincere. Wei Ming had never received the top rate from any publication—payment wasn’t just about quality, but also author experience and status.

Paying Ba Jin seven yuan per thousand characters and paying you seven yuan per thousand—how would that reflect Ba Jin’s uniqueness?

“I’ll consider it, but I haven’t got a single idea for a new work yet.”

The man wasn’t surprised. Wei Ming had already written three novellas, one short story, and two poems—one long, one short. That output was high; a creative bottleneck was normal.

Before leaving, he gave Wei Ming *October*’s phone number and said he could call anytime.

Of the major journals, only *Huacheng* hadn’t contacted him yet.

But they were already preparing to…

(End of Chapter)