Chapter 11: Royalty Slip (Seeking Follows)

After washing up, Zhao Debiao remembered something: “Big Brother Ming, weren’t you too busy that night to tell us Dragon Tiger?”

Qiao Feng scolded him: “Right now, Wei Ming’s top priority is writing.”

But Wei Ming smiled: “I’ve been telling you guys stories all along—how about today you tell me some?”

“Tell what?”

Wei Ming: “I just wrote a sent-down youth novel, but I never was one. You, Debiao and Wenhua, tell me your stories as sent-down youths.”

Though he’d never been a sent-down youth, Wei Ming’s village had hosted some—especially his maternal uncle-in-law, a Beijing sent-down youth who settled there permanently, a highly representative figure from whom Wei Ming drew many elements.

Zhao Debiao was eager, having been sent down at sixteen and spent two and a half years in Northeast China, during which many things happened.

Like clubbing deer with sticks, scooping fish with gourds, wild pheasants flying into cooking pots, helping widows carry water, and being caught bathing by them.

Under Debiao’s lead, Mei Wenhua also opened up, though he spoke little of himself and mostly recounted others’ stories—including urban sent-down youths tricking village girls into coupling in sorghum fields.

It was clear he envied them.

These firsthand accounts gave Wei Ming rich details—and details determine success or failure.

For the next several days, beyond running, classes, training, and touring campus with Qiao Feng, Wei Ming devoted all his energy to this novel.

The “serial” of Dragon Tiger had to be squeezed into meal breaks; besides his dorm mates, other guards also joined the audience.

Because Wei Ming told stories well and knew how to handle people, even though Qiao Feng treated him differently during training, no one objected.

Yet Wei Ming held himself to high standards—he wanted a strong body, so at sixty or seventy he could still be vigorous without pills.

After days of balanced diet and exercise, he no longer looked pale as when he first arrived; his complexion improved, his frame filled out.

Good health meant good spirits and a sharper mind.

At first he wrote only two or three thousand characters a day; soon he wrote faster, up to eight thousand in a single day without neglecting work or sleep.

When his thoughts stalled, he’d switch gears and audit classes.

Many courses at Peking University, especially large lectures, had no enrollment limits—students from other departments or even other schools could attend if they could squeeze in.

The times and locations of famous professors’ lectures were posted on a triangular notice board beside the corner of the main dining hall.

Wei Ming favored literature and history; that afternoon Deng Guangming, head of the History Department, was lecturing on the “Golden Cabinet Pact.” He was a world-renowned expert on Song history, and Wei Ming planned to audit.

Free access to such priceless lectures was one major reason Wei Ming was willing to stay at Peking University guarding gates.

Wei Ming was lucky—he snagged a seat in a corner.

Liu Zhenyun wasn’t so lucky; by the time he arrived, the room was packed, and he had to stand near the back door.

He glanced ahead—and saw Wei Ming.

What you keep thinking about will eventually come back to you!

These past days, his longing for Wei Ming surpassed even his longing for Little Sister; he kept wondering when he’d see him again and ask which department he’d joined.

I never expected to run into him today—he was in History!

History was a prestigious department at Peking University, but certainly less glamorous than Chinese Language or Foreign Languages—apparently even Uncle the big boss had limits.

Since class was in session, Liu Zhenyun couldn’t greet him; he planned to catch up after class, but when it ended, the crowd dispersed instantly—Wei Ming slipped away fast, and they missed each other.

After a week of pre-service training, Wei Ming officially started his post.

Qiao Feng assigned him to the South Gate of Peking University, alongside Zhao Debiao, Mei Wenhua, and others—mix of new and veteran guards.

Due to oversupply of personnel, they worked four shifts—each only six hours daily; at the South Gate, each team had three people, and Wei Ming was paired with two veterans.

The South Gate and East Gate allowed vehicles; the West Gate was pedestrian-only, plus several smaller side gates.

Also, Peking University had no North Gate.

The advantage of the South Gate was its proximity to the dorms—saving huge amounts of walking time.

This was Qiao Feng’s way of looking out for his young brothers within his means.

He’d privately told Wei Ming: “Stay here for now—I’ll get you transferred to the library later.”

He knew Wei Ming loved reading—outside the dorm, he preferred the library.

“Brother Feng, if I could patrol, that’d be even better.”

“Patrolling means walking—so tiring.”

“Standing still is worse.”

It wasn’t constant standing—three of them rotated; when off duty, they sat inside, but even that felt uncomfortable.

“Fine. Stand a few days first—I’ll adjust you later.”

Wei Ming’s first day on duty was Saturday. Wei Anping, who normally used the West Gate, detoured over knowing Wei Ming was assigned to the South Gate. At 1.83 meters tall, handsome and full of vigor, he stood there like he was guarding the Southern Heavenly Gate, not Peking University’s South Gate.

Seeing Uncle Anping, Wei Ming in uniform saluted him.

Wei Anping got out of his car and pushed past him: “Good. Looking sharp. Off tomorrow?”

“Covered half a shift this morning, resting this afternoon.”

“Then come have dinner at home tonight—your aunt’s cooking for you.”

He couldn’t refuse; Wei Ming accepted.

He’d planned to visit classmates at Beijing Film Academy tomorrow—now he’d have to wait.

Then he suddenly remembered—he hadn’t started the new manuscript he’d promised Aunt Xiaoyan. So he set aside his nearly finished sent-down youth novel and wrote a fairy tale instead.

The plot was already ready—a short film from Shanghai Animation Studio, under ten thousand characters to complete.

Now everyone worked six days a week, one day off—just like forty years later, but without so much overtime.

Wei Ming had Sunday afternoon through Monday morning off; Sunday morning was his last shift. Since it was Sunday, students had no classes—many local students went home, and out-of-town ones went out, so foot traffic noticeably increased.

!

After passing, many students turned back to glance at him—mostly girls.

Wei Ming: My damn charm!

Just because of this, he decided he needed a new post—or else the South Gate would get clogged.

Back in the guard room, he pulled out paper and pen and used these fragmented moments to finish the fairy tale.

Just before shift end, as he stretched in his seat, a wheelchair passed by the door.

The veteran beside him eyed the elderly man in the wheelchair and tested Wei Ming: “Know who that is?”

Wei Ming: “Looks like he’s over ninety!”

The veteran: “Nearly a hundred.”

“Whoa, a centenarian!” Wei Ming marveled. Few old professors at Peking University reached that age. “Is it Principal Ma?”

“Hey, you’re sharp!” the veteran praised him.

Wei Ming: “I saw the news about Principal Ma’s return on the triangular board two days ago.”

The veteran sighed: “Return? He’s ninety-seven. It’s just restoring his reputation and securing posthumous benefits.”

Wei Ming stood up, stepped out of the guard room, and watched the controversial old man fade away in his wheelchair.

The veteran rose too, walking behind Wei Ming with pride: “This is Peking University—you often see figures from textbooks, even history books.”

At that moment, Wei Ming’s heart burned with ambition—he wondered: making it into history books might be hard, but could he ever appear in textbooks?

He meant Chinese language textbooks—not Xiaoqing’s political ones.

Since he’d finished his second fairy tale, Wei Ming took a calm nap that afternoon. Feeling time was still early, he wrote more of his sent-down youth novel.

The dorm was empty—Mei Wenhua was on duty; Qiao Feng and Debiao were both off—searching for wives or mothers.

Around four, Wei Ming set off—he couldn’t arrive right at dinner time.

He didn’t go empty-handed; seeing farmers selling lotus roots by the roadside, he asked—they were from the pond at Changchun Garden, still fresh. He bought some—two jiao, enough to last days.

But when he entered Wei Xi’s home, he saw Wei Xi and Wei Le each holding two lotus roots, fighting.

“You bought these too?”

Wei Anping scolded him: “You came, why buy anything? Don’t treat yourself like a guest.”

Lu Xiaoyan called from the kitchen: “Exactly—your salary hasn’t even been paid yet. Don’t be wasteful. Don’t buy anything next time.”

Wei Ming just smiled—they talked, but proper etiquette still mattered.

Lele, seeing Wei Ming, hurried behind him for protection.

Xi jumped over, waving the lotus root: “Eat this, old Sun’s staff!”

Wei Anping frowned: “Can’t you calm down?”

He’d barely spoken when Lu Xiaoyan called him: “Old Wei, come help me watch the fire. Xiao Ming, I’ve got something to show you.”

“What?”

Lu Xiaoyan wiped her hands and smiled, handing him an envelope.

Wei Ming guessed—his heart raced as he took it.

Could it be~

Opening the envelope, as expected—inside was a letter, and two royalty payment slips!

……

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(End of chapter)