Chapter 119: Children

While Wei Ming was writing, Yang Hao never disturbed him; only when he put down pen and paper to enjoy a cup of tea did Yang Hao hand him a manuscript.

“Mr. Wei, would you like to review this?”

Wei Ming pointed to himself: “Do I even have the qualification to review it?”

“Just take a look first.”

Wei Ming picked it up and saw the headline: “Grand Celebration: Successful Hosting of the Literary Seminar on Wei Ming’s ‘The Horse Herder’!”

He spat out a leaf of tea and kept reading—it was a submission from a Chinese literature student who had been present the whole time, signed “Liang Zuo.”

Through his nephew’s humorous prose, Wei Ming finally understood just how spectacular Old Wei’s performance had been yesterday—though as the son, he felt a bit embarrassed.

But it didn’t matter—he had the family’s thick skin.

“It’s fine. If the editor has no objections, just publish it.” Wei Ming handed it back.

Yang Hao chuckled: “Too bad I wasn’t there yesterday—I missed capturing your uncle’s heroic moment.”

Soon, the morning ended. After lunch, Yang Hao didn’t want to return to the office. He asked Wei Ming: “How about we go out and chase some news?”

Wei Ming: “You and me? Two photographers?”

Yang Hao: “Since you’re here, I can skip being the photographer—I’ll be the writer instead. I graduated from Chinese literature too, just a worker-peasant-soldier student, but I can read. Let’s go?”

“Let’s go!”

Wei Ming thought this job was perfect—sit in the office when you want, go out and play when you want.

Yang Hao taught Wei Ming: “If you want to attend a professor’s class, take a photo afterward and write a few paragraphs summarizing the lecture or sharing a classroom anecdote. Whether it gets published doesn’t matter.”

Wei Ming’s eyes lit up: “Yang Ge, only you could think of this!”

Yang Hao waved his hand: “Just some old advice, nothing special.”

In the afternoon, Yang Hao wanted to sneak into the library, so they headed there to chase news.

Yang Hao wasn’t wandering aimlessly—he knew there was news to be had today.

Sure enough, in the library’s reception hall, they saw school officials and a group of Japanese visitors; the lead official was Vice President Wang Lübin, whom Wei Ming had previously interacted with.

The Japanese were representatives from the Japan International Exchange Foundation and Panasonic Corporation, and several serious journalists were also present covering the event.

China and Japan were in a friendly phase, so exchanges were frequent—though the ultimate goal of this surface-level friendliness was still trade.

China wanted their high-tech; they wanted China’s market.

In the conference room, the Japanese delegation demonstrated the audio-visual teaching equipment they were gifting.

Of course, the number gifted was small, but after Peking University professors tested and operated them, they found them genuinely excellent—making teaching more intuitive and helping students grasp complex problems.

Since there weren’t enough instruments, they’d have to buy more—a classic marketing trick later used to exhaustion.

Ultimately, Peking University’s Academic Committee held a meeting and decided to purchase 16 types of equipment, totaling $2 million.

Wei Ming whispered to Yang Hao: “Our Peking University really has money!”

Two million U.S. dollars could build hundreds or even thousands of houses—though from the university’s broader perspective, upgrading teaching equipment ranked higher than building dorms.

Yang Hao: “They’ve got money, but they also don’t have much—this two million was squeezed out. Didn’t you see how grim President Wang looked?”

Wei Ming: “I saw it. I even captured his pained expression when he heard the total was two million dollars.”

He used his own camera; the film was provided by the school journal.

Yang Hao blinked at Wei Ming.

Wei Ming: “Ah, can’t we use it?”

Yang Hao laughed: “I’ll submit it and see if the editor approves.”

On his first day at the new job, Wei Ming had a full day—not only did he sneak in writing over two thousand words of fiction, he learned many office-skipping tricks and participated in a news report for the first time.

When he got off work and returned to the South Gate, Xiao Yan’s aunt was waiting for him with Xile.

Seeing the magazine in her hand, Wei Ming knew the January issue of “Children’s Literature” had been released—and with it, his royalty payment.

“We printed 500,000 copies this time—another record, though I doubt we’ll have trouble selling them,” Lu Xiaoyan said proudly, proud of her magazine and even prouder of her nephew Wei Ming.

She urged him to open his royalty slip.

Wei Ming opened it and nearly choked—his royalty was calculated at ten yuan per thousand characters!

His manuscript of over ten thousand characters earned him 130 yuan.

Though royalty rates had risen this year and he was becoming a popular author in children’s literature, he wasn’t yet considered senior—he’d expected nine yuan per thousand.

Lu Xiaoyan smiled: “Thanks to ‘The Book of Heavenly Secrets,’ our year-end bonuses will be generous, so we raised your rate. Also, two other things.”

First, of course, was commissioning more work—Wei Ming had built a brand and was now one of the hottest fairy tale writers.

But Wei Ming had only recently written one children’s story—“The Game of the Brave”—and had no time for anything else.

Wei Ming told her to wait; he went to his dorm and brought back Biaozi’s handwritten copy.

Because he’d been spending heavily to court Yanzi, Biaozi had taken over Mei Wen’s assignment, but his handwriting was atrocious, and Wei Ming had edited and revised parts to make it feel more Chinese in setting.

Lu Xiaoyan wrinkled her nose: “Where’s your original?” Wei Ming: “I gave it to Melinda.”

“Ah?”

Wei Ming: “I asked her to translate it—see if we can get it published overseas.”

“Ah!”

Lu Xiaoyan’s eyes sparkled—no Chinese children’s author had yet made a name abroad.

Of course, some Chinese children’s stories had been translated into foreign languages, but they were mostly ancient works, and sales? Just getting published overseas was considered a success.

And those were usually translated and promoted overseas by official channels after the author had already gained influence domestically—Wei Ming’s approach was truly rare.

It seemed having a foreign girlfriend had its perks—no doubt Xiao Ming had learned plenty of English too.

“I’ll have to read it carefully!” Lu Xiaoyan’s interest surged.

The second thing: “You and your classmate A Long should come to our publishing house sometime—we need to discuss publishing a book, and it’ll involve royalty matters.”

!

Wei Ming’s eyes lit up—he’d been back for nearly half a year, and now, finally, a book!

When he got home, Lu Xiaoyan told Wei Director to cook while she reviewed the manuscript. After reading, she realized that though the story centered on children, it contained elements of horror and adventure—especially when the first crisis introduced bats, both the two child protagonists and she herself were startled.

Then she became utterly hooked—whatever tile you jumped to would suddenly spawn something, but you couldn’t stop playing—if you hesitated, the game would swallow you whole. You had to charge forward bravely and use wisdom—it was fascinating!

She had never seen anything like this in Chinese children’s literature before!

Wei Anping walked out with a plate: “What? Has Xiao Ming written another masterpiece?”

Lu Xiaoyan: “Take a look—I think adults will like this too. Maybe even foreign readers.”

“Oh?”

While the couple was reading, another couple had just returned to Gouzi Village after a long day of travel.

Pushing open the door, they saw the pig and chickens were still alive, the sewing machine still there, then heard Fan Chunhua calling from outside the courtyard: “Wei Jiefang!”

Fan Chunhua had brought her son Qi Delong, looking fierce.

Old Wei immediately pulled out a small bag of Beijing-bought su tang and handed it over: “Brought this for you. Take it.”

Fan Chunhua, the notorious bully of the surrounding villages, instantly softened: “Brother, Sister, are you tired? Let me carry your luggage—oh my, how heavy!”

Wei Jiefang: “All your big nephew’s New Year goods. Chunhua, we’re starting the fire a bit late—are you still not done eating? Why not come over and have a bite with us?”

Fan Chunhua: “Oh, we’ve already eaten.”

Wei Jiefang: “Then too bad. Shufen, light the fire—we’ll just have a quick bite.”

Qi Delong, still munching on the su tang, suddenly sniffed: “What’s that smell?”

Wei Jiefang laughed and pulled out another package: “Bought braised pork hock in Beijing—some old brand, but it’s cold now. Need to reheat it—hotter’s better. Shufen, give it to her.”

Qi Delong immediately swallowed hard—he’d eaten, but that didn’t mean he was full!

Fan Chunhua hurried to the stove: “Sister, rest—you let me light the fire.”

Wei Jiefang was pleased with her behavior: “Later, sit down and eat a bit—also listen to your big nephew’s lost love story.”

“Ah?” Fan Chunhua blinked. “What? Who died?”

Qi Kexiu had finished eating and was waiting for Fan Chunhua to heat water for his feet, but she’d been gone so long, even her son was missing.

What had she said before leaving? Oh right—Wei Jiefang had returned from Beijing, and she was going over to settle accounts.

No wonder she was illiterate—what kind of account takes this long to settle?

Qi Kexiu grew impatient and stood up to go call her back for the water.

But when he reached the Wei family’s gate, he stopped. From past experience, whenever Wei Jiefang returned from Beijing, he’d brag about what he ate, boast about his son’s brilliance, then humiliate him.

Hmph—I won’t fall for it.

So he shouted from outside: “Chunhua, it’s late—come home!”

Wei Jiefang naturally invited: “Kexiu, come in and sit!”

“No thanks, I’ve got things at home. Fan Chunhua, Qi Delong—hurry up, or I’ll lock the door!”

They reluctantly emerged, Qi Delong’s lips still greasy.

Qi Kexiu snorted: “What did you eat?”

Qi Delong raised his greasy thumb: “Braised pork hock—Tianfu Hao! Man, that’s authentic!”

Qi Kexiu, who had been walking away, suddenly turned back: “Big Brother, you’re too kind—I’ll come in and sit a while~”

…………

(As usual, the extra chapter on the first of the month doesn’t count toward monthly ticket repayment—the Old Buddha writes as much as she can! Again, please support with monthly tickets—hold strong!)

(End of Chapter)