Chapter 121: The Animation Studio That Got Noticed by the BBC (Guaranteed First Update)

Mei Wenhua had a talent for languages and began learning basic Cantonese from Liu Rulong at the dinner table.

Zhao Debiao realized he couldn’t pick up that stuff, so he started polishing his knuckle dusters and looked for another small knife.

When they returned to the dorm, Qiao Feng heard about the two boys’ bold idea and, after a moment of silence, said: “If you get caught selling things on the streets of Beijing, call the Nandamen number—I’ll come get you out.”

“Feng Ge!” the two shouted with such heartfelt, nauseating sincerity.

At that moment, Wei Ming asked them a question: “How much capital have you prepared?”

The two exchanged glances, then Biaozi admitted sheepishly: “I’ve got less than a hundred myself, but I borrowed two hundred from Yanzi.”

Wei Ming was stunned: “You’re that close to Yanzi now?”

“No no!” Biaozi said. “I promised her a share of the profits—that’s why she lent it. Besides, she’s got a salary now and bonus income too.”

Wei Ming: Didn’t realize Yanzi had such business sense—better than Zhi Zi.

Seeing Wei Ming look at him, Mei Wenhua said: “I got three hundred from my grandmother.”

“So you didn’t tell your parents?”

The two exchanged glances and said: “We wouldn’t dare!”

Wei Ming thought for a moment, rummaged through his cabinet, and pulled out several Guangdong grain coupons tucked inside letters from readers: “Take these. Consider it my support for your dream—don’t starve out there.”

“Ming Ge!” the two began again, heartfelt and nauseating.

“Do well,” Wei Ming encouraged. “I hope you make money this time and come back to treat me and Feng Ge to the Long March.”

Wei Ming got his permanent position because he was so unusual, but these two saw no hope at all—better to start a side business for something real.

After half a year together, he knew their personalities well: Biaozi was honest, Mei wasn’t quite as straightforward but wasn’t bad either. Wei Ming wanted everyone around him to have money—he didn’t want the gap between rich and poor to get too wide.

In any era, if the gap between rich and poor is too wide, the poor will lose their mental balance—or even explode.

Another day passed, and Biaozi and Xiao Mei left Peking University on holiday. Along with them, 503 students from the six liberal arts departments of Peking University’s Class of ’76 also departed, holding their graduation ceremony that day.

What made these students special was that they were Peking University’s final cohort of worker-peasant-soldier college students; from then on, admission to university in China based on class background and recommendation would virtually vanish.

Due to their weak foundations, low motivation, and poor academic standards, this cohort had almost no presence compared to the brilliant Classes of ’77, ’78, and ’79 that followed.

Still, across the entire worker-peasant-soldier student era, a few standout figures emerged from the sand—like Wang Shi, Jia Pingwa, and Liang Xiaosheng.

Wei Ming and Yang Hao came to photograph and interview the farewell graduation event.

After taking photos, just as Wei Ming was about to go eat, he saw Liu Zhenyun waving at him and was led to Xueyi Canteen, where several other Chinese Department students from Classes ’77 and ’78 were gathered.

Each of them looked gloomy.

“What’s going on?”

Li Zhihong, president of the May Fourth Literature Society, said: “After our first issue of ‘Weiminghu’ came out, the authorities ordered us to shut it down permanently.”

“Why?”

“No explanation was given—just told not to continue.” The editor-in-chief, Old Xiong, still held a copy of the magazine: a pure black cover, containing a short story by Liang Zuo, mostly fiction and literary criticism—nothing actually problematic in content.

Some said the black cover caused the trouble; others claimed someone had reported them.

Also, recently, the nationwide coalition of thirteen university literary journals’ publication “This Generation” had been banned after just one issue.

And Bei Dao’s magazine “Today” would also be officially declared an illegal publication this year.

Of course, it was already illegal—underground journals without official publication licenses.

One student suggested changing the name and reviving it under a new identity.

“The real issue is your magazine is too good—it’s already gained influence beyond Peking University, so naturally it draws attention,” Wei Ming analyzed. “Unless you officially apply for a publication number with a publisher and professional editors backing you, they can shut you down anytime.”

But applying for an official publication number wasn’t easy—at least Peking University didn’t have the authority.

Peking University had just established its own press recently, but it was restricted to publishing educational and academic works and journals; a literary magazine like “Weiminghu” clearly didn’t qualify, so the school couldn’t help.

Of course, printing for fun on campus was fine—but selling it for money was another matter.

Xiao Cha said: “But we’ve already gathered a lot of great submissions—it’s such a waste. These are all the contributors’ hard work.”

“I might be able to help,” Wei Ming said. “I work for the school journal now—I can talk to the editor-in-chief and get you a dedicated section. We even pay a little for submissions.”

Liang Zuo said: “There is, but not much.”

Wei Ming: “How much is ‘much’?”

Liu Zhenyun: “Yeah, what do you want—a bicycle?”

Liang Zuo, offended: “I never said I wanted a bicycle!”

The atmosphere finally lightened. After leaving the canteen, Wei Ming noticed Liu Zhenyun’s hand resting on his bike seat. He asked: “Lao Liu, are you eyeing my bicycle?”

Liu Zhenyun chuckled: “I heard you’re buying a motorcycle—so you’re selling the bike? You paid forty for it, right? Even with depreciation, thirty’s pretty generous.”

He now had a girlfriend and felt having a vehicle was more convenient, but new ones were too expensive to afford.

Wei Ming laughed: “Even if I switch to a motorcycle, I’m not selling this bike.”

“Why keep it?”

Wei Ming: “Gas is expensive and rationed—I’ll only ride the motorcycle into town. For daily commuting, I’ll stick with the bike. I’m not selling it—I might even buy another one.”

“Why?”

Wei Ming patted the big 28-inch bike: “When my sister gets into Peking University, I’ll give this to her—I’ll have to buy another one anyway.”

Liu Zhenyun had no reply—why not just buy a new one for your sister?

In the afternoon, Wei Ming told the editor-in-chief about the May Fourth Literature Society. He said no problem—he felt sorry for “Weiminghu” and was happy to help however he could.

Wei Ming had originally planned to focus on writing today, but then heard someone was going to interview the Computer Research Institute.

!

Wei Ming immediately volunteered: “I’ll take the photos for you!”

He’d been to most places on campus—including the president’s office—but the Computer Research Institute was an exception, due to its cutting-edge technology and expensive equipment.

When they arrived, it was like entering an ICU—they had to change into white lab coats and wear shoe covers.

Wei Ming muttered to himself: Old-school computers were so delicate.

There, Wei Ming not only met Professor Liu, Pu Shu’s mother, but also interviewed Wang Xuan, director of the Computer Research Institute.

This was a tech giant—Wei Ming blurted out, “Professor Wang.”

Everyone around him felt awkward—the man who had just led the development of the Chinese-character laser typesetting system last year wasn’t even a professor, let alone an associate professor.

This might be due to his age—only 42—and the years wasted during the past period; professor and associate professor evaluations were extremely strict back then, unlike today’s lax standards.

But his abilities were undeniable: in 1976, immediately after being reinstated, he took charge of the overall design and development of Project 748, and remained director of Peking University’s Computer Research Institute for nearly twenty years, single-handedly building up the university’s computer science discipline.

His invention also became the foundation for the future Fangzheng Group, generating enormous profits for Peking University, though the final outcome wasn’t ideal.

But right now, Professor Wang Xuan was deeply troubled.

According to him, the Chinese-character precision system had only completed its main framework—but six months later, they still couldn’t apply the technology to publishing.

“I need foreign exchange—I need to buy components and materials from abroad. I don’t even need two million dollars—ten or twenty thousand would be enough!”

The core of this interview was Wang Xuan crying poverty, begging for money.

Without funds, his subsequent research and improvements would stall.

Compared to building a house, Wang Xuan’s project might be more urgent—but compared to many physics and chemistry fields, its priority had to be pushed back a bit.

But for Wei Ming, a novelist, Professor Wang’s research was incredibly important!

Not just because the Chinese-character laser typesetting system greatly improved efficiency in Chinese publishing, made publications more beautiful, and directly boosted the industry’s prosperity.

Even one small invention in his research was groundbreaking: the font file algorithm.

Thanks to this algorithm, Chinese font files emerged—and later input methods and everything else followed. It opened the door to Chinese digitalization; the title “Contemporary Bi Sheng” was fully deserved.

Whether it was writers like Wei Ming and his peers, or future web novelists, all owed gratitude to this quiet researcher.

Sigh—I don’t have foreign exchange, or I’d have funded him myself.

Before leaving work, Wei Ming went to the Chinese Department faculty office and found Professor Qu Yude to discuss the book publication of “The Book of Heavenly Secrets.”

“And I need you to write a preface—the publisher pays for it.”

Professor Qu grinned, emitting an unpleasant laugh: “Do you think I need that little bit of fee? When do you need it?”

“Not urgent—the serialization in ‘Children’s Literature’ just ended. Let it rest a bit—I can wait until next month.”

“Not urgent? It’s almost Laba Festival—next month has only a few days left,” Professor Qu said. “Fine, I’ll write it tonight after work—from the perspective of modernizing classical literature.”

“Perfect. I agree—classical literature holds many treasures worth rediscovering, but they need packaging in a form modern readers can accept!”

Not only Professor Qu and Wei Ming shared this view—even foreigners had realized it.

That day, the Shanghai Animation Film Studio unexpectedly received a letter from the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC).

They sent over a Chinese mythological story script, proposing to co-produce an animated feature film with the studio…

(End of Chapter)