Chapter 313: Zhou Hui: Come to My Place—My Mom

At that moment, Wei Ming's breathing grew heavier, while Li Zhi held her breath—she'd woken at the sound when he left the sofa, which was simply less comfortable than a bed.

Wei Ming stared at Li Zhi's unusually wide neckline, his thoughts soaring all the way to Mount Everest.

He wasn't some naive boy unfamiliar with beauty, but in this one aspect, Li Zhi was truly unmatched in his lifetime—even Melinda, that tall Western woman, fell slightly short; among Asians, she was undeniably gifted, a true female counterpart to Wei Ming himself.

Yet Wei Ming remembered why he'd come—he was here to use the toilet!

He tiptoed into the bathroom, calmed himself for a long while, then finished.

But when he came out, Li Zhi's sleeping posture had changed—now even more open and deep, so much so that if he bent down slightly, he could see straight to the end.

But Wei Ming had been raised under the red flag, nurtured in the spring breeze, raised upright since childhood, and besides, he wasn't short of women—he refused to let his lower head control his upper head.

Do you think I'm Ah Jie?

After psyching himself up, Ah Ming strode back to his room with a swing in his step.

Li Zhi clutched her chest, feeling only regret—was her charm not enough?

Just now, she'd so hoped Ah Ming would take the initiative—such a wide opening, two hands could easily slip in.

Back in his room, Wei Ming lost all sleepiness—he planned to visit Maniac Comics today; tomorrow he'd leave, and he wanted to do something more for them.

The comics Wei Ming had prepared for the magazine were mostly male-oriented or gender-neutral humor, with only "Happy Ghost" leaning toward a female perspective—but it wasn't detailed enough, and he didn't know how far they'd progressed; today he'd flesh out the character designs and plot more thoroughly.

Immediately, images of Ah Min and Li Zhi as young girls flashed in his mind; at the end, he added a suggestion: hire two female editors.

Maniac Comics was too full of yang energy—almost all staff were men; he feared they couldn't write compelling stories for girls.

When dawn broke, Wei Lingling still slept, but Li Zhi had already begun preparing breakfast.

Wei Ming walked to the cramped kitchen, drawn by the scent of meat porridge.

"Ah Ming, you're awake?" Li Zhi greeted him—she'd already put on her bra.

Wei Ming murmured good morning, then took a crisp, spiky cucumber from the fridge to cool off.

He noticed Li Zhi had tied her shoulder-length hair up, but a few strands kept escaping and blocking her vision.

Wei Ming suggested: "I think you'd suit short hair better."

"Short hair?" Li Zhi frowned. "Like a tomboy? Would that look good?"

A flat-chested girl cutting her hair short might be mistaken for a boy—think Chun Ge or Zeng Ge—but Li Zhi, with her curvaceous figure, would gain a unique, spirited charm from short hair.

Seeing Li Zhi's skepticism, Wei Ming said: "Go ahead and finish cooking."

Then he pulled out paper and pencil and began sketching Li Zhi as she cooked.

"Ah, am I not allowed to move?" Li Zhi asked, spoon in hand.

"You can move—do whatever you like."

Wei Lingling, who'd been listening outside the kitchen, finally couldn't resist her curiosity and stepped in—she saw Wei Ming drawing.

Little Auntie sighed in relief; she'd feared the two were doing something physically beneficial in her own kitchen.

Wei Lingling said nothing, only marveled at Wei Ming's fluid strokes—what kind of man was her unseen elder brother, who'd raised this nephew in mainland China to be both scholarly and martial, multi-talented, tall and handsome?

After Wei Ming finished, before Li Zhi had seen it, Wei Lingling bluntly said: "Xiao Li, you should cut your hair short."

Of course, not any short hairstyle would suit her—Wei Ming had drawn the exact hairstyle from "The Duel of the Two Dragons," perfect for her.

After finishing breakfast and drying her hands, Li Zhi took Wei Ming's sketch, stared at the fashionable, haughty woman in it, and couldn't believe it: "Is this me?"

Wei Lingling: "Of course it's you—go look in the mirror. Your face and features are identical; only the hairstyle changed."

Li Zhi went to the mirror—confirmed. It really was her. She could look so elegant, so radiant, so not outdated!

Of course, beyond the hairstyle, Wei Ming had also adjusted her eyes—Li Zhi still lacked confidence, rarely meeting others' gazes, and that couldn't be fixed by a haircut alone.

Li Zhi begged for the portrait, planning to start with changing her hairstyle.

After breakfast, Wei Lingling said: "Want to come with me to the toy factory? Help me sketch a few designs."

She meant Transformers—was one Optimus Prime enough? You said two factions, dozens of characters.

"Not urgent. Wait till you come back to the mainland with me—we'll draw slowly. Today I'm going to Maniac Comics to meet Ah Long and the others; tomorrow we all leave together."

Wei Lingling nodded—it made sense. Li Zhi quickly added: "Ah Ming, shall I accompany you?"

Wei Ming: "First, get your hair cut. I'm looking forward to your new look."

After that, the three went their separate ways. Wei Ming headed straight to Maniac Comics, buying a newspaper on the way—he learned Elton John had already left Hong Kong for London two days prior; that TVB interview had been pre-recorded.

But today's print media had already begun reporting on Wei Ming's connection—clearly the news had leaked earlier; otherwise, the press couldn't have reacted so fast.

Upstairs, at the company, Wei Ming saw the new sign and logo: "Maniac" rendered in stylized calligraphy, the two characters resembling a painting—clearly Ah Long's handiwork, showing deep traditional ink-painting skill.

But when he met Ah Long, the man laughed: "I've been running around nonstop—how could I have time to design a logo? I hired Ah Jiang. Not bad, right?"

Xu Jinjiang? Wei Ming nodded. When Ah Jiang eventually makes a name for himself in the three-part film market and Maniac Comics dominates Hong Kong, it'll be a fine story indeed.

Ah Long added: "Too bad he has no interest in comics—could've been extra income."

Wei Ming thought Xu Jinjiang's choice was perfectly normal—bottom-tier comic artists struggle to feed their families, but entering acting offered more chances to rise; comics demanded too much energy—once you drew comics, you couldn't easily do anything else.

"Boss, good morning!"

Seeing Wei Ming, nearly all twenty-plus employees dropped their work and stood to salute him.

They'd never known how powerful this new boss was—thought he was just a mainland guy who could write stories, worried the company would collapse in a few months from unpaid wages.

Now they saw—he earned millions from a single song, earned respect from international superstars—how could he possibly be short on wages? No wonder he was a top talent from the mainland; this earning power—who in Hong Kong's Four Great Talents could match him, except Old Jin?

Since everyone stood, the one man still seated stood out.

Wei Ming walked behind him and tapped his shoulder.

"Ah! Teacher Wei!" Wu Jing jumped, quickly covering the comic manuscript in his hands.

This kid had been following Ah Long to Maniac Comics lately; though Wu Jing couldn't read, he could look at pictures—these comics were far more interesting than the picture books at home.

Wei Ming glanced—there was a bearded monk, a pig-headed man, a monkey-headed man—no doubt, it was "Sandy's Diary."

He asked: "Who drew this?"

A thin, tall boy stood up. "Boss, it's me."

Worried Wei Ming wouldn't remember, Ah Long introduced: "This is Huang Guoxing, the main artist of 'Sandy's Diary.'"

Wei Ming praised him: "Good work. How many pages have you drawn?"

Huang Guoxing, flattered by the boss's praise, replied: "Ten pages—I've finished one short story."

Wei Ming nodded, then checked progress on several other projects.

"Sandy's Diary," being fan fiction, was progressing quickly; "If History Were a Group of Cats" had only drawn four or five pages, still stuck in the Qin Dynasty—their biggest problem was the writers' weak historical knowledge; lead artist Xie Zhirong didn't know how to distinguish Qin, Han, Tang, and Song cats.

Wei Ming instructed: "Go ask history professors at HKU or CUHK—or hire a history teacher as consultant. This comic is educational—it can't afford any sloppiness."

Everyone nodded obediently.

For "Feng Yun" and "Li Wang," the two most popular with Hong Kong readers, lead artists Ma Rongcheng and Niu Lao had spent nearly every waking hour these days refining character designs and plots; though the opening hadn't been drawn yet, Wei Ming was satisfied with the character sketches and offered some advice.

Niu Lao said: "Thanks to Biao Ge for being my model—he gave us the perfect Li Wang."

Wei Ming asked: "Where's Biaozi?"

Ah Long came over, pulling Wei Ming into the office: "He's with your old ghost."

"Huh?"

"Master Gui says Biaozi is a martial genius—he plans to teach him a few moves."

Wei Ming was annoyed—why had the old man never mentioned this to him? Was he not worthy?

Hmph, I was going to visit you today—forget it.

Wei Ming pulled out his script for "Happy Ghost": "Who's the lead artist for 'Happy Ghost'?"

Ah Long: "Zhao Rude. I'll call him."

Zhao Rude's notable works included "The Nine Five Emperor" and adaptations of Gu Long's novels—he was among the more senior disciples of Shangguan Xiaobao, having entered the industry in 1975.

While waiting for Zhao Rude, the office phone rang—it was Wei Kuangren's chief editor's line, but Wei Ming had let Ah Long use it temporarily.

"Maniac Comics, hello," Wei Ming said.

"Ah Ming, so you're back!" A girl's excited voice came through the line.

"Ah Min? How'd you get this number?"

"Master Gui told me," Ah Min, now at home, said sweetly. "I called before, but you weren't around—Ah Long answered."

At that moment, Ah Long walked in, hearing Wei Ming's dreamy tone on the phone—he suddenly realized: Oh! That's what I forgot.

Wei Ming kept his composure: "I'm in the middle of business. I'll call you back after."

"Okay, I'll wait," Ah Min replied, then sat beside the phone, doing homework.

Wei Ming discussed "Happy Ghost"'s creative direction with Zhao Rude, gave him a detailed script—essentially the plot of the first movie—and urged him to hire a female screenwriter.

He then discussed the first issue's plan with Ah Long—besides his own stories and ideas, apprentices had accumulated some short tales of their own; though brief, they could serve as interludes between longer stories.

The problem was quality—they were like student assignments. Ah Long still needed to refine both story and art.

"I think we can't do a good job in just a few days—I plan to stay in Hong Kong all summer."

"Will you return to Beijing then?"

"Yes, I want to ask my classmates and friends at the Animation Studio if they'd like to draw for us—come to Hong Kong or create from the mainland. Most importantly, I want to ask Ah Ying if she'll come to Hong Kong with me."

Buying plane tickets in Hong Kong was simple—no red tape.

After Ah Long left, Wei Ming called back.

The line rang once: "Ah Ming, you're done?"

"Yeah, but I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Ah?" Zhou Hui's voice sank. "When will you come back to Hong Kong?"

Wei Ming: "Hard to say—maybe next year, or the year after. At the latest, the year after next."

Hearing the next meeting was measured in years, Zhou Hui fell silent.

Wei Ming smiled: "What do you want to eat today? I'll treat you—we can still meet before I go."

This seat was originally reserved for Old Ghost—who made you refuse to teach me martial arts?

Zhou Hui looked at her watch, hesitated, then said: "Why don't you come over for dinner?"

"Huh? Your place?"

Zhou Hui: "Yeah, my mom's not home."

Wei Ming's secondhand bread van has already been handed over to Uncle Liu; Wei Ming took a taxi to Hong Kong Island.

"Master, hurry up." Wei Ming was worried about leaving Amin alone at home.

While Wei Ming was on the way, Amin rushed downstairs to buy groceries—today she planned to cook him a farewell dinner herself.

Of course, this meal wasn't the main point.

At noon, Wei Ming arrived at the housing estate where Zhou Hui lived—it was his first time visiting her home.

After knocking, Amin opened the door wearing an apron, bloodstains on it, a knife in hand: "Come in quickly."

Wei Ming stammered: "Maybe I should wait outside."

Zhou Hui realized something was wrong and quickly hid the knife behind her back: "I'm just chopping vegetables."

Wei Ming: "Am I going to be your vegetable?"

Inside the apartment, the living room wasn't large—a piano took up most of the space, the dining table had to be folded away, but everything was clean and tidy.

"Just sit anywhere, two more dishes to go." Amin wiped her sweat.

Wei Ming couldn't bear to let such a young girl handle the whole meal alone, so he rolled up his sleeves: "Let's cook together."

It was just ordinary home cooking, nothing particularly dazzling—but for Amin to nearly single-handedly prepare a full meal with fish and meat, three dishes and a soup, was already impressive.

Even Wei Ming, a mainland food connoisseur, loosened his standards and complimented her a few times, making the girl overjoyed.

"I'm amateur at cooking, and I'm amateur at piano too—but better at piano than cooking," Amin sat down at the piano. "Want to hear something?"

"Oh, what are you going to play?" Wei Ming had heard many of Amin's piano pieces before, though he hadn't known the girl sitting at the piano was her.

As the prelude began, Wei Ming immediately recognized it: "Moonlight Shadow."

Yesterday's TVB interview had an immediate effect—today, every major music store in Hong Kong had sold out of this record; people who didn't know the song wanted to see what kind of song could sell over a million copies.

Unlike fans, Hong Kong singers were frantically searching for Wei Ming, eager to commission songs.

They couldn't afford one million Hong Kong dollars, but ten thousand plus royalties was doable.

Ten thousand per song was already a fortune in Hong Kong—Wei Ming himself had only earned a little over a thousand before; big names like "Hui Wong" might get a few thousand, but Wei Ming was a foreign monk—with Billboard and Elton John backing him.

Unfortunately, after that day, Wei Ming vanished from Hong Kong; everyone guessed he'd returned to the mainland, some even considered sending people to the mainland to commission songs.

When the piece ended, Wei Ming clapped softly: "Have you taken your piano grading? Your level seems very high."

Zhou Hui: "Not yet. My teacher suggested I take the exam this summer, but I've been too busy—I'm also learning to sing."

"Learning to sing? From whom?"

"Mr. Zhang's teacher, Master Dai Sicong," Amin said.

Wei Ming "oh"ed, then Amin added: "After Master Dai's recent targeted lessons, would you like to hear me sing 'First Love'?"

"Do you have a guitar?"

"Huh?"

"Guitar—I can accompany you."

Hearing this, Amin happily pushed open her bedroom door and pulled out a brand-new guitar.

"I just bought it after becoming a disciple—I still can't play it well," Amin handed it to Wei Ming in her room.

But the guitar was the instrument Wei Ming mastered best; though "First Love" required guitar, piano, accordion, and other instruments for layered depth, limited conditions meant one guitar would have to do.

Wei Ming first familiarized himself with the guitar, playing a melody unfamiliar to Amin—but beautiful.

"Alright, I'm ready. I'll start—you join in when the time's right." Wei Ming sat directly on Amin's bed and began playing.

Amin stood before Wei Ming, eyes closed, listening intently—this was it!

"Love has no experience / Today I first discover / Glimpsing him from afar / That joy feels so fresh..."

Amin began singing—she entered perfectly.

Her voice blended beautifully with Wei Ming's guitar; Amin felt it sounded far better than her previous a cappella versions.

Now her eyes were open, gazing at Wei Ming as she sang, pouring the lyrics' emotion into him, occasionally pacing before him with her long legs, making expressive gestures—singing with performance.

Four minutes were short, yet stretched long—as if many stories had unfolded.

When the song ended, Wei Ming lay on Amin's bed, guitar in arms, praising: "Perfect!"

Amin blushed: "I think I've improved a lot since the beginning, but this was the best take. Brother Zhang said when I'm ready, he'll let me use his company's recording studio."

Seeing Wei Ming still with his eyes closed, Amin smiled: "Still lost in my voice?"

Wei Ming: "No, I just ate too much rice—I'm sleepy."

Amin: "So the food was too salty after all."

The girl huffed softly and lay down on the bed too, her head resting on Wei Ming's arm: "I'm sleepy too."

This isn't sleepiness—you're tempting me to commit a crime!

Wei Ming sat straight up: "Suddenly not sleepy anymore. Amin, let's chat—tell me about your school. Do many boys read comics? Are there any girls who read comics..."

The two chatted on Amin's soft, fragrant bed until the sun neared setting; Wei Ming's sense of danger grew—he feared being caught at the door by her mother with no excuse.

So it was time to make a hasty exit.

"Amin, it's getting late—I need to prepare for tomorrow's flight. Let's meet again in the martial world," Wei Ming bowed to Zhou Hui.

Zhou Hui ignored martial world etiquette and hugged Wei Ming tightly, burying her face in his chest: "You must meet again—hurry up and come back~"

This time, Wei Ming's hands finally settled gently on Amin's slightly curled hair, his touch tender, his voice soft: "Alright, I'll come back soon."

If "Mistaken Seven Days of Love" is released, I'll have another reason to return to Hong Kong.

Today Wei Ming returned to the Changcheng dormitory to rest—the original group of four had reunited.

He called Aunt Xia Meng on the dorm phone to check on the progress of "Mistaken Seven Days of Love."

Xia Meng again congratulated him: "The Hong Kong box office for 'Heroes Born in Youth' has officially surpassed ten million—making it the third film to reach this milestone."

Moreover, the Japanese rights for this film sold for over five million Hong Kong dollars—Qingniao made a huge profit.

Hong Kong cinema is about to enter its golden age—making movies is still profitable. Though a single song can earn millions, hits like "Moonlight Shadow" are rare exceptions—only possible under perfect timing; not every English song Wei Ming likes will become a smash hit if sung by someone else or released at another time.

Many Billboard Top 10 so-called Western masterpieces evoke no emotional response in Wei Ming; truly global music that both Eastern and Western audiences appreciate remains rare.

So film production is worth exploring too—let's first see how this investment in "Mistaken Seven Days of Love" turns out. If it's good, we can establish a long-term partnership with Qingniao.

Or even set up a company in Hong Kong, with Old Ghost holding it nominally.

At Kai Tak Airport, Wei Ming, Biaozi, A Long, and Wu Jing had arrived—each carried bags within bags, as if each had six arms like Nezha; all their red envelopes were spent.

After waiting a while, they saw Wei Lingling and Li Zhi each carrying a suitcase.

The two were a stunning sight, drawing the gaze of most men in the airport.

Li Zhi had evolved into a short-haired version, and her outfit was deliberately coordinated.

This wasn't her own taste—it clearly came from her aunt's hand.

Wei Lingling told Wei Ming: "With Li Zhi looking like this, I don't even want to keep her at home doing chores anymore."

Li Zhi immediately declared: "Sister Lingling, rest assured—I'll improve myself quickly."

Wei Ming asked: "So are you taking her back to the mainland this time?"

Wei Lingling: "Of course—I need her. She's from Shanghai, a local, will help avoid trouble."

Li Zhi smiled: "I also want to visit Grandma while I'm there."

"Senior Brother!"

"Little Li?"

As they spoke, Wu Jing and Biaozi suddenly turned toward the airport entrance...

(End of Chapter)