Chapter 4: Lu Guo Mao Ba Lao Cao Wei

Wei Ming briefly explained his desire to write articles to earn money and supplement the household income.

Wei Jiefang thought he was being wildly unrealistic.

Sure, his son did well in Chinese, but could that possibly be the same as being a writer? If writing little compositions could earn money from submissions, he himself would have gotten rich long ago.

Still, it was good that his son was motivated—no need to crush him too hard.

“Just support yourself; you don’t need to help with the household.”

Wei Ming thought: How can you not help? If you don’t, you won’t even live to sixty.

His sister was so smart, but she fell behind in school because she had to help earn work points, failed to get into her dream university, and ended up meeting the wrong person at the wrong time, wasting her whole life.

And his mother—she longed to return to her hometown in Sichuan-Chongqing, but only got the chance after all her closest relatives there had passed away.

Reborn into this life, these regrets must be kicked as far away as possible!

Moreover, at this stage, pursuing literature was genuinely a decent path for Wei Ming.

Although reform and opening-up had begun last year, the direction kept shifting left and right, and it would take a few more years to stabilize; before then, working with words could earn money and build reputation.

In China, reputation sometimes acts as a protective talisman—you don’t have to use it, but you can’t be without it!

Plus, with his past-life work experience and life wisdom, maybe this lifetime he could even become a literary master.

Lu Guo Mao Ba Lao Cao Wei—the Seven Giants of Literature!

In the 1990s of his past life, he returned to Beijing for the second time and, through the introduction of a fellow townsman elder, joined the Beijing People’s Art Theatre as a helper, handling props, lighting, costumes, makeup, and occasionally playing minor roles.

Eventually, he settled into stage design for several years and even passed the Level Three Art Technician certification—he was already in his thirties then.

By chance, he got involved in screenwriting, starting as an uncredited writer, and after years of grinding, he eventually earned nominations for the Feitian and Baiyu Lan awards—he was already over forty.

Later, he saved up capital, assembled a team, secured investment, and founded a small film and television company; projects had losses and profits, but steadily rose.

When the internet surged into the film industry, he seized the opportunity and made a big haul.

That’s how he ended up at the peak of his life—laying out his strategy in the short-form drama industry at age sixty and becoming the industry leader!

Film and literature were always a pair of lovers—same principles, same core: storytelling. Wei Ming’s accumulated expertise here was undeniable; whether it was a hundred-episode epic or a one-minute comedic short, his pen always blossomed.

“You’re going to write right now?” Old Wei pulled on his shoes, interrupting Wei Ming’s memories.

Wei Ming: “Let’s eat first.”

“That’s right! I’ve been starving!” He’d woken up purely from hunger.

To find the staff cafeteria, they had to ask Manager Wang; after pointing the way, he asked: “Did you bring your own utensils?”

Father and son shook their heads in unison.

Manager Wang chuckled: “Lucky for you—we have two extra new sets of utensils lying around. Take them, take them.”

The two naturally offered sincere thanks—this manager was truly skilled at handling people.

There were still many students on the path, many freshmen exploring the new campus in groups.

As they walked, Wei Jiefang suddenly stopped, tugging Wei Ming’s sleeve and squinting: “Look! Foreigners, damn it!”

A white man and woman passed nearby—the white man was taller than Wei Ming, the white woman dressed in a revealing outfit, her bare white thighs exposed.

Wei Ming recalled the scene from before his rebirth and echoed: “Damn, foreigners!”

Wei Jiefang felt coming to Beijing had truly broadened his horizons—he’d never seen a foreigner before. He’d get Xiao Ming to teach him a few foreign phrases later, so he could brag to the folks back in the village.

But right now, the priority was eating.

Since it was late, the cafeteria’s dish options were limited, but as long as they had enough meal tickets, the staple food was unlimited—and all refined grains. Wei Jiefang loosened his belt and ate heartily; he’d only been drinking at lunch.

This year, the Henghu region suffered severe drought; wheat yields were poor, and at home they’d been eating sweet potato flour and sorghum flour for weeks—grain was hard to buy even with money. This was one reason Old Wei insisted on sending his son to Yanjing—at least he wouldn’t go hungry.

Wei Jiefang ate while lamenting: “Too bad your mom didn’t save any of that chili sauce—when you put it inside a steamed bun, mmm, pure human delicacy!”

Wei Ming’s chopsticks paused—he hadn’t tasted his mother’s homemade chili sauce in five years.

…

At the same time, Wei Anping returned home reeking of alcohol. He was about to open the door when he suddenly remembered—he’d forgotten to pick up the kids.

But it didn’t matter—they were so close, they could walk back themselves. He pushed open the door and indeed saw Xi Zi and Le Le happily playing on the sofa, holding paper airplanes; his wife Lu Xiaoyan faced away from him.

“Xiaoyan, I’m back—”

When Lu Xiaoyan turned around, Wei Anping nearly burst out laughing—her lips were red like two sausages.

“What happened? Did a bee kiss you because you’re so pretty?”

Lu Xiaoyan pointed to a glass jar on the coffee table: “It’s all because of this!”

“This is… oh, you found it! Jiefang Ge came to Beijing—this is Shufen’s sister-in-law’s chili sauce. I can handle spice, but how did you dare eat this?”

“It smelled so good, I just took one bite, then kept eating more and more.” She began gulping water again.

Wei Anping picked up a small amount with his chopsticks—it had meat bits, more oil than usual, and indeed tasted better.

Though Sister Shufen hadn’t come herself, this jar of earnest chili sauce seemed to say: Sister begs you—please, help your nephew!

Fortunately, he hadn’t failed his mission—the matter was settled.

Lu Xiaoyan put down her cup: “I’ve already met Wei Ming. He looked unremarkable as a child, but grown up, he’s quite spirited.”

!

“Ah, how did you—”

“Dad, Ming Ge came to pick us up!” Xi Zi said.

“Ming Ge played with us and even folded me a paper crane!” Le Le added his praise for Wei Ming.

Wei Anping suddenly recalled that downstairs, Wei Ming had specifically asked why Xi Le wasn’t around—he’d casually replied: “They’re at kindergarten, right there.”

He hadn’t expected this kid to remember and run this errand for him—if not, he’d have taken the blame.

Thinking of this, Wei Anping felt his effort was worth it, and he hugged his wife:

“Tomorrow, let’s treat Jiefang Ge and the others to dinner—we haven’t eaten out in ages.”

Lu Xiaoyan’s eyes lit up: “There’s a new Quanjude branch opened at Hepingmen—my colleague went and said it’s super luxurious, lots of foreigners eat there!”

“Fine, we’ll have roast duck.”

Wei Xi jumped up immediately: “Mom, I want roast duck too!”

Lu Xiaoyan remembered her unfinished manuscript work and felt annoyed: “Eat, eat, all you think about is eating—you look like roast duck, you look like candied haws—go brush your teeth! Le Le, supervise!”

…

When they left the staff cafeteria, it was already empty. Wei Jiefang hadn’t eaten this full in months—he patted his bulging belly and commented: “The cook’s skill is average—nothing compared to your mom’s. He just uses a lot of oil.”

Wei Ming thought: Don’t say any more—if you keep talking, I’ll just head straight back home.

“No, I need to walk off this meal,” Old Wei said again.

Wei Ming had things to do: “Then walk on your own—do you remember the way?”

“I’ve got a mouth.”

Wei Ming pointed him in a direction: Walk around Weiming Lake once and come back.

He himself went ahead, returned to his room, and began writing his debut piece—he already had an idea, and believed this article would strike exactly at Sister Xiaoyan’s tastes.

About an hour later, Wei Jiefang returned to the room, light-footed; Wei Ming was in the bathroom.

Old Wei leaned over the desk: “Huh, you’ve already started writing?”

Not bad—his son’s handwriting was actually quite good, and he wrote fast—he’d already filled two or three pages.

He picked up a sheet of letter paper and read it—his smile slowly froze.

His evaluation: What the hell is this?

This is pure elementary-school level—if this can be published, then I could write it too!

(ps: Updates every day at 9 a.m. and 12 p.m.~)

(End of Chapter)