Chapter 42: Letters from Home and Little Haters (Please Follow!)

The first letter wasn’t important—it just said the money had been withdrawn, mostly used for Xiao Hong’s education, and some grain had been bought; the whole family was proud of him and urged him to keep going, and so on.

The character “li” was written as “li” with a power radical.

The second letter was more unusual—it contained not only his father’s letter but also an envelope addressed to “Liu Rulong.”

First, read his father’s letter.

“A few days ago, your classmate Xiao Liu sent you a letter; he didn’t know you were in Yanjing either, so I forwarded it to you. Also, I need to tell you something urgent.”

“I found the magazine ‘Children’s Literature’ in the county town, but only old issues—no latest ones. Can you buy one in Yanjing and send it back? Urgent, urgent, urgent!”

Three “urgents”—he was truly desperate.

Wei Ming could picture this scene:

As Old Wei was boasting about how remarkable his son was, an discordant voice popped up from the crowd: “You say your son’s a writer—where’s his work? Show us!”

Then Old Wei would rush off at dawn on his donkey cart to buy ‘Children’s Literature’ in town, wasting time and fodder, yet still failing to find it; back in the village, he’d avoid people and stay indoors in shame.

Poor guy, so pitiful!

Wei Ming himself had the magazine—and he wanted to send money home.

Why not just go home for Mid-Autumn Festival? After all, it’s a family reunion holiday.

As soon as this thought surfaced, Wei Ming could no longer suppress his homesickness.

He longed to see Xiao Hong as a young girl again, to see what that eighty-year-old grandmother looked like in her youth.

“Feng Ge, can I take leave next month for Mid-Autumn?”

“What, missing home?”

“Of course I am. This is the first time I’ve been away from home so long. Unlike those two, who keep running back.” Wei Ming expressed his envy of true Yanjing locals.

“No problem,” Feng Ge agreed instantly. “By then, the Sports Games will be over, National Day events will have dwindled—it’ll be quiet. You and Biaozi and Wenhua can go see movies too; lots of new releases are coming out for National Day.”

Wei Ming smiled: “When’s everyone free tomorrow? Changzheng Canteen—I’m treating!”

Hearing this, Biaozi blurted: “Ming Ge, did you get your second royalty payment?”

“Mm.”

“How much?” Mei Wenhua asked, his mood complicated.

Wei Ming: “Wenhua, don’t ask. I’m afraid you’ll feel bad if you know.”

At this, everyone understood—it was a terrifying sum. Mei Wenhua was already feeling miserable.

You got the fame—and now you’re taking the money too!

Are you the damn protagonist or what?

Wei Ming then opened the letter from his high school classmate Liu Rulong, mailed from Zhuxin Zhuang, Changping, Beijing Film Academy.

Wei Ming remembered—he’d received this letter back in his hometown in his past life.

Liu Rulong was the same age as Wei Ming; they’d attended the same four years of high school and were the closest friends in class. This kid often stole his grandfather’s picture books for Wei Ming to read.

Rulong grew up in Guangzhou; his mother was from Wei Ming’s hometown, his father from Foshan.

Both his parents were college students from the 1950s, studying English; they fell in love freely and settled in Guangzhou.

Later, they divorced; his father smuggled himself to Hong Kong, and his mother returned with him to Ping’an County, becoming a Chinese language teacher at the county high school. When English was added to the college entrance exam, she switched to teaching English.

Liu Rulong learned drawing from childhood; thanks to his grandfather’s connections, he studied traditional Chinese painting under Guan Shanyue, a master of the Lingnan school.

After returning north, he learned inner painting and comic illustration techniques from his maternal grandfather.

In 1977, Rulong joined the college entrance exam trend like everyone else—but failed.

The next year, he tried to enter the Central Academy of Arts and Crafts—the predecessor of Tsinghua’s Academy of Fine Arts—but failed again.

The third time, he heard Beijing Film Academy’s Fine Arts Department was recruiting for an animation class. Since he’d loved animation since childhood, he decisively chose Beidian—and passed.

Carrying memories of his old friend, Wei Ming opened the letter and saw the same content as in his past life.

Rulong first expressed concern for A Ming, encouraging him not to give up studying.

Then he described his life and studies at the film academy.

“I’m studying extremely hard now, because the best student in our class might be assigned to the Shanghai Animation Film Studio—and you know, that’s the place I most want to work!” Wei Ming: Congratulations, you made it.

After graduation, Liu Rulong indeed entered the Shanghai Animation Film Studio based on his outstanding performance and participated in several of its key projects.

The letter also mentioned he’d had the chance to watch many foreign animations at school.

“Disney’s Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Snow White, Czechoslovakia’s The Adventures of Mole, all excellent works; Japan’s Osamu Tezuka is also incredibly talented.”

Wei Ming remembered that when he first read this letter, because Rulong didn’t use quotation marks, he thought “Osamu Tezuka” was just another cartoon title like Mickey Mouse or The Adventures of Mole—he’d wondered, “What kind of insect is ‘Tezuka’?”

Later, Rulong expressed some concerns.

“Although our country’s animation has masterpieces like The Monkey King: Uproar in Heaven and Nezha Conquers the Dragon King, and though we’re not inferior internationally in top-tier animation and our genres are rich enough, our output is far too low. If reform and opening-up reaches the animation industry, we may not withstand the foreign onslaught. Japan’s animation industry is well worth learning from.”

Wei Ming sighed. In the 1990s, Shanghai Animation Film Studio began its decline; Rulong, a young, capable talent, had no chance to shine. With his parents’ support, he went to Japan and, like many others from the studio, became an animation laborer there.

He wanted to learn from the foreigners to defeat them, hoping one day to return home and make animations for his own country. Back then, when Wei Ming was just starting out in screenwriting, he’d told him: “When I become a screenwriter, you be the director—we’ll fight back against Japan with animation.”

But years later, Rulong was crushed by reality; forced to survive, he turned to organized crime and eventually became the third boss of Japan’s largest Chinese gang.

The twist is brutal, isn’t it? No one could’ve predicted it. This guy, with his thick eyebrows, short stature, harmless face, and panda-like innocence—ended up in the underworld. He even claimed it was a legal organization, paying taxes.

!

At the end of the letter, Liu Rulong added: “It’s a pity the film academy hasn’t planned to recruit acting students these past two years. Otherwise, with your looks, you could’ve seriously considered acting—I think even Zhang Tielin, the handsomest of the ’78 class, falls slightly short of you.”

Wei Ming: Is it just “slightly”? Try rephrasing that.

“I probably won’t get home until winter break. If you come to Yanjing during this time, be sure to find me—I’ll show you my new drawings.”

Wei Ming sighed. He’d been in Yanjing nearly a month—it was time to visit Rulong.

Putting the letter away, Wei Ming turned to the letters from young readers, wondering if any might include grain coupons.

The first letter was from a parent, thanking “Wei Something” for his story scaring his sugar-loving daughter.

The second letter was also from a parent.

The third…

After opening all ten letters, Wei Ming found most were thank-you notes from parents, praising the moral value of the fairy tale—all from big cities.

Only two were from children, written in wobbly, innocent handwriting, yet brimming with resentment: they blamed him for exaggerating sugar’s harms, ruining their candy supply—what a bad uncle!

Wei Ming laughed and groaned—he hadn’t become a beloved friend to the kids; instead, he’d gained a batch of little haters.

No way—he had to write a new story fast to turn things around. He still counted on decades later cashing in on nostalgia, making these kids buy his books for their own children.

The next morning, after breakfast, Wei Ming was taken by Feng Ge to the patrol team for half a day of training.

Meanwhile, “The Spring River Warms, the Ducks Know First” had been published in the Wen Hui Bao.

In a hutong in Hongkou, Shanghai.

An elderly woman with silver hair sat in the sun on her balcony reading the paper. Yesterday, a short story had caught her attention; today, she bought the Wen Hui Bao again with her breakfast.

The previous story mentioned how Director Wang, desperate, heard of “advertising”; this one told how he recruited an assistant to a documentary director to shoot China’s first TV commercial.

The old lady now realized the many hardships behind that early-year advertisement for Can Gui Yang Rong Wine—Director Wang not only starred in it himself but stole money from home to pay for filming. What a good cadre!

The story ended with the ad completed—but how would viewers ever see it? A question mark hung.

The old lady muttered “Damn cliffhanger,” then called out to her granddaughter.

“A Zhi! A Zhi!”

A tall, eighteen-year-old girl with an oval face walked over.

The old lady pointed to an empty bottle on the windowsill: “Remember this medicinal wine you bought for me during the New Year?”

“Of course. You said you didn’t like the taste.”

“But it did help—I felt better then. Go buy me another bottle.” She pulled out twenty yuan, handing the rest as pocket money.

Thinking again, she added ten more: “Buy yourself a new bra too—yours don’t fit anymore.”

After all, her son earned money in Hong Kong and supported them both—far wealthier than most Shanghai families.

The girl, A Zhi, blushed happily as she took the thirty yuan. She hadn’t realized her development was still ongoing—she’d grown even more recently~

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(End of chapter)