Chapter 6: Southern Gong Ying, Northern Zhu Lin (Requesting Monthly Votes!)

Wei Ming wanted to submit a manuscript — this was something Lu Xiaoyan never expected.

When chatting with her husband yesterday, she learned Wei Ming’s college entrance exam score was from a 211 school, and assumed the kid had no academic talent.

Could he have a gift for writing?

Lu Xiaoyan still took it, but she made her position clear: “Even though we’re relatives, our magazine has its own submission standards and procedures — even if I approve it, if the editor-in-chief rejects it, it’s useless.”

“I understand — three rounds of review and three rounds of editing.”

Lu Xiaoyan was surprised; the kid knew quite a bit.

“What genre did you write? Poetry or fiction?”

“It’s a fairy tale, about five thousand words.”

Lu Xiaoyan was even more astonished — a high school student, at an age where writing an 800-word essay is a struggle, had written a five-thousand-word fairy tale?

Wait! He found out yesterday that I work at Children’s Literature, and today he shows up with a fairy tale? Could it be…

“How long did it take you to write this fairy tale?” she asked.

“I stayed up all night writing it,” he answered honestly.

So it really was written just now!

And five thousand words in one night? That’s utterly unbelievable! Can it even be read?

Lu Xiaoyan really wanted to say: Are you mocking me?

But seeing Wei Ming’s sincere eyes, she put the envelope into her bag right in front of him.

Back at the editorial office, Lu Xiaoyan opened the envelope immediately.

The title was “The Toothless Tiger.”

After reading just the opening paragraph, she dropped her condescension; a look of delight appeared on her face — this little Ming had something to him!

…

At Beijing Railway Station’s waiting hall, Wei Ming and Wei Jiefang were saying their final goodbyes.

“Don’t overwork yourselves when you’re on the job. I’m not worried about you, but my mother is too hardworking.”

Wei Jiefang’s face turned red: “You mean I don’t work hard, then!”

He did have a habit of slacking off, but since he knew how to treat livestock, his laziness was justified — no one could blame him.

But after the household contract responsibility system was introduced, Old Wei pushed himself hard — not only did he work his own farmland, he also took a job at the county lime factory, and early on damaged his lungs.

Wei Ming added: “And Xiao Hong — don’t make her work. Those labor points aren’t worth much. If she gets into university, everything will be fine. She’s even better suited than me to go to college.”

In his past life, despite all the hardship, his sister Wei Hong had still gotten into Beijing Normal University — she was the county’s top scorer.

“I know, I know!” Wei Jiefang replied impatiently.

His hand had been clenched in his pocket all along, and his son’s rapid-fire instructions had given him no chance to pull it out.

Wei Ming continued: “I’ll write to you. Have Xiao Hong write to me when she has time. If you can, send me a jar of Mom’s spicy sauce.”

At that moment, Wei Anping walked over and pointed at his watch: “Jiefang, the train’s about to depart.”

Wei Jiefang grunted, shoved the item in his hand into Wei Ming’s pocket, grabbed his bag, and barked two words: “I’m off!”

Wei Ming felt inside — two crumpled ten-yuan notes. This was probably one of the family’s few savings.

He wanted to give them back, but Wei Jiefang gave him no chance — he had already vanished into the crowd, like a raindrop falling into a lake, impossible to tell which bent, hunched Chinese father’s back belonged to Old Wei.

On the train, Wei Jiefang squatted with a group of standing passengers between two carriages.

He hugged his bag tightly — the most important thing inside was the fried duck bones he’d saved for his wife and daughter; even through the bag, the aroma could be smelled.

By the time he got home, it’d be cold — he wondered if the scent would fade too. Hmph, lucky for the people around him.

Thinking this, he took a deep, greedy breath — as if inhaling more meant others would get less.

On the other side, Wei Anping took Wei Ming and his two children by bus back to Peking University to check out of the dorm and complete employment formalities; training began tomorrow, and they’d start work officially in a few days.

Today was September 1st — perfect for receiving a full month’s salary.

When they returned to the Peking University guesthouse to check out, someone was just checking in.

“For now, stay here,” a middle-aged man said kindly to a young man with thick eyebrows. “Figure out what major you like, then we’ll talk to the department. Or if you don’t like Peking University, you can switch schools.”

He spoke softly, but Wei Ming heard — and Wei Anping heard too, his face flushing red and pale in turns.

Thinking of his own words yesterday, he felt slapped — hard, stinging slaps across the face.

You can pick any major, switch any university — who do you think you are?

So he stepped forward and asked the middle-aged man: “Comrade, which department are you from? I’ve never seen you before.”

The man didn’t want to answer. Manager Wang quickly pulled Wei Anping aside and whispered a few words; Wei Anping then understood, and without another word, led Wei Ming and Xile away.

Outside the guesthouse, he explained: “He’s from the United Front. Might involve confidentiality rules. That young man is probably from overseas — judging by his posture, he seems military-trained.”

Overseas? And a veteran?

Wei Ming suddenly recalled a name — if that man were a bit fatter, wore glasses, and held a basketball in his arms… swim, swim, swim~

Hmm, no wonder Peking University is so impressive — talent everywhere!

Next, Uncle Anping took Wei Ming to the security department to complete his employment, received his work ID and labor protection gear — from now on, he was officially affiliated with an organization, even if only as a temporary worker.

!

His salary was 18.5 yuan per month, with a grain ration of 36 catties.

His monthly pay was less than a college student’s scholarship, but his grain ration was roughly the same as a student’s — rice, flour, and coarse grains listed separately.

The grain ration didn’t mean “free meals” — it just meant you could eat up to that amount per month; you still had to pay for every meal.

With 18.5 yuan, he could barely afford food — even braised tofu had to be eaten sparingly. Luckily, the school provided free dormitory housing; the biggest expense was just filling his stomach.

Uncle Anping was ready to retire. He told Wei Ming: “I’m in office 404 upstairs. If you need anything, come to my office or my home. I won’t give you money, but here’s some extra nationwide grain coupons — keep them for yourself or trade them with colleagues for things you need.”

“Thank you, Uncle!”

Wei Anping gave one final warning: “Today you called me ‘Uncle’ — I’ll accept it. But tomorrow, when you’re on campus, how should you address me?”

Wei Ming thought for a moment and asked: “Director Wei?”

Wei Anping burst out laughing and patted Wei Ming’s shoulder: “You’re a sharp kid!”

After Wei Anping left, Wei Ming filled out two more forms, waited a few minutes, then the head of the campus security team, Commander Qiao, came to fetch him.

“Wei Ming? Come with me.”

The commander looked to be around thirty, with a square, rugged face. Wei Ming instantly knew his origin — he was slightly shorter than Wei Ming, maybe one meter eighty, but far more muscular; his presence suggested he could lift Wei Ming with one hand — a true Shandong giant.

“Commander Qiao, you’re from Shandong, right?”

“Oh? You picked that up?” Commander Qiao laughed. “Just call me Brother Feng.”

Wei Ming froze: “Which feng?”

“The ‘feng’ from the red leaves of Fragrant Hills. How’s that? Literary, right?”

Hmm, honestly, a bit cheesy — but paired with the surname, it’s better: Qiao Feng!

“Brother Feng, have you heard of ‘Northern Qiao Feng, Southern Murong’?”

Qiao Feng suddenly tensed: “What? How do you know my girlfriend’s name?!”

Qiao Feng had never heard of “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils,” but his girlfriend happened to be named Mu Rong — Mu being her surname, Rong her given name.

Wei Ming had to explain it came from a wuxia novel — pure coincidence.

“Northern Qiao Feng, Southern Murong~ Hah, interesting. Who came up with that?” Brother Feng chuckled to himself, as if recalling something sweet.

There were many similar northern-southern nicknames — like “Southern Mao, Northern Ma,” or “Southern Emperor, Northern Beggar.”

And of course — Southern Gong Ying, Northern Zhu Lin…

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(End of Chapter)