Chapter 70: New Book Seminar (Please Follow!)

Hearing his dad got arrested, Qi Delong couldn’t help but feel relieved—finally, no one would beat him anymore!

But he quickly grew worried—wouldn’t his classmates now call him “the thug’s son”? That was too embarrassing!

After this mix of joy and dread, he couldn’t help wondering: Did Dad’s flirting with Teacher Hu mean he liked her? Would Teacher Hu become his stepmother then?

Thinking about it, that might actually be a good thing—he really liked Teacher Hu. She was gentle, beautiful, and patient with him, unlike other teachers who always ran to Dad to complain, getting him beaten.

Wei Ming told Xiao Hong to help their mother prepare lunch, while he and Lao Wei took Qi Delong over to see what was going on—the kid didn’t want to go.

“You’ve got to come,” Lao Wei said. “This involves you.”

Wei Ming also encouraged him: “Xiao Long, this is your chance to make sure your dad never beats you again.”

“Really?”

When they arrived, a crowd had already gathered outside Qi Kexiu’s house—including the village militia captain and a police officer—while the women’s committee chair was comforting the traumatized Teacher Hu.

Actually, Qi Kexiu hadn’t been captured yet—he was barricaded in the outhouse, shouting whenever anyone tried to enter: “I’ll throw shit at you!”

Thanks to this tactic, Zhao Chunlai and the others couldn’t break in, but he wasn’t worried: “Qi Kexiu will come out when he’s hungry—he can’t eat shit.”

Qi Kexiu: “Don’t push me—I’ll do anything!”

At that moment, Wei Jiefang and the others had gathered nearby. Lao Wei curiously asked the women’s committee chair holding Teacher Hu: “So Qi Kexiu really wasn’t wearing anything? He never works the fields—was he especially pale?”

Teacher Hu had almost calmed down, but hearing this, she burst into fresh sobs. Still, to be fair—he really was pale.

Seeing Wei Jiefang arrive, Zhao Chunlai snorted: “Wei Jiefang, you’re one to talk—your own business isn’t settled yet!”

Wei Jiefang: “I didn’t flirt with anyone!”

Zhao Chunlai: “I’m talking about your abuse of public resources.”

“Abuse of public resources?” Wei Jiefang blinked. “Oh—you mean the donkey cart?”

“Exactly! Did you or did you not use the brigade’s donkey cart to take your kids out for fun?”

Wei Jiefang gave a dismissive smile and shot his son a look—dealing with Zhao Chunlai didn’t need him to lift a finger; his son could handle it.

“Everyone, quiet down—can you listen to me for a moment?” Wei Ming stepped into the center of the courtyard. He wasn’t just anyone anymore—he was the only writer ever born in Gouzi Village in its five-thousand-year history.

His voice silenced the entire crowd—respectful as if the village chief himself had spoken.

Wei Ming continued: “This morning, my father and I found a note by our front gate—it was written by my cousin Qi Delong. He said he was beaten by his dad yesterday and was running away, never to return. My father and I thought that couldn’t stand—children are the flowers of our nation, the future of Gouzi Village! So one of us rode a motorcycle, the other drove the donkey cart, and we brought my sister along—we split up and raced nonstop until we found him at the Chengguanzhen market. And guess what? The kid took his dad’s clothes with him.”

As he spoke, Wei Ming opened the bundle—everyone burst into laughter.

“Fucking hell, so it was you, you little shit!” Qi Kexiu roared from inside the outhouse. The onlookers laughed uproariously.

Wei Ming went on: “So Qi Kexiu didn’t flirt—he just got desperate and had no clothes nearby, so he used the outhouse naked in his own home, and accidentally exposed himself to Teacher Hu. Neither of them is at fault. Isn’t that right?”

“Right!”

Wei Ming’s words now carried weight—he’d stripped Qi Kexiu of the “flirt” label and justified Lao Wei’s use of the donkey cart, leaving Zhao Chunlai speechless.

Then Wei Ming walked to the outhouse door: “Uncle, Xiao Long did wrong today, but as a teacher, isn’t it you who’s in the wrong for beating a child?”

“I…”

Wei Ming shook out his clothes at the door.

Remembering he was still naked, Qi Kexiu swallowed his humiliation: “Yes, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have lost my temper—I should’ve talked to him.”

“Will you beat Xiao Long again?”

“No. Never again.”

Wei Ming: “Good. Everyone here is a witness. Xiao Long, what if your dad beats you again?”

Qi Delong: “I’ll take his clothes again!”

“Hahaha!”

Qi Kexiu was furious—he felt he’d be completely controlled by this kid. Wait—he could just wear clothes to sleep from now on!

Wei Jiefang said: “Alright, father and son have reconciled. Everyone, disperse!”

Wei Ming handed over the clothes. Qi Delong grabbed them and bolted, leaving Wei Jiefang to clean up.

By the time most people had left, Fan Chunhua rushed back, breathless.

“Big brother, did Qi Kexiu really flirt?!”

“No no—he just went naked in front of another woman.” Wei Jiefang said.

“What?!” Fan Chunhua exploded. Seeing Qi Kexiu emerge dressed from the outhouse, she swung her spade and swung at him.

Seeing Qi Kexiu dodge, Wei Jiefang relaxed—he strolled home to eat chicken.

After lunch, Qi Delong decided to skip school to avoid trouble—but his dad went there too to avoid trouble. At that moment, enemies met, eyes blazing.

Whether they fought, Wei Ming didn’t know—he was now talking to his mother about returning to Sichuan-Chongqing.

Hearing this, Xu Shufen’s eyes welled up again.

“Is this really possible? I don’t even know where they are.” Xu Shufen felt helpless.

!

At first, she barely knew how to read. After marrying, Wei Jiefang patiently taught her to read and encouraged her to write letters home—but after all these years, not a single reply came.

She guessed her parents were dead. Maybe her siblings still lived—but where? She had no idea.

Lao Wei immediately wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulder—it was his turn to act: “If we can’t find them, we’ll ask around. Winter’s quiet here—no work. I’ll go with you.”

Wei Hong: “Mom, I’m coming too!”

Since childhood, she’d listened to her mother say that in their homeland, you could often see pandas! Real pandas!

Wei Ming laughed: “Then it’s settled—we’ll go during winter break. School’s quiet then, and taking leave will be easy.”

But if the whole family went, the expenses would be high—Wei Ming felt he needed to earn even more.

So after lunch and a short rest, he returned to writing “The Book of Heavenly Secrets”—a novella, still just begun, with the egg not even hatched yet.

Though she wanted to talk to her brother before he left tomorrow, seeing him work, she quietly went to their parents’ room to do homework.

When Wei Ming stepped out for a stroll, Wei Hong said: “Brother, you write poetry too! And so well!”

She’d finally spotted a poem titled “Ideal,” signed “Wei Ming,” in “Weiminghu” and the school journal.

Wei Ming smiled: “More skills never weigh you down—fairy tales, poetry, novels—I might even write screenplays later.”

Wei Hong knew her brother was writing a fairy tale, but she felt she was too old for them now, so she cared more about novels.

Wei Hong said: “When ‘Beijing Literature’ comes out, I’ll be at school—I’ll check if I can buy it in town.”

Wei Ming: “If you can’t find it, write me a letter—I’ll mail you a copy.”

“Great! Brother, what novel are you planning to write next?” Wei Hong asked.

Wei Ming shook his head: “Not decided yet.”

Wei Hong: “I think our family story’s fascinating. Our great-grandfather was a true hero, and your uncles—though blood brothers—held opposing sides. Maybe they even fought each other on the battlefield. That’s a story full of conflict.”

Wei Hong, the top student of Ping’an County Middle, wasn’t strongest in Chinese—but she had real insight into writing.

Wei Ming’s mind stirred—he said: “If we write it, the backdrop would be huge, and the modern history research would be immense—it’d be at least a medium or long novel.”

A novella the length of a film adaptation was Wei Ming’s comfort zone, but he’d eventually have to tackle long and even epic novels.

Every writer hopes that when they die, one of their books will be the pillow under their head in the coffin.

“Xiao Hong’s suggestion is excellent. Any other ideas?” Though Wei Ming now favored quicker-returning novellas, he still encouraged his sister.

Xiao Hong couldn’t think of more—but Lao Wei had something to say: “Son, could you write a novel about your mother and me?”

…

(End of Chapter)