Chapter 72: So Many Letters—Are You Trying to Force Me to Buy a House

Even though none of these newspapers directly reported on him, Wei Ming, merely being associated with even a fraction of this massive traffic meant unimaginable wealth.

Another point confirming this was that on the train, while listening to passengers engage in online political debates, Wei Ming heard “Ducks know first when spring river water turns warm” more than once.

He also heard the phrase “The brave enjoy the world first” from several young men who seemed full of ambition.

While reading the newspapers, Wei Ming also saw the elder’s National Day speech, in which he said: “Economic work is the paramount political task; economic issues are the overriding political concern.”

This statement was printed in bold, oversized font.

Just as Uncle Anping had said, he had truly stepped onto the Fengkou of the times and been lifted by the wind.

He ate lunch on the train; by the time he arrived at Yanjing Station it was afternoon, and by the time he reached Peking University, night was nearly fallen.

Wei Ming’s luggage was much lighter than when he left—only a few bottles of his hometown’s old baijiu, and some local specialties his parents had entrusted to Uncle Anping.

The car stopped at the South Gate; seeing the familiar sign, Wei Ming realized he’d only been gone three days, yet he already missed it.

“Oh my goodness, Wei Ming’s back!”

A senior gatekeeper let out an excited cry, drawing everyone in the dorm downstairs up to the floor.

“Big Brother Wei, let me carry your luggage!” Zhao Debiao was as eager as ever.

“I know what you’re thinking—don’t worry, tonight I’ll pick up right where I left off with The Legend of the Condor Heroes.”

Zhao Debiao: “Big Brother Wei, don’t you think wuxia stories go better with good liquor?”

Wei Ming chuckled: “Hengzhou old baijiu—I remember, I remember.”

After speaking, Wei Ming was about to tidy up the bed, but saw that it was covered with items.

“These are… letters?” Wei Ming was puzzled.

Biaozi said: “That’s right—all of them are for you. More are probably coming.”

“H-how so many?!”

Biaozi said: “Don’t move yet—I’ve already sorted them.”

He sat on Mei Wenhua’s bed and pointed to Wei Ming: “The smallest pile—all addressed to various editorial offices; the middle pile—specifically addressed to Wei Ming, author of ‘Ducks Know First When Spring River Water Turns Warm’; the largest pile—addressed to Wei Ming, author of ‘The Ideal.’”

“What about that other pile?”

“Oh, those weren’t addressed to any specific Wei Ming, so I grouped them together.”

“How many letters total?”

“Three hundred and twenty-six—about ten pounds, I’d guess.” Biaozi rattled off the number casually, showing how thorough he was.

What Wei Ming didn’t know was that after the serialization ended, the Wen Hui Bao published a critical essay on the novel, mentioning that the author, Wei Ming, was an employee at Peking University.

The Zhongqing Bao also noted this when reprinting it.

Additionally, the Poetry Journal, which had reprinted ‘The Ideal’ a few days earlier, briefly introduced Wei Ming as an 18-year-old young poet currently employed at Peking University.

Looking at the three hundred-plus letters covering his entire bed, Wei Ming asked himself: Where the hell am I supposed to put all this?

The dorm did have a personal cabinet, but it was already crammed full, and the space under every bed was also packed.

“Big Brother Wei, what are you thinking about?”

Wei Ming: “I’m wondering if I should buy a house just to store these letters.”

“Big Brother Wei, you’re joking—you don’t need to go that far.”

It’s certainly not necessary now, but who knows about later? He’d never imagined this problem before, when his fairy tales only drew ten letters, thinking he simply lacked the charm of Old Zheng.

Now he saw—he attracted adults.

“Big Brother Wei, do you want to open some letters now? I’m curious—what are these readers and screenwriters writing to you?”

Wei Ming nodded and started with the smallest pile.

He opened one letter from a provincial literary journal—it was a manuscript request. He set it aside, opened another—another manuscript request. Just then, Qiao Feng returned, holding another handful of letters. “Back already, Xiao Ming? Here—these were brought over by the guys from the West Gate and East Gate after their shift—thirty-five total.” Now there were 361 letters.

Biaozi took them. “I’ll sort them!”

“Guangzhou ‘Works’ Editorial Office—here. For ‘Ducks Know First…’—here. For ‘The Ideal’—here…”

The letters were quickly sorted; Wei Ming continued opening them—and then the gold coins started raining in.

Haha—a royalty slip from a reprint!

I heard some blockbuster phenomenon novels get reprinted over a hundred times—how much royalty would that be?

‘Ducks Know First When Spring River Water Turns Warm,’ because it aligned with the times and policy, had been elevated to phenomenon status, its popularity rivaling ‘The New Director of Qiao Factory,’ the pioneering work of reform literature.

Wei Ming finished reading the last dozen letters from various editorial offices—they fell into three categories.

The first category: manuscript requests—the most numerous—mostly from local newspapers and journals across provinces and cities. The big ones like ‘People’s Literature,’ ‘Contemporary,’ ‘Huacheng,’ and ‘October’ hadn’t reached out yet.

The highest-profile among them was ‘Hongyan,’ a Shancheng journal that had just been relaunched last month; its relaunch issue caused a minor stir in the literary world with ‘Xu Mao and His Daughters.’

The second category: royalty slips from reprints—eleven in total—so Wei Ming earned another two hundred yuan in royalties!

He never imagined the biggest earner would be ‘Ducks Know First,’ that little random short story he’d written on a whim!

The third category: several media outlets, led by the Zhongqing Bao, wanted to interview him about his personal story. Wei Ming planned to discuss this with Uncle Anping tomorrow.

!

Just reading through the smallest pile of editorial letters had taken over an hour; after a full day of travel, Wei Ming was tired, and even dinner had been brought back by Biaozi.

Just then, Mei Wenhua returned from work—he’d been dying to see Wei Ming’s reader letters.

“How about I open and read them for you?”

So Wei Ming let him open the second pile—the letters addressed to Wei Ming, author of ‘Ducks Know First.’

“Respected Teacher Wei Ming, have you eaten yet…”

The editors had only mentioned Wei Ming worked at Peking University; they assumed he was a teacher.

This was a confused, unemployed young man from Gendu—he’d heard Guangzhou was developing fast and wanted to go see if there were opportunities, but his family thought it too far and said there were no jianbing guozi stalls there, so they firmly refused. He wanted to ask Teacher Wei Ming: should he dare to be brave?

Mei Wenhua asked: “Will you reply?”

“If I replied to every one, I wouldn’t have time to do anything else for months,” Wei Ming said. “Not considering it.”

He still needed to save enough money to take his whole family to Sichuan-Chongqing to find relatives; if he was going to find them, maybe he should buy a camera too—so his priority now was writing.

Besides, replying to one letter cost ten fen—so many letters meant a significant expense.

Mei Wenhua opened the next letter, muttering: “If these were my readers, I’d reply to every single one.”

Biaozi: “That’s only because you don’t have any—so you can say that.”

Mei Wenhua didn’t retort—he kept reading. Most letters treated Wei Ming as a life mentor, hoping he’d help them decide whether to be brave—essentially just asking someone to give them a push.

But Wei Ming truly dared not be that pusher—going south in this era carried real risk; many people simply vanished afterward.

A few were purely fans of ‘Ducks Know First,’ discussing literature. Though the story wasn’t a profound literary work by today’s standards, its writing style was uniquely distinctive.

As Mei Wenhua kept opening letters, Wei Ming had recovered enough to pick up a letter addressed to Wei Ming, author of ‘The Ideal.’

As he opened the envelope, a photo slipped out—a clear, beautiful girl.

Wei Ming quickly read the letter—this, this was a friendship letter!

The girl first expressed admiration for Wei Ming’s talent, then described her own situation—family background, age—and as for appearance, it was all in the photo; she was certainly not ugly.

Though Wei Ming wouldn’t reply to her either, his interest in the pile of letters surged.

By the third letter, besides the photo, he found a local grain coupon inside.

And a five-yuan banknote!

…

(Preview: Going live next Tuesday—expect a big release. Hold on a little longer~)

(End of Chapter)