Chapter 79: May I Ask, Has the Literary World Finally Admitted Defeat

In Wei Ming’s dorm, four guys were devouring a pork elbow.

The Tianfu Restaurant’s braised pork elbows are made from carefully selected, well-marbled pig elbows, prized for their rich but not greasy meat, lean yet tender texture, skin that stays soft and never toughens, and melt-in-your-mouth tenderness—uniquely renowned in Beijing, a time-honored brand that has endured.

Though large, the elbow couldn’t withstand four growing boys.

When only bones remained, Wei Ming glanced at his expensive all-steel Shanghai watch, stood up, wiped his mouth, and said, “Biaozi, it’s time for work. Xiao Mei, clean up.”

Biaozi groaned in regret—he could only eat two bites, not even take a sip, and worst of all, they hadn’t encountered any righteous deed in town; Ming-ge wasn’t lucky today!

As they walked in, they spotted Bai Shurong, editor of *Contemporary*, approaching.

“Editor Bai, you could’ve just called—no need to come all this way.”

“That wouldn’t show our sincerity,” Bai Shurong said. “I’ve already consulted the chief editor—he agrees to your request. If you finish and pass three rounds of review before December, we’ll reserve third-issue space for you.”

More than a month—this timeline was more than ample for Wei Ming.

Bai Shurong truly wanted to ask Wei Ming about the emotional journey behind writing *Er Niu*, and to tell him how the entire editorial staff raved about it, feeling it read like the work of a seasoned writer with decades of experience; Chief Editor Yan Wenyin had even praised it as a soul-devouring piece.

But seeing Wei Ming was heading to work, Bai Shurong could only ask one thing: “You haven’t told me the title of your new work yet—do you have one now?”

“Oh, it’s settled—it’s called *The Horse Herder*.”

“*The Horse Herder*,” Bai Shurong murmured twice, then smiled.

Ducks, cows, and that story in *Harvest* about donkeys—now a horse too. This peasant boy seems to be locked in a feud with farm animals.

As soon as Bai Shurong left, Biaozi immediately formulated a rule.

“Ming-ge, are all your editors women?”

Wei Ming paused, then nodded: “Come to think of it, they are.”

Biaozi sighed enviously: “Ming-ge, your luck with women is incredible!”

Wei Ming shook his head—what good were female editors? They were all middle-aged women over ten years his senior; not even one woman in her late twenties.

Then they circled the girls’ dormitory, patrolled the boys’ dorm building, and were immediately surrounded—led by Chen Jiangong.

“Comrade Wei Ming, could you talk about the creative background of *Er Niu*?”

In one day, *Er Niu* had spread through all three classes of the Chinese Department—77, 78, and 79—truly a hit across three cohorts.

Wei Ming: “That’s not ideal—we’re on duty.”

“Then patrol your route—we can just follow you.”

So this group of enthusiastic students began trailing Wei Ming, eager to hear how he wrote *Er Niu*.

Clearly, compared to the light, sketch-like *Duck Knows*, *Er Niu*’s deep excavation of human nature had won over this young readership.

“It’s actually a reimagining—I based this story on a local legend from Mount Yimeng…”

After walking nearly an hour, Wei Ming had spoken nonstop; the readers, their curiosity satisfied, finally dispersed—except for Liu Zhenyun, who had been lingering on the periphery and now stepped forward.

Seeing his gloomy expression, Wei Ming asked: “What? Did my method not work?”

Liu Zhenyun shook his head: “I asked around—the chocolate’s too expensive, so I thought… I thought…”

Wei Ming stepped back two paces, alarmed—was he going to ask for a loan?

Liu Zhenyun: “So I thought I’d submit something to earn money.”

Wei Ming stepped forward two paces, radiating masterly aura: “Oh? You want to write fiction? I’ll teach you~”

Liu Zhenyun shook his head: “I want to write a critique of *Er Niu*. I have a hunch the literary world will soon demand this kind of analysis—I’ll write fast, maybe earn some royalties. Even if it’s only the minimum rate—two yuan per thousand characters—it’ll cover my needs.”

He’d come just to tell Wei Ming he’d finished and wanted his guidance—to see if his analysis was right.

Letting the original author critique your own review of his work? Old Liu, you’re something else!

Liu Zhenyun had the advantage of proximity; Teacher Zang Kefu back in Ping’an County High School could only write in isolation.

As Wei Ming’s Chinese teacher, he closely followed this novella, bought the magazine first thing in the morning, started reading on the way, and grew more stunned with every page.

Unlike the playful tone of *Duck Knows*, *Er Niu* peeled back the bloody shell of human nature—peasants, bandits, Japanese invaders, each appearing in turn, making readers’ blood pressure spike.

Back in his office, Zang Kefu couldn’t resist sharing and discussing the story with other Chinese teachers.

Their unanimous opinion: they couldn’t write anything like it—not even close.

“Little Zang, is this really your student? Are you sure it’s not a coincidence?”

“Definitely not a coincidence—the bio at the end says he’s eighteen, from Hengzhou,” Teacher Zang said. “I was shocked by his progress, but then I realized—it’s not that he improved fast; it’s that school essays had word limits and rigid themes, severely restricting his potential.”

Zang Kefu, age twenty-eight, a master of overthinking.

“Looks like Hengzhou is about to produce another great writer!” said a female teacher. “He’s truly surpassed his teacher,” muttered an older teacher, envious.

Zang Kefu laughed: “A disciple need not be inferior to his master, nor a master superior to his disciple—but I’m proud to have taught such a student!”

At evening self-study time, Zang Kefu brought the magazine into class and began considering writing a review to submit.

But where to begin? The novella was barely over forty thousand characters, yet there was so much to write about.

As he pondered this, Wei Hong was staring intently at *Beijing Literature*.

That noon, she’d left school just to buy this issue—the Red Sister wasn’t short on cash—but the county Xinhua Bookstore had only a few copies, all sold out. Then, fortune smiled again.

She rushed to the podium and whispered to Teacher Zang: “Teacher Zang, can I borrow this magazine?”

Teacher Zang instinctively wanted to refuse—but seeing it was Wei Hong, he gladly agreed.

But as Wei Hong read on, Teacher Zang suddenly realized—he shouldn’t have let her see it! There were explicit sexual descriptions inside!

Mainly Niuer’s imagined and physical contact with Jiu’er’s breasts—both Jiu’er and Niuer were involved.

!

But it was too late—Wei Hong’s cheeks were flushed, clearly having seen it, yet she kept turning pages with determination.

The story’s tone was heavy; Jiu’er was one of the few bright spots in Niuer’s life. She understood her brother wrote this for the sake of the story and character.

This was truly her brother’s real strength!

Back in the dorm, Mei Wenhua, lying on his bed reading *Beijing Literature*, also came across this heart-pounding passage—flipped past it, then flipped back to read again.

He couldn’t help but praise: Wei Ming was an incredible writer!

Then he suddenly realized—this kid knew way too much! He’d pretended to be innocent before—pfft!

He adjusted his position and kept reading.

At this moment, Wei Ming and Biaozi reached Langrun Garden. Old Mr. Wu Zuxiang spotted Wei Ming from his second-floor balcony, waved urgently, and hurried down.

“Teacher Wu,” Wei Ming quickly stepped forward.

The old master said: “You’ve done well!”

Wei Ming frowned: “What did I do?”

Wu Zuxiang laughed: “I mean *Er Niu*—finally, you’ve earned some respect!”

Previously, *Duck Knows* had been criticized by literary reviewers for its long stretches of dialogue, occasional forced humor, and lack of inner monologue—deemed shallow in human depth, not truly outstanding.

Thus, many in the literary world resented Wei Ming’s sudden fame from *Duck Knows*.

As Wu Zuxiang’s recommendee for the Writers’ Association, he’d even been mocked by old friends.

Now, Old Wu beamed: “*Er Niu* centers on one man and one ox, packed with extended inner monologues and metaphors—its depth and clarity in exploring human nature, its concise yet powerful prose, its wildly inventive techniques—outstrip even veteran writers. Before, they didn’t believe in you. Now I ask them—do they finally admit defeat?”

In Tianjin, Jiang Zilong put down *Beijing Literature*, shook his head: “The younger generation is formidable!”

Admitted. Totally admitted.

…

*Er Niu* was Wei Ming’s first appearance as a fiction writer in a mainstream literary journal—and a spectacular one, instantly reversing his reputation, transforming him from a viral sensation into a serious author; many who didn’t know him now recognized his caliber.

Yet beyond the praise from those around him, Wei Ming still couldn’t gauge just how successful it truly was.

The next morning, Mei Wenhua sneaked to the bathroom to wash his underwear, then returned to join Wei Ming for morning duty.

To attend Li Aiguo’s birthday party, Wei Ming had skipped nearly six hours of sleep between two shifts, then napped again after work at noon.

After waking, he wrote for a while on *The Book of Heaven*—currently the scene where Dan Sheng battles the three foxes, blending original film content with Wei Ming’s own innovations.

He got so caught up he nearly couldn’t stop—thankfully, his watch reminded him; he grabbed the gift and headed out.

Shao Garden is one of Peking University’s eight gardens, located south of the west gate, hosting international students since the 1950s.

Wei Ming passed the first gate easily—he was already familiar with Gatekeeper Old Qin from patrols.

He knew he was a peculiar figure in Peking University’s staff system; even the Chinese Department professors favored him more than regular enrolled students.

So though some found it odd how he’d befriended international students, they still let him in—just required a signature.

Shao Garden was constructing a new dorm for international students; currently, they lived in the aging Building 25 and 26.

The first gate was easy; the second gate, at the dorm supervisor’s desk, was another matter…

(Ten chapters, thirty thousand characters—requesting monthly votes!)

(End of chapter)