Chapter 9: Donkey (Request Monthly Votes!)

“Oh, by the way, what pen name are you planning to publish under? Just ‘Wei Ming,’ or are you taking a pseudonym?” asked Lu Xiaoyan before they parted.

Wei Ming felt children’s works should be clearly separated from other works; after thinking a moment, he said, “I’ll call myself Wei Shenme—Wei is my surname’s Wei, and Shenme is just that Shenme.”

In his past life, when he wrote screenplays, he had used this pen name.

“Wei Shenme~” Lu Xiaoyan repeated it twice. “Easy to remember, catchy—perfect, let’s go with it!”

After entering the cafeteria, his three dorm mates were still waiting; Qiao Feng had forbidden him from prying, so Mei Wenhua hadn’t asked—but he hoped Wei Ming would confess on his own.

But Wei Ming said nothing upon entering, just buried his head in his meal, determined to fill his body as quickly as possible.

Two steamed buns weren’t enough; he bought another, dipping it in the broth from the pan-fried tofu.

After eating, he asked, “Brother Feng, what’s the schedule for the afternoon?”

Qiao Feng: “Of course, training.”

Training was for newcomers—there were only a dozen or so of them; Peking University didn’t actually need so many security staff—they were all temporary workers, dumped on the university by the government.

Brother Feng held them to standards stricter than university military training, starting with an hour of standing at attention.

As for Peking University’s freshman military training, it differed from other schools and wouldn’t begin until the summer between first and second year.

When training ended at six, everyone was exhausted and hungry; Wei Ming barely made it into the cafeteria, supported by Zhao Debiao.

“Biaozi, you really are no joke—trained since childhood. You look like you didn’t even break a sweat.”

Zhao Debiao grinned confidently: “This intensity? Nothing. Our coach Wu is way stricter than Coach Qiao.”

“Coach Wu? You mean Coach Wu Bin?”

“Yeah! Even you’ve heard of his name?!”

“Oh, I saw him on the news,” Wei Ming asked, “Didn’t you also have a guy named Li Lianjie who performed for the American president?”

“Yeah, yeah! A short guy, went to America, met that guy with the last name Ni—but he always called me ‘Big Brother Biao.’ In our Shichahai Sports School, short guys were the ones who got attention. Later, I grew too tall and too bulky, so I wasn’t suited for martial arts routines anymore. Honestly, I should’ve switched to wrestling back then.”

Speaking of his martial arts path, Zhao Debiao was filled with regret, so now he desperately sought comfort in the fantasy world of wuxia.

He urged Wei Ming: “By the way, Brother Ming, tell us another part of ‘Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils.’”

“Where did we leave off?”

“Duan Zhengchun and Gan Baobao are meeting secretly in Wanjie Valley…”

Mei Wenhua, lagging behind, hurried forward a few steps, unwilling to miss a single detail of this scene.

Only later did he realize: Duan Yu was nothing—Duan Zhengchun was the true god!

Meanwhile, Qiao Feng, leading the group ahead, slowed his pace and fell into step with them.

After dinner, everyone had recovered a bit, but their bodies still felt sticky.

Back in the dorm, Zhao Debiao saw Wei Ming holding a basin: “Brother Ming, you’re going to bathe?”

“Mm.”

“Join me!”

“Sure, why not, Culture? Come too,” Wei Ming invited sincerely.

Mei Wenhua shook his head so vigorously his motion blurred—as if he had some psychological barrier.

He wanted to persuade Wei Ming not to go, to spare him the humiliation—he and Zhao Debiao had joined on the same day, and on their first day, they’d bathed together in the shower room, after which Zhao Debiao had crushed him.

But he didn’t say a word of warning; instead, a minute later, he sneaked off to the shower room, eager to witness Wei Ming’s humiliation.

What he heard was Zhao Debiao’s genuine exclamation: “Brother Ming, you’re too much of a donkey!”

Wei Ming glanced sideways: “You’re not bad either.”

Zhao Debiao laughed: “Haha, I thought I was invincible, never imagined someone even more formidable than me!” Two naked men, dousing each other with water, chatted about numbers like eighteen and twenty; everyone else kept their distance, and Mei Wenhua didn’t even wash—he changed into his regular clothes and left immediately.

Too devastating!

After a cold shower, Wei Ming felt refreshed and decided to visit Peking University’s famous library, to ponder what his next work should be.

Fairy tales were just a trial run; his ultimate goal was to write a long novel, because more words meant higher royalties.

But the library, though open, had almost no empty seats.

After the Class of ’79 enrolled, the student-to-seat ratio at the library reached six to one—six students per seat.

Peking University students were famously studious, and there were few entertainment venues nearby, so everyone studied or read books at night; reserving seats had become a major problem.

As for the books inside, you couldn’t borrow them without a library card—he wasn’t a student, so he had no card.

So beside a bookshelf, Wei Ming leaned against the wall and read this year’s literary magazines—these couldn’t be checked out, only read in the reading room.

Two other boys nearby, likely classmates, held similar magazines—one had “Contemporary,” the other “October,” occasionally discussing them.

Both publications were from Yanjing: “October” had launched last year under Yanjing Publishing House; “Contemporary” debuted this year under People’s Literature Publishing House.

!

The magazine Wei Ming held was also new: “Qingming,” published by the Anhui Writers Association.

Its first issue had gone viral thanks to “The Legend of Mount Tianyun,” a representative work of reflective literature; published in July, it was already worn out by September, later adapted into a film by renowned director Xie Jin.

Right now, the most popular genres in literary circles were reflective literature, wounded literature, and educated youth literature—all new schools born after the flood, reflecting the tastes of literary enthusiasts in this era.

Wei Ming read Lu Yanzhou’s “The Legend of Mount Tianyun” in full, compared it with his memory of Xie Dao’s film version, and skimmed the other articles.

Standing too long, it was getting late; he returned to the dorm—but no one was there.

Brother Feng had gone to see his girlfriend, Biaozi had gone to play basketball, and Mei Wenhua’s whereabouts were unknown.

Seizing the opportunity, Wei Ming climbed onto his bed to write—but before he decided what to write, Qiao Feng walked in.

“Back already, Xiao Wei?”

“Mm, just got back.”

“What are you doing lying on your bed? Writing a letter home?”

“Mm~”

Brother Feng wiped sweat from his brow, then after a moment, handed something to Wei Ming.

“Huh? A desk lamp?”

Qiao Feng tossed it to him: “Writing’s better with more light.”

After lending Wei Ming his own lamp, Qiao Feng went out again and returned with a low table from next door.

“Add this, isn’t it much more comfortable?”

Writing while seated on the bed was far better than lying down; Wei Ming sincerely thanked him, though a little embarrassed.

“Brother Feng, I wasn’t writing a letter home.”

“I knew it—you’re writing a love letter!” Qiao Feng declared confidently. “There’s a table in the room—clearly you’re hiding something.”

Wei Ming chuckled: “It’s not a love letter—I’m writing a novel.”

“Writing a novel?” Qiao Feng paused, then searched his mind for encouragement: “Good! Ambitious! I believe one day you’ll succeed—I’ll wait to see your work in magazines and newspapers.”

Wei Ming continued: “Actually, I’ve already had some success—today, Auntie Xiaoyan came to see me because my story was accepted by her magazine.”

Under Qiao Feng’s stunned expression, Wei Ming added: “This month’s publication…”

(End of Chapter)