Chapter 22

Wu Yuchen looked at Zhou Shulan’s serious expression and finally realized it was all because of this—he couldn’t help but feel both amused and exasperated.

Back in his past life, every time they met, she pushed him to find a girlfriend and get married, but now she was suddenly suspicious—this was just…

“Mom, you’ve got it all wrong—I’m not dating anyone!”

“Then why did you suddenly start learning to cook?”

“I…” Wu Yuchen felt deeply wronged—he’d just wanted to show filial piety, and now even cooking a meal made her suspicious?

He truly admired those past-life transmigrators who could fool others after inhabiting new bodies; here he was, reborn into his own body, and still dumb enough to be interrogated by his mother over something this trivial.

Wu Yuchen spotted Wu Jianping, silent beside him, and a sudden idea struck him: “Mom, you’re right—I did go learn to cook, but not to find a girlfriend.”

“Then why?”

“For Dad!”

Zhou Shulan turned to look at her husband.

Wu Jianping, who had been silent, froze, his chewing halting mid-bite.

Then he swallowed hard, eyes wide, and asked: “For me?”

Wu Yuchen nodded, then smiled:

“Dad, do you remember what I asked you for before?”

“Asked me for?” Wu Jianping thought hard.

“You mean about writing and publishing a novel?”

Wu Jianping recalled—he’d heard his son mention it a month ago, but he’d assumed it was just a joke.

“Exactly! Dad, you’ve eaten my cooking—can’t you just eat it for free?”

Wu Jianping chewed his lips, put down his chopsticks, and thought before saying:

“Chenchen, it’s not that I won’t agree to you.

Writing a novel isn’t something you can just do—it takes too much energy, and I don’t have the ability to construct stories.”

“Dad, you can’t construct stories, but I can!

I’ll tell you the story, you write it down—we’ll collaborate, and use a pen name: ‘Father and Son on the Battlefield’!”

Wu Yuchen clapped his hands.

That was right—Wu Yuchen didn’t plan to write it himself; he wanted his father, Wu Jianping, to write it.

Though Wu Jianping had been a soldier and seemed rough, he actually had a real talent for writing—he’d personally chosen the publishing house among several options when he left the military.

At least Wu Yuchen knew his own writing couldn’t match his father’s. His own prose was merely above average—he could manage a screenplay, but he had no illusion he could write a novel that truly captivated readers.

Sometimes talent really matters: the same story outline, given to different people, could become vivid and alive in one hand, and dull and lifeless in another.

His father, Wu Jianping, was one of those with a strong pen—his prose was realistic and detailed, his character portrayals incisive, naturally carrying a simple yet comforting style.

More importantly, his father had been a soldier, fought on the battlefield, had seen blood, and lived through special historical eras.

He wanted his father to write the kind of novels that were about to become wildly popular—the military and historical genre, like “Sword of Valor,” “The Sky of History,” “Blood Romanticism.”

With Wu Yuchen telling the story and Wu Jianping writing it, there’d be no risk of being accused of plagiarism or inconsistent style.

And Wu Jianping’s life experiences would let him render these stories with far more depth than Wu Yuchen ever could.

Compared to becoming a literary thief himself—exhausting and laborious—Wu Yuchen felt it was far easier and more rewarding to cultivate his father into a famous writer!

And if this worked, the money problem would be solved too. Honestly, in today’s China, making movies or even TV dramas might not earn as much as writing one best-selling novel.

“You tell stories, I write? ‘Father and Son on the Battlefield’?”

Wu Jianping was genuinely stunned by his son’s suggestion, then chuckled:

“Chenchen, don’t think I’m discouraging you, but constructing a long novel’s story isn’t that easy…”

Wu Jianping knew his son’s abilities well—he’d never shown any strong creative talent in writing since childhood.

“Dad, don’t underestimate me—I just never took it seriously before. I’ve got a screenplay written right here—take a look at my story. If you think it’s good, we’ve got a deal on the novel!”

Wu Yuchen rose to get the screenplay.

But Zhou Shulan grabbed him again:

“Hey hey hey, can’t this wait till after dinner?”

Then she glanced at her husband, who was smiling, and muttered resentfully to Wu Yuchen:

“I’ve cooked for you all these years for nothing…”

“Hey, what are you talking about? Doesn’t it make any difference whether he cooks for me or you? You’re not missing a bite—you’re just jealous!”

Wu Jianping picked up a chopstick of food to put in his wife’s bowl; she pulled her bowl away, pouting:

“I’ve got my own hands. Hmph. Acting humble after getting the advantage.”

Wu Yuchen instantly understood his mother’s mood—he quickly piled several more bites into Zhou Shulan’s bowl himself.

Her expression softened, and she ate happily.

Wu Jianping and Wu Yuchen exchanged a glance—women!

After dinner, in the room, Wu Jianping finished reading the screenplay “Car 44” and stared at his son in surprise: “Did you really write this?”

The story was short, but exceptionally well-written—full of drama, tension, and depth, leaving a lasting impression.

“Of course it’s real! I’ve already shot the film—I’ve been busy with this whole thing, and now I’ve got post-production ahead.

Dad, how’s it? You promised!” Wu Yuchen emphasized.

Hearing this, and holding the screenplay, Wu Jianping finally believed his son’s claim about making a movie.

Wu Jianping looked at his son—this boy had only been in college for two months; how had he suddenly become so capable?

Could university really be this powerful in nurturing talent?

No—that didn’t make sense; his own workplace hired college graduates every year, and they were all ordinary.

Wu Jianping thought hard but couldn’t figure it out—he could only conclude his son’s talent had simply gone unnoticed before.

Then Wu Jianping shook his head: “Chenchen, I can’t help you with this. If you have this talent, you should write it yourself—writing skills can be improved with practice.”

Parents think deeply for their children’s future—Wu Yuchen understood his father’s meaning: if you have talent and passion, you should cultivate it yourself.

But Wu Yuchen knew he wasn’t a genius—trying to become a writer would be exhausting and inefficient.

“Dad, among all artistic creation, my ambition isn’t to be a writer—it’s to be a director!

I want to devote all my energy to learning directing, not improving my prose.

But now inspiration has struck—I feel if I don’t turn this story into something now, it’ll be a waste!

I want to quickly draft an outline and detailed structure, and then you write it.

Dad, I’m not joking—I’m serious.”

Wu Yuchen looked earnestly at his father.