Chapter 73

Unlike Liu Ye and Zhao Wei, Zeng Li and Chen Minghao’s pair performed smoothly: during their scene of a couple quarreling, Chen Minghao, enraged, shoved Zeng Li, who fell gracefully to the ground—already ill and pale-faced, she took advantage of her discomfort to burst into tears, perfectly fitting the role.

In Wu Yuchen’s view, for this impromptu performance, the two of them were already among the better pairs.

After the exam ended, everyone gradually began to disperse.

But Chang Li sought out Zeng Li—after all, the girl had dragged her sick body from the hospital to take the exam; as her teacher, Chang Li had to come and show concern.

“Teacher Chang, I’m feeling much better.”

“Zeng Li, your complexion still looks off—you need proper rest.”

“Yes, thank you, Teacher Chang, for your concern.”

At that moment, Chang Li turned to Wu Yuchen and asked: “Young man, what’s your name?”

“I’m Wu Yuchen.”

Chang Li found the name vaguely familiar but didn’t think much of it, smiling as she asked:

“You watched for so long—do you have any interest in acting? Want to join our Central Drama Academy?”

Wu Yuchen was stunned, caught off guard: “Uh, Teacher, isn’t the exam over already?”

Chang Li smiled warmly: “The Beijing test center is done, but our Northeast Bincheng center hasn’t started yet—if you’re interested, prepare and apply there later.”

This reminded Wu Yuchen: wasn’t Qin Hailu admitted through the Bincheng center?

Seeing Chang Li genuinely interested in him, Wu Yuchen quickly explained:

“Teacher Chang, thank you for your kindness, but I’m in the Directing Class at Beijing Film Academy.”

Chang Li was genuinely surprised, then remembered something and asked:

“You’re the freshman who won the Golden Bear for Short Film at Berlin?”

Wu Yuchen nodded modestly: “Just lucky.”

“Come on, so you made that! I watched your ‘Car 44’—it’s excellent, no need to be humble!” Chang Li waved her hand, laughing.

After Wu Yuchen won the short film Golden Bear, Beijing Film Academy couldn’t stop boasting, and Central Drama Academy naturally studied it—so few people at either school hadn’t seen his short.

Nearby, Zeng Li, seeing even Teacher Chang praise Wu Yuchen so highly, felt both admiration and a quiet delight.

Chang Li now abandoned her earlier thought, and after giving Zeng Li another round of advice—to rest well and not neglect her academic studies, since even though art students had lower score thresholds, they still had to pass—she left.

Watching this teacher who cared so deeply for her, Zeng Li felt a twinge of guilt: if she passed both Central Drama and Beijing Film, she’d inevitably choose Beijing Film—after all, Wu Yuchen was there.

The doctor said Zeng Li didn’t need to stay hospitalized—just take medicine and recover at home. Wu Yuchen took her back to the guesthouse in the afternoon, then returned home.

When Zhou Shulan returned, she saw her son had prepared many dishes, and upon checking the kitchen, found a pot of porridge boiling—she couldn’t help complaining: “You’re more attentive to your girlfriend than to your own mother!”

“Mom, I only made that porridge for her—it took hardly any effort! All these other dishes were made for you!”

“Well, at least you’ve got some conscience.”

At the dinner table, Zhou Shulan couldn’t help asking again:

“Is she from Beijing?”

“No, she’s just here to take the college entrance exam.”

“When did you start? How’d you end up in a long-distance relationship?”

“Mom, you’re at it again…”

Wu Yuchen shoveled a few bites of rice, then rose to pick up the thermos and head out.

“Chenchen, stop. If you come home tonight, don’t do anything foolish!”

“Mom, what are you thinking? She’s still sick!”

“If she weren’t sick, you’d do it already?!”

Wu Yuchen slapped his forehead, speechless:

“Mom, you’ve got me tangled up! Calm down—we’re still purely platonic. I know my limits.”

At that moment, Wu Jianping, who had been silent, spoke up:

“Chenchen, wait—the book’s out.”

Wu Yuchen perked up instantly: “Really?”

Wu Jianping stood and pulled out three brand-new novels from his bag. Wu Yuchen grabbed one immediately: a bright red cover, with a gradient color wash in the center, a red five-pointed star right in the middle, and beside the wash, two large characters: “Bright Sword”—the right stroke of the character “sword” extended long, like a real blade.

Wu Yuchen looked at the finished book in his hands and couldn’t help smiling.

He had proposed this novel months ago; after finishing it at the end of last year, he reread it himself—and now, finally, it was out.

Wu Yuchen flipped through the pages, smiling, then asked: “Dad, has the book been distributed yet?”

“Not that fast—it’ll take over half a month to ship. Our unit’s optimistic—we printed 100,000 copies, and for now, we’re selling only in Beijing and nearby regions.”

Wu Yuchen felt no disappointment—he’d understood last year that he’d been naive. Making money from books takes a long time; market momentum takes months to build. In this era, with few channels and no marketing tools, even good books took over a year to gain traction.

Fortunately, he was already earning from his short film, so he’d accepted this calmly—for now, he treated it as copyright accumulation.

Then Wu Yuchen took the book and the thermos and headed out.

At the guesthouse, Zeng Li had been out and about all day and didn’t want to trouble Wu Yuchen to feed her anymore—though she was only drinking plain white porridge, she still felt delighted.

After finishing, she noticed Wu Yuchen flipping through a book and curiously leaned over: “What’s this book?”

Wu Yuchen smiled and handed it to her: “For you to pass the time—you’re stuck here alone.”

Zeng Li took the book and examined the cover closely, then flipped through the pages. After a moment, her expression turned puzzled. She brought the book close to Wu Yuchen and asked: “The author…”

She had reached the author bio section: the pen name was Wu Yuchen’s earlier joke—“Father and Son on the Battlefield.” The bio listed Wu Yuchen and Wu Jianping as co-authors, noting they had collaborated. Wu Jianping had insisted on putting his son’s name first—he didn’t care what others thought; he knew this story was his son’s.

Watching Zeng Li’s face—curious, astonished, uncertain—Wu Yuchen nodded:

“That’s me. The one after is my dad. Originally…”

Zeng Li grew more astonished with every word, her admiration deepening—she didn’t doubt a single word.

After all, Wu Yuchen had won the Berlin Golden Bear—he was clearly talented. Was it strange he could write novels?

At the same time, Zeng Li gently traced her fingers over the book in her hands, her thoughts drifting: she’d eaten his mother’s food, and now she held a book co-written by him and his father—was she slowly becoming part of their family?

Thinking of this, her cheeks flushed red.