Chapter 82: Outburst

Last year, Li Xiaoran had heard Wu Yuchen ask this question once, but back then she was still happily working and hadn’t considered any other paths—she’d simply refused.

But now, Li Xiaoran had quit her job, lost her income, and knew she couldn’t keep lying around at home forever—she needed to find another way.

Doing commercials wasn’t a long-term solution; maybe acting, something she’d never considered before, was a good option? After all, Zhang Yimou had come to her before.

But that meant going back to school for another four years, which made Li Xiaoran, who’d been tired of being controlled in dance academy, feel a slight resistance.

“That Chen Kun from your dance troupe—I ran into him the other day. He took our school’s entrance exam.”

“What? He went to your school?” Li Xiaoran exclaimed.

Wu Yuchen nodded: “He’s working part-time to pay for tuition just to get in. Think about it seriously.”

Wu Yuchen didn’t press further—some things you only understand after you’ve bumped into them yourself.

Seeing Wu Yuchen pick up his bag and head for the door, Li Xiaoran called out: “Come over for dinner tonight—I’ll cook you something special~”

Wu Yuchen didn’t turn around, just gave an OK gesture. Li Xiaoran sat there, chin propped on her hand, staring blankly in the direction he’d left—not thinking about work, but about him.

Wu Yuchen used to seem like a shy boy, a kid who hadn’t grown up, but over the past year his changes had been enormous—he’d suddenly become a mature man, and every encounter left her feeling she could rely on him.

Especially these past few months, since Lu San caused trouble, the sense of peace Wu Yuchen brought when he stayed with her had made her almost addicted.

Last night, when she’d thrown herself into Wu Yuchen’s arms and kissed him, she’d almost kissed his lips—but then she remembered he had a girlfriend and pulled away.

Li Xiaoran wasn’t the shy, hesitant type—if it were any other guy, she’d have already pursued him, regardless of whether he had a girlfriend; if she could win him, he was hers; if not, so what?

But Wu Yuchen was different—they’d grown up together. If it didn’t work out, their future interactions would be painfully awkward, and she didn’t want that.

Thinking of this made Li Xiaoran frustrated; then she remembered she only had 200 yuan left, and next month she wouldn’t even have money for rent or food—she didn’t want to slink back home in shame, so tomorrow she absolutely had to go out and earn money.

She shook her head, decided not to dwell on these worries, and returned to her computer to play “Sword and Fairy”—games always suited her best; today she’d keep saving her Lin Yueru!

…

At noon, Wu Yuchen returned home. At dinner, seeing his father beaming, he asked:

“Dad, what’s so happy?”

Wu Jianping chuckled: “I didn’t tell you when you were abroad last time. The first print run of ‘Sword Drawn’—100,000 copies—sold out last month. The response was great, so our unit printed another 300,000. This time, it’s not just in North China—it’s been shipped nationwide.”

Wu Yuchen’s face lit up—had ‘Sword Drawn’ finally broken through?

“Dad, how good is this performance?”

“Selling 100,000 copies in two and a half months is excellent, but it’s also tied to current events. You know about the ‘…Declaration’ signed between America and Japan in April? It’s clearly aimed at us. Now people are angry at Japan, and our ‘Sword Drawn’ hit the market right when this happened—it couldn’t have been better timed.”

Wu Yuchen understood—‘Sword Drawn’ was already high quality, especially its vivid war scenes against Japan, which readers found thrilling; now, with this public sentiment, word-of-mouth naturally drove sales.

At that moment, Zhou Shuping grumbled: “Why can’t Japan just be decent people instead of acting like America’s dog?”

“Japan is classic power-worship culture—obsessed with petty etiquette but lacking great righteousness. Once you crush them, they’ll obey you.”

“I wish Japan would start yelling at the Americans.”

“Probably only when we’re far ahead of them!”

The three of them chatted casually over dinner.

The next day, Wu Jianping hummed a tune as he entered his office. He’d just brewed himself a pot of tea and sat down to open today’s newspaper—on the front page, a bold headline read:

“Unrepentant! Japan’s No. 1 Taro Kondo Kneels at the Shrine of XX!”

The words “Unrepentant!” were specially enlarged and bolded, jarring the eyes.

Wu Jianping’s pupils contracted at the sight—he felt a surge of rage. He knew exactly what that shrine was: a place enshrining the most heinous criminals, a den of pure evil!

Before he could read further, a loud “bang” echoed through the office. Wu Jianping turned to see Xiao Li, a colleague who’d joined only a few years ago, slamming his fist on the desk, furious:

“These damn Japanese—what the hell are they trying to do? Utterly shameless!”

Xiao Li was beyond rage—he’d started cursing right in the office.

But no one in the office objected; everyone chimed in:

“Heartless, shameless, immoral! Clothed beasts!”

“Japan wants to rise from the ashes! We must crush them!”

One colleague turned to Wu Jianping: “Old Wu, I used to think your Li Yunlong was too crude. Now I see—he should’ve been exactly like this! Beat the hell out of Japan!”

“Right! I always thought Brother Wu wrote it well! We need Li Yunlong to slaughter every last one of these beasts!”

Meanwhile, not just Wu Jianping’s office—across all of China and even throughout the Asia-Pacific region—the incident sparked furious reactions.

Japan had previously made shrine visits, but always as private individuals; in the 1980s, one cabinet minister made a public visit, triggering massive protests, and for over a decade after that, none occurred.

But this time, it wasn’t just a public official—it was Japan’s No. 1 himself openly visiting the shrine!

The backlash was enormous. The entire Asia-Pacific region condemned it loudly; China, of course, launched fierce verbal attacks, and every major newspaper joined in.

Authorities issued strong protests while internally calming the public, urging against extreme actions. Many schools were relieved it was summer vacation—otherwise, a crowd of passionate students might have caused chaos.

Indeed, several middle school boys who had just gotten vacation gathered and started cursing Japan:

“Fuck Japan—they never change!”

“If I had an atomic bomb, I’d drop two more—see if they still kneel!”

“Yeah, blow that shrine to smithereens!”

One boy finished cursing, then grinned: “Check this out!”

The others gathered around and saw he pulled out a book titled ‘Sword Drawn.’ “What’s this?”

The boy beamed: “A book that takes down Japan. I stole it from my dad. He reads it and curses Japan, says it’s cathartic—you’ve got to kill them!”

“Really?”

“Put it in the middle, let’s read together.”

Three or four boys huddled together and opened the book.

“Don’t turn the page yet—I haven’t finished…”

At sunset, one boy came home for dinner and said to his father:

“Dad, buy me a book?”

His father frowned:

“A book? Another comic? If you’ve got time, read some classics—you’re in middle school, why read comics?”

“No, this time it’s a book about beating Japan!” the boy said loudly, confidently.

His father’s expression softened: “What’s it called? I’ll check the bookstore tomorrow.”

“‘Sword Drawn’—it’s amazing! That Li Yunlong…” The boy began enthusiastically explaining.

His father’s interest sparked.

The next day, the middle-aged man took his lunch break and went to a nearby Xinhua Bookstore. As soon as he arrived, he saw posters on display:

‘Sword Drawn’: “Where the sword points, all fall before it!”

“What bushido? I fight bushido!”

“Read ‘Sword Drawn,’ learn from Li Yunlong—beat the Japanese devils!”

The man felt a thrill reading these lines—they perfectly matched his taste.

He thought: ‘Sword Drawn’ must be good—it’s even being promoted on the bookstore’s front door.

He walked straight to the counter: “Comrade, do you have ‘Sword Drawn’?”

The cashier pointed: “There—luckily, only these dozen left.”

The man walked over and saw a red-covered book. The title ‘Sword Drawn’ was written with great power—especially the final stroke of the character for ‘sword,’ sharp as a blade.

He’d heard his son’s description and was curious—he stood there flipping through it. He got lost in it, unaware of time passing, until someone gently tapped his shoulder:

“Hey, brother, are you buying this book?”

The man looked up—a young man in his twenties—and said:

“Oh, yes, I’ll take it. I got lost in reading.”

“Brother, how’s the book? My friend said it’s so satisfying beating the Japanese devils—is it true?”

The man pointed to the book and smiled: “It’s written brilliantly! Look here: ‘We are the ancestors of the Japanese devils—how dare they disrespect their ancestors?!’”

“Perfect! Just for that line, I’m buying it! Too bad the store’s out of stock—damn!”

Only then did the man realize the dozen copies were already sold—he held the last one and hurried to the counter to pay, then returned home, delighted.

Meanwhile, Wu Jianping sat in the chief editor’s office at their publishing house.

The chief editor’s face was creased with smiles:

“Old Wu, your ‘Sword Drawn’ is wildly popular! The second print run of 300,000 has been out less than a month and is nearly sold out—bookstores nationwide are demanding more!”

Wu Jianping corrected him: “Boss, I co-wrote this with my son.”

The chief editor nodded, smiling: “Ah, father and son on the battlefield—I get it!”

In truth, the chief editor thought Wu Jianping was being overly generous to his son, helping him get started. He assumed Wu Jianping was the sole author—after all, he’d come from the battlefield; how could his son possibly write something like this?

Wu Jianping added humbly: “Boss, I just got lucky—no one expected Japan to be so brazen, so utterly rebellious!”

The chief editor nodded: “Japan is despicable—it’s sparked massive public anger. But your ‘Sword Drawn’ is excellent—it gives readers a sense of justice and satisfaction. Otherwise, why would they buy it instead of others’ books?”

Then the chief editor smiled again: “Old Wu, you’re a veteran here—I won’t play games with you. We’re planning another 600,000 print run. We’ll give you a 12% royalty. If we reprint again later, we’ll raise it to 15%.”

Last year, Wu Jianping had proposed a tiered royalty system, but such reform was unpopular within the unit and had been shelved.

This time, the chief editor used the old method: raise the royalty with each reprint. The first 100,000 copies paid 8%, the second 300,000 paid 10%, and now the 600,000 paid 12%.

Wu Jianping naturally agreed—getting a royalty raise this fast was already generous. As for 15%? He’d have to wait. He knew this surge was fueled by public emotion; once it cooled, sales would drop sharply. This 600,000 print run might take a while to sell.

But events far exceeded Wu Jianping’s expectations—indeed, exceeded everyone’s in the Asia-Pacific region.

By August, under intense condemnation from every region, Japan didn’t apologize or repent—it took even more radical action. A group of Japanese right-wingers sailed to Diaoyu Island!

These men didn’t just land—they made four consecutive landings, built a Japanese lighthouse, hoisted the Rising Sun flag, and erected a monument, openly challenging the world!

When news reached China, the entire nation erupted in fury!

Even those who’d remained calm about the shrine visit were now enraged beyond control!

Gouyu Island has been Chinese territory since ancient times—how can we let those Japanese bastards lay claim to it?!

What is August? It’s the day Japan was defeated—they’re doing this to prove what? Everyone knows!

These Japanese bastards are too arrogant! Their wolfish ambitions are plain for all to see!

The youth erupted in anger; many took to the streets to protest, others rushed to the Heroes’ Monument to shout: Down with the Japanese!

In an instant, these successive incidents ignited nationwide anti-Japanese sentiment, and everywhere people chanted: Boycott Japanese goods!

The authorities could only engage in diplomatic negotiations while strengthening internal guidance to prevent large-scale vandalism. Mass gatherings especially had to be dissuaded—when crowds swell, emotions boil over and accidents happen.

And under these circumstances, a novel began to spread like wildfire: *Sword of Light*!

Previous novels’ protagonists were too refined—even when cursing the Japanese, they used flowery, literary language; it just wasn’t satisfying.

But *Sword of Light* was different: its protagonist, Li Yunlong, a rough, bandit-like figure, constantly swore—but his curses were cathartic!

Moreover, the battle scenes against the Japanese were vividly portrayed, realistically depicting a formidable Japanese force—yet Li Yunlong still led his Independent Regiment to fight them tooth and nail, ultimately defeating them. It was thrilling, satisfying, and deeply cathartic—utterly addictive!

Even some official institutions took notice of *Sword of Light* and became interested, for guiding public emotion through cultural works was the best outlet.

Soon, several major newspapers mentioned *Sword of Light* and Li Yunlong’s “Sword-Drawn Spirit.”

“…

A recently published novel, *Sword of Light*, has become wildly popular. Its protagonist, Li Yunlong, comes from a rough background and has many flaws—crude, impulsive, uneducated—but to the masses, he’s endearing because he embodies the Sword-Drawn Spirit:

Facing a powerful enemy, even when you know you can’t win, you must still draw your sword. Even if you fall, you must become a mountain, a ridge!

How solemn, how resolute, how exhilarating, how majestic!

In times of peace, we must remember history and keep the alarm ringing…”

In 1996, newspapers were still the unchallenged kings—if they began promoting your work, especially major papers, it meant you’d truly exploded!

Undoubtedly, *Sword of Light* exploded under these circumstances: the first print run of 600,000 copies was nearly sold out in no time.

Publisher’s Chief Editor’s Office.

“Old Wu! You—no, you father-and-son team—you’re really going to burn bright this time! Your *Sword of Light* has already received praise from above—congratulations!”

“Leader, none of this would’ve been possible without our publisher’s support and help!” Wu Jianping, seasoned in the workplace, wasn’t foolish.

The Chief Editor burst into laughter:

“Hahaha! No more talk—print another million copies, 15% royalty!

Also, we’ve received inquiries from publishers in Wanwan and Gangdao wanting to negotiate the traditional Chinese edition rights for *Sword of Light*—you’re going to be a hit overseas!”

Wu Jianping himself felt this whole experience was like a dream. When he first wrote *Sword of Light*, he thought it was decent at best—maybe he’d sell two or three hundred thousand copies. Who could’ve imagined it would now reach two million copies, with overseas publishers knocking on his door?

Should he thank the Japanese for their accidental help?

The moment this thought crossed his mind, Wu Jianping spat: Pfft! Those damn Japanese—invading our Chinese territory, may they die miserable deaths!

Everyone could curse all they wanted, but life and work still went on. Wu Yuchen, for instance, stayed busy with real work.

After completing all post-production on *The Two of Us*, as soon as the master tape was ready, Wu Yuchen immediately contacted Director Gu of the Film Channel to report.

Two days later, in the Jingying screening room.

“Oh, Old He, you came too?”

“Of course I did—I promised I’d show up for Xiao Wu’s first feature!”

Not only Director Gu came, but also Hou Keming, Xie Xiaojing, and other Jingying mentors, along with Old Lady Ruan and several veteran colleagues who had worked with her on the documentary *Dance of the Martial*.

The circle was small—truthfully, everyone in the room knew each other, or at least had crossed paths before.

“Little Gu, how are the other two films your channel invested in doing?”

Director Gu sighed: “The Beiyingchang film just started shooting this summer; the Bayi Film Studio ran out of money halfway through and is now begging us for more funding—sigh!”

“Bayi probably added more war scenes again—those cost a fortune. How could 700,000 yuan possibly cover it? I’m not even sure they’ll finish the film.

Han Sanping at Beiyingchang is good at securing funding—his film should finish fine, but I worry something will go wrong along the way.”

Director Gu nodded in agreement. It was clear now that self-produced films weren’t easy—but luckily, Wu Yuchen had made his film for only 300,000 yuan, which gave him a much-needed boost.

“Alright, enough about your troubles, Little Gu—we’ve got one finished film. Let’s watch Xiao Wu’s movie.”

Soon, the lights in the room dimmed, and the screen lit up.

A poor student from Beijing seeking education. An elderly, lonely widow in a sihe courtyard. One: youthful, strong, lively, mischievous. The other: aged, solitary, eccentric, cunning in a false way. When these two sharp-edged souls collided, modern and traditional cultures coexisted—and clashed—within the courtyard.

No grand love-or-hate drama—just everyday trivialities. Yet these ordinary acts—making phone calls, using appliances—were meticulously arranged by Wu Yuchen, allowing everyone in the room to gradually progress with the story, feeling over the changing seasons of winter, spring, summer, autumn, the slow transformation from conflict to mutual dependence. Simplicity revealed profound truth!

The viewers were all seasoned insiders—even those who couldn’t direct knew how to appreciate. Several sighed together: with such a simple setting, he crafted a story with twists and turns, and conveyed the purest, most unadorned emotions—remarkable!

At the film’s end, when the old woman and Zhou Xun sat silently weeping, Old Lady Ruan, watching, could no longer hold back—she pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her tears. As a woman over seventy, she deeply understood the emotion.

When the film ended and the lights came up, everyone noticed Old Lady Ruan’s state. Those nearby moved to comfort her. She shook her head and said only two words: “So good. So good!”

“I never expected Xiao Wu could make such a delicate film!”

“Yes, when I saw his *Car 44*, I thought he was just a sharp, edgy young director—but turns out he’s just as skilled with warmth.”

Hou Keming also sighed: “When I first read his script, I was curious what he’d deliver. I never imagined he’d execute it so well! From actors to performances, from cinematography to overall tone—it’s all outstanding and harmonious. You’d never guess this was a debut.”

While Wu Yuchen hadn’t arrived yet, everyone began discussing among themselves.

Locked up. Waiting for rescue.