Chapter 144: Wen Leyu: I Want to Earn Proofreading Fees

"You've been practicing for a few days, huh?"

Wen Qingsheng glanced at Wen Guohua.

Wen Guohua immediately said: "Dad, Li Ye is being modest—I went to Qu University today and saw the interrogation records myself."

"More than a dozen people with broken ribs all said they were stabbed by a thin, tall young man with a wooden stick."

Li Ye was drenched in sweat—he realized Wen Guohua had firsthand information.

Wen Qingsheng smiled at Li Ye and asked: "Tell me, how did you act bravely?"

Act bravely?

Not really! It was Wang Jianqiang who shouted out.

Li Ye froze for a fraction of a second, then suddenly understood.

Last night, when he decided to ask Professor Ke for help, he'd had some worries—he'd used a wooden stick to knock down over a dozen people, and by feel alone, he knew this wasn't a small matter.

If Heng San could sell fake foreign junk, he must have some connections—what if the trail led all the way to Beijing University? The consequences were unpredictable.

Even if Beijing University would protect its own student, a student injuring people on the street—

If the school gave Li Ye a warning or some other punishment, it'd be disastrous.

But Wen Qingsheng's phrase "acted bravely" solved all the problems at once.

Li Ye glanced at Wen Leyu and saw the girl subtly tilting her mouth toward Professor Ke, her eyes gleaming with triumph.

Li Ye understood—it was Professor Ke's idea.

Or rather, it was Wen Leyu's idea.

Maybe when she talked to him at the cafeteria this morning, she'd already planned everything out.

Asking her older brother Wen Guohua could solve the problem, but asking her mother was even better.

Li Ye smiled apologetically at Professor Ke and said: "I just happened to be there—I never expected it to get so complicated."

"Not complicated," Wen Qingsheng said. "If I'd been in that situation—hey hey—"

Before Wen Qingsheng could finish, Professor Ke picked up the bottle and poured him a full glass.

"Come on, eat, drink."

Wen Qingsheng had no choice—he was on the same level as Professor Ke, and though she'd returned to Beijing later than him, her assignment had been personally arranged by Uncle Peng. Who knew what lay ahead? There were already signs of a hen crowing.

Sigh~

The family began eating and drinking; as the atmosphere gradually warmed, Professor Ke finally spoke.

"Xiao Ye, you're still a student—your focus should be on your studies, not distractions. This time you were lucky. What about next time?"

"I understand, Professor Ke. I'll be more careful in the future."

Though Professor Ke's words were mild, Li Ye felt a heavy pressure.

She was dissatisfied with him.

Men naturally admire physical strength, but women think differently—every mother-in-law in the world wants her son-in-law to be calm, safe, quiet, and never get into trouble or drink.

Professor Ke had a gentle face; if she'd been more stern, Li Ye felt for a moment she could've stepped right out of the mother-in-law from "The Human World."

Fortunately, Wen Leyu took after her father.

When Wen Guohua said Li Ye had knocked down a dozen men with a single wooden spear, the girl's eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky.

In this era, girls didn't idolize millionaires—they idolized "heroes."

The kind who'd wave an arm and shout, "Follow me!"

Soldiers carried immense weight in the hearts of young people back then—otherwise, how else to explain the popularity of military pants, military caps, and military satchels in the 70s and 80s?

Wen Leyu had grown up with Professor Ke, but she deeply admired her father—and now, in her eyes, Li Ye bore the faint shadow of a miniature Wen Qingsheng.

Until the banquet ended, neither Professor Ke nor Wen Qingsheng asked Li Ye another question—as if the Pengcheng Apparel Factory No. 7 didn't exist.

But when Wen Qingsheng saw Li Ye and Wen Leyu off back to campus, he casually asked Li Ye one thing.

"You're studying economics—what's your take on Xiushuijie right now?"

Li Ye didn't hesitate: "Xiushuijie is a mess now, but it'll probably be regulated eventually.

The fact that a spontaneous market has formed proves demand exists—it'll likely grow even more prosperous. If properly managed, it could bring order and increase tax revenue."

"Tax revenue?" Wen Guohua laughed. "Tax collection is tough these days—everyone complains!"

Before the 90s, collecting taxes wasn't a pleasant job—tax officials carried shoulder bags and tax forms, going door to door.

Li Ye knew one thing.

Once, a head of the Grain Bureau was transferred to head the Tax Bureau—he was furious. But a few years later—

"Collecting money is indeed hard," Li Ye smiled, acknowledging he understood, but added: "The Pengcheng Apparel Factory No. 7 will pay taxes according to the rules. That's their duty."

Wen Guohua said nothing, glanced at Li Ye, smiled, and saw them both all the way to campus.

At school, Li Ye offered to walk Wen Leyu back to her dorm, but the girl wanted to stroll by Weiminghu.

As they walked, she asked: "I heard from Li Dayong you know how to use a flower spear?"

Li Ye answered honestly: "I only practiced flower spear for a few days. My grandfather trained in it when he was young, but later switched to bayonet drills."

The girl sighed: "Why didn't you keep practicing? I've seen your novel—Li Tianlang uses a long spear too. In your words, it's totally cool."

Li Ye smiled: "I can perform flower spear too, but I never mastered the essence—it's just showy. But if I showed you, you wouldn't notice."

Wen Leyu rolled her eyes and pouted: "You didn't even let me proofread this one."

Fine! After all that circling, the girl still just wanted to earn Li Ye's proofreading fee.

Li Ye took Wen Leyu's hand and said: "This book was just a trial—I plan to write something much bigger next. I'll need your help. Big help."

Wen Leyu's eyes lit up, her head nodding rapidly: "Deal! No backing out!"

Who'd back out?

Hong Kong, Sai Wan.

Pei Wencong parked his twelve-year-old Toyota beneath an old office building.

He straightened his suit, checked his shoes, confirmed not a speck of dust remained, then stepped out and entered the building.

"Good morning, Manager Pei."

"You too, you too."

"Good morning, Boss Pei."

"Hello, hello."

Greeting acquaintances along the way, Pei Wencong finally reached the third floor and entered a small company—Tànglàng Literature Publishing House.

Pei Wencong wasn't an employee—he was the owner, editor-in-chief, accountant, and—

In short, besides one clerk and one editor Jian reporter, Pei Wencong handled every other job himself.

So he felt his role as boss was worse off than the two actual employees.

At least they didn't have to worry every month about workers' salaries, landlord rent, or the publisher's future.

Tànglàng Publishing currently had only one semi-profitable bimonthly magazine, barely covering its operating costs.

Pei Wencong kept himself so polished every day just to hide his desperation from his staff and landlord.

Being a boss is hard—even if your underwear is worn through, your suit must stay crisp, and your face must smile.

"Boss, Fatso came again to demand rent—he wants us to pay all three months of back rent at once."

No sooner had Pei Wencong sat down than his clerk, A Min, delivered the worst news possible.

Pei Wencong remained calm: "Did you tell him we'll receive a publishing payment next month?"

A Min looked at Pei Wencong, then pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to him.

"Boss, I'm quitting after this month. You know my situation—Abo has no job, and I have to support the kids. My salary—"

Pei Wencong stared blankly for a moment before taking her resignation letter.

He fell silent for several seconds, then said: "Don't worry—I'll pay you your full salary on time."

"Thank you, Boss."

A Min bowed to Pei Wencong, then returned to her desk.

She didn't want to leave the publisher—after all, even though Pei Wencong was broke, he'd never missed paying their salaries.

But Tànglàng Literature Publishing was clearly collapsing; she had no choice but to look elsewhere.

Jobs were hard to find now—who knew if the next boss would be as kind?

At 9: 0, the other employee, A Qiang, finally arrived—half an hour late, he didn't care, tossed a parcel onto Pei Wencong's desk, and sat down to draw comics.

He was a comic fanatic, dreaming of becoming a great cartoonist one day, saving the publisher, and making Pei Wencong—his benefactor—his subordinate.

Pei Wencong glanced at the parcel's label and frowned.

It was a long-distance parcel from the inland north.

Last year, at readers' request, he'd launched a "Search for Relatives in the North" campaign, and after many steps, finally established contact with Lanhai Publishing in Daocheng.

But years later, finding relatives was never easy—the campaign yielded no returns and was abandoned.

"Please don't tell me this is another request to buy books—"

Pei Wencong muttered irritably as he opened the parcel.

Though the "Search for Relatives" campaign ended, Lanhai Publishing in the north remained enthusiastic, often asking Pei Wencong to buy the latest books.

But they had no foreign exchange—converting at official rates would bankrupt him.

Pei Wencong opened the parcel—and froze.

Inside was a manuscript.

【Dear Brother Pei, this is a work by one of our outstanding young writers. Please let us know if you'd consider publishing it.】

"What joke is this? Publishing your work in Hong Kong?"

Pei Wencong burst out laughing in anger.

The cultural climates on both sides are completely different; wuxia novels from Hong Kong sell well in the north, but northern works mostly fail to take root in Hong Kong.

Pei Wencong tossed the manuscript straight at Qiangzi and said, "Qiang, take a look at this manuscript and write a reading review to send back north."

Qiang, who was drawing little figures, grumbled, "I can't read simplified characters—go ask Min."

Pei Wencong, furious, snapped, "Min, Min, Min—Min's quitting, and now you're quitting too?"

"."

Qiang's chest heaved with rage, but he swallowed his anger and said nothing.

Min at least has a diploma; I dropped out of junior high—where else would I find work if I left this publishing house? Go back to being a lowly laborer?

That morning, Pei Wencong fielded over a dozen calls—either authors demanding payment or the print shop pressing for payment—until his temples throbbed.

At lunchtime, he saw Qiang still sitting motionless at his desk, and his temper flared.

"Qiang, aren't you going to get the boxed meals? Are you expecting us all to starve?"

"Hey, Qiang?"

Pei Wencong walked over and tapped Qiang on the shoulder, jolting him awake.

"You fell asleep?"

"No."

Qiang suddenly looked up, eyes bloodshot, and said, "Boss, I think we might not need boxed meals anymore…"

Thank you to reader "Ye Tian Brother" for the reward.

(End of chapter)