Chapter 145: Suppressed for Too Long

"Hey, Mr. Tao? When are you sending in your manuscript? This issue's magazine is about to go to print. Who said I'm going bankrupt?"

"Boss Tong, how could you tell an author I'm going bankrupt? I won't shortchange you—I'll pay you before the 15th. What? Tomorrow? Don't mess with me~~~"

"Ah Miu, it's been ages since we had a meal together. Tonight I'm not here to borrow money."

Pei Wencong skipped lunch and immediately began coordinating the next issue's printing, but the situation was grim.

Friends who once greeted him warmly had suddenly turned cold and cruel, driven purely by self-interest.

Long-term contributors were quitting, the print shop demanded overdue payments, and longtime friends avoided him entirely—it drove Pei Wencong to frantic despair.

It was like playing cards: you'd drawn a perfect hand, but had no money to bet, forced to fold and surrender under pressure.

Pei Wencong made countless calls, but gained nothing.

He flipped through his address book twice, then finally let his trembling hand drop the phone.

Pei Wencong pulled open the window to breathe, but after drawing back the curtain, the cramped building wall ten meters away crushed his spirit further.

A winding crack in the cement wall stretched like a gaping mouth, sneering at Pei Wencong, this failed man.

Pei Wencong stared at the crack for a long while, then gave a bitter laugh.

Once, he'd dreamed that one day, when he opened his window, he'd see an endless ocean view.

Behind him, his beautiful wife and adorable children would be waiting.

But after thirty years of hard work, he felt as if he'd returned to square one—back to childhood, huddled with his mother and sister in that shabby shack, owning nothing.

Pei Wencong was brilliant—a poor boy who got into HKU proved his IQ surpassed ordinary people.

For a moment, he believed his intelligence and effort could make him a second Li Ka-shing.

But after graduating and entering society, he realized Hong Kong's upward mobility had vanished—a pack of big sharks had filled the pond.

Every fish in the pond was just bait for the sharks; with a flick of their claws or tails, they could crush all the fish.

Someone like Pei Wencong—a tiny shrimp—could either submit and feed the sharks, or rot slowly in the mud at the bottom.

After years of struggle, Pei Wencong still couldn't accept defeat—he mortgaged his family's only house, staked everything, and opened this magazine.

No matter how hard or bitter, he'd swallow his teeth with blood, just to give his family a better life.

His sister was now in private high school, excelling in her studies; when his mother met old friends, she proudly said, "My Ah Cong has a car, a building—he's a boss."

But today,

He realized how fragile his polished facade truly was.

What was the point of holding on?

Fine—bankruptcy, then sell myself to the sharks for life!

Pei Wencong exhaled a long, suppressed breath, straightened his posture, and clenched his fists.

"Ah Qiang, Ah Qiang, call Brother Nan—sell my Corolla! Be polite, don't let him lowball you, Ah Qiang, Ah Qiang."

Pei Wencong called several times, but his editor and reporter Ah Qiang didn't respond.

He walked over, pried open Ah Qiang's arms, wondering if he was sketching another risqué erotic comic.

Such comics had a market, but Ah Qiang's taste clashed with the public—he thought his "seductive" scenes were hot, but Pei Wencong found them painfully ugly.

But this time, Ah Qiang wasn't drawing—he was furiously writing.

"Didn't I tell Ah Min to translate the simplified characters? Why aren't you laying out the next issue? What are you writing here?"

Ah Qiang snapped back to awareness and blurted: "I'm going to write a history book."

He turned excitedly to Pei Wencong: "I just realized our ancestors were so powerful—they could crush Japan at will and make the foreigners work for them."

Ah Qiang rambled on incoherently, but with fierce excitement and sincerity.

The opening of "The Wind Blows North" depicts a foreign legion under the Tang Dynasty's Anxi Protectorate—the Xiliang Corps—whose leader was the Tang man Li Tianlang, and whose ranks included not only Tang core members but many loyal "barbarians."

The opening also casually describes how Japan, mobilizing its entire nation, was defeated by a single elite Tang detachment.

Just a few thousand words painted the image of a mighty empire vividly on the page.

Just a few thousand characters of description made the image of a mighty empire leap off the page.

Pei Wencong listened patiently to Ah Qiang's rambling, then patted his shoulder: "Japan is strong now. Those people aren't foreigners—they're the Soviet Union's allied republics."

Ah Qiang replied firmly: "A win is a win. Are Soviet people not foreigners?"

Pei Wencong fell silent—he understood Ah Qiang's mood perfectly, because he'd once been just as obsessed.

Too long suppressed. The lower classes had been suppressed too long.

Many hated being born with black hair instead of blond.

But now, seeing "The Wind Blows North," Ah Qiang suddenly felt, "My ancestors were once great too."

Unlike wuxia novels, the true protagonist of this book isn't a person—it's a mighty, arrogant, dominant empire.

The Tang Empire, which dared to stand firm against the powerful Abbasid Caliphate with just the Anxi Protectorate's forces.

How could Ah Qiang, who'd seen the world's great powers in Hong Kong, not revere such a glorious ancestor?

Pei Wencong felt the same, but he valued its commercial potential more.

"Boss, no one's ever written this," Ah Qiang said like a lottery holder clutching a winning ticket: "I can write too. When I become a writer like Jin Ni, I can—"

"Write after work. During work hours, you work," Pei Wencong tapped Ah Qiang's head. "Go call Brother Nan now—tell him I'm upgrading my car. Don't say you need the money!"

Pei Wencong didn't crush Ah Qiang's enthusiasm—just forbade him from slacking off on the job.

He knew this kind of history was a fresh direction that could succeed in Hong Kong—but it was hard to write. Ah Qiang dropped out of junior high; he lacked most historical knowledge.

Even if he'd gone to high school or university, he might still never have learned this history—Hong Kong likely had no relevant materials. So let him be happy.

After Ah Qiang left with a pout, Pei Wencong personally arranged the next issue's layout—"The Wind Blows North" would headline the cover, credited to "Senior Professor and Writer."

After finishing all the trivial tasks, Pei Wencong prepared for his most important act.

He picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect a long-distance call to Neidi's Daocheng.

In 1982, calling from Hong Kong to mainland China meant endless transfers and endless waiting.

While waiting, Pei Wencong calmed his emotions—so when the line finally connected, he was no longer a man on the brink of ruin, but a wealthy, confident "big businessman."

"Hello, this is Tawang Literature Publishing House. We'd like to discuss the copyright for 'The Wind Blows North'—payment in Hong Kong dollars, or U. . dollars is fine too, hehe~~~"

During the wait, Pei Wencong adjusted his emotions, so when the call connected, he was no longer a failure on the brink of failure, but a wealthy and powerful "big businessman."

Li Ye sprinted lightly along the path beside Weiminghu. As he passed the martial arts club, he glanced sidelong at He Dazhuang.

He Dazhuang had decent physical conditioning; lately, he'd trained hard. Whether his techniques were good didn't matter yet—his verbal boasts were already polished.

Li Ye ran lightly along the path beside Weiminghu, and as he passed the martial arts club, he couldn't help casting extra glances at He Dazhuang.

In his past life, Li Ye had watched a girl practicing Nanquan—her energy was like a tiger, her shouts echoing for miles. Now, He Dazhuang had a hint of that same spirit.

When He Dazhuang saw Li Ye running over, he roared even louder: "Hey! Ha!"—like a furious Tibetan mastiff ready to pounce.

Li Ye sped up, eager to escape before he triggered a training mishap.

Seeing Li Ye run off, He Dazhuang trained even harder, shouting "Hey! Ha!" with gleeful abandon.

Li Ye quickly sped away, lest he provoke him and cause his cultivation to go awry.

During free time, Li Ye was rapidly writing. Since Wen Leyu mentioned wanting to earn proofreading fees, Li Ye had accelerated his pace, preparing for his next major plan.

Other students either buried themselves in books or enthusiastically debated topics.

Having moved from high school to Peking University's World Economics program, they suddenly felt they'd glimpsed the world beyond campus, forming vague ideas about global trends.

Recent events like the Falklands War and the Fifth Middle East War were the hottest topics.

But today, everyone was drawn to He Dazhuang.

"I've got a master now—our club's Qiao Tiansheng is the authentic southern fist lineage heir from Fujian."

"Once, on his way home, he saw upperclassmen bullying kids—he took them all on alone, unarmed, and knocked out eight."

"I'll tell you, I've finally found a master—our club's Qiao Tiancheng is the legitimate heir of Hu Jian Southern Fist."

The classroom erupted in gasps—even Li Ye, focused on writing, was startled.

Li Ye didn't understand: why, as college students, did they lack basic judgment?

One man beat eight?

I'd need a stick myself!

But then Li Ye remembered his own self at twenty—and understood his classmates' reactions.

At twenty, boys still worshipped physical power; they dreamed of taking on ten men at once—even though it was impossible.

In the 1980s, information was so limited; this kind of thing was common.

Even the famous poet Hai Zi had once obsessed over qigong and kung fu, dreaming of one-punch supremacy.

But in his past life, after entering society, Li Ye's fantasy shifted to "winning the lottery" or "finding a rich, beautiful woman."

For example, the famous Hai Zi once obsessed over qigong and kung fu, dreaming of being a punch-that-surpasses-all hero.

These classmates were the same—they'd soon sneer at He Dazhuang's stories in a few years.

Because their high intelligence would quickly teach them: before power and wealth, physical strength wasn't worth shit—it was just a last-resort survival skill.

Even these classmates in the classroom would, within a few years at most, sneer at topics like He Dazhuang's.

Sun Xianjin crept quietly beside Li Ye and nudged him anxiously.

Li Ye stopped writing. "What's up, little brother?"

Sun Xianjin was the only student in class younger than Li Ye, so Li Ye always called him "little brother"—that's how they spoke back home.

Sun Xianjin said nervously: "He Dazhuang found a master—why aren't you worried?"

Li Ye frowned. "Why should I be worried? Him finding a master has nothing to do with me."

Sun Xianjin's face twisted. "Didn't you hear what he meant? He's training to come after you for revenge!"

Li Ye said strangely, "Why would I be in a hurry? What does his becoming a disciple have to do with me?"

Sun Xianjin's expression twisted slightly and he said, "Didn't you catch his meaning? He's planning to come back and seek revenge once he's mastered it."

"Huh~~"

Li Ye smiled but said nothing.

As for martial arts, it truly demands hard work; even three or two months won't do—without a master to break through the window paper, you might not achieve anything even after three or two years.

If He Dazhuang had first trained in martial arts, built a solid foundation, then switched to sanshou, and spent time honing his skills in real combat, he might have become quite formidable.

After all, martial arts is an excellent form of physical training, and He Dazhuang's size alone gives him a certain natural advantage.

But China's sanshou program wasn't officially launched until 1979; it's still in its exploratory and refining phase, so He Dazhuang is unlikely to get many opportunities for real combat.

"My master said I have great talent—I'll be able to enter the inner chamber in no more than a year."

He Dazhuang spoke with full confidence, glancing at Li Ye—but Li Ye's indifference made him deeply uncomfortable.

He'd been training for several weeks and felt he'd learned many fighting techniques; if only Li Ye would provoke him now.

"Clang~"

The classroom door opened, but who entered wasn't the instructor—it was the homeroom teacher, Mu Yunning.

Everyone turned to look at Mu Yunning, except Li Ye, who kept his head down writing.

Each character was worth several cents! Unless they called his name, he wouldn't look up—no one should interrupt my earnings.

"Li Ye, prepare this afternoon for your Youth League induction ceremony."

"What?"

"What?"

Mu Yunning's announcement shocked many in the classroom.

Li Ye paused slightly, guessing the likely reason.

But others had no clue.

For instance, He Dazhuang and others: though Li Ye could chat amiably with many classmates, his overall behavior clearly marked him as a backward element.

Class monitor Zhen Rongrong was also puzzled; she'd been compiling Li Ye's "strengths" over the past few days, planning to recommend him for Youth League membership after the sports meet by reporting his "excellent conduct."

After speaking, Mu Yunning walked over to Li Ye's side, her face cold: "What are you standing there for? Don't you have a Youth League application to write?"

"Oh, oh~"

Li Ye quickly packed away his manuscript, pulled out a sheet of letter paper, and began writing his application.

Everyone around him froze.

The induction ceremony is this afternoon—and you haven't even written your application yet!

Is that acceptable?

Li Ye wrote hundreds of characters in rapid succession, finishing without a single pause—Mu Yunning was extremely satisfied.

She assumed Li Ye had mentally drafted it countless times before; in truth, he had simply copied his previous life's Youth League application from his biological hard drive.

Mu Yunning glanced over it, then picked up Li Ye's fountain pen and signed her name.

"You need a recommender—who do you choose?"

Li Ye turned and looked at Sun Xianjin, who immediately nodded in agreement.

The two shared a dormitory in the Mathematics Department and were the closest pair of brothers in the class.

Meanwhile, Zhen Rongrong, not far away, felt a sense of loss.

After resolving the recommender issue, Mu Yunning went to coordinate with the class Youth League committee. Once all matters were settled, she noticed He Dazhuang's gloomy expression.

She then pulled out a notice and handed it to Zhen Rongrong and others.

"Pass it around the class—don't make a big fuss."

Zhen Rongrong took it and stared—her mouth fell open in shock.

It was a notice for "Bravery and Justice," clearly stating that Li Ye, along with two righteous citizens, fearlessly confronted a gang of twenty-seven and rescued three citizens of Beijing.

With just this notice, Li Ye qualified for emergency induction into the Youth League.

After Mu Yunning left, Zhen Rongrong and the others remained stunned.

One class committee member couldn't help asking: "So who's stronger—Li Ye or that Southern Fist heir?"

Sun Xianjin replied immediately: "Obviously! Three times nine is twenty-seven—one man takes nine, which is one more than eight!"

(End of Chapter)