Chapter 152: Is Li Ye a Triad Boss?

Hong Kong Island, Sai Wan, Tawang Literature Publishing House.

Pei Wencong held a pile of receipts and ledgers, calculated them twice, and finally wore a smile.

"Ah Min, call and order lunch—today we're having pigeon."

"Wow~ Boss, you're too stingy! We've been working our asses off this month, and you're only treating us to pigeon?"

Pei Wencong's smile didn't fade; he chuckled and scolded, "Don't like pigeon? How about pork chop rice? You expecting shark fin?"

Ah Min whined, "When will we ever get to eat shark fin? When I first came, you kept promising us lobster and shark fin—but we've had pigeon so few times I can count them on one hand."

Pei Wencong felt a bit embarrassed and smiled, "Next month, next month I'll treat you to shark fin and give you red envelopes too."

"Thank you, Boss! Don't you dare lie to us!"

Ah Min immediately grabbed the phone and placed the order, thrilled.

There were only three of them in the publishing house; yes, they'd been swamped this month, but she knew the financial situation all too well.

Their biweekly magazine kept getting reprinted—newsstands and bookstores kept demanding more stock, until the biweekly was practically becoming a daily, with reprints every day.

And Pei Wencong, who used to always wear a grim face, now often laughed to himself.

All this proved that Pei Wencong would keep his word this time.

And given Pei Wencong's sense of righteousness, this red envelope wouldn't be small—it could buy new clothes for the kids and even hire a tutor to help with their studies.

"Bang!"

"I'll f*** your mother! Are these bastards never done? Think my writing's bad? Do you have any idea how hard I work?"

While Ah Min happily placed the order, Ah Qiang slammed his fist on the desk.

Since "North Wind Soaring" began serialization, Ah Qiang wrote at night and spent days coordinating layouts with the printer and reading fan letters.

The first two issues were fine—fan letters mostly expressed admiration and begged for more chapters.

But since last week, when Ah Qiang started serializing "Great Han Majesty," the fan letters turned sour.

Out of ten letters, three were cursing him.

At first, Ah Qiang took the criticism to heart and revised his writing at night, but as the letters piled up, he felt he couldn't write anymore.

Many readers sharply accused the author of "Great Han Majesty" of spouting nonsense and being a dropout who hadn't even finished junior high.

This crushed Ah Qiang—he really hadn't finished junior high, but over the years he hadn't just drawn comics.

He'd been self-studying, building up his writing skills—otherwise Pei Wencong wouldn't have given him the job of editor and reporter.

Pei Wencong, sorting through accounts, looked at Ah Qiang's messy hair and bloodshot eyes, sighed, and pulled out several textbooks.

"Ah Qiang, take these books home and study them."

Ah Qiang took them grumpily, then stared in shock: "Mainland high school textbooks? Am I supposed to go back to high school?"

Pei Wencong whispered, "These history books differ from ours. Don't let anyone see them, and don't argue with anyone over their views."

Ah Qiang paused, then nodded silently. Through recent lessons, he'd realized how far behind he was from the author of "North Wind Soaring,"

especially in history—he kept discovering gaps in his knowledge, only realizing too late where to look for answers.

"Ring ring ring~"

The desk phone rang; Pei Wencong picked it up.

"Hello, Tawang Literature Publishing House."

"Hello, Mr. Pei, this is Book Union Sales. May we discuss agency distribution for your biweekly 'Tawang'?"

Pei Wencong straightened up immediately: "Of course—we'd be honored to join Book Union Sales."

Book Union Sales was one of Hong Kong's largest book and newspaper retailers, with distribution networks across Hong Kong and into Southeast Asia and even the West.

For a small publisher like Tawang, they'd once begged Book Union Sales for a chance—now the tables had turned. If Pei Wencong hesitated even a second, he'd betray every year he'd struggled in the mud.

"Do you hold the copyright for 'North Wind Soaring'?"

"Tawang holds the copyright for 'North Wind Soaring.'"

Pei Wencong didn't hesitate—even if they didn't have it, he'd say they did.

"Can you guarantee consistent serialization? If you break faith, you'll pay breach penalties."

"."

Pei Wencong paused for a fraction of a second, then said firmly: "Yes—we'll sign the contract."

Pei Wencong couldn't let this chance slip away.

He was over thirty—he knew, he understood: a chance to change your fate might come only once in a lifetime.

Miss it, and even heaven wouldn't forgive you.

"Then come to our Central headquarters Wednesday at two p. . to discuss contract details."

"Understood. I'll be there. Thank you. Goodbye."

After hanging up, Pei Wencong immediately dialed Lanhai Publishing in the Mainland.

After a long wait, the call finally connected.

"Hello, this is Tawang Literature Publishing House from Hong Kong."

Pei Wencong announced his name, and immediately heard a flurry of activity on the other end—someone shouting for their boss.

Pei Wencong felt a wave of relief.

Ever since he'd mentioned paying in U. . dollars last time, he'd sensed their heightened attention.

But the copyright issue remained unresolved, leaving him quietly anxious.

"Hello, Mr. Pei! How have you been? How's 'North Wind Soaring' selling?"

"Moderately well, but our publishing house values exchange with the Mainland, so we plan to ramp up promotion. But without the copyright secured and with limited stock, I can't invest more."

"We're handling it—we'll resolve it for you soon."

Pei Wencong frowned: "So after my request, you still haven't fixed it?"

Lanhai replied: "We've received some manuscripts; copyright shouldn't be an issue. But your offer of ten thousand U. . dollars per quarter—isn't that too low?"

"Ten thousand U. . dollars is too low?"

Pei Wencong's mind raced—he remembered when he'd first offered ten thousand, they hadn't objected.

"Price can be negotiated, but get the copyright—no matter what."

"Understood. We will!"

After hanging up, Pei Wencong broke into a cold sweat.

He feared the duck slipping from his grasp—fearing breach penalties, debts he could never repay to the bank.

Pei Wencong wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and told the clerk: "Ah Min, the air conditioner's broken—get someone to fix it this afternoon."

Then he told Ah Qiang: "Ah Qiang, call Brother Nan—get our Corolla back."

Ah Qiang, lost in thought, nodded silently and dialed.

Soon he asked Pei Wencong: "Boss, Brother Nan says your Corolla's already sold—he's got a used Benz for seventy thousand. Want it?"

Pei Wencong waved it off: "Do I even need to answer? Seventy thousand? Pfft."

Ah Qiang smirked inwardly: "Even the miser has his day—my day won't be far off."

While Pei Wencong hesitated, Lanhai Publishing was a different scene.

"What's Lao Dong thinking? It's been days—why hasn't Seven-Inch Blade signed the reprint contract? And he's submitting fewer and fewer manuscripts."

"I asked Dong Yuejin yesterday—he said Seven-Inch Blade's busy with school now, less time to write."

"Less time? I think he's just stirring up trouble. He exploited the 'Infiltration' contract—we didn't cheat him, and now he's hooked?"

The publishing house's top boss paced angrily, then issued a final order:

"Tell Lao Dong to resolve this within a week—or withhold future payments for 'Infiltration.'"

"."

Dong Yuejin, upon receiving the order, didn't dare delay—he sent a telegram to Peking University, demanding Li Ye call him today.

Only at 8 p. . did Li Ye's call come through to Lanhai Publishing.

"Oh my Li Ye, you're trying to kill your old brother?

Just tell me what you want—don't use school as an excuse. We both know each other too well."

Li Ye held back a laugh, paused a few seconds, then said: "I must focus on my studies now. But I'm very interested in Hong Kong."

Dong Yuejin was confused: "What do you mean, interested?"

Li Ye said plainly: "In class, my professor said Hong Kong is one of East Asia's key economic centers. I'm studying economics—I want to go see it."

"."

Dong Yuejin stared, then sighed: "I knew you'd cause trouble. Don't you know how hard it is to leave the country?"

Li Ye smiled: "It might not be that hard—if you think it's hard, let me negotiate directly with Hong Kong."

"."

Dong Yuejin had no reply—this was beyond his authority as a magazine editor.

After a meeting the next day, Li Ye finally received Tawang Literature Publishing House's phone number.

Li Ye paid two hundred yuan as a deposit at the post office and waited for the international line to connect.

After a long wait, he heard Pei Wencong's Hong Kong-accented Mandarin.

"Hello, who's this?"

"I'm Seven-Inch Blade. I'm looking for Mr. Pei Wencong of Tawang Literature Publishing House."

The line went silent for three seconds, then erupted with enthusiasm: "That's me! That's me! You—"

"International calls are expensive. Just listen—I'm speaking now."

Li Ye cut in directly: "First, I want twenty percent profit from 'North Wind Soaring'—keep it with you for now. Don't even think about playing tricks."

"Second, I'm going to Hong Kong this Spring Festival. Get me an invitation."

"."

Pei Wencong was stunned.

Listening to the unyielding tone on the phone, he felt as if he weren't talking to a literary writer, but to a gang boss from Tongluowan.

Old Feng finished his last IV today; starting tomorrow, updates will be more vigorous.

He caught a cold at the start of the month, so he won't beg for sympathy this time—eight days of IVs messed up Old Feng's update schedule.

Tomorrow I'll try to adjust the update time to around eight p. ., so readers won't have to stay up late, and it won't hurt Old Feng's readership.

Then Old Feng will catch up on the backlog as soon as possible—believe me, he's not slacking off; he's just as anxious.

With so much debt, he's too embarrassed to even ask for votes.

Today's post was released late, so I won't copy the thank-you notes for tips—will do them all together tomorrow.

(End of chapter)