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Chapter 20: Straightforward Words
Out of the nine short stories in The Human Chair, a surprisingly high number were suitable for submission—far more than those from The Bus Driver Who Wanted to Be God. Gu Lu concluded that Japanese culture still shared strong ties with the broader Asian cultural sphere.
“Still, submitting all these pieces to Story Digest might not be ideal.”
Another issue gnawed at him: should he localize Kogoro Akechi? Without localization, it felt odd—he’d never even been to Japan. Writing about its culture seemed disingenuous.
“Wait… maybe there’s another way…”
An idea struck Gu Lu, but he’d need a computer to test it. He decided to visit Fat Boss’s shop the next day to use his PC.
At school, Mr. Li brought good news: the Resounding Shadow had successfully represented No. 37 Middle School’s junior division in the Ye Shengtao Cup competition.
“You might actually have a shot at getting into high school,” Mr. Li encouraged him. “I’ll talk to your teachers and see if we can ease up on assignments.”
There was also Wang Hongming, a boy training in classical dance who often skipped homework due to practice. Like Gu Lu, he wasn’t an exception—Mr. Li always accommodated students pursuing alternative paths to academic success.
“Also…” Mr. Li pulled out a set of books from his desk: several works by Lao She and Gibran’s prose poetry.
“Read these. Gibran writes the most beautiful English, while Lao She is one of our nation’s finest authors.” Mr. Li paused, then asked abruptly, “What was Lao She’s real name?”
Caught off guard by this pop quiz, Gu Lu hesitated before answering, “Shu Qingchun?”
Mr. Li nodded approvingly. “We covered this during the first year when discussing Winter in Jinan. Details about writers like Lao She, Lu Xun, and Ba Jin are common exam topics. Even though you might skip the entrance exam if things go well, finishing middle school means remembering some basics.”
“Thank you, Mr. Li.” Gu Lu accepted the books with gratitude.
Several renowned authors from the Republican era had vanished in this timeline, swept away by the butterfly effect. Thankfully, Lu Xun, Guo Moruo, Mao Dun, Ba Jin, Lao She, and Cao Yu remained pillars of modern literature. It was no coincidence their names ranked almost exactly as they did in literary prestige.
Double blessings—the world was looking brighter. Gu Lu walked with a lightness in his step.
“Wait, why does this feeling seem so familiar?” He paused, recalling. “Ah, before it was because I was hungry; today, it’s happiness. Completely different.”
Lost in thought, Gu Lu was interrupted by a girl. Looking up, he saw Zhao Juan.
His mood buoyant, he found himself unusually patient.
“You’ve avoided me these past two days because Wang Wenjun gave you trouble, right? Were you trying to stay away because you are scared?” Zhao Juan asked.
“No.” Gu Lu shook his head. It wasn’t fear—it was avoiding complications.
“That’s a relief,” Zhao Juan sighed, continuing, “I stormed off before because I was upset too. I worried you’d hate me for it.”
This girl—so direct? Gu Lu studied Zhao Juan as though seeing her anew.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that whoever took the initiative to clear the air after a misunderstanding was practically an angel in any relationship—be it romantic, platonic, or professional.
“First, he didn’t lay a hand on me or anything. Second, even if he had, revenge isn’t my style. Why would I hold it against you?” Gu Lu replied calmly.
“That makes so much sense.” Zhao Juan smiled. “But usually, emotions spill over. For instance, if my dad made my mom angry, I’d definitely keep quiet to avoid being dragged into it.”
“Maybe customs differ. Around here, we don’t blame others for someone else’s actions.” Gu Lu shrugged.
“Our customs?” Zhao Juan tilted her head, puzzled. Both her parents were Chongqing locals, but she didn’t dwell on it. Instead, her face brightened again. “Knowing you don’t hate me puts my mind at ease.”
“I’m heading off to help the teacher grade papers.” With that, she left. As final exams approached, teachers assigned more tests than they could handle alone, relying on class representatives like Zhao Juan to assist.
Watching her bounce away like a rabbit, Gu Lu couldn’t help but marvel. No wonder most people cherished their school days.
Why "most" and not everyone? If Gu Lu hadn’t reincarnated, the original host likely wouldn’t remember junior high fondly—but neither would he recall horrors, as bullying hadn’t occurred.
What would time look like if given form? For students, it might resemble sunlight streaming through classroom windows, golden rays spilling across desks regardless of dawn or dusk.
Old-fashioned security bars divided the light into stripes. Gu Lu idly played Gomoku on notebook paper with classmates.
“Chen Chen, aren’t you sharing snacks?” Outside, a classmate munched on packaged treats. Girls rarely joined such gatherings, but boys swarmed around snack bags like zombies circling prey.
Gu Lu smirked inwardly. The phrase “eating alone rots your butt” echoed among male students, along with “share with everyone present.”
Heading to his usual spot at noon:
“I could rename myself ‘Gu Plan-Success Lu!’” Gu Lu grinned, having uncovered what he needed.
Edogawa Ranpo’s collection contained both detective stories and bizarre tales. The former would go to Chronicles of Mystery, China’s premier original mystery magazine, while the latter suited Story Digest better.
Unlike Story Digest, Chronicles of Mystery featured contracted authors—a key difference shaping Gu Lu’s strategy. Short stories alone wouldn’t build fame easily, especially in the looming age of short videos. Success demanded novels—mid-length or full-length works.
“The October Revolution and Lenin… what kind of story will emerge? Hopefully a novel.” Gu Lu reflected on yesterday’s antics.
Yesterday, he’d rummaged through drawers and cabinets at home, hoping to trigger another book synthesis sequence. Alas, nothing happened.
Lao She’s Camel Xiangzi and Four Generations Under One Roof sat beside him, gifts from Mr. Li. He’d spent the afternoon devouring them.
Truthfully, reading Lao She didn’t immediately reveal dazzling prose. But try condensing any sentence randomly plucked from his pages. Could fewer words convey the same depth?
That economy of language—that was true craftsmanship.
“One sausage, a bowl of cold noodles, and tofu pudding, correct? Got it.”
“No bean sprouts, right? Noted.”
In the afternoon, Gu Lu helped regular customers fetch food through the back door. By the way, Chongqing-style tofu pudding came spicy.
The sausages—mostly starch with barely a trace of meat—still evoked childhood nostalgia. Yes, Gu Lu treated himself to one too, costing just a yuan.
Indeed, aside from food temptations, Gu Lu could resist everything else.
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