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Chapter 12: Breaking Off
Two triggers had activated, but instead of combining into a single book, they spawned yet another list—
Gu Lu struggled to stand up, only for the main beam of the sofa to snap with a loud crack. Without its support, the cushion sank instantly, creating the surreal impression that the sofa had come alive and swallowed him whole.
“It’s a mess,” Gu Lu muttered to himself. “I know you’re in a rush, but take a breath. One thing at a time.”
He paused to think. “Following the pattern from last time, why did I trigger this again?” His eyes scanned the three tags before him: [Strange Tales], [Repeatedly Declared Retirement From Writing], and [Award Creation]. After a moment, realization dawned on his face.
“This must be Edogawa Rampo’s work,” he said aloud.
The tags fit perfectly. Rampo’s stories were notorious for their bizarre twists and psychological depth—necrophilia, fetishism, voyeurism, cross-dressing, and more. Beyond his literary flair, Edogawa Rampo was hailed as the father of Japanese detective fiction, though his psyche was fragile. A single scathing critique titled “Rampo’s Detective Fiction Is Dead” had once driven him to retire from writing altogether. It took another writer—a devoted fan—to pen an essay titled “Rampo Will Rise Again” to coax him back. This cycle repeated three times, with his final retirement being a protest against the war and militaristic literature during wartime.
Unlike modern awards named after authors purely for branding purposes, the Edogawa Rampo Prize was founded using his own savings—a testament to his dedication to nurturing talent.
“My trigger must’ve been when I sank into the sofa earlier,” Gu Lu reasoned. “It reminded me of that deranged craftsman in The Human Chair who hid himself inside furniture.”
With this insight, Gu Lu refined his understanding of how his "cheat" worked: “If someone says a line or keyword similar to those in a novel, and I possess an item related to it, I can synthesize the work.”
He ventured another hypothesis: “Perhaps two items are needed—one verbal cue and one physical object?”
If it truly was The Human Chair, then the synthesized work would likely be a collection of Rampo’s short stories, which Gu Lu vaguely remembered reading in his past life. While the keywords remained elusive, at least he had a tangible goal: could he somehow prompt someone to utter a relevant phrase?
The idea was promising, but reality proved challenging. Though the plotlines of Rampo’s novels lingered faintly in his mind, the exact wording escaped him.
“They’re all short story collections,” Gu Lu mused. “Could that famously translated German book also be one?”
Night fell, and sleep claimed him.
---
The next morning, drizzle blanketed the city. Umbrellas bobbed like mushrooms as pedestrians hurried along wet streets. Gu Lu tread carefully, mindful of Chongqing’s notoriously uneven infrastructure in 2012, especially in DDK District. The pavement bricks were treacherous—stepping on the wrong one could unleash a geyser of filthy water.
Rain continued to fall, dampening not just the atmosphere but also Gu Lu’s mood. He wasn’t spared—he now sported soggy, dirty trousers. Washing them wouldn’t be too bad, but cleaning his shoes was always a hassle. Such inconveniences added to his irritation.
When he arrived at the classroom, many boarding students looked equally miserable, their hair plastered to their heads by rain. Today’s morning reading session focused on literature, meaning Mr. Li would arrive soon. Gu Lu planned to ask about the Ye Shengtao Cup then. Later, he’d head to Fat Boss’s place to submit his entry for the Bingxin Cup preliminary round. Everything was falling into place.
“Why’s your hair all wet?” Gu Lu glanced sidelong at Zhou Lin.
“I left the dorm without much rain,” Zhou Lin explained while dabbing her dripping locks with tissues. “I thought I’d sprint to breakfast, but by the time I finished eating, the downpour started.”
“Don’t catch a cold,” Gu Lu cautioned.
“I’m used to getting soaked. You think I’d catch a cold over something this minor?” Zhou Lin shot back.
Young bodies really do recover fast, Gu Lu thought absently. Wait, I am young too.
Zhou Lin pulled out a compact mirror to fix her hair, tugging loose strands here and there. As she adjusted her appearance, she caught sight of her reflection—the nose, the eyes, the overall look—and couldn’t help but admire herself.
“Hey, what do you think of my style today?” she nudged Gu Lu playfully.
“Truth or lie?” Gu Lu countered.
“Truth first,” Zhou Lin insisted.
“It’s not good,” Gu Lu deadpanned.
“And the lie?” Zhou Lin pressed, wide-eyed.
“It’s… okay,” Gu Lu replied.
“You’ve got your truths and lies mixed up!” Zhou Lin accused.
“Nope,” Gu Lu replied firmly.
“We’re done!” Zhou Lin huffed, turning away dramatically, her high ponytail swishing behind her.
For the rest of the first class, she didn’t utter another word to him, nor did she pass any notes during breaks.
Still, Gu Lu paid occasional attention in literature class.
“Gu Lu, come to the office,” Mr. Li announced, slamming his materials onto the podium before exiting the room.
Perfect timing. Gu Lu followed shortly after, entering the teachers’ office almost on Mr. Li’s heels. But no sooner had he stepped inside than Ms. Yan, the math teacher, piped up with her sharp voice.
“This kid got into another fight?”
“Oh no, he wants to enter a national writing competition,” Mr. Li clarified.
Gu Lu braced himself for Ms. Yan’s usual biting remarks—after all, students often joked that she had the sharpest tongue in school. To his surprise, however, she softened.
“A national writing contest? I think I’ve heard of it. Winning essays can secure early admission. Not bad—it’s a viable path. Write well!”
“Let’s not put too much pressure on him,” Mr. Li interjected, handing Gu Lu a sheet of paper. “Anyone can participate in the Ye Shengtao Cup.”
The page outlined two prompts:
[Choose one of the following topics. Word count: approximately 1,500 words (poetry must exceed 20 lines).
1. Write an essay titled “My Reading Story.” Any genre except poetry or practical writing.
2. Gorky once said, “Books are the ladder of human progress.” Write a speech for the city’s “Book Club.”]
Most competitions barred poetry and practical writing, including the Bingxin Cup. Yet the Ye Shengtao Cup explicitly encouraged such formats. The disparity in difficulty between the two contests became apparent.
“These are the preliminary topics for the Ye Shengtao Cup this year,” Mr. Li explained. “You have about half a month until the submission deadline, so plenty of time to brainstorm.”
Gu Lu nodded. He’d need to think carefully.
“Write it directly in your composition notebook, then hand it to me,” Mr. Li added.
Submitting under the school’s name via email was standard procedure, but Mr. Li’s instruction ensured students without computers at home weren’t disadvantaged.
“Thank you, Mr. Li,” Gu Lu said gratefully.
With the assignment in hand, he returned to the classroom, his steps noticeably lighter. Though he still had no clear direction for the Ye Shengtao Cup essay, he’d taken a small step toward his goal.
At noon, Fan Xiaotian’s parents were occupied, leaving him with ten yuan for lunch. Eager to make use of it, he invited Gu Lu to play games at Fat Boss’s arcade. Conveniently, Gu Lu needed to go there anyway.
The rain had stopped, leaving behind puddles scattered across the road like hidden traps.
“Hey, anything interesting happen last night?” Fan Xiaotian asked conspiratorially.
“Heard about the power outage during break,” Gu Lu replied. “Apparently, the boys’ dorm sang Fengyun Jue together.”
Fan Xiaotian rolled his eyes. “Not that! I mean, did anything unusual happen to you yesterday?”
“Nope,” Gu Lu shrugged.
“Nothing? No calls or texts?” Fan Xiaotian pressed.
Gu Lu shook his head. His old-school feature phone barely functioned beyond basic texting and QQ access via Mobile Dreamnet. Lately, only his sister messaged him, though her phone had been confiscated by their mother ages ago.
“What’s going on…” Fan Xiaotian muttered, lowering his voice. “Okay, listen closely. Zhao Juan made me promise not to tell anyone, but she asked for your contact info after school yesterday.”
Oh? Gu Lu raised an eyebrow at Fan Xiaotian.
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