Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C37

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"Yeah, you’re right," Zhao Juan nodded quickly, but pressed on. "But I’ve had an idea of my own—something that could change the world. Last week, I saw an old lady trying to cross the street. She was moving so slowly that by the time she got halfway, the light had already turned red. So, I went over and helped her across."

"And then what?" Chen Na prompted, clearly waiting for the punchline.

"My grandfather isn’t in great health either," Zhao Juan continued. "If something happened to him while he was out, and someone helped him the way I helped that woman, wouldn’t that be wonderful? My plan is simple: whenever I see an elderly person who needs help, I’ll step in. And maybe, just maybe, if enough people do the same, one day when my grandparents need assistance, someone will be there for them too. That’s how we can change not only our country but also the world."

Chen Na snorted softly under her breath. "Honestly, your plan sounds even less reliable than helping three random strangers from a movie."

Seeing the flicker of disappointment in her friend’s eyes, Chen Na softened her tone. "I mean, sure, it’s a nice thought. But how are you going to make sure everyone knows about it? If no one else follows through or even realizes what you’re doing, all your effort won’t amount to much."

That stung. Zhao Juan hadn’t considered the flaw in her logic—how could she expect others to join in without knowing? Trust alone wouldn’t cut it. For a moment, she fell silent.

To be fair, most people dream of changing the world at some point in their lives. But when exactly did you stop believing it was possible?

---

Gu Lu had no idea his words during class had sparked a fire in one of his classmates. Oblivious, he left school with a spring in his step and headed home.

"An interview, and a new book triggered—who says blessings don’t come in pairs? Ding ding ding! They arrive one after another!" Gu Lu hummed happily as he walked.

But his mood soured the moment he stepped inside.

"Do you have any sense of decency?!" Gu Lu was fuming. Someone had stolen the stash of plastic bottles the original owner of the body had been hoarding for months.

The six-story walk-up apartment building where Gu Lu lived didn’t have an elevator, but the stairwell landings were wide enough for residents to store odds and ends they couldn’t bear to throw away. The downside? Over time, these items piled up, blocking sunlight.

At the landing where Gu Lu now stood, an old bed frame discarded by a neighbor below lay untouched for years, gathering dust. The original owner of the body used to flatten empty water bottles and stuff them into large woven sacks, which he tucked neatly into the gaps between the clutter.

Now, though, the dust remained—but the sacks were gone.

"Thank goodness I’ve made some money recently," Gu Lu sighed. "Otherwise, I’d probably be devastated right now."

"To whoever stole my bottles," he muttered darkly, "may you trip and break both legs!" After a pause, he reconsidered. Breaking both legs might be a bit extreme. "Fine, just one leg, then!"

As he stewed in anger, Gu Lu remembered his plans for Saturday—he needed to withdraw cash from the bank before heading to the finals of the Ye Shengtao Cup competition. Better safe than sorry; carrying cash never hurt.

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, his latest submission was being reviewed.

---

[A love concealed within the realms of touch, hearing, and faint scent—a romance hidden in darkness, not of this mortal coil but rather a ballad sung in the kingdom of demons...]

Old Li, the secondary review editor, groaned inwardly. What on earth was this? The writing style had taken such a bizarre turn that the first sentence itself made no sense. A "ballad of demonic love"? Seriously?

And a middle school student writing about romance? Wasn’t that just laughable?

He felt a pang of guilt. Had he somehow led this promising young writer astray? Setting down his teacup—normally a ritual before diving into manuscripts—he didn’t even bother sifting out the tea leaves today.

By the time he finished reading, however, Old Li felt a chill run down his spine. There was something deeply unsettling about the piece.

[Madam, surely you understand by now that the beloved I speak of (please forgive this unforgivable offense) is none other than yourself. Ever since your husband purchased my chair from an antique shop in Fuling, I have harbored an unrelenting admiration for you, offering endless devotion.]

This sentence, in particular, left him deeply uncomfortable.

It wasn’t just the idea of someone hiding inside a chair—it was the fact that this hidden figure wanted to meet her!

Re-reading the opening line, Old Li couldn’t hold back anymore. "Damn it!" he cursed aloud. "Romance my foot!"

"What’s wrong, Editor Li?" His colleagues glanced over curiously.

"I read something shocking." He took a sip of tea to calm himself, accidentally swallowing a few stray leaves in the process. Ignoring the odd taste, he moved on to the next submissions.

The Dwarf: Who was that? On a small hill near the tent, a child-like figure danced wildly against the moonlight. His lantern-shaped body held aloft something round and heavy, like a watermelon.

A Brute’s Love: As the wife smashed the doll her husband had been cheating on her with, blood seeped from its shattered lips. The crimson droplets painted the arms of the husband holding it, its face frozen in a deathly grin.

"Gu Lu… what’s going on with Gu Lu?" Confusion gnawed at Old Li. Forget worrying about whether the kid had strayed from his usual path—now he was genuinely concerned about Gu Lu’s mental state.

The imagery conjured by these stories verged on disturbing. Take the dwarf, for instance. What if the "watermelon-like object" he carried was actually a human head? Imagine that scene bathed in moonlight.

And then there was the tale of betrayal involving a mannequin. When the wife discovered her husband’s infidelity, she assumed it was with another woman. But no—it was a mannequin. And instead of leaving it at that, she destroyed the doll, prompting the husband to commit suicide alongside it.

Old Li massaged his temples. At least these pieces demonstrated strong storytelling and originality.

"This draft has potential," he murmured. Earlier, he’d spoken with the chief editor about raising Gu Lu’s pay to 130 yuan per piece. But that was based on the premise that the storylines in Gu Lu's earlier short stories were relatively weak. Now, with those weaknesses addressed, Old Li decided to push for better compensation.

Still, something nagged at him. Could a person’s writing style really shift so drastically overnight? Determined to dig deeper, Old Li re-read the manuscript carefully. While the current submission brimmed with eerie descriptions that sent shivers down the spine, it bore almost no resemblance to Gu Lu’s previous works, which were concise and philosophical.

Before long, Old Li spotted subtle clues. A victorious smile crept onto his face.

From reviewing Gu Lu’s past submissions, he knew the writer favored certain uncommon phrases—"or perhaps" and "finality". Most writers opted for simpler alternatives: "maybe," "possibly," or simply "end."

For example, in The Traveler with the Pasted Rag Picture: [Around six in the evening, I boarded a train back to Donglai City from Quanzhou Station. Whether by coincidence or perhaps because trains in that area were always like this, the second-class carriage was eerily empty, resembling a church on a weekday afternoon...]

"Other than these two quirks, nothing else connects this work to his earlier ones," Old Li mused. "It’s as if two completely different authors wrote them."

Then again, Gu Lu was still young. A teenager’s writing style often fluctuated naturally. Perhaps this sudden shift wasn’t surprising after all.

"Actually," Old Li murmured to himself, "this style suits horror fiction quite well." Funny enough, he happened to know the editor of Fear Guest, a popular horror magazine.

Gu Lu, cunning as ever, hadn’t limited his stylistic quirks to mere submissions. Even his entry for the Ye Shengtao Cup, The Resounding Shadow, carried traces of this flair throughout.

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