Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C48

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Chapter 48: Chinese Dreamcore

He had just turned eighteen—Gu Lu quickly stifled the urge to drop a punchline. After all, a joke only lands if everyone gets it.

Clearing his throat, he said, “Editor Han Cang, is it possible—I’m just saying possible—that I’m actually still a student?”

Han Cang’s mind momentarily short-circuited, evident in the brief pause on the other end of the line.

“A college student?” Han Cang ventured cautiously. But even as he asked, he knew the answer. College students’ voices deepened long ago; they wouldn’t sound so youthful.

“I’m graduating from middle school this year,” Gu Lu replied matter-of-factly.

“…”

Readers always form a vague image of an author when reading their work. Even if they don’t picture a face, they at least imagine an age or personality.

The Gu Lu Han Cang had imagined was a man in his thirties or forties—someone with life experience and a deep understanding of human nature and society. Otherwise, how could one explain such a bizarre writing style?

“Well, originally my writing leaned more toward light and fresh prose. I’ve had several pieces accepted by Story Digest and Young Literature,” Gu Lu explained smoothly, sticking to his prepared script.

Oh ho! A prodigy! So he’d already been published in other magazines. Han Cang held Story Digest in slight disdain but respected Young Literature. The latter was prestigious, even nominated by some big name when it first launched.

“The editor at Story Digest, Mr. Li, told me my storytelling wasn’t strong enough. Around that time, I read ‘The Mountain Market’ and ‘The Wolves’ in our textbooks. Those stories felt incredibly vivid.”

“So I delved into Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio and Strange Tales Under the Fluorescent Window. I picked up a bit of that ghostly vibe,” Gu Lu continued. “I figured this style suited mystery writing, and that’s how these three stories came about.”

If Han Cang hadn’t heard of Strange Tales Under the Fluorescent Window, he certainly knew Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. A familiar phrase popped into his head: “Writing about ghosts and demons surpasses others; exposing greed and cruelty cuts to the bone!”

Didn’t The Stalker in the Attic and Murder on D Street expose greed? They depicted the dark desires of human nature.

And Dr. Mera’s story—wasn’t that a critique of cruelty?

The logic made sense, but Han Cang still found it hard to believe. Still, Gu Lu had laid everything out clearly. Both Story Digest and Young Literature were readily available for purchase. If this were a lie, it would be too easy to debunk…

But then again, maybe not. A middle schooler might have the audacity to tell such an obvious fib!

“Little Mr. Gu, you’re truly a born writer with a natural sensitivity to words,” Han Cang said, rising from his desk and heading downstairs.

Not far from the office was a newsstand where popular magazines and newspapers were sold. In ten years, most newsstands would either vanish entirely or transform into small stalls selling drinks and cigarettes. Physical copies of periodicals would only be available online, though getting the latest issues wouldn’t be difficult.

As Han Cang walked over, he continued explaining the benefits of becoming a contracted author for Chronicles of Mystery. Gu Lu didn’t notice anything amiss on the other end of the line.

Being a contracted magazine author was worlds apart from being a contracted web novelist. For one, there was no anxiety over whether your manuscript would pass review since you’d be assigned a dedicated editor. Your royalties would increase accordingly, and you’d also receive preferential treatment for publishing standalone volumes.

Of course, there were downsides too. Contracted authors had to submit their work on time—or face relentless hounding from editors. As one famous procrastinator once quipped: Forget talent or luck. What you need is a deadline and someone who’ll beat you senseless if you miss it. Then, you’ll be amazed by what you can produce.

Han Cang needed to confirm everything because he was feeling disillusioned. He could practically title this situation: The Refined Middle-Aged Gentleman in My Mind Can’t Possibly Be a Middle Schooler. Just in case.

He bought the first half of June’s issue and flipped through the table of contents. Sure enough, he spotted two articles credited to “Gu Lu.”

Multitasking, he skimmed Shoes and The Flying Santinis. Han Cang fell silent. Damn it, even if someone told him these two pieces were written by the same person, he’d struggle to believe it.

Was such a person really possible? Han Cang felt like he’d just learned something new about the world.

“Little Mr. Gu, take some time to think it over. Our Chronicles of Mystery is the top mystery publication in the country, with widespread reach.”

Han Cang spoke confidently, knowing that bringing Gu Lu on as a contracted author would require discussion within the editorial department. It wasn’t easy—over the past six years, only thirty writers had earned this status. Han Cang would need to report this unexpected development (the fact that Gu Lu was underage) to the chief editor.

“Alright, I’ll give it serious thought. Right now, though, I’m focused on preparing for the high school entrance exam. School comes first,” Gu Lu replied.

“…Understood.”

With that, the friendly conversation ended. Gu Lu smiled, satisfied that he’d achieved his goal.

Why go through all that effort to lay out such a detailed explanation?

Gu Lu wasn’t just doing it now—he planned to repeat it multiple times. The chances of different editors picking up his works were high, and while having a “distinctive vocabulary” helped, it wasn’t enough.

So Gu Lu intended to plant this narrative with various editors, who would then spread the rumor: Gu Lu has always loved experimenting with different styles since he was young.

Do you understand the value of establishing childhood habits? With this backstory, Gu Lu believed his credibility would skyrocket.

After finishing the call, he logged onto the official website of The Ye Shengtao Cup. It was about time for the finals announcement. True enough, without widespread internet access, updates were slow.

As Gu Lu prepared to leave, he noticed someone playing Digimon on a PS3. His fingers itched to join in. Fan Xiaotian had trounced him earlier—maybe today would be different?

“I’ve got money in the bank now. What do I have to fear?” A man’s confidence came from his savings. Gu Lu decided to play a few rounds against the AI.

The game offered varying difficulty levels: Easy, Simple, Hard, and Hell.

After breezing through a few rounds on Easy, Gu Lu felt invincible, imagining himself as Zhao Yun charging seven times in and out of enemy lines.

Feeling bold, he cranked the difficulty up to Hell.

Loss.

Win.

Don’t get the wrong idea—the win happened because Gu Lu accidentally lowered the difficulty back to Easy.

“The world never lets you have it your way. Fat Boss, add more time!” Glancing at the clock, Gu Lu knew his gaming session was almost over. Without needing a reminder, he proactively added extra minutes.

A minute or two later, huh? Why wasn’t anyone coming? Normally, Fat Boss rushed over to collect payment faster than his bulky frame suggested.

Curious, Gu Lu turned to look for him. There sat Fat Boss outside the door, perched on a chair, cigarette pinched between his index and middle fingers, gazing at the fiery clouds streaking across the sky.

Was he feeling emo? It wasn’t evening yet. Maybe it was lingering heartbreak from his last blind date. Gu Lu quietly approached.

The sunset painted the horizon in hues of orange and pink, its beauty bittersweet. The shop faced west, bathing Fat Boss in golden light, making him resemble the gooey yolk of a perfectly cooked egg…

“What are you looking at, Fat Boss?”

Gu Lu followed his gaze. The sunset bathed rooftops and telephone poles in warm colors, its reflection no longer harsh against glass windows. Passersby strolled down the street—some carrying groceries, others children hopping around like little bears.

For a fleeting moment, Gu Lu felt struck by something surreal. This scene felt oddly familiar, as if he’d seen it in a dream. It reminded him of the recurring dreams of his childhood, often described online as “Chinese dreamcore.”

What should he say next? Should he mention adding more time for Fat Boss? Or strike up a casual chat? Gu Lu hesitated, unsure which path to take.

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