Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C69

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Chapter 69: My Goodness!

“Little Mr. Gu is something else! Quite the character,” Han Cang said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We didn’t talk much, but his ideas are cutting-edge.”

Cutting-edge? The editors—Li Nuo, Dudu, and the others—exchanged silent glances. That’s some high praise for a kid who’s barely out of school!

Han Cang didn’t elaborate further; he knew the banquet would reveal everything in due time.

There was no time to dwell on it anyway, as the group soon had to leave the hotel again to pick up more guests. Dudu had just returned from fetching Cat-San-Ning when two more authors arrived in quick succession.

By around five-thirty, all thirty-one contracted authors who had promised to attend were settled into their rooms. Dinner was scheduled for six o’clock on the second floor of the hotel. Since Little Mr. Gu wasn’t known for being active online, Han Cang made sure to call him ahead of time with the details.

This was their first offline gathering, so naturally, there was an awkwardness in the air. Most of these authors were introverts by nature, not exactly social butterflies. And with the head editor busy preparing his speech, no one stepped up to break the ice.

Thankfully, there was one exception: Cat-San-Ning, whose real name was Mao Shanming. Dressed in a neatly tucked-in white shirt and jeans, he looked every bit the charismatic troublemaker. He greeted everyone he saw with boundless enthusiasm.

“Hello there! I’m Cat-San-Ning, author of The Mind Reader. Hey, you look sharp—what’s your name?”

“Hey, don’t walk off! Who are you? I love several detective fiction writers featured in Chronicles of Mystery!”

Being naturally sociable was Cat-San-Ning’s superpower. Within minutes, he’d introduced himself to half the room, melting away the tension like snow under the sun.

But then he paused, scratching his head. “Wait, can we bring family members to this event?”

“Hey, Long, do you know whose kid that is?” Cat-San-Ning asked Bian Long, the burly man from Shandong who stood out like a mountain among the crowd.

“Probably one of the editors’, I’d guess. Authors usually don’t bring family,” Bian Long reasoned.

Cat-San-Ning nodded thoughtfully. That made sense.

“I wonder which one is Zhong Xiu—I really enjoyed his Sun Tower. The title sounds so bright, but the content is delightfully dark.” Cat-San-Ning scanned the remaining unfamiliar faces. “Cooking body parts into stews? Right up my alley.”

“If we’re talking twisted minds,” Bian Long chimed in, “that Gu Lu guy from last issue wasn’t bad either. Gave me goosebumps.”

“Gu Lu’s definitely got talent. Detective Mingzhi is portrayed not so much like Sherlock Holmes, but more like Professor Moriarty.” another writer added, joining the conversation. Even the most reserved individuals couldn’t resist opening up once they found common ground. After all, they were both creators and fans of the genre.

Each table had place cards displaying pen names to prevent confusion. With forty people in attendance—including the editorial team—five tables sufficed.

“What luck! I’m sitting with Chief Editor Gao,” Cat-San-Ning declared cheerfully. “He’s a legend in our detective fiction-writing world.”

“Zhong Xiu? Oh, he’s next to me!” Cat-San-Ning noticed the nameplate beside him.

A moment later, a poised woman in her early thirties took the seat. Cat-San-Ning froze mid-thought.

“Uh, miss… You’re Zhong Xiu, the author of Sun Tower?” he asked hesitantly.

“Got a problem with that?” Zhong Xiu replied with a playful grin.

Zhong Xiu was a pseudonym; her real name was Zhong Xiuxiu, which she felt sounded too delicate. So, she chose “Xiu” as a nod to fixing clocks—a subtle jab at the overused trope of time-based tricks in detective fiction.

“Well, color me shocked. I never imagined Sun Tower came from someone so… stunning,” Cat-San-Ning stammered, suddenly losing his usual confidence around women.

“There aren’t many female mystery writers, but Agatha Christie herself is proof that gender doesn’t matter,” Zhong Xiu said warmly. “I’ve always been drawn to the strange and macabre.”

Her expression shifted as she glanced across the table. “Young man, are you sure you’re in the right seat?”

Wrong seat? Cat-San-Ning followed her gaze and spotted the same young guest everyone assumed was an editor’s child.

“Hello, seniors! I’m Gu Lu,” the boy announced, standing up and giving a sheepish smile. His demeanor reminded everyone of a pint-sized Conan Edogawa, complete with puppy-dog eyes.

“Gu Lu?”

“You’re Gu Lu?”

“The author of Doctor Mera's Mysterious Crimes, The Stalker in the Attic, and Murder on D Street?”

“It’s not April Fool’s Day, is it?”

Whispers rippled through the room. Gu Lu’s introduction drew attention because nearly everyone remembered the peculiar brilliance of his stories—three in one issue, each stranger than the last.

“This keeps getting better,” Cat-San-Ning muttered. “First Zhong Xiu turns out to be a gorgeous woman, and now Gu Lu’s a student? What a night!”

Bian Long remained speechless, sizing up the diminutive author before him. How could such a young boy write stories that sent shivers down spines?

Even Zhong Xiu, normally composed, was visibly stunned. Those three stories were personal favorites of hers, which was why she’d asked about Gu Lu earlier and noticed his seating arrangement.

“My goodness…” she murmured under her breath.

All eyes turned to Gu Lu, who seemed unfazed. Han Cang suppressed a chuckle—he loved seeing people react like they’d never seen anything quite like this before.

But there was no time to dwell on it. Dinner had begun.

“In 1998, eighty works by Christie were published in Qián Province, coinciding with the rise of the internet in China. In April 1999, a fan named Pa Ji founded the Agatha Christie Chinese website. By July 2002, its affiliated forum for detective fiction enthusiasts officially launched…”

Chief Editor Gao recounted the history of AC Forums and how it had enriched readers’ lives. His words droned on, but Gu Lu’s mind wandered back to memories of factory inspections from his past life. Back then, after finishing vocational school, he’d been assigned to a parts factory where resistance meant no diploma. The boss would prattle on about the company’s glorious achievements while Gu Lu zoned out. It wasn’t hard to see parallels between that scene and this one.

“Let us hope our regular contributors to Chronicles of Mystery will continue crafting brilliant tales, becoming the Arthur Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie of China,” Chief Editor Gao concluded with a hopeful tone.

Regular contributors referred to signed authors, at least within Chronicles of Mystery. As polite applause filled the room, networking began in earnest.

“Brother, let’s exchange contact info,” Cat-San-Ning suggested enthusiastically.

Bian Long and others quickly followed suit, swapping phone numbers.

Zhong Xiu stayed quiet, her thoughts swirling. She’d assumed Gu Lu was a middle-aged man with deep insights into human nature—the kind worth discussing with. Instead, here was a teenager, still wet behind the ears. Surely, someone so young couldn’t have experienced enough of life to write such chilling tales?

Still, Zhong Xiu realized she might be falling prey to stereotypes. Experience wasn’t solely measured by age; depth often transcended years.

Meanwhile, Gu Lu’s phone died—but it hardly mattered. He carried spare batteries, three of them, ensuring he’d never run out of juice. Compared to Zhang Yudong, who famously carried five, Gu Lu considered himself modestly prepared.

As everyone settled into their seats according to the nameplates, Gu Lu found himself seated alongside Cat-San-Ning, Zhong Xiu, Chief Editor Gao, and Dudu. Was this the main table? Likely so. Surrounded by fellow authors and editors, the evening promised lively conversation over food.

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