Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C65

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Chapter 65: We’ve Struck Gold

Mr. Holmes clocked in at around 170,000 words, with the first volume wrapping up at roughly 50,000.

"Finally," Han Cang muttered under his breath. He was a good editor—perhaps too good—because even before he finished reading, his mind was already spinning through ways to reject Gu Lu's manuscript without crushing the young writer’s confidence.

If Gu Lu had been an adult, Han Cang would have laid it out bluntly: You’re clearly capable of writing something more conventional; why are you messing around with this style? Isn’t money nice?

But Gu Lu wasn’t an adult. He was still in high school, barely out of middle school, really. At that age, dreams burned bright and fragile, like paper lanterns swaying in the wind. So Han Cang kept his thoughts to himself.

[Special thanks to Zhang Yudong for gifting me The Sign of the Four, which rekindled my love for Sherlock Holmes.]

An acknowledgment—that was standard fare, nothing unusual. Han Cang moved on.

The opening scene introduced Sherlock Holmes at ninety-three years old, frail and withdrawn, living in seclusion on a countryside estate. His only hobby in these twilight years? Beekeeping.

“Beekeeping…” Han Cang murmured thoughtfully. As both a detective fiction enthusiast and the corresponding editor of Chronicles of Mystery, he’d read about Holmes countless times.

He vaguely recalled something from The Adventure of the Second Stain: Holmes had mentioned spending time beekeeping in the Sussex Downs. Intrigued, Han Cang rose from his desk and approached the towering bookshelf to his left. The shelves were mostly for show, lined with classic detective novels from home and abroad, but they served their purpose well enough.

He pulled down a copy of His Last Bow and flipped to the relevant section. Sure enough, there it was—a reference to Holmes penning a treatise titled Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations Upon the Segregation of the Queen.

“Fascinating,” Han Cang murmured, a flicker of interest igniting within him. “So young Mr. Gu has done his homework.”

This revelation piqued his curiosity further. At least it showed the author hadn’t just thrown ideas against the wall to see what stuck. These 50,000 words painted a world where Holmes lived alone, cared for by Mrs. Montrose, his housekeeper, and her son Roger, a curious little boy who occasionally wandered into Holmes’s orbit.

As Han Cang delved deeper, however, his brow furrowed. The great detective’s once-sharp memory was now fading, forcing him to rely on royal jelly as a supplement. Worse still, Holmes had traveled all the way to China in search of calamus root, rumored to enhance cognitive function, only to lug it back to England.

Gu Lu had altered this subplot slightly from its original source material. In the canon, Holmes sought Japanese sanshō pepper instead.

Han Cang found it hard to reconcile the image of Holmes—the razor-shirt intellect, the untamed genius—with the broken figure presented here.

“But then again,” Han Cang mused aloud, softening slightly, “Watson is dead. Mycroft is dead. Everyone Holmes ever knew is gone. All that remains is an old man. Even Sherlock Holmes is human after all.” Slowly, grudgingly, Han Cang began to understand.

The prose was achingly detailed, almost painfully so, as if the real Holmes had risen from the pages of history to narrate his own decline.

[Fields blanketed in wildflowers, forests untouched by footprints—these could be directions worth pursuing. If humanity cannot find meaning in such pursuits, I fear no true Age of Enlightenment will ever dawn.]

[He does not grasp that the departed are never truly far. They linger just beyond the wall.]

[I have always been alone… my entire life. But my intellect has been compensation enough.]

…

“Unbelievable,” Han Cang whispered to himself. “A teenager writing about loneliness with such profound insight—is this what unappreciated genius feels like?” His mind raced, imagining scenarios of neglect or misunderstanding fueling Gu Lu’s creative fire.

If this were Old Li, the secondary review editor over at Story Digest, he’d immediately leap to conclusions about family dynamics. But Han Cang and Old Li operated on different wavelengths, their assumptions shaped by disparate experiences.

By the time Han Cang finished the manuscript, nearly 52,000 words later, he felt a pang of regret that it ended so soon. Two tantalizing hooks dangled before him. The first—and most significant—was the nature of Holmes’s final problem. Whatever catastrophe awaited him, it had driven Holmes into self-imposed exile, leaving crime-solving behind forever.

The unraveling of Holmes’s memory became the novel’s central thread, fragments surfacing sporadically like shards of glass glinting in murky water.

The second hook revolved around Holmes’s bees, dying inexplicably without rhyme or reason.

“That’s it?” Han Cang said aloud, chastising himself for doubting Gu Lu earlier. “Of course someone capable of switching styles so effortlessly wouldn’t falter. His talent transcends critique.”

“We have to sign him,” Han Cang declared resolutely, marching toward Senior Editor Gao’s office.

Gao, the esteemed head of Chronicles of Mystery, needed no introduction. A superfan of detective fiction, he possessed encyclopedic knowledge of the genre. With author contracts at stake, Gao set aside his current workload and devoted thirty minutes to reviewing the manuscript.

“Xiao Han,” Gao called out, looking up from his desk.

Han Cang leaned forward eagerly. “What’s your verdict, Editor-in-Chief?”

“It’s possible we’ve unearthed someone extraordinary,” Gao replied, his voice measured yet tinged with excitement. “The seamless transitions between third-person and first-person perspectives are remarkable. From a seasoned writer in their thirties or forties, this level of skill would be impressive—but coming from a high school student? It’s unprecedented.”

“And the mimicry!” Gao continued, shaking his head in admiration. “Flawless. Over four decades in this industry, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Han Cang nodded vigorously, agreeing wholeheartedly. Aside from a few minor quirks in phrasing, the imitation bore no trace of effort. This was pure, unadulterated talent.

“A masterpiece like this, written by a prodigy like him? Not signing him would be criminal,” Gao concluded decisively.

With terms settled—serial publication fees set at 180 yuan per thousand words, plus assistance with publishing—the contract was drawn up. The very next day, Gu Lu received word.

“I’ll send the contract back as soon as possible,” Gu Lu said over the phone.

“No rush,” Han Cang assured him. “Do you have any preferences regarding the serialization schedule?”

“How about late August?” Gu Lu suggested.

Most high schools started around September 1st or 2nd, but No. 8 High School began a week early for freshman orientation and military training. Gu Lu planned accordingly, scheduling both his detective fiction and fairy tales to serialize during the new semester.

“No issues there; we’ll coordinate the timing,” Han Cang confirmed. Then, hesitating briefly, he added, “By the way, Mr. Gu, if you’re free, you should join us for AC Forum’s tenth-anniversary offline gathering. Most of our contracted authors will be there.”

“AC Forum?” Gu Lu asked, unfamiliar with the name.

Han Cang explained patiently. Originally a fan site dedicated to Agatha Christie, the forum had evolved into a hub for translating and discussing classic detective fiction from around the world. Today, it stood as the largest online community for detective fiction enthusiasts in China—and it was founded by none other than Senior Editor Gao.

Gu Lu considered asking whether travel expenses were covered but decided against it.

Meanwhile, back at home, Gu Jiayu listened silently as her mother spoke.

“When the time comes, Gu Lu can take the bus here. Your Uncle Xiao won’t be able to pick him up—he’s busy, and besides, Gu Lu’s old enough to manage on his own,” Gu Lu’s Mother said matter-of-factly.

“…Big Brother isn’t coming,” Gu Jiayu murmured quietly.

“What?”

Gu Lu’s Mother’s tone shifted, laced with confusion. She turned to look at her daughter, puzzled. On past birthdays, even when explicitly told not to come, Gu Lu had always sent gifts via his sister. Why the sudden change?

Suppressing a twinge of unease, Gu Lu’s Mother forced a smile. “Well, that’s fine. The four of us can celebrate together.”

“Mom…” Gu Jiayu hesitated before blurting out, “Is it because you don’t want to see Big Brother anymore? Is it because of… New Brother?”

Her words hung heavy in the air. By “New Brother,” she meant Xiao Yang, Gu Jiayu’s stepbrother. She knew the question might upset her mother, but she couldn’t help herself.

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