Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C73

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Chapter 73: Do You Know Why?

"I was just wandering around, and suddenly there it was—my book!" Cat-San-Ning held up two copies of his work. "Since we’ve crossed paths, fate demands I share the wealth—one for each of you. Oh, and if you want an author’s signature, well, I suppose I could muster the effort."

His smug grin stretched so wide it almost looked like a fish gasping for air.

But honestly, he had every right to gloat. Among the regular contributors at Chronicles of Mystery, only half managed to publish their own books.

"Are you sure about signing these?" Gu Lu accepted one of the books hesitantly.

"Nanhai Publishing House—pretty impressive, huh? How are the sales looking?" Bian Long inspected the cover with undisguised envy.

"Not bad," Cat-San-Ning replied casually. "About eighty thousand copies sold in the first month after release. Barely worth mentioning."

"That’s over the threshold for bestsellers, isn’t it?" Bian Long said wistfully. "I wonder when I’ll get my chance to publish something."

"By today’s standards, you’d need at least a hundred and fifty thousand copies to really call it a hit," Cat-San-Ning corrected him. "Still plenty of room for improvement."

Gu Lu couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. He started mulling over whether Mr. Holmes would ever see the light of day—and if it did, how many copies might sell?

"Then again," he thought aloud, "if we're talking sheer numbers, maybe I should pin my hopes on The Little Prince instead."

Success always had a way of lifting spirits, and Cat-San-Ning was no exception. His back didn’t ache anymore, his legs weren’t sore, and he even splurged by treating the other two to roasted corn as they strolled back to the hotel.

After washing up, Gu Lu flopped onto his bed to rest while others got down to business. Unlike writers who could afford leisure, Editor Han and the team were already hard at work. The first volume of Mr. Holmes had been proofread, earning Gu Lu nearly ten thousand yuan in royalties—a tidy sum that eased some of his worries.

Earlier that day, amidst all the shopping, Gu Lu had picked up a smartphone: last year’s Xiaomi 1 model, priced at 1,999 RMB. Though far from perfect, it handled basic tasks like logging into QQ, creating documents, and playing games like Fruit Ninja. An iPhone 4S or 5 felt too extravagant, especially since he wasn’t obsessed with Apple products.

For the first time since arriving in this era, Gu Lu logged into his QQ account outside the confines of a dream. He clicked open the chat group “Class Five Family.”

GracefulDancer (Zhao Juan): Don't wanna go to military training... it's exhausting.

GradesAreJustClouds (Chen Xue): Then don’t.

UnderPlumTree (Wang Han): Military training is actually useful.

LonelyHeartLock (Wang Wenjun): Screw military training; our school doesn’t do it.

06 (Zhang Yudong): Are you stupid? Even vocational schools have military training.

06: Check out my QQ avatar—am I drop-dead gorgeous or what?

LonelyHeartLock: Holy crap, how did you unlock the red diamond icon?!

Every time Gu Lu glanced at the group name, he felt a strange sense of dissonance. Take “GradesAreJustClouds,” for instance—it seemed inspired by the old internet meme “Everything Is Just Clouds.” Yet here, in this timeline, it felt fresh and current.

The conversation buzzed with energy, reminding Gu Lu of simpler times. Back in his previous life, he’d obsessively researched ways to unlock more icons on his profile. Now, scrolling through the chats gave him glimpses into everyone’s lives. Zhang Yudong had transferred to Chongqing No. 2 Foreign Language School, a private institution. Wang Hongming pursued art and enrolled in Yuzhong High School, while Fan Xiaotian and Chen Xue attended vocational schools. Free from academic pressure, Fan Xiaotian indulged in novels late into the night. Gu Lu sent him a few reminders to take care of himself.

GracefulDancer: Heard Third High is super strict. Scary stuff.

Seeing Zhao Juan’s message, Gu Lu chuckled inwardly. If she thought Third High was strict, she clearly hadn’t met the iron-fisted discipline of Eighth High yet.

As the evening wore on, Gu Lu found himself reflecting on how time never moved uniformly. Studies suggested that during vacations, time flowed three times faster than usual. Blink, and summer break was gone. On August 24th, Eighth High would begin its annual military training.

Just days after returning home from Bingcheng, Gu Lu received a phone call from his father.

“You’ve been out gallivanting for an entire day and night! Where the hell have you been?” The moment the line connected, a torrent of scolding poured forth.

“Do you even remember you’re a student?”

The anger crackling through the receiver could’ve lit a bonfire. Gu Lu let the tirade wash over him silently before responding coolly, “Dad, you’re back early this time. Forty-some days? Usually, you stay away for fifty or sixty.”

His words hit like ice water. On the other end, his father bristled. “You think I’m out here having fun? Do you eat because of charity? Who pays for your schooling?”

“I never said you weren’t working hard,” Gu Lu countered smoothly.

So much remained unsaid. Why was his father so furious? Because deep down, Gu Lu knew the truth. Originally planning to extend his absence another week or two, his father had returned abruptly after receiving a blistering call from Mrs. Zheng Yanfei. Realizing he hadn’t seen his son in days, he stormed home, ready to unleash his frustrations.

Gu Lu’s father was not a man of great attention to detail. If he had only taken a closer look at the state of the room—the cleanliness, the clothes hanging in the wardrobe—he might have pieced together a clearer picture of what was really going on.

"Get back home this instant! Don’t think you’re so special just because you can scribble a few essays," Gu Lu's father barked, unleashing the frustration he had bottled up from being reprimanded earlier onto his son.

"Not coming back today. I'll return tomorrow," Gu Lu replied calmly, almost dismissively. "Since you’re already here, there’s something I need to discuss with you tomorrow."

"You..." Gu Lu's father faltered, his voice trailing off, unable to find the words to counter his son's unexpected composure.

Gu Lu, however, wasn’t fazed. Hanging up the phone, he hummed softly to himself, “You’re watching lonely landscapes, running from memories of me… What song was that again? Forgot the lyrics.”

Fuming, his father stared at the phone, vowing to teach Gu Lu a lesson tomorrow—to show him why roses bloom red.

---

The next morning, armed with his recent medical report, Gu Lu prepared for battle. By ten o’clock, he arrived at the apartment in Suokou District. As he unlocked the door, a stern voice greeted him.

“So you still know where home is, huh?!”

It was his father, standing rigidly in the small living room, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep—or perhaps withdrawal from alcohol. Clearly, he was spoiling for a fight.

“Home? Is this place really home?” Gu Lu fired back immediately. “Because I don’t see it.”

His father faltered. “You…”

Interrupting, Gu Lu continued, “Dad, we started military training today. Do you know why I didn’t attend?”

His father blinked, caught off guard. Shaking his head, he waited for an explanation.

“Because I have gastric erosion and hypoglycemia. The doctor advised against it.” Gu Lu handed over the medical report.

“And dad,” he pressed further, “do you know why I developed gastric erosion and low blood sugar?”

Not waiting for a response, Gu Lu answered his own question. “Because I’ve been eating irregularly for years. Or rather, not eating enough. I used to be malnourished, but I’ve managed to improve slightly over the past few months.”

He leaned forward, locking eyes with his father. “And dad, do you know why I haven’t been eating properly?”

The tension thickened. “Because I don’t have money for food. There’s no rice in the house.”

His father’s hand trembled as he clutched the report. All trace of indignation vanished. Instead, he shot back defensively, “If you didn’t have money or food, why didn’t you ask me?”

“I couldn’t reach you,” Gu Lu replied calmly. “Besides, tell me, Dad—how often have you given me pocket money? How many times have you deposited funds into the bank card you opened for me?”

He paused, letting the question sink in. “You come home once every fifty or sixty days, handing me twenty yuan ($3USD) each time. Tell me, Dad, is that supposed to sustain me?”

Each repetition of “Dad” now carried an edge sharp enough to cut glass.

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