Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C79

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Chapter 79: Dedicated to Gu Lu

In the past, people used to say that horse-drawn carriages were slow, and letters took their sweet time reaching their destinations. But even now, in an age of cars and express delivery, Director Jian found himself impatiently waiting for Gu Lu’s latest manuscript to arrive from Chongqing to Shanghai—a journey that still required two or three days.

Humans, it seemed, were always chasing faster ways of transmitting information. Reflecting on this, Director Jian chuckled at his own impatience. After all these decades, he still couldn’t help but grow restless when something exciting was on the horizon.

As the head of a publishing house, he technically shouldn’t have been reviewing manuscripts himself—that was the editor’s job, or perhaps the chief editor’s at most. Yet after glimpsing Gu Lu’s earlier works, especially Breaking the Pig, Director Jian simply couldn’t resist getting involved.

He returned to his calligraphy practice, each stroke flowing with practiced ease as ink pooled onto paper under the soft glow of lamplight.

The night sky over 2012 still twinkled with stars, though not as brightly as in years gone by.

---

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, Gu Lu was already up and about.

“Not bad,” he muttered, stretching lazily. “Summer mornings aren’t nearly as brutal as winter ones.” He shuffled into the bathroom to begin his routine.

Morning reading started at 7:30, but since Gu Li lived close by, he could afford to wake up at 6:20. Precise timing was key—even if he woke earlier, he’d force himself back to bed for exactly twenty minutes of extra sleep.

After washing up quickly, Gu Lu checked his bag one last time. “Stationery? Check. Textbooks from yesterday? Check. Manuscript for submission? Double check.”

By 6:40, he was out the door. Gone were the days of carrying his belongings in a flimsy liquor bag; thanks to his earnings from writing, he’d treated himself to a sturdy new backpack.

The streets outside were alive with their usual charm. Cracked stone tiles lined the sidewalks, lampposts plastered with small ads stood like sentinels, and blue metal shutters remained closed against the early dawn. Bathed in the warm orange light of sunrise, the scene carried an odd sort of beauty—worn yet picturesque.

Jiafu Garden brimmed with life, its breakfast stalls offering a variety of options. Gu Lu opted for a simple meal: soy milk paired with glutinous rice cakes.

“The weather’s nice today,” he remarked, glancing up at the clear sky.

Meanwhile, back in the dormitory, Zeng Jie groggily echoed a similar sentiment—but with less enthusiasm. “Another scorching day. It feels like the sun never takes a break, just like my alarm clock hanging perpetually mid-air.”

Regardless of mood, everyone eventually found themselves seated promptly in Class Ten.

“Our homeroom teacher mentioned yesterday that we should preview the first unit during today’s morning study session,” announced Li Guyuan, the newly elected Literature class representative. His successful self-nomination stemmed from sheer confidence—he believed no one else in the class was more suited for the role, except perhaps Qi Caiwei.

With authority, Li Guyuan began reciting, “Qinyuan Chun – Changsha: Alone in the cold autumn, the Xiang River flows north…” He paused dramatically. “One, two, three—begin!”

The first unit included classics such as Qinyuan Chun – Changsha, A Call Beyond Earth, On the Side of Eriduo Snow Peak, and To a Skylark.

Soon, the classroom filled with the sound of voices chanting in unison.

Gu Lu’s desk partner, Tian Xiao, read aloud with vigor, allowing Gu Lu to coast along quietly. Unlike middle school, where Zhou Lin often slacked off, forcing him to pick up the slack, here he could finally blend into the background.

Half an hour later, Teacher Gao entered the room dressed casually in jeans and a light shirt. The bell rang, playing the cheerful tune Wonderful Day, while dismissal bells featured .d. High schools across the country had quirky ringtone choices, and No. 8 High School’s selection added a unique touch to daily routines.

“Before we dive into our first lesson, let’s do a little activity,” Teacher Gao said, placing her textbook aside. From within a small box, she pulled out dozens of slender glass vials, each about the size of a thumb.

“These are time capsules,” she explained. “You can write questions to your future selves—three years from now. Once you’re done, I’ll bury them somewhere safe, and we’ll dig them up during your final semester of senior year.”

Her words sparked immediate interest among the students. Anything unrelated to academics held a certain allure.

“Lu Yi, come distribute the bottles,” Teacher Gao instructed the class monitor, ensuring minimal disruption as students passed the vials row by row.

Lu Yi, with her bangs covering her forehead and tanned skin giving her a reserved demeanor, efficiently handed out the vials. Within eight trips, every student had their own capsule.

Each bottle bore a correction sticker—a relic from older times. These tiny white squares, designed for covering mistakes in essays, served as labels for students to write their names on. Without them, identifying individual capsules would’ve been impossible.

Gu Lu vaguely recalled how correction stickers had been phased out in favor of liquid correction fluid and tape. Still, nostalgia lingered.

[Did Grandma beat cancer?] [Did I make lots of friends in high school?] [Is Naruto finally over?] [Did I work hard in chemistry competitions?] [Am I the top pen-spinning champion yet?] …

Tian Xiao scribbled furiously, filling his bottle almost entirely. Watching his desk partner’s enthusiasm, Gu Lu paused thoughtfully. Three years from now, he’d be an adult. With that in mind, he carefully wrote down four questions.

Why did Teacher Gao spend time organizing this? It wasn’t merely to create youthful memories—it was rooted in precedent. A former student once unearthed their time capsule during the hundred-day pledge ceremony, finding inspiration to push harder and ultimately securing admission to a prestigious university. Though the odds were slim, Teacher Gao deemed it worthwhile.

“Feel free to pour your hearts out,” she reassured them. “No one else will see what you write—not even me, when we retrieve them in senior year.”

Unsurprisingly, the students’ responses varied wildly.

Qi Caiwei, the arts representative, wrote: [Have I improved enough in dance to meet Mom’s expectations?] [Has Mom praised me at least once in three years?] [Do I feel confident about entering Beijing Dance Academy?]

Class monitor Lu Yi penned: [Did my grades improve?] [Did I rank well in the Olympiad?] [Did I ever try dating?]

Sports representative Ma Xuanyou jotted: [Am I now the toughest guy at No. 8 High?] [Did I beat Xia Chenglong, that jerk?]

Why wasn’t Lü Ping, the track athlete, the sports rep instead? Simple: Ma Xuanyou threw shot put. Shot put—you know, that heavy ball you hurl as far as possible.

Once everyone finished, Lu Yi collected the vials, which Teacher Gao placed inside a metal container. She promised to bury them secretly, refusing to disclose the location lest curious students dig them up prematurely.

Thoughtful planning, indeed. Gu Lu suspected there might actually be students foolish enough to attempt such a thing.

And so, campus life at No. 8 High officially began. Armed with his student ID card, Gu Lu ate lunch and dinner in the cafeteria. Breakfast was available too, but waking up early enough proved difficult.

Two days slipped by in a blur as classmates continued adjusting to one another. Nicknames were scarce—a sign that bonds were still forming.

Meanwhile, Gu Lu’s package from Chongqing arrived in Shanghai. Thanks to prior communication with the front desk, Director Jian received notification immediately.

“A novella completed over two to three months—I must take a look,” he murmured, captivated by the opening lines.

[Dedicated to Gu Lu

I dedicate this book to a child for two important reasons. First, he gave me life; second, this child needs comfort. All adults were once children, though few remember it. I hope the future Gu Lu doesn’t forget the Gu Lu of today.]

The dedication lingered in Director Jian’s mind long after he finished reading it. Self-gifting a book—it was intriguing, almost poetic.

“If Little Gu becomes a renowned author someday,” Director Jian chuckled, “this preface will surely be analyzed endlessly.”

He turned the page, eager to delve into the main text—

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