Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C128

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Chapter 128: The Creeping Chill of an Article

"Submission successful!" stretched lazily.

Zu Shier was the username "" in their online group, a pen name he used for his writing. From earlier chat logs, it was clear that math wasn’t his strong suit, but his storytelling? That was another story altogether. His series had garnered rave reviews, with even ranking as the twenty-third best-selling book of 2010!

"Hmph, submitting this piece to feels like such a waste," Zu Shier muttered under his breath. He'd sent his latest work to the [Heavy Fog] section—not because he wanted to go head-to-head with , but simply because suspense was his bread and butter.

His thoughts lingered on one question: Could (Part One) possibly outshine Guardian Gu Lu’s stories?

And if it did, what would that mean?

Yanqi was one of the thirty-six kingdoms of the Western Regions, notorious for its aggressive expansion into neighboring territories. Its royal family bore the surname “Dragon,” so could easily be interpreted as the king's fury. To Zu Shier, armed with both the gripping narrative of his tale and the established reputation of his series, how could he possibly lose? It felt like sending in a dragon to crush the competition.

---

After stepping out for lunch, Zu Shier stopped by a newsstand near his apartment to grab a pack of cigarettes and two magazines. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted , boldly proclaiming: The First Issue of New Reading's Revamped Edition!

The cover design had undergone a dramatic change. Gone were the over-the-top horror visuals; instead, it now sported a more youthful aesthetic. The most noticeable difference, however, was the price tag: “6 yuan reduced to 4 yuan.”

"Outrageous!" Zu Shier grumbled, shaking his head at the sneaky tactics of the Fear Guest editorial team. Sure, the old version cost six yuan per issue, but they’d always thrown in a freebie—buy one, get one free. Now, it seemed like a raw deal disguised as a bargain.

Back home, Zu Shier flipped through the magazine and immediately noticed the splashy promotion for four Guardian articles on the cover:

Iron Pillar: Misfortune can kill, but happiness can be just as deadly.

: wasn’t just a ghost hunter—he was a ghost official, apprenticed to himself.

: Its gaping maw roared with rage…

: I possess extraordinary abilities. Souls who die with unresolved grievances or lingering resentment can find purification through me.

"Why does the description for Iron Pillar feel so different from the others?" Zu Shier wondered aloud, zeroing in on the article from the section where he’d submitted his own work.

"And no ads? Seriously?" He flipped through the pages, genuinely shocked. Earlier, Corresponding Editor Xue had boasted that their magazine was neck-and-neck with Story Digest. And indeed, many publications shared similar tones and commercial strategies.

But here, there were no ads for weight-loss pills, knockout drugs, stun batons, and height-increasing supplements cluttering the space on the back cover.

As he read through Iron Pillar, Zu Shier couldn’t help but admire the author’s skill. At over twenty thousand words, it was longer than your average short story, yet every sentence carried weight. The pacing was deliberate, unraveling the mystery layer by layer without feeling rushed.

What began as The Most Beautiful Little Mountain Village transformed into The Happiest Dead Mountain Village. Step by step, the horrifying truth emerged: The grandmother died blissfully with the help of her eldest daughter. Then the protagonist’s wife committed suicide, leaving behind a simple note: Xiaoyan, thank you for this life. I was happy.

The protagonist, driven to the brink of collapse, resolved to destroy the ominous Iron Pillar. While reading, Zu Shier didn’t find the story particularly terrifying. But once he finished, a chill ran down his spine.

[Yet this Iron Pillar lacked a concrete foundation—it pierced directly into the earth, as though sprouting from the ground itself…] That line, in particular, made his blood run cold.

The protagonist dug deeper and deeper, spending an entire day without reaching the end.

"This sense of dread is masterful," Zu Shier mused. "Wait, dread? Why do I find this story so unsettling? There’s no cursed pillar forcing people to commit suicide in real life, is there?"

He reached for his phone and opened the group chat, only to find it ablaze with discussion. Many members had bought copies of New Reading early that morning and were already dissecting the stories.

"Damn, who is this Gu Lu guy? Both Moon Songs and Iron Pillar are incredible! Are these really just Guardian-level pieces? Are we supposed to compete against this?"

"Iron Pillar freaked me out. Why would anyone commit suicide? At first, they said it was because their lives had reached perfection—they died happily. But then the village chief’s wife, sensing her husband might cheat, chose to end her life shortly after marriage. When the chief found out, he went berserk digging around the pillar, which seemed to stretch endlessly, as if emerging from the planet’s core."

"The protagonist’s wife probably killed herself for similar reasons. After all, he cheated once, and she couldn’t bear children. Her future must’ve looked bleak. Dying at the peak of happiness doesn’t seem so bad, does it?"

Reading through the group’s conversation, Zu Shier finally understood why he’d felt a chill after finishing the story. The logic was dangerous—if people started taking their lives to avoid imagined future hardships, where would it end?

He chimed in to voice his disagreement.

"You think it’s all hypothetical?" one member countered. "How can you guarantee those bad things won’t happen? Isn’t it better to avoid suffering by dying at your happiest moment? Life is fleeting, after all!"

In the story, the Iron Pillar appeared to grow from the planet’s core, but in reality, it symbolized the “negative emotions” sprouting from human hearts.

"Sure, bad things will happen in the future, but good things will too. If something like the Iron Pillar ever became commonplace, I might not be able to resist…" Zu Shier sighed deeply. "Gu Lu, you devilish writer. How do you come up with this stuff? Your stories have depth, layers, and leave readers trembling."

"But—" he added, squaring his shoulders, "my Thirty-Six Kingdom Investigations isn’t without its merits either." With that, he opened his email and typed a message: [Editor, upon further reflection, I believe my piece is better suited for the section. Crafting suspenseful atmospheres is my forte.]

It wasn’t about fearing Gu Lu—it was about placing his work in the right category.

---

Writers often harbored a quiet disdain for one another, yet even within their private group, praise for Gu Lu’s work poured in. Outside the group, the response was equally enthusiastic. New Reading had struck gold.

The revamped edition featured stories leagues above those in Fear Guest, especially the four Guardian articles, which received glowing reviews.

Veteran writers who made a living entering literary contests knew better than anyone—none of these pieces were pushovers.

Sales figures reflected readers’ approval. Within two days, New Reading reached mid-to-upper levels compared to pre-revamp numbers—a remarkable feat, considering the risks of rebranding.

Even more impressive was the surge in reader feedback forms, far exceeding pre-revamp levels. This spike was attributed to the interactive voting system, where readers could vote for their favorite stories, creating a strong sense of engagement.

"Why are so many readers saying they don’t understand Listening to Moon Songs in a White Room?" Chief Editor Dong puzzled over the feedback. Personally, he believed Moon Songs surpassed Iron Pillar, yet initial responses ranked Iron Pillar as the standout among the four Guardian pieces.

Dong sifted through 107 evaluation forms, slowly digesting the comments.

"Xiao Xue was right," Chief Editor Dong murmured. "Gu Lu is the kind of author who can change the fate of a magazine."

"There are plenty of writers who excel at novels, but few worldwide can truly master the short story form," Dong reflected. "Let’s keep pushing forward. When a great short-story writer emerges, we all benefit."

The annual always recognized the best short stories, but how long had it been since a collection truly left a lasting impression?

"It’s time for phase two," Dong glanced at the clock, realizing he needed to act before someone called to nag him.

Phase two involved expanding the reach of the Guardian articles. Put bluntly, it meant enlisting industry insiders to sing their praises. With seven or eight years of experience in the publishing world, Dong had connections aplenty. He often lent a hand to boost others’ careers.

Recommendations from editors and publishers? They were almost always favors, no different from online authors promoting each other’s chapters.

Soon, the reply came: "Iron Pillar and Moon Songs? Easy. What angle do you want us to take? The other two will require more thought."

"No problem. Just make sure to include the authors’ Weibo handles: , , and ."

Dong nodded inwardly. Despite commanding the highest fees in the magazine, Gu Lu earned every penny. His work packed a punch.

---

Meanwhile, Thursday and Friday flew by at school, with students buried in preparations for midterm exams.

This week, Gu Lu couldn’t help but marvel at how reliable modern high schoolers were.

Take Lü Ping, for example. Ever since losing a recent match, he’d redoubled his efforts in training and kept his teammates accountable. Another standout was Li Guyuan, who’d quietly secured funding from the school administration to establish a literary journal club—even though membership currently consisted of just himself and Gu Lu.

"We’ll figure things out as we go," Li Guyuan explained. "If we spend too much time planning without action, efficiency plummets."

"My idea is for us to prepare diligently and see how far we can get in a year. After all, it’s just the two of us."

"Aren’t we recruiting new members? For proofreading, editing, layout design, that sort of thing?" Gu Lu asked.

"Nope. According to No. 8 High School rules, clubs can only recruit during the annual recruitment fair. No exceptions," Li Guyuan clarified.

So that was the rule. Gu Lu realized his ideas were ambitious but often impractical. Most of his time was spent working on serialized stories and books outside of school.

"Maybe you should take the editor-in-chief role," Gu Lu suggested. "You’re the one doing all the heavy lifting."

"Not a chance," Li Guyuan chuckled. "We may be a dynamic duo, but let’s be honest—a literary club led by Gu Lu carries way more appeal than one led by me. It’s not even close."

Gu Lu recalled how his name had been attached to various extracurricular activities—Model United Nations, for instance. Whether future leaders would emerge remained to be seen, but there was no denying the impact he’d already had.

Under Gu Lu’s influence, some of No. 8 High School’s clubs had grown beyond their original scope. Not bad at all.

Gu Lu quickly embraced his role as a spiritual leader and second-in-command. Fully immersing himself in club activities would clash with his literary pursuits, so this arrangement suited him fine.

"How about the name? I still think Ancient Continent sounds great. Care to reconsider?"

Li Guyuan was dependable—except when it came to naming things.

---

This weekend, Gu Lu skipped his usual visit to Bai Le Grocery Store for meals, having wrapped up tutoring sessions in geography, politics, and history. Feeling invincible, he considered grabbing a couple of practice exams to test his newfound knowledge.

"How did I suddenly have over ten thousand extra yuan in my account?"

While picking up snacks, Gu Lu stopped by the bank to withdraw cash. Checking his balance, he discovered an unexpected windfall.

At the counter, he requested a transaction record. The deposit came from New Reading. But the amount didn’t add up. Gu Lu’s two articles totaled nearly fifty thousand words, with a rate of 220 yuan per thousand words. After taxes, he should’ve received around nine thousand yuan, not thirteen thousand.

He dialed Corresponding Editor Xue’s number. Everyone at New Reading, from the dark-skinned sports enthusiast Chief Editor Dong to Wang, the director of , was familiar to him. Still, small matters didn’t warrant disturbing higher-ups.

"Editor Xue, has the editorial department sent my payment?" Gu Lu began cautiously.

"We processed the payments together the day before yesterday. They should all be in your account by now," Xiao Xue replied.

"Then there’s a discrepancy. I received thirteen thousand," Gu Lu said.

"Let me check—please hold, Mr. Gu." After a brief pause, Xiao Xue returned. "The amount is correct. There’s a five-thousand-yuan bonus for Guardian articles."

"Generous!" Gu Lu exclaimed. According to New Reading’s revamped guidelines, challengers who succeeded earned a five-thousand-yuan reward. However, since these were the inaugural Guardian pieces, the bonus wasn’t guaranteed.

"Mr. Gu, have you selected the drafts for your short story collection yet?" Xiao Xue suddenly asked.

"Uh…" Gu Lu hesitated.

Xiao Xue’s tone turned serious. "Time is of the essence. Over half a month has passed. Short story collections are notoriously hard to sell domestically. Without a strong hook, even the best-written stories struggle to stand out."

"With the backing of New Youth Publishing, our revamped New Reading has invested heavily in promotion. Though this falls outside my direct responsibilities, I hate to see you miss such a golden opportunity," Xiao Xue added.

As the corresponding editor for New Reading, Xiao Xue wasn’t directly involved in Gu Lu’s negotiations with New Youth Publishing’s headquarters. Still, his advice carried weight.

"Thank you, Editor Xue. I’ll prioritize it," Gu Lu promised.

"Just prioritizing isn’t enough. Let’s set a goal deadline. Procrastination is a tough beast to tame," Xiao Xue urged.

After absorbing Xiao Xue’s motivational speech, Gu Lu hung up, feeling oddly inspired. He hadn’t realized how fiercely determined Xiao Xue was until now.

Still, the editor’s words rang true. Gu Lu decided to tackle the task today. It was Saturday, and though he’d planned to visit the rehabilitation center at Ferry Park—where he’d eaten countless meals in exchange for labor—he now felt compelled to focus on his literary goals.

At least he could swing by later, he thought.

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