Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C117

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Chapter 117:

“No wonder he became a writer,” the reporter thought to himself.

“I’ll go help out in the kitchen,” Ms. Gao said, and she too disappeared into the small room where was preparing their lunch.

Left alone in the living room, Mr. Wang took a moment to look around. “May I take some photos here, Xiao Gu?” he asked. “Don’t worry, I’ll let you review them before publishing.”

“What?” Gu Lu poked his head out from the kitchen, still running water over vegetables.

Mr. Wang repeated the question, and after a pause, Gu Lu gave his permission.

On the bookshelf stood about fifty or sixty books—, , , , , , and more.

“Even ?!” Mr. Wang blinked at the sight of , an obscure anthology compiled by that most people didn’t even know existed. Only those with deep knowledge of Lu Xun’s life would recognize it.

He opened Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio and found notes scribbled on the first page:

> [“”—deep emotions can transcend species, but unfortunately, in reality, there are no ghosts to discern true feelings. Potential material.]

Then, flipping to the story titled Clay Idols, Mr. Wang, who had a solid grasp of classical Chinese, read without needing a translation. It told the tale of a woman named Wang, whose husband died young. Devoted to him, she refused to remarry and sculpted a clay figure of her late husband. The underworld recognized her sincerity, allowing his spirit to return briefly and leave behind descendants.

“Lots of notes here,” Mr. Wang muttered. “And the ones with checkmarks must be stories he already has plans for?”

He jotted down the titles marked with ticks, intending to cross-reference them later with Gu Lu’s published works. Not just this one book—every single volume had marginalia, evidence of a disciplined and passionate reader.

As he moved through the collection, snapping photos of select pages, Mr. Wang couldn’t help but admire the boy’s habits. These were the kind of traits every student should emulate.

“No wonder he once wrote, ‘Reading is a form of self-transcendence—an easy discipline. It allows us to see humanity through divine eyes and animals through avian ones.’” He paused, then added, “I don’t know what a genius writer looks like, but Gu Lu sure fits my old-fashioned idea of one.”

By 11:30, the photo session was nearly done, and the meal was ready.

There was fragrant and —what a family, eating so well! No matter what others thought, Gu Lu’s appetite was wide open.

As the host, Gu Lu urged, “Please eat up, Mr. Wang, Ms. Gao—don’t hold back.”

“Oh, this is way too generous,” Mr. Wang replied, taking a few mouthfuls and nodding enthusiastically. Whether it was truly delicious or just polite courtesy, Gu Lu wasn’t sure—but either way, Mr. Wang was happy to praise it.

Gu Lu ate heartily, keeping an eye on the two guests as well. Mr. Wang was straightforward and unrestrained with his eating, while Ms. Gao was elegant, carefully balancing each bite of rice and vegetable.

After lunch, the interview reached its final stretch. There was only one key question left.

“So, Xiao Gu, have you ever faced any setbacks in your writing?” Mr. Wang asked. A smooth journey wasn’t enough for a feature meant for students—it needed struggle, and overcoming it, to serve as inspiration.

But if you’re basically playing on a cheat menu, how could there be real hardship? Still, seeing Mr. Wang’s curiosity, Gu Lu racked his brain and came up with one recent challenge.

“Many magazines demand both storytelling and literary merit,” he said. “Sometimes my submissions don’t quite meet the editor’s standards.”

“Oh? Which magazine?” Mr. Wang pressed.

“. They gave me feedback, but I wasn’t able to reach their expectations,” Gu Lu admitted. “So I switched to another publication.”

High standards at Sprout, huh? But no problem—Mr. Wang would record the setback honestly. “Mind telling me which stories didn’t make the cut?”

“ and ,” Gu Lu answered. “Both dealt with themes of regret and memory.”

Ah, Mr. Wang nodded silently. He noted it down. Today’s interview had been fruitful.

“Please let me know when the article is published so I can pick up a copy,” Gu Lu said.

“Probably next week or the week after. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

At 2 PM, Mr. Wang left for his next appointment—another interview at 3 PM, time was tight.

Ms. Gao insisted on helping wash the dishes, so nearly half an hour later, Gu Lu saw her off at the bus stop nearby.

“I’m sorry, Xiao Gu,” Ms. Gao said solemnly. “I used to doubt you. It was wrong of me.”

This sudden apology caught Gu Lu off guard. He rarely received apologies from others.

“It’s fine,” he waved it off. “It’s every child’s fate to be misunderstood by adults..”

That line… Ms. Gao almost wanted to argue from the adult side, but upon reflection, she realized he was right. Misunderstanding from elders was practically a child’s fate.

The bus arrived. Gu Lu watched Ms. Gao board before heading home.

He had spent the whole day busy, almost forgetting the real tasks at hand.

Don’t get the wrong idea—it wasn’t homework.

There were two tasks. First, memorize the key points highlighted by Li Guyuan. Second, formally dedicate the written phrase Park of Yesterday to as a blessing from the original author.

Beyond that, there was also a side job. Deputy Director Wang from had called earlier, asking him to compile a short-story collection of roughly 100,000 words.

It didn’t matter which story it would be; it just needed to be around 100,000 words total.

Still, it was challenging. There were many good ones… “This is my first short-story collection—I can’t afford to be careless. I need to pick the most interesting ones.”

Gu Lu worked through the selection until late into the night.

Monday ended, marking the end of the National Day holiday.

At Youth Digest, Deputy Chief Editor Qu was infamous for never working on holidays. In his mind, only the useless showed up on weekends or national holidays.

What he failed to realize, however, was that if he weren’t the Deputy Chief Editor, he’d be on the weekend shift just like everyone else.

Tuesday morning, Deputy Chief Editor Qu arrived at the office and immediately instructed his secretary, Li, to follow the usual routine.

“Here’s your coffee, Chief,” Li said, glancing at the pastries on his desk. “You really don’t need to bring snacks every time. I’ve never seen you finish them.”

“They’re part of the ritual,” Qu said. “Émile Zola liked sipping coffee while reading. That’s the atmosphere.”

Li rolled her eyes. Qu was a pleasant person, but overly meticulous, obsessed with rituals—and wasting food to boot.

Once Li left, Qu got to work. He actually didn’t like coffee or macarons—the former was bitter, the latter too sweet.

He started reviewing submitted manuscripts and first-round approved pieces, a slow process requiring careful attention to writing style and narrative structure. Two hours passed before he even touched the coffee, and the macarons remained untouched.

Among the submissions, he noticed two from the same writer called: Gu Lu.

Given the title, Moon Stone caught his attention first. Park of Yesterday seemed more like prose, less story-like.

“Supernatural?” Qu frowned as he read the opening lines.

The story began with a regular office worker who spotted his dead mother on a light-rail train.

“Nice urban setting,” Qu mused. Most metro systems run underground, but only ’s light rail runs above ground and closely passes residential buildings. Whoever wrote this clearly lived in—or knew—Chongqing well.

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