Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C129

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Chapter 129: "Are You the Only Smart One?"

Gu Lu sat down at his computer and began to tally up the short stories he had written over the years—nearly twenty in total, amounting to over a hundred thousand words. These tales spanned three books: , , and .

Compiling these into a cohesive collection would be tricky, so Gu Lu decided to split them into two volumes, each representing distinct styles—one reflecting the quirky absurdity of the bus driver stories, the other showcasing the eerie elegance of Minato Shukawa's work.

Of course, publishing a short story collection couldn’t just rely on previously published works; there had to be some fresh material too. Fortunately, among the Minato Shukawa pieces Gu Lu had triggered, two remained unpublished: "Flower Lunchbox" (Flower Herb Bento) and "Owl Man". Both were exceptional. The former had won Japan’s prestigious for popular literature, while the latter took home the —neither was mediocre fluff.

“Owl Man—a masterpiece of the (Unorthodox) school,” Gu Lu mused aloud. “If you don’t know what that means, reading this will make it crystal clear.”

But then he paused, considering whether he should adapt the setting. After weighing the options, he decided against it. The story’s urban legends and twisted character dynamics fit perfectly within its original Japanese context. Besides, he recalled an old project he’d started but left unfinished—the .

“I’m not one of those writers who abandons their projects,” Gu Lu muttered to himself. With newfound resolve, he added Owl Man to the Mingzhi series. Don’t get the wrong idea—it wasn’t a drastic rewrite. There were no detectives in Owl Man; instead, Gu Lu simply inserted a brief mention in a news segment where Owl Man watches TV, referencing —a minor nod to tie things together.

Kobayashi Yoshio, as any fan of might guess, was Mingzhi’s apprentice and leader of the . In fact, this group inspired —not , as many might assume.

After spending an entire day organizing everything, Gu Lu finalized thirteen stories totaling about 120,000 words and sent them off to Publisher Wang.

“Finally done!” he sighed, stretching with relief. His back ached, but hey, youth and exercise kept him going.

Taking a break, Gu Lu checked his phone out of habit. To his surprise, someone unexpected had messaged him on .

Bubblegum Chewer: [Gu Lu, are you a big-shot writer now?]

Ah, that username… It must be Chen Na, his middle school class monitor. Gu Lu double-checked the chat log and confirmed before replying modestly.

Orange Chief: [Just starting out, still a small fry.]

Facing your embarrassing past took guts. Even Sister Nana had moments she regretted—like when Chen Na once ate bubblegum and chewing gum together during freshman year, convincing Zhao Juan it tasted better that way. Spoiler alert: it didn’t end well.

Bubblegum Chewer: [So do you know famous people? Like reporters or journalists?]

Clearly, Chen Na had seen Gu Lu interviewed on TV. But her follow-up question made him raise an eyebrow.

He cut to the chase.

Orange Chief: [Is something wrong?]

Bubblegum Chewer: [Not my problem, but Juanzi got into trouble. I’ll call you—it’s faster than typing.]

Gu Lu gave Chen Na his number. Back in the day, Sister Nana never filled out those friendship notebooks everyone exchanged, so lacking contact info wasn’t surprising.

On the phone, Chen Na quickly explained the situation. It all started when Zhao Juan overheard a reporter interviewing Gu Lu outside her window. Something clicked in her mind, and she thought to herself, If I help other people’s grandparents out there, then maybe the next time my own grandparents need help, someone else will step up too.

This wasn’t just idle talk—Zhao Juan was no armchair activist. She took action, creating a group dedicated to helping elderly strangers. Whenever she had free time, she’d look for opportunities: giving up her seat on the bus for an older person, assisting confused seniors figure out how to use ticket machines at the light rail station, or guiding them across busy intersections. These small acts of kindness became her mission.

She didn’t do it for recognition but because she genuinely believed in paying it forward. Her efforts inspired others around her, including Chen Na, who joined in after witnessing Zhao Juan’s dedication. It wasn’t about grand gestures; it was about making life a little easier for those who needed it most.

But last Monday, Zhao Juan helped an elderly man cross the street—and he accused her of knocking him down, demanding compensation.

In this alternate world, many changes had occurred due to the butterfly effect, yet somehow such despicable behavior persisted. Was it because bad people simply grew old?

“There weren’t any cameras around?” Gu Lu asked. “Didn’t Zhao Juan’s father used to be a cop?”

“It happened on ,” Chen Na replied. “Even being a cop doesn’t matter here. That nasty old man insists Juanzi hit him, and we can’t find witnesses.”

only became widespread in China between 2006 and 2008, and Chongqing’s infrastructure lagged behind even major cities. , where they lived, was one of the poorest areas in the city. Near WenTi Road stood government offices brimming with cameras—but not on that particular stretch.

“Can you meet up?” Gu Lu asked. “Bring Zhao Juan if she’s free.” It was only seven in the evening, not particularly late, but it wasn’t unusual for high school students with strict parents to be restricted from going out. Gu Lu figured it was best to check ahead of time.

“No problem,” Chen Na agreed. “Where exactly?”

“,” Gu Lu said immediately. A familiar spot for all three, discreet enough and close by.

“Got it,” Chen Na confirmed before hanging up.

Gu Lu rushed out without realizing how agitated he felt. Partly because Zhao Juan was an old classmate, but mostly because he loathed incidents like these. Those vile scammers made people afraid to do good deeds!

In his previous life, Gu Lu avoided situations requiring physical contact, fearing false accusations. Now, seeing Zhao Juan caught in such a predicament stirred something deep inside him.

Realizing he’d moved to , which was farther away, Gu Lu flagged down a yellow “Ferrari” taxi—Chongqing slang for beat-up cabs—and arrived at Fat Boss’s place half an hour later.

The sign above the entrance read [Computer Repair], unchanged since his last visit. Inside, the grimy glass door displayed handwritten game titles on cardboard. The clientele had changed, though; these weren’t the same kids playing games anymore.

“Gu Lu!” Zhao Juan and Chen Na greeted him as soon as they spotted him.

“Let’s go inside,” Gu Lu said, leading the way.

Fat Boss looked the same—still overweight, still wearing greasy T-shirts. He grinned upon seeing Gu Lu.

“Long time no see! Back to play some games?” Fat Boss joked, clearly remembering the kid who wrote novels using his computer.

“Of course! Just need to borrow a computer for a bit,” Gu Lu replied casually. “Also, I’ll be discussing something private with my classmates, so we’ll close the door.”

“No problem. Make yourself at home—you know the place well.”

The trio settled into a room upstairs. For Gu Lu, stepping inside felt surreal, as if nothing had changed since his last visit months ago.

“Did you come here often to play games in middle school?” Chen Na asked curiously.

“Nope. I came to submit manuscripts online. My family didn’t have a computer,” Gu Lu explained. “Anyway, Zhao Juan, tell me what happened.”

Zhao Juan recounted the incident more vividly than Chen Na had. According to her, several passersby were present when she noticed the elderly man grimacing in pain. Without hesitation, she approached to offer assistance.

Hearing this, Gu Lu wanted to scold her. Did she really think she could afford to take risks like that? Everyone else ignored the situation, so why step forward?

But looking at Zhao Juan’s face, pale and trembling, he held his tongue. Her spirit of kindness had been crushed under the weight of betrayal and greed.

“He demanded eight thousand yuan or threatened to ruin my education,” Zhao Juan whispered, tears welling up.

Gu Lu knew how steep that demand was. In 2023, average wages in Chongqing hovered around three thousand yuan per month. An elderly scammer asking for eight thousand was outright extortion.

“Were there lots of pedestrians around?” Gu Lu interrupted.

“Yes, quite a few,” Zhao Juan nodded.

“Good.” Gu Lu pulled out his phone and dialed a reporter from Daily 630. During the recent school anniversary coverage, all the reporters exchanged contacts with him.

After several rings, the reporter picked up. “Hello, Uncle Ji, it’s Gu Lu from No. 8 High School. Sorry to bother you this late, but I’ve got a story perfect for your show.”

Reporter Ji listened intently as Gu Lu summarized the situation. Within minutes, they agreed to meet at , a decent eatery nearby.

“Let’s head over,” Gu Lu announced. “With so many potential eyewitnesses, we can appeal through the news to find witnesses. If we locate two or three credible accounts, our chances improve significantly.”

Chen Na marveled at Gu Lu’s resourcefulness. Reaching out to a reporter seemed impossible to her, yet here they were.

She gripped Zhao Juan’s hand tightly, relief washing over both girls. Sixteen-year-old Zhao Juan struggled to hold back tears. Between the financial burden looming over her family and the injustice of being accused despite her goodwill, she felt utterly defeated.

Gu Lu observed silently, tempted to ask, Will you ever meddle again? But he refrained. People often blamed victims when justice failed, turning anger toward the innocent.

Back at Fat Boss’s shop, the owner smiled. “Half an hour, right? Same old rates—two-fifty an hour, rounded down to one.”

Gu Lu chuckled. Many alumni forgot Fat Boss charged less than market rate. “Save the remaining time for next time,” he said, handing over the fee.

“Deal! Oh, by the way, why haven’t I seen your stories in lately? Too busy with high school?”

“Switched magazines recently,” Gu Lu replied. “I’ll bring you a copy next time.”

They left the gaming shop and headed toward Xiao He Restaurant. Though unfamiliar to Gu Lu, its aroma of Sichuan peppercorns and chili shells wafted invitingly through the air.

Once seated, Gu Lu picked up the menu. "What would you like to eat? I still remember Zhao Juan treating me to some snacks once," he said with a smile. "Today, it's my turn to treat you both."

Snacks? Zhao Juan tilted her head, puzzled. She vaguely remembered buying a drink, nothing more.

“Ah, maybe you forgot,” Gu Lu teased. “It was back in the seventh grade—your birthday, perhaps? You gave each classmate beef jerky. Delicious stuff! So today, order whatever you like.”

Both girls hesitated, citing full stomachs and lack of appetite. Gu Lu shrugged and placed a modest order.

Moments later, Reporter Ji texted, announcing his arrival. Unlike Wang Ji from , whose outdoor lifestyle tanned his skin, Reporter Ji embodied the stereotypical journalist: square-jawed, authoritative, and booming with energy.

As dishes arrived, Gu Lu introduced both parties succinctly.

No pleasantries wasted, Reporter Ji dove straight into business. “I trust Xiao Gu and Xiao Zhao implicitly, but journalistic integrity forbids us from taking sides prematurely. Without CCTV footage, seeking eyewitness testimony aligns poorly with our channel’s ethos.”

Zhao Juan paled instantly, clutching Chen Na’s hand. Gu Lu, however, remained calm. If Reporter Ji deemed it impossible, he wouldn’t have bothered showing up.

Sure enough, there was wiggle room. Reporter Ji pulled up an article on his phone: The Days Without , written by Gu Lu for the preliminary round.

“Your foresight is remarkable,” Reporter Ji remarked. “This piece eerily mirrors real-life events, like being falsely accused after helping someone.”

He leaned forward, voice growing stern. “We’ll use this essay as a springboard to discuss whether similar injustices occur in Chongqing. From there, we’ll seek witnesses. However, one issue remains…”

“Yes?” Gu Lu prompted.

“Our program must remain neutral. But as the author of this piece, your stance becomes evident.”

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