Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C135

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Chapter 135: Does Need Time to Marinate?

", you are really putting yourself out there to promote The Little Prince," remarked with a mix of admiration and disbelief.

"That’s just how the book market works these days," Director Jian replied, his tone matter-of-fact. "If an author or their work doesn’t have enough hype behind it, they’ll get lost in the sea of books."

"Do you think the market will improve in the future?" Yu Xinyao asked casually, sipping his tea.

"With the internet? It’s only going to get worse," Director Jian said, shaking his head. "Last year, there was this one book I was really excited about…"

"?" Yu interjected.

Director Jian nodded silently. The Castaways was a survival story about a group of children stranded on a , struggling to stay alive.

"If swallowing my pride can give a good book a fighting chance, why not?" Director Jian shifted gears abruptly. "Old Yu, do you know why I invited you here for tea today?"

Sitting across from him was a man who didn’t look particularly remarkable but was, in fact, a renowned and scholar.

Many people assume that literary critics are nothing more than nitpickers—parasites who contribute nothing to literature. And sure, if they’re mediocre, that might be true. But when a critic has real skill? They can change the game. At their best, they push the boundaries of literature; at the very least, they can breathe new life into a single book.

Take, for example, how later generations came to see Wu Song as the greatest hero in . Why? Because said so. He called Wu Song a celestial figure, possessing the breadth of , the ruthlessness of , and the righteousness of .

What made Jin Shengtan’s commentary so brilliant was its blend of literary insight and dry humor. Some parts even felt like reading modern-day internet comments overlaid on the text. Reading Water Margin with Jin Shengtan’s annotations was like reading an entirely different book.

Yu Xinyao wasn’t quite at Jin Shengtan’s level of genius, but he was still considered one of the top literary critics in contemporary China. Almost everything he wrote found its way into , the country’s premier journal for literary analysis. His work on ’s poetry and ’s was especially groundbreaking.

"You know, Old Jian," Yu began, switching to a more familiar tone, "most of my reviews tend to lean toward critique."

Director Jian raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for Yu to continue.

"And speaking of critiques… your precious The Castaways? To me, it’s nothing more than a cheap imitation of . The plot beats and emotional arcs are nearly identical, but where had depth, this book replaces it with childishness and contrived nonsense." Yu paused for effect. "A second-rate work, at best."

"Second-rate, huh? I thought you’d call it third-rate. Guess you’re sparing my feelings." Director Jian chuckled, though his voice grew serious. "Old Yu, I know full well what your words—and pen—can do. But that’s exactly what The Little Prince needs right now."

Yu blinked, momentarily thrown off balance, as if a car had suddenly rear-ended another on the highway. Did Jian really believe that?

He knew his influence wasn’t negligible, though most casual readers wouldn’t recognize the name "Yu Xinyao." How many people paid attention to literary critics, after all? Not many. But media outlets and online platforms often quoted him, amplifying his reach.

Put simply, Yu’s reviews weren’t written for the average reader—they were aimed at secondary influencers. If he panned a book, it could crush a fledgling author’s career before it even took root.

"Well, since you’ve put it that way, Old Jian, I won’t hold back."

"I wouldn’t expect anything less," Jian said, leaning back in his chair. "And personally, I’m eager to hear your thoughts. Sure, I sent out those three promotional posts to drum up support, but calling it ‘the best fairy tale in recent years’—that wasn’t just marketing. I meant every word."

Yu’s eyes darted around the room, betraying his growing interest. Still, he lifted his teacup again, pretending to focus on the drink despite his wandering mind.

"If you’re saying that, then The Little Prince must be at least better than The Castaways…" Yu mused aloud, taking another sip of tea.

Something felt off. He glanced up and noticed Director Jian frowning too. Suddenly, it clicked—it wasn’t just him. The winter tea from this shop had clearly declined in quality this year.

Their eyes met briefly, and without a word, they both silently agreed: next time, they’d find somewhere else.

Does drinking finer things make you more sensitive to flaws? Either way, Gu Lu couldn’t help but wonder where Mr. Hu had gotten the idea that this tea had any sort of "aftertaste."

"Gu Lu, how’s your thinking coming along?" Mr. Hu asked, breaking the silence.

"Becoming a contracted writer for and publishing The Little Prince are two separate achievements," Gu Lu replied, slipping into negotiation mode. "But the school’s support for the —that’s something else entirely!"

Mr. Hu set down his teacup. "The Publication Club is brand-new, with only two members so far. Trading two accomplishments for first-tier funding seems reasonable, doesn’t it?"

"But if the club produces and it becomes the top high school publication in , it’ll reflect well on the school too," Gu Lu countered, painting a grand vision.

Unfortunately, he was talking to Mr. Hu—a master of bureaucratic doublespeak and a walking embodiment of institutional pragmatism.

"Principal Liu wasn’t even keen on approving the club in the first place," Mr. Hu said. "We only did it because you, as a student writer, bring positive attention to our arts education program. Running a club takes time and energy, and we’ve seen students’ grades suffer because of it. Our policy is clear: if a student’s performance drops significantly, we’ll advise them to step away from extracurriculars."

The subtext was clear: Gu Lu, don’t waste your time on this. Mr. Hu didn’t believe Gu Lu—or his lone co-member, whose name escaped him—could create a publication with real impact beyond the school walls.

Consider the facts: boasted over twenty clubs, but only a handful stood out. The , the , and the were household names in Chongqing. The literary club thrived thanks to the principal’s PR efforts, while the volleyball team earned its reputation through victories, including winning the city championship and representing Chongqing at the national level.

By contrast, the Publication Club lacked both competitive opportunities and institutional backing. Its chances of success? Practically zero. Still, Mr. Hu didn’t outright discourage Gu Lu.

Realizing he couldn’t win this argument with logic alone, Gu Lu fell silent. Morning study sessions were brutal during the winter months, when students trudged to school in the dark. Surely, Mr. Hu understood that.

"Here’s what we’ll do," Mr. Hu said decisively. "Do you know the small storage room next to the library?"

No. 8 High School housed over ten thousand books and forty periodicals, requiring significant space. Being an older campus, the school hadn’t originally planned for a library, so they repurposed four connected classrooms. One of the rooms had been split into two smaller spaces, each about thirty square meters.

"We’ll give one of those rooms to the Publication Club as your activity space," Mr. Hu offered. "This is a special treatment."

It was unprecedented. Most clubs held activities in classrooms on Wednesday afternoons, sharing spaces with regular classes. Even popular groups like the , , and the Flag Guard Team didn’t have dedicated spaces.

"So, we’re already special before we’ve even recruited anyone?" Gu Lu pondered aloud, looking at Mr. Hu. "Fine, I’ll take it."

After all, once The Little Prince launched, sequels like and a short story collection would follow. There was no harm in waiting.

"Excellent. The Publication Club’s budget will match that of the Tree People Literary Club," Mr. Hu confirmed.

Among the twenty-plus clubs, the volleyball team received the highest funding due to competition costs and potential accolades. The literary club and basketball team ranked slightly lower but still enjoyed decent budgets.

"Funding will be distributed twice per semester—at the start and midpoint. Just give me your account details, and I’ll transfer the money directly," Mr. Hu explained, noting Gu Lu’s confusion. "Normally, funds go to the faculty advisor, but we trust you completely. I’ll be listed as your nominal supervisor."

"As long as you submit monthly expense reports, you can manage the funds however you see fit," Mr. Hu added. In truth, the administration didn’t care much about oversight, nor did they want to assign a real advisor. Mr. Hu was busy enough as it was.

"Got it. No problem."

And so, the most unique club at No. 8 High School was born—with its own activity room, no formal advisor (at least officially), and an unusually generous budget.

Now, failing to achieve something meaningful would feel like a betrayal of such privileged circumstances. That’s what Gu Lu told himself.

"Oh, by the way," Mr. Hu said, holding up a copy of The Little Prince. "How are sales looking?"

"It just hit shelves nationwide today. We’ll have numbers tomorrow," Gu Lu replied.

"No rush," Mr. Hu said with a wave of his hand. "But rest assured, our school will order a hundred copies. We haven’t forgotten the commitment we made during recruitment."

A hundred books might seem excessive for a library, but the school regularly rewarded outstanding students with books. Previously, they’d purchased titles from required reading lists; now, they’d hand out The Little Prince. Same difference.

An extra hundred copies wasn’t bad at all.

While "Gu Lu" might have some recognition in detective fiction circles, his name carried little weight in the realm of fairy tales. Thus, the initial buzz around The Little Prince owed much to Director Jian’s efforts.

The next day, Gu Lu learned that the book had sold 5,019 copies on its first day. Compared to ’s original release, which had stunned Europe, this number seemed modest—but Gu Lu found it perfectly reasonable.

Why had The Little Prince exploded upon release in its original timeline? Because Saint-Exupéry was already a celebrated author, known for works like , Southern Mail, and Night Flight.

"Five thousand copies is still a win," Gu Lu reasoned. "I remember Cat-San-Ning’s The Missing Element selling only a few thousand on its first day, then skyrocketing to eighty thousand in its first month." He could afford to wait. Even if The Little Prince needed three or four years to gain traction, he’d still be in college by the time it peaked.

Just as he finished this thought, Director Jian called.

"Don’t lose heart," Jian said immediately. "Give The Little Prince time to marinate. Within a week, you’ll see results unlike anything yet."

Gu Lu nodded silently, prepared to bide his time. But what did Jian mean by “results”? When pressed, Jian remained cryptic: "You’ll understand soon enough. Explaining now wouldn’t make sense."

What Jian referred to as "marination" involved two key factors. First, the initial wave of readers who bought the book based on his enthusiastic recommendations—many of whom were publishers and writers themselves. Their feedback would carry significant weight.

Second, Yu Xinyao’s review would be crucial.

And at that very moment, Yu Xinyao was already turning the pages of The Little Prince.

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