Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C141

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Chapter 141: It Can’t Be the Same Person!

“How could it possibly be the same person? I read , and it’s brimming with childlike wonder—either the author has a white beard or they’re someone young, fresh out of school. And didn’t you see the news? The fairy tale was written by a student! Now you’re telling me that and were penned by the same kid? Seriously?”

“Rationally speaking, it doesn’t add up,” another voice chimed in. “The soul of Listening to Moon Songs in a White Room feels like it came from an adult—a parent, maybe. Someone who’s lived life. As for Iron Pillar? That thing gave me chills down my spine. Totally different vibes.”

“Don’t even joke about stuff like that,” a third interjected. “When have you ever seen a mystery-thriller writer suddenly switch to writing children’s stories? This isn’t just about age—it’s about genre worlds apart.”

watched the group chat unfold, silently nodding along. There was no way these two personas were the same individual. On an emotional level, the idea of established authors taking on a mere student felt absurd—and frankly embarrassing.

12twelve12: “Enough jokes, let’s talk serious business. Issue Two of : Who here is planning to submit again?”

The responses came back unanimously: No one wanted to participate this time around. They all claimed they couldn’t make it work.

Hmph. Zu Shier smirked inwardly. He knew exactly what was going on. These folks would submit their works under their pseudonyms and only reveal themselves when they succeed.

Of course, Zu Shier wasn’t being entirely honest either. Submitting under his own name wasn’t just vanity—it was strategic. His series based on the had already built him a solid fanbase. Switching to a new pen name might lead to accusations of plagiarism or unoriginality. Clever move, right?

Meanwhile, both the authors and the editorial staff at New Reading were grappling with their own concerns.

---

“, there’s something off about the submission numbers.”

“What do you mean ‘off’?”

“The sections Heavy Fog and Strange Forces… we’ve barely received anything.”

“How many exactly?”

This exchange was between Chief Editor Dong and one of his assistant editors—not Xiao Xue, who was busy reviewing manuscripts.

“For Strange Forces, we’ve got five submissions so far. For Heavy Fog…” the young editor hesitated. “…one.”

Chief Editor Dong froze, his expression mirroring disbelief. “What are you saying? Are you trying to give me nightmares?”

After the revamp, New Reading had gained traction and prestige. By now, each section should have racked up twenty or more entries.

“On the flip side,” the junior editor continued, “we’ve seen a surge in submissions for New Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio and Midnight Terrors. We think some writers realized they wouldn’t stand a chance against the competition and shifted gears instead.”

That caught Chief Editor Dong off guard. Bringing in a powerhouse author to anchor the journal seemed like a good idea—but perhaps too much of a good thing.

“It must be because of the voting data from the first issue,” he muttered. “They’ve realized the gap is insurmountable.”

Indeed, many aspiring writers had finally let go of their hopes.

“And as for us…” the junior editor began but was quickly cut off.

“These challenge-based stats are crucial,” Chief Editor Dong mused aloud. “If anyone suspects foul play, we lose credibility—the most valuable asset we have. Leave me alone for a bit while I think this through.”

There were essentially two options: increase the reward pool for Heavy Fog and Strange Forces, or introduce a “midway guardian” system. To explain simply, even if participants didn’t win outright, hitting a certain reader-vote threshold could still earn them rewards.

Without resorting to vote manipulation, Chief Editor Dong weighed the pros and cons of each approach.

By 8:30 PM, he settled on the “midway guardian” model. Sure, offering hefty prizes might attract brave souls initially, but over time, people would realize the odds were stacked against them. Then what? Keep raising stakes indefinitely?

After careful deliberation, Chief Editor Dong sketched out a preliminary vote threshold plan, which he intended to refine further after analyzing data from the second half of Issue Two.

“This job never ends,” he muttered to himself, surveying the empty office. Everyone else had gone home hours ago. But how could him? Without him steering the ship, the entire publication would crumble into chaos—or so he liked to believe.

Was this self-importance creeping in? A fleeting moment of psychological reassurance?

“Gu Lu truly is a short-story genius,” he thought. “Though his literary depth doesn’t match or , his storytelling is unmatched.”

He was aware of the buzz surrounding The Little Prince. For now, though, he kept promotion low-key, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Stepping out of his office, Chief Editor Dong noticed the sky dimming outside, as if someone had flicked a cosmic light switch. Most workstations lay darkened, shrouded in shadow—but wait, one corner still glowed faintly.

Curious, he approached. Ah, yes. A familiar face greeted him.

“Xiao Xue, why are you still here so late?” Chief Editor Dong asked.

“I’ll head out once I finish reviewing these submissions,” Xiao Xue replied without looking up. “You should take care of yourself, Chief. If you collapse, the whole editorial team falls apart. You shouldn’t stay until seven or eight every night!”

Chief Editor Dong opened his mouth to respond but found no words. Finally, he said, “You can review from home, you know. No need to stay here.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Chief. I’m volunteering my time—I don’t expect overtime pay. Watching our magazine grow fills me with excitement. Besides, I don’t have a computer at home. Reading drafts on a laptop is far easier than squinting at a phone screen.”

“Still, you deserve compensation. I’ll speak to finance later,” Chief Editor Dong rasped, his throat dry. “Just wrap things up soon and lock up when you leave.”

“No problem. I usually handle locking up anyway—it’s safe hands.” Xiao Xue flashed a thumbs-up. “Go rest, Chief. I’ll manage the rest of the reviews.”

In truth, Chief Editor Dong felt nudged out the door. For the first time, he wondered whether he was truly indispensable to the company.

---

Night fell, and Gu Lu returned home. After reheating yesterday’s leftovers and grabbing the latest issue of New Reading—purchased earlier that day during lunch—he sat down to eat.

“If I stick with New Reading for one more round, that’s another two grand in my pocket,” Gu Lu mused, scanning the published statistics.

Once dinner was done and dishes cleared away, Gu Lu reflected on his current situation.

“Given how well The Little Prince is doing, maybe I should register trademarks for it? Better consult someone in the industry first.”

He recalled a cautionary tale from his past life: ’s character had been trademarked by a pork vendor. Lesson learned—better tread carefully.

“The Little Prince could become a merchandising goldmine,” Gu Lu thought, pleased with himself for handling the illustrations personally rather than outsourcing them. “Even if it only reaches seventy percent of its previous fame, that’s still a massive payday.”

Publishers typically took three to six months to settle royalties, so the earnings from The Little Prince hadn’t hit his account yet. Still, thanks to his numerous short stories, Gu Lu’s bank balance now exceeded twenty thousand yuan. Money worries? Not anymore.

The next morning, sunlight bathed the world anew. With measured steps, Gu Lu headed to school, determined to correct some flaws from his previous life. Back then, the tighter deadlines loomed, the lazier he became. Now, he prioritized giving himself ample time.

As soon as he entered the classroom, someone practically leapt at him like a monkey spotting bananas.

“Gu Lu! Finally, you’re here!” Lü Ping exclaimed, rushing over.

Odd timing. Usually, Wei Litong arrived first, followed by Lu Yi and Gu Lu. The stragglers were those scrambling to copy homework—no fixed group, just whoever hadn’t finished theirs.

Lü Ping and his crew, including Zeng Jie, typically showed up right on time.

“Spit it out already—what’s got you so worked up?” Gu Lu asked, noting Lu Yi’s absence. Something felt off today.

Before Lü Ping could speak, Gu Lu preemptively added, “And don’t bother asking for my homework—I haven’t finished it either.”

“No, no, it’s not about homework!” Lü Ping blurted. Glancing around (Wei Litong was nearby), he turned abruptly and left the room.

More secrets? Gu Lu followed.

At the hallway corner, Lü Ping swung his backpack around to his chest, unzipped it, and revealed a bouquet of vibrant protected by a delicate bamboo casing.

“Here,” Lü Ping said hurriedly, clearly worried about misinterpretations. “These are for you. Don’t get any funny ideas—roses symbolize…”

“I know,” Gu Lu interrupted smoothly. “Roses represent gifted individuals, a blessing of sorts.”

“You DO know?!” Lü Ping’s eyes widened.

“Of course. In ancient times, roses were symbols of beauty. There’s even a poem: ‘Who bestowed the noble name upon the rose?’ Clearly, gifting roses carries deep meaning.”

“Wow, no wonder you’re a writer—you know everything!” Lü Ping sighed in relief.

“My mom told me the same thing,” he admitted. “I thought she was pulling my leg.”

He wasn’t joking. After seeing Qi Caiwei’s progress, he quickly realized that Gu Lu really had a knack for helping others improve. That very night, he rushed home and asked his mother to prepare another pot of osmanthus.

But his mother disagreed with the choice. Giving the same flowers twice, she said, showed no sincerity at all. So instead, she brought out a pot of roses — and explained the meaning behind the flower, along with the story that came with it.

“How do you know all this stuff?” Lü Ping couldn’t help but ask.

“My middle-school homeroom teacher was incredibly knowledgeable,” Gu Lu replied matter-of-factly.

“Well, your knowledge sure is eclectic.” Laughing, Lü Ping handed over the bouquet. “Bro Gu Lu, I figured you’d appreciate roses, given how much attention they get in The Little Prince.”

“You’ve read it?” Gu Lu raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, my whole family did—me, my dad, my mom. Four of us. Admittedly, it’s a bit childish for high schoolers, but as a fairy tale? Brilliant.”

True enough. While The Little Prince might feel juvenile to teenagers, it resonated perfectly with college students and adults alike.

“Listen,” Lü Ping said earnestly, “last time was my fault. Basketball clouded my judgment. This time, I promise to focus on studying.”

“Basketball does mess with your mind,” Gu Lu agreed, suppressing a smile. “Rest assured, I’ll take good care of the osmanthus plant you gave me last time—and this rose too.”