Otaku Translation: Literary Genius: This Kid Was Born Smart C153

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Chapter 153:

The real end of class came when the teacher left the room.

"Did you finish your essay?" cornered as he was slinging his backpack over his shoulder, ready to head home.

"Uh… tomorrow. I swear, bro, it’ll be done by tomorrow," Lü Ping said, raising his hand toward the ceiling as if taking an oath.

Gu Lu was the kind of person who always honored a deal once he accepted payment. Having already taken two potted plants as “compensation” and triggered his cheat twice, he made sure Lü Ping received two writing assignments every week. Since Lü Ping hadn’t been putting in the effort to improve his technique, Gu Lu decided the only way forward was through sheer volume—more practice, more writing.

But while Lü Ping had managed to crank out the first essay, the second one had become a perpetual work-in-progress. Like many procrastinating writers, Lü Ping’s promises stretched from today to tomorrow, and then to the day after that.

"This was yesterday’s assignment," Gu Lu reminded him.

"I’m serious this time, Gu Lu, trust me. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll hand it over. Six hundred words? Easy peasy. I’ll knock it out in no time," Lü Ping said, glancing past Gu Lu. "Zeng Ha'er’s waiting for me."

Zeng Jie ignored him completely and walked off without a word.

To be honest, Gu Lu had never liked the nickname Zeng Ha'er. In Sichuan dialect, "Ha'er" roughly translated to "idiot." Apart from Lü Ping, few others dared to call him that—mostly out of fear that Zeng Jie might throw a punch. The guy was built like a tank, and only Lü Ping, who ran track, or Ma Xuanyou, who threw shot put, could hold their own against him.

"I’ve got something to talk to Zeng Ha'er about. I’ll catch up with you later. I promise the essay will be ready tomorrow," Lü Ping called out as he chased after Zeng Jie.

Earlier that evening, the two had gotten into an argument during self-study. Lü Ping rushing after him now was probably an attempt to smooth things over.

Meanwhile, Gu Lu headed to the teacher’s office. If Lü Ping failed to produce the essay again tomorrow, Gu Lu decided he wouldn’t push any further. Once, twice—sure. But three times? No. If Lü Ping didn’t take responsibility for himself, there was only so much Gu Lu could do.

Inside the office, only remained. Two-thirds of the lights were off, leaving just the glow of the lamp above her desk. With most of the room shrouded in shadow, it felt like she was the last person working in the world—a scene all too familiar to her.

When she saw Gu Lu, Ms. Gao set aside her work and got straight to the point. "You’ve heard of the , right? It’s sort of a submission opportunity—but not really!"

She paused, searching for the right words. "To put it plainly, this is a perk handed down by the Chongqing education department. No matter what you write, it’ll get published in ."

Red Rock Magazine was a literary journal in Chongqing, known for publishing pieces that aligned with its ideological mission. As Ms. Gao explained, Gu Lu understood why this wasn’t exactly a "submission." There was no competition here; even if the writing was terrible, it would still make the cut—and come with a generous payment of 200 yuan per thousand words.

This kind of politically motivated propaganda wasn’t about merit or need. It was about connections—whomever the leaders chose got the gig. After all, did anyone really think their promotional articles would rival the fame of ?

Whoever Gu Lu’s talent had caught the eye of, it seemed someone in Chongqing’s leadership was using him to bolster their own achievements. A golden opportunity had fallen squarely into his lap.

"If it’s exceptionally good, it might make it into People’s Literature," Ms. Gao added. "But let’s not put too much pressure on ourselves. That level of quality is a tall order."

True to form, the scale of the national campaign was impressive. Starting at People’s Literature meant it was being rolled out nationwide. Provincial levels received quotas, while national recognition depended on competition.

"Understood, Ms. Gao," Gu Lu said. "Just to clarify—are we supposed to focus on Tang poetry in general, or specifically on ?"

While the broader goal was to promote Tang poetry, the title of the assignment—"Li Bai and Du Fu’s Poems Passed Down Through Generations"—seemed to narrow the scope.

"Li Bai and Du Fu are the quintessential figures of Tang poetry. Writing about them is essentially writing about Tang poetry itself," Ms. Gao explained. "That said, you can include other notable poets, but I recommend sticking with the mainstream."

"Got it," Gu Lu nodded.

"A number of famous authors are participating, so don’t stress too much. Still, put some thought into it. It wouldn’t look good if your piece fell far short of the mark," Ms. Gao cautioned.

"Understood, Ms. Gao. I’ll think it over when I get home," Gu Lu replied.

He was riding the wave of privilege afforded to student writers. Ordinary students—or even professional writers—wouldn’t have access to such opportunities.

"No rush. You’ve got a week to brainstorm," Ms. Gao said. "It’s getting late. Since you’re a commuter, don’t linger at school. Head home early."

"You should too, Ms. Gao," Gu Lu said.

After Gu Lu left, Ms. Gao returned to grading the day’s quizzes. If it had been Ms. Xiao, the English teacher, she’d have simply passed the papers around for peer review. But why didn’t Ms. Gao take the quizzes home?

Fifteen minutes later, Gu Lu locked the door behind him, claiming his share of solitude. Loneliness shared ceases to feel lonely.

Silently, he watered the osmanthus and rose plants on his desk. The osmanthus was resilient, easier to care for.

He couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. The government was launching a propaganda campaign, yet participation was limited to a select few. Even if the pieces ended up in provincial magazines, how effective could the promotion be if the general public didn’t read literary journals?

Rather than dwell on questions without answers, Gu Lu turned his thoughts to Earth’s columnists. One name immediately came to mind: .

Though not widely admired, Liu Shen Lei Lei was infamous, having earned the label of "public intellectual" early on. Yet his articles often went viral. His most famous works included "The Rise of Du Fu: How a Minor Account Took Over" and "If Li Bai Never Existed." Yes, the piece recited on —"If Li Bai Never Existed"—was his creation.

It was a strange dichotomy. On one hand, Liu Shen Lei Lei was accused of pandering to Western ideals; on the other, he possessed deep knowledge of and Tang poetry.

So, Du Fu or Li Bai?

In the end, Gu Lu chose Li Bai—the Poet Immortal. Writing about Du Fu—the Sage of Poetry—would have exceeded the word limit.

"If Li Bai never existed, how different would our lives be?

Honestly, not very.

He was just another poet from over a thousand years ago. One more or one less wouldn’t matter much, right?

Without Li Bai, The Complete Tang Poems might be a bit thinner—about forty to fifty pages less…"

Gu Lu finished the piece in under half an hour, barely a thousand words. His typing speed in this life far surpassed his previous existence.

"If I’d been this fast in my past life, people wouldn’t have mocked me for being short and quick," he muttered to himself.

With the task complete, he picked up a book to unwind before bed. Tomorrow, he’d hand the draft to Ms. Gao.

---

Meanwhile, in the editorial office of Science Fiction World, the sun was setting, casting a warm red glow through the windows.

They say nothing compares to the beauty of a sunset—calm and serene. But for those working overtime, it was anything but soothing. Instead, it brought frustration and loneliness.

"People always crave the unknown," the corresponding editor sighed to Zhu Xiang. "When I was a writer, I envied editors for their easy job—just reading instead of racking my brain to write. Now that I’m an editor, I envy rich kids. They don’t have to do anything and still won’t starve."

Zhu Xiang had turned to editing after struggling as a writer. As a sci-fi editor, he found the hardest part of the job was that most submissions weren’t actually sci-fi!

Sure, most sci-fi leaned toward "soft" science fiction, which didn’t require rigorous scientific accuracy. But even soft sci-fi needed some semblance of plausibility.

"Huh? This author submitted four pieces?"

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