CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 2 Writing in the Republic Era (1)

Le Jing was awakened by the sound of crying.

He had just opened his eyes, not even able to speak yet, when a stabbing pain pierced deep into his head like a needle. A low groan escaped from his throat—strange and unfamiliar, weak and hoarse like that of an old man.

“Brother, you’re awake!” Someone grasped his hand, her voice brimming with delight. “Doctor Zhao’s medicine really worked. How are you feeling now?”

The piercing pain lingered in his mind like a bone-borne parasite, refusing to leave. Forcing himself to endure it, he carefully studied the owner of the voice—a girl, around her early teens.

Her hair was neatly coiled up, and she wore an old-fashioned, heavy qipao. Her skin was fair, her features delicate and refined, and her pair of large, luminous eyes, misty with tears, were fixed on him, brimming with joy.

She… called him brother?

Suddenly, the stabbing pain intensified. In the blink of an eye, countless images flickered through Le Jing’s mind like a fast-forwarding film reel.

Li Shuran saw her elder brother’s face grow paler by the second, his brows tightly knitted, clutching his head as he groaned in agony.

“Brother, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” She panicked, springing to her feet. “I’ll call Doctor Zhao at once!”

“Wait.” A weak yet firm voice came from behind her. “I’m fine.”

Li Shuran turned back, only to see her brother sit up and look at her deeply. His pitch-black eyes had turned into a dark, unfathomable pool, carrying an oddly compelling charm. He curved his lips into a strange smile.

“I’m fine. No need to call Doctor Zhao.”

Li Shuran froze. Her brother looked… unfamiliar.

What kind of brother was he supposed to be?

Sullen, resentful, speaking with biting sarcasm, cold and prickly.

How long had it been since she had seen her brother speak to her normally, or smile at her?

Then she saw him withdraw his smile, his gaze unusually calm as it fell on her. His voice, hoarse from long illness, was steady:

“Go out first. I want to lie down a bit longer.”

He waved his hand and said to the maids standing by, “You go out too.”

When the door closed softly behind them, Le Jing silently chuckled.

Ha, how amusing. He never expected that such a clichéd scenario as transmigration would actually happen to him. He clearly remembered lying down to sleep—and when he opened his eyes, he had crossed back a hundred years.

Lying in bed, he slowly sorted through the original body’s memories. The year was 1925. The Qing dynasty had long since fallen. Warlords fought endlessly. Revolutionaries roamed about, rallying support. Large swaths of the country had been carved up by foreign powers. Chinese people were treated as third-class citizens. Foreign troops swaggered arrogantly across Chinese soil.

The body’s original name was Li Jingran, same age as Le Jing, eldest son of a newly rich family.

The Lis were grain merchants. A few years ago, they had profited handsomely off the war, making a fortune from national calamities. As the eldest son, Li Jingran naturally grew up in wealth, studying at a well-known private secondary school. In a Republic where literacy was below 20% and the average lifespan was only 35, Li Jingran was undoubtedly part of the privileged elite. With the government’s favor toward intellectuals, even without his family’s backing, Li Jingran’s future prospects could have been bright.

Yet, after sorting through the memories, Le Jing could only sigh. Li Jingran was the perfect example of squandering a good hand of cards.

The Li family’s story could have been lifted straight out of a trashy third-rate melodrama: a mistress forcing her way into the household, the rightful wife driven to death, the father turning into a stepfather, leaving Li Jingran and his younger sister Li Shuran as pitiful little greens crushed into the dirt.

If Li Jingran had been diligent and ambitious, his future might still have held promise. Though his father didn’t care much for him, he wouldn’t have obstructed his advancement either.

But alas…

Le Jing leaned back against the headboard, pressing his throbbing temples, a faint smile curving his lips—mocking, bitter.

Li Jingran was a heavy opium addict. Worse still, he was the kind of addict who indulged in every vice—drink, gambling, women, and smoke.

He was human scum. He was ruined by his stepmother’s so-called “praise,” which only nurtured his downfall.

Li Jingran was exactly the kind of person Le Jing despised the most. Instead of trying to climb out of the mire, he chose to sink into it, indulging in self-destruction and wallowing in filth. For this type of self-indulgent and self-degrading person, Le Jing had always held only contempt.

At this moment, Le Jing’s head hurt as if needles were stabbing deep into his skull, like the aftereffects of chronic sleepless nights. His entire body was weak and exhausted, breaking out in waves of cold sweat. Inside, it felt like countless ants were crawling over his heart, making him itch so badly he wished he could rip it out and scratch it raw.

And this was precisely the big mess the original owner had left him—addiction.

He yawned listlessly, which was exactly why he looked down on Li Jingran so much.

When Li Jingran’s drug abuse reached Father Li’s ears, it naturally caused another storm of fury. From then on, the father was utterly disappointed in his son. He locked him in a room, letting him fend for himself, decreeing that he would only be released once he had quit.

What Le Jing was experiencing now was a classic withdrawal reaction.

Because his own father in his previous life had been a professor at the People’s Public Security University, Le Jing had received a complete and thorough anti-drug education since childhood. So he knew very well: the symptoms he was facing were only the early stage of withdrawal. Soon, he would also suffer from palpitations, full-body itching, alternating chills and fever, emotional breakdowns, nausea and vomiting, insomnia, incontinence, loss of appetite, and even depression.

Li Jingran had used opium to numb himself, living a life of debauchery. In the end, he died from a fever triggered by the violent withdrawal.

His death had been simple enough. But as the new master of this body, Le Jing could not avoid cleaning up the mess.

First, he had to quit drugs. Then, there was no way he could stay in the Li household for long—he needed to leave that “den of demons” as soon as possible.

As for the Li family’s measly property, he didn’t care for it at all, nor did he have the patience to waste energy scheming with Madam Wang, that petty and poisonous woman of the inner chambers.

A true man’s ambitions lie in the wide world. With such a vast world and endless opportunities waiting for him, why waste time in underhanded battles with an ignorant housewife? To be fair, if Li Jingran had even a shred of clarity and self-control, Madam Wang’s “praise to destroy” would never have worked. And for someone as narrow-minded and venomous as Madam Wang, Li Jingran’s success would have been the sharpest retaliation against her.

Next came the matter of the original owner’s younger sister, Li Shuran.

As the eldest son, Li Jingran still held a shred of value in his father’s eyes, and even his stepmother Madam Wang treated him with some wariness. But Li Shuran, being a girl, was not so lucky.

She was only thirteen this year, yet Father Li and Madam Wang had already arranged a marriage for her—to be married off in two months’ time as the second wife of a sickly man, as a “good-luck bride” to ward off misfortune.

Li Jingran himself had no feelings toward this younger sister. And naturally, Le Jing, as an outsider, had no emotional attachment to this “sister” either.

But ignoring her was out of the question.

Because now he was Li Jingran. And that meant he was bound to take on the responsibilities of a guardian.

Li Jingran could evade responsibility, indulge in debauchery, and let his younger sister die without lifting a finger. But Le Jing could not. From the moment he became Li Jingran, Li Shuran became his responsibility as well.

If he abandoned her, then he would be no different from the original Li Jingran.

So, he was determined to take Li Shuran away from the Li household.

Considering the original owner’s scandalous record, Le Jing quickly decided to play the role of a prodigal son turning over a new leaf. Humans are social animals, and survival in society often demands a mask. Le Jing had long since mastered the art of disguise.

He had always been an outstanding actor.

As for what he would do to earn a living once he left—he had already thought it through.

He planned to make a living by writing novels.

During the Republic of China era, intellectuals enjoyed unprecedented status and treatment. For new writers submitting manuscripts, newspapers generally paid one silver yuan per thousand characters. Experienced writers could get two yuan per thousand characters. Well-known writers were paid ten yuan per thousand, while for literary giants, some newspapers were willing to offer as high as twenty or thirty yuan per thousand.

Take, for example, the great literary master Mr. Zhou, whose name later shone in the annals of history. In his diary, he recorded that in 1929, his royalties and copyright fees amounted to a total of 14,664 silver yuan. The courtyard house he had previously bought in Beijing had cost him just over 800 yuan. At that time, one silver yuan had the purchasing power of about 110 RMB in later generations—meaning Mr. Zhou’s annual income from writing alone was equivalent to more than 1.6 million RMB, making him a high-income earner by any standard.

Le Jing didn’t think he could compare to Mr. Zhou, but even at the rate of one yuan per thousand words, if he followed the bare minimum standard for serialized web novels—three thousand words a day—that would still add up to ninety yuan in a month. One had to remember, at this time in Beijing, a nanny’s monthly wage was only three to five silver dollars. In Fengtian City (the old name for Shenyang), where Li Jingran lived, even jobs that paid two yuan a month were highly sought after.

Le Jing came from an era of information explosion. With a century of literary and entertainment development behind him, he possessed many “novel ideas” that people of the Republic era had never even heard of. Genres like time-travel and martial arts fiction, which were considered outdated in later generations, were still fresh and original here. For him, writing them just to make a living was more than enough.

He had to make sure Li Shuran successfully quit her addiction before her marriage, and then take her far away, to embrace a new life together.

Le Jing did not believe in gods, but neither was he an atheist—he was an agnostic. He believed that in this world, there must exist things beyond human comprehension.

Although he didn’t know how he suddenly ended up in this era, he had already accepted it. Better to live freely in this unfamiliar time than to remain under the constant surveillance and control of the “good policeman of the people,” Comrade Le Zhengye, with no freedom at all.

As he pondered, a sudden commotion arose outside the door.

“You can’t go in.” Li Shuran’s crisp voice sounded from outside.

“Second Miss, I’m only following Madam’s orders. Madam heard that the young master was ill and specially sent me to deliver some tonic.”

“…My brother is resting. You can give it to me.”

“Madam instructed that this tonic must be delivered directly to the young master. Miss is still young and might not know how it should be taken. If something happens to the young master, Madam won’t forgive me. Please, Miss, don’t make things difficult for me.”

Le Jing almost laughed.

Listen to that—such a perfect balance of soft and hard words, all so tactfully spoken.

If even a servant by Madam’s side dared to talk to the legitimate daughter like this, one could well imagine Li Shuran’s position in the household.

After all, she was just a thirteen-year-old girl, usually neglected and ignored in the manor. Just now, those few sentences had already drained all her courage. At the mention of Madam, her voice immediately weakened, stammering, “My brother is still sleeping…”

“Shuran, let them in,” Le Jing spoke from inside the room. “I’m already awake.”

The door creaked open. A little servant in coarse cloth followed Li Shuran inside. Compared to his arrogance when speaking to her, his face lit up with a sycophantic smile the moment he saw Li Jingran. Bowing and scraping, he said, “Young Master, Madam was so worried when she heard of your illness, she specially sent me to bring you some tonic.”

He opened the medicine box as though presenting a treasure: three wild ginseng roots, aged enough to look valuable.

Le Jing glanced at it with a faint smile, coughed, and said slowly, “From what you told Second Miss, I thought it was some rare, priceless treasure. Turns out it’s only three wild ginsengs. Unless these are some special ginseng from Madam, is there a unique method to take them?”

The moment he spoke, both the servant and Li Shuran were stunned.

No wonder—they were used to Li Jingran being a man who bent with the wind, bullying the weak and fearing the strong. Even knowing that his stepmother Madam Wang had caused his real mother’s death and mistreated his sister, he still yielded to her. A slap here and a sweet date there was enough to buy him over, and he usually treated her with respect.

For him to openly speak up for Li Shuran and embarrass Madam Wang like this—neither the servant nor Li Shuran had expected it.

The truth was simple: the reason the servant dared act so arrogant before Li Shuran was because no one in the household would ever stand up for her.

Now, under Le Jing’s sharp gaze, sweat formed on the servant’s forehead. He looked away, forcing a smile. “Young Master doesn’t understand—this is real twenty-year-old red ginseng, a rare tonic…” He began rattling on about its supposed miraculous effects, praising it as if it were rarer than dragon’s liver or phoenix marrow.

Le Jing sneered inwardly. This was clearly a trick. It wasn’t surprising the servant dared to be so careless—given Li Jingran’s personality, such treatment was expected. If it had been the real Li Jingran here, that fool might have actually believed him.

Le Jing drew a breath. His body was still weak, and he had to fight off addiction. For now, giving Li Shuran a little support and showing his stance was enough. Truly offending Madam Wang would not be wise. So, after a pause, he said coldly, “I understand. Thank Madam for her kindness on my behalf. Qiujü, see them out.”

The servant quickly interjected, “Young Master, actually Madam sent me with another important matter…” He glanced meaningfully at Li Shuran, then lowered his head.

“You may leave,” Le Jing said.

Li Shuran bit her lip, hesitated, then obeyed her elder brother’s words, closing the door behind her.

“Now that it’s only the two of us, you can speak.”

The servant smiled mysteriously. “Madam has sent Young Master something truly good.” He lifted away the top tray of the medicine box, revealing a hidden layer underneath.

Inside were neatly stacked sticks wrapped in yellow paper. A faint, sweet smell drifted up—cooked opium. The scent made Le Jing’s mind go blank for a second. If it had been the real Li Jingran, he would probably be tearing the wrappers apart in delight by now, searching for fire and a pipe.

Le Jing shut his eyes, summoning every ounce of willpower to suppress the agitation in his heart. But the servant’s buzzing voice droned on:

“Madam said it’s nothing more than a bit of cheap opium. All the young masters and misses outside are smoking it, yet the Master insists on locking Young Master up to force him to quit. So Madam secretly sent me to He’s opium house to buy the finest quality for you.”

From his sleeve, the servant produced a smoking pipe, smiling eagerly. “Young Master, let me serve you a smoke?”

For the first time in his life, Le Jing had the urge to curse out loud.