CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 25 Writing in the Republic Era (24)

Zhou Dezhang’s words brought the entire room into silence. Le Jing let out a faint sigh in his heart.

Although Zhou Dezhang had foresight, his concerns were still limited to opium taking over fertile farmland, leading to food shortages and shaking the foundations of the nation. He had not truly recognized the fundamental health hazards that opium brought.

This reflected the general understanding of opium among intellectuals at that time. Many still regarded opium as a medicinal substance, some even believing it could strengthen the body.

At first, British merchants had pried open China’s gates with opium to reap huge profits, causing massive outflow of silver. But what China never lacked were so-called “clever men.”

Many of these “clever men” advised the emperor: we must localize opium production on a large scale, encourage the people to plant it, break the British monopoly, allow the populace to smoke cheaper opium, and at the same time generate massive tax revenue to enrich the treasury. Furthermore, they said, later on heavy taxes could be levied on opium—making the poor quit and the rich smoke less—thus achieving prohibition without outright banning.

Thus, the Qing Dynasty ended up with two kinds of opium: foreign and domestic. To “exhaust China’s resources to win the goodwill of foreign nations,” and also to crush the peasant rebels of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom to preserve the Aisin Gioro dynasty for generations, the emperor began encouraging his subjects to smoke domestically grown opium. That, after all, was a “patriotic” act!

So when Commissioner Lin destroyed opium at Humen, what he destroyed were smuggled foreign goods. Lin himself was not against smoking per se—he was against smoking foreign opium, because that caused silver to flow out of the country, making China poorer. For Lin, smoking was an economic issue. That was why he supported the people smoking domestic opium, since “circulating within the country, like blood flowing within one’s body, what harm could there be?”

This was also how many intellectuals of the time saw it—they believed that smoking homegrown opium would somehow neutralize its toxicity, rendering it harmless to the body.

Later generations need not judge Lin too harshly; it was simply the limitation of the era. Once something becomes tied to someone’s purse strings, society’s judgment of it grows ambiguous and distorted—even the law will make concessions. In the end, it was nothing more than the economic base determining the superstructure.

Even in the Republic of China, opium remained a political, economic, and livelihood issue that could shake the nation’s very roots. For example, in Yunnan, annual revenue amounted to about 11 million silver dollars, of which 8.04 million came from opium.

The warlords of each province treated opium as their treasure chest. The warlord ruling Sichuan decreed: if farmers planted only grain and no opium, they would owe three years of tax for one year of crops; but if they planted opium, they would only owe one year’s tax. And if, by the third year, farmers still refused to plant opium, they would be taxed as if for seven years.

Thus, the Sichuan army earned the notorious nickname—the “Double-Gun Army,” for wielding a rifle in one hand and an opium pipe in the other. If not for their later valor, when Sichuan’s soldiers fought to the death in the Anti-Japanese War, proving their blood and bravery, they would have remained nailed to the pillar of historical shame forever.

Because so much farmland was abandoned for opium, the Republic of China was plagued every few years by the horrific tragedies of mass famine and cannibalism.

It was only decades later, when the red tide swept across the land, that those mud-footed peasants who brought about changes unseen in three thousand years resisted the temptation of the purse, cut away the twin cancers of opium and prostitution in one stroke, and finally allowed China’s democracy to truly stand tall.

Le Jing understood this better than anyone present—the opium problem was a problem of the era, not something manpower alone could resolve.

So, in this moment, bitter as it was, all he could do was remain silent.

In the quiet room, Zheng Yiliang’s soft sigh rang especially clear: “Junyu, stop thinking about it. This isn’t something we can solve—not even the President could. If that day really comes… all we can do is sacrifice ourselves to the nation and atone with our deaths.”

Zhou Dezhang was silent for a few seconds, then forced himself to lift his head with an awkward smile. “Look at me—why am I saying all this nonsense? I’ve only dampened everyone’s spirits. My fault, I hope you two can forgive me.”

Le Jing shook his head and smiled. “How could caring for the nation and the people be wrong, Mr. Zhou? But we are mere scholars, powerless in action. The only thing we can do is convey our thoughts as much as possible through our writings.”

Zheng Yiliang hurriedly nodded in agreement. “Exactly, exactly. I won’t say more. Junyu, you are a great writer after all—your articles always find many responders. You can use your writings to call for the prohibition of opium!”

Inwardly, Zhou Dezhang sighed. He knew this was just his friend trying to comfort him. The opium problem wasn’t something a few articles could solve. He had written plenty of essays in the past advocating prohibition, and though they had indeed sparked discussion in the newspapers, they remained only at the level of “discussion.”

Thanks to Zheng Yiliang and Le Jing’s efforts to shift the topic and lighten the atmosphere, the mood among them outwardly returned to warmth and harmony. Yet, beneath the surface, turbulent undercurrents still churned—something only the men themselves could feel.

…

The blazing sun hung in the western sky, and the ground steamed with scorching heat. The streets were sparsely populated. Even though Zheng Yiliang had already sat down in a rickshaw heading home, he still couldn’t stop sweating profusely. Drenched in perspiration, he fanned himself with his hand and cursed this damned weather.

Sitting beside him, Zhou Dezhang couldn’t help but bring up Li Jingran: “I see in this boy a dragon among minnows.”

Zheng Yiliang shot him a look. “You think I don’t know that?”

The image of the young man standing tall in the reception hall, speaking with composure and eloquence, resurfaced in his mind. With genuine admiration, he sighed: “I really don’t know which family raised such a prodigy. If I were his father, I’d probably laugh myself awake from dreams every night.”

Zhou Dezhang fell into thought “The surname Li is a common one, it’s hard to say.”

Li Jingran had only said that he’d left home to travel and broaden his horizons. As for his family background, he never mentioned it, and it wasn’t proper for them to pry. But from his manner of speech and bearing, it was obvious his family was either wealthy or noble. Only such a family could raise a child like Li Jingran, who carried both vision and talent.

Zheng Yiliang replied carelessly: “Whatever background he has, the one we’re friends with is Li Jingran, not his family. What’s the point in overthinking?”

Zhou Dezhang froze for a moment, then realized that was indeed true—he had been overanalyzing. Regardless of Li Jingran’s origins, his temperament and talent suited them perfectly. Though Li Jingran was much younger than they were, neither Zheng Yiliang nor Zhou Dezhang were pedantic men. Both felt he was an excellent choice for a friend, and deep down, they leaned toward forging a strong bond with him.

…

Le Jing was completely unaware of the evaluation those two had made of him on their way back. After they left, he remained standing under the veranda, staring at the vast clear sky, lost in prolonged thought.

From the very moment he had awoken in this era, he had been tied to opium, and it had inflicted irreversible damage on his body. Even now, his hands and feet turned cold at night, and even a little exertion left him short of breath. No one knew better than he the health devastation opium caused.

But knowing was one thing—acting was another.

Although he had told Zhou Dezhang that one could write to convey ideas, he himself knew how much of a drop in the bucket that really was. The opium issue was a far more entrenched problem than prostitution.

To cure this festering disease, the alignment of time, place, and people was indispensable.

Even so, some things still needed to be done.

As that great writer once said: The road does not exist at first. But when enough people walk it, it becomes a road.

Coming into this era, he carried within him nearly a hundred years of civilization beyond what the people here possessed. That alone made him a natural pioneer.

As a pioneer, he bore the responsibility of carving out a path for those who would follow.

If this age held no light, then let him become the light. Through his words, let his readers feel the brilliance of civilization that spanned a century.

The ambition he had quietly buried since waking in this time and space finally broke through the soil.

This time, he no longer cloaked it in patriotism or lofty ideals—he simply wanted to do it.

This was his ambition. This was his justice.

He wanted to use his writing to awaken the radiance of humanity in more and more people. He wanted his pen to guide readers toward a free and beautiful New Huaxia.

And if one day, he truly laid down his life in order to build that beautiful new world…

Li Shuran saw her usually silent elder brother, standing beneath the veranda with his head tilted toward the sky, suddenly cover his eyes and laugh softly.

She shivered, goosebumps rising across her skin, and only belatedly felt a chill of fear creep over her.

Swallowing hard, she asked in a small voice: “Brother… what are you thinking?”

The youth lowered his hand, his eyes blazing so hot they could have burned her. The corners of his lips curled high, his voice laced with a note of delighted laughter: “I just thought of something very beautiful.”

Catching sight of Li Shuran’s animal-like instinctive flinch, sensing danger, Le Jing quickly reined in the joy threatening to overflow from his heart. He revealed the same gentle smile he always wore. “Be good. Go study. I’m going to the study to write.”

Li Shuran stared blankly at her elder brother’s departing figure. Only after a long time did she realize her body was trembling uncontrollably. Looking at Li Jingran, it was as if she were staring at something inhuman wearing human skin.

In the haze of that moment, she had a chilling premonition: what she had just glimpsed—that was the real Li Jingran.

…

Le Jing felt he had never seen the world so clearly. Standing before his desk, gazing at the pristine sheets of paper, he felt exhilarated, as though boundless energy was surging from every pore.

He thought: after recuperating in a Buddhist calm for so long, it was time for a great undertaking.

Let him imitate Sun Wukong—turning his pen into a golden cudgel, smashing all that was dark and rotten into dust!

His brush flew across the paper, leaving bold, sweeping strokes that spelled out the title:

“The Last Man Who Didn’t Take Drugs.”

That was the name of his next novel.

It would tell the story of a sober man living in a nation where drug use was legal and universal, and the bizarre, grotesque chaos he witnessed. As the last man who remained sober—and therefore criminal—he would endure countless persecutions and assaults. Through his eyes, the hideous and monstrous face of this drug-ridden country would be laid bare.

Perhaps his novel would sink without a trace, failing to fulfill the mission he entrusted it with.

Then let him answer with the words inscribed on the centennial celebration of The Literary Gazette:

Who says there is no voice? History will bear witness! Who says there is no voice? The rivers and mountains shall testify!

History would record it—his unyielding words.