CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 27 Writing in the Republic Era (26)

Le Jing’s peaceful sick leave came to an abrupt end the day Wang Xiguan, the chief editor of Beiping Novel Gazette, showed up at his door.

After barely keeping things afloat with his stockpile of drafts for a week, the serialization of The Rise of a Dynasty finally followed in the footsteps of Looking Down on People Through Rat’s Eyes and went dark. Still, since this was due to the author falling ill—an unavoidable reason—the editorial department, though unwilling, had no choice but to remind Le Jing to focus on recuperating.

But Le Jing had only rested for a few days when, on about the fourth day of the publication gap, Editor-in-Chief Wang came rushing in, carrying armfuls of tonics and supplements. By then, Le Jing’s health had already improved quite a bit—at least he no longer had to stay bundled up under blankets like a woman in confinement. He could even stroll around the courtyard.

Summer was already on its way out, and autumn was only days away. The cicadas screeched their last desperate cries, and the peach tree in the courtyard was heavy with ripening fruit. When Editor Wang arrived, Le Jing was standing on a stool, parting the branches of the peach tree, about to pick a few ripe peaches.

Editor Wang smiled and said, “Mister, you look quite well. Have you recovered?”

Le Jing, caught red-handed mid-peach-picking: …

He jumped down from the chair, coughed lightly, and admitted honestly, “Somewhat better, but I still can’t stand the wind. The doctor said I need to continue resting.”

Editor Wang kept smiling, his eyes falling on the peaches in Le Jing’s hand. “Yes, you should rest well… but lying in bed all day isn’t necessarily good for recovery either. You ought to move around a bit more.”

Le Jing rubbed his nose. At that moment, he finally understood the particular frustration of when your mom comes home, catches you on your phone, and therefore assumes you’ve been playing on it all day long.

Of course, the “move around a bit” that Editor Wang mentioned didn’t mean climbing up and down like a monkey picking peaches. He was subtly hinting that it was time for Le Jing to start writing again. In fact, Le Jing had already planned to rest a few more days and resume serialization the following week. But now, having been caught slacking off while sneaking peaches, he couldn’t exactly thicken his skin and insist he still needed to recuperate.

Seeing the author finally, obediently, promise to continue writing, Wang Xiguan let out a deep sigh of relief.

In the four days that Mr. Lin Zhongqi had skipped his serialization, the editorial office had nearly exploded.

The Rise of a Dynasty, being the most sensational ongoing serial of the moment, meant that the author’s pause was absolutely no trivial matter. Although Wang Xiguan had mentally prepared for this, he still underestimated the fighting spirit of Mr. Lin’s readers.

Like a snowstorm, letters from readers flooded into the editorial office—so many that the editors opening them nearly broke their wrists.

If Yang Jinglun were lucky enough to read these letters, he would never again complain that the readers of The Watchman were unreasonable. Because compared to the letters Beiping Fiction Gazette received, the readers of The Watchman could practically be considered refined and courteous.

This difference stemmed from the distinct readership each catered to. Those who followed The Watchman were, in all likelihood, cultured individuals with relatively high levels of education. Even when they scolded, their words would not be too harsh.

But Lin Zhongqi’s readers were a different story. The audience of The Rise of the Dynasty was a motley crowd: there were impeccably dressed members of the privileged class, dockworkers who labored with their bare hands, and even many who couldn’t read, who only learned the story of The Rise of the Dynasty from storytellers on the street. These readers still cared deeply about the author’s illness—but they were far less polite to the newspaper.

Thus, the reminder letters they sent used insults so vicious that the editors opening the mail were left dumbstruck, with entire passages devoted to lovingly “greeting” the editors’ mothers and every female relative in their families.

The editor in charge of opening letters was a fresh graduate, utterly unprepared for such abuse. After just one day, he had already hidden in the restroom to cry several times.

If the letters could still be ignored, the phone calls urging updates made the entire staff of Beiping Fiction Gazette tremble in fear and sit uneasily at their desks.

In those days, anyone who could afford a telephone was already part of the privileged class—which meant they came from very powerful backgrounds. On the very first day The Rise of the Dynasty halted serialization, the identity of a caller nearly scared the operator out of her wits:

“I’m Fu Kema. Fu Fanlin is my father. Where’s your chief editor? I want to speak to him.”

The name Fu Kema might not yet have been widely known in Beiping, but his father, Fu Fanlin, was a household name. The Fu family’s banking house had opened more than a dozen branches nationwide, wealthy beyond measure. Because of this, Fu Fanlin was always welcomed by the various warlords—after all, who in this world wanted to offend the man who held the purse strings?

Their small newspaper simply could not afford to offend such a towering figure.

The editor-in-chief, trembling, hurried to take the call, only to hear the young master bark orders unceremoniously:

“Give me Mr. Lin Zhongqi’s address. I want to visit him and pay my respects!”

How could the editor-in-chief dare to give this spoiled young master Lin’s address? After all, they had signed a confidentiality contract with Lin. If they leaked his private information, never mind whether Lin would sue them—it would certainly mean that Lin would take The Rise of the Dynasty to another newspaper, causing them immeasurable financial loss.

So the editor-in-chief poured out every sweet word he could muster until the young master was appeased and finally hung up. Yet this call was only the beginning.

In the following days, the calls they received came from people of greater and greater prominence: a socialite famous throughout Beiping’s high society, the pampered son of a minister, a top-tier society lady, and even a major Green Gang boss from faraway Shanghai.

On the fourth day, when Marshal Xue himself called, the editor-in-chief summoned managing editor Wang Xiguan to his office. With a grave expression, he instructed:

“I don’t care what method you use—you must get Mr. Lin to resume the serialization!”

Wang Xiguan hesitated. “But Mr. Lin is still ill… I fear he simply doesn’t have the strength.”

The editor-in-chief declared firmly, “Then find another writer to ghostwrite! Have Mr. Li dictate the future plot, and let someone imitate his style to continue the story. In any case, The Rise of the Dynasty cannot be left blank again!”

Remembering the past few days, he wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, muttering under his breath, “If we don’t resume serialization soon, those bigshots will tear our newspaper office apart.”

One could say that Wang Xiguan’s visit to Li Jingran was practically staking his military honor on the line. Although the author, after recovering from his illness, would rather go out picking peaches than write, which nearly made the editor cough blood, at least this proved that the author was now well and could resume serialization. This way, their newspaper wouldn’t need to look for a ghostwriter. If they hadn’t been pushed to the edge, they would never have thought of such a method—after all, how could ghostwriting ever compare to the author’s original hand? And if this got out, it wouldn’t sound pleasant either.

“Ugh, so boring.” Fu Kema lay sprawled across the table like a salted fish that had lost its dreams.

Fu Fanlin shook his newspaper, shot a glance at his idiotic son, and snorted coldly: “If you’re bored, then study. If you fail another exam, watch me break your legs!”

Fu Kema choked on his words, sat up resentfully, and shot his father a look. Muttering under his breath, he said, “Studying is even more boring, okay?”

Hit by his father’s sharp glare, Fu Kema shrank back, his eyes rolling about before a sudden idea lit up his mind. He sycophantically grabbed his father’s arm, sweetly calling, “Daddyyy~”

A shiver of disgust ran down Fu Fanlin’s spine. Resisting the urge to flick his stupid son on the forehead (hmph, he’s already dumb enough—what if a flick makes him even dumber?), he scolded with a dark expression: “Speak human language!”

Fu Kema quickly let go, becoming quiet as a chicken, before whispering, “I want you to help me find Lin Zhongqi’s address.”

How could Fu Fanlin not know of this author who his son mentioned almost daily? Ever since The Rise of the Dynasty stopped serializing, this fool had been sighing every day. He figured if he himself died one day, his son would probably act just like this.

“What do you want the author’s address for?”

Fu Kema declared loudly, “I want to visit him while he’s sick!”

Under his father’s suspicious gaze, he mumbled softly, “Uh… and maybe, urge him to update.”

This time, Fu Fanlin finally couldn’t hold back. He rolled up the newspaper into a tube and smacked his stupid son hard on the head. “Fu Kema, you’ve really got nerve! Not joining the secret service is such a waste of your talents! I feed you, clothe you, give you money—not so you can play spy and harass authors! If you’ve got that much time, why don’t you write more characters? Read more books?!”

Fu Kema yelped, covering his head as he ran around the room in panic.

Just then, in the midst of their father-son chaos, Fu Fanlin looked up and saw his son’s personal servant, Zhang Shun, sneaking around at the doorway, winking madly at Fu Kema.

With a furious shout, he barked: “Zhang Shun! What kind of secret signals are you sending my son? Get in here!”

The moment Zhang Shun stepped inside, Fu Fanlin spotted the newspaper in his hand. He snatched it away instantly. Sure enough, it was the Beiping Novel Gazette. Opening it, he saw that The Rise of the Dynasty had resumed serialization.

Casting a glance at his son craning his neck, eyes glued longingly to the paper in his hands, Fu Fanlin suddenly felt his palms itch.

He calmly folded the paper and said, with a straight face, “I’m going to the study to do some work. You’re old enough now—take some time to reflect on yourself when you’re free!”

Fu Kema: “…Dad! The paper! My paper! I’ll study right after I finish The Rise of the Dynasty! Dad, dad! Come back, dad QAQ!”

Ignoring his son’s desperate wails, Fu Fanlin strode quickly into the study, locked the door, and enjoyed the latest chapter of The Rise of the Dynasty to his heart’s content.

The news of The Rise of the Dynasty resuming serialization made countless readers ecstatic, spreading the word far and wide. It not only triggered countless family dramas like the Fu family’s father-son strife, but also brought early festive joy to many households, as though celebrating the New Year in advance.

Meanwhile, the author, Le Jing, had particularly mixed feelings.

Because he had been sick for several days, the editorial office of the Beiping Novel Gazette had piled up with countless letters from readers. Although Le Jing didn’t need to reply to every single one, he still had to answer a few, to maintain reader loyalty.

This was just routine work, so he didn’t take it to heart. Most of the replies he wrote were standard phrases like:

“Thank you for enjoying my novel.”

“My health has improved, no need to worry.”

But then, he came across a special letter.

The content itself was ordinary—just expressing concern for his health and urging him to rest without rushing to write. What made it special was the sender’s identity.

The letter was from the original body’s younger half-brother, the son of his stepmother Madam Wang—Li Jingliang.