CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 57 Writing in the Republic Era (56)

The appearance of Nakamura Ryota once again reminded Le Jing of that war which was slowly approaching.

The War of Resistance Against Japan was the most tragic war ever fought on Chinese soil.

It lasted fourteen years. Thirty-five million Chinese soldiers and civilians were killed or wounded, hundreds of millions of ordinary people were displaced, and it brought about direct economic losses of 100 billion US dollars and indirect losses of 500 billion.

It was the most humiliating moment in the history of this nation called China: the capital reduced to a slaughterhouse, twenty-two provinces falling into enemy hands, the national army retreating again and again until finally it had to withdraw to Chongqing in the remote southwest, bracing itself for wave after wave of enemy air raids.

So humiliating. So desperate.

So desperate that fathers sent their sons to the battlefield with banners bearing the word “death.”

So desperate that mothers sent off all their sons to fight the Japanese.

So desperate that villages across the land were left without a single grown man, with many renamed “Widow Villages.”

So desperate that countless overseas Chinese returned to form death squads to fight.

So desperate that even thirteen- and fourteen-year-old children went onto the battlefield, fighting the enemy with bayonets.

So desperate that the government shouted the most tragic slogan of all—

“An inch of land, an inch of blood; one hundred thousand youths, one hundred thousand soldiers.”

When desperation reached its limit… it became the certainty that an embattled army would triumph.

Le Jing knew that the night would eventually pass, that victory would come, that the Chinese people would rise up and reclaim the pride of a great nation.

He, after all, was nothing but a frail scholar, unable to change the course of war. All he could do was use his pen to give the soldiers and the people spiritual support and encouragement.

“The Path of a Beast” made Le Jing an overnight success, and his pen name Watchman quickly spread across the land, known by more and more people.

While people fiercely debated the work in the newspapers, their curiosity about its author also grew.

What kind of person was the Watchman?

How could someone so young possess such deep insight and experience?

What was the state of mind in which he wrote “The Path of a Beast”?

As the original author, how would he interpret his own work?

Driven by such curiosity and questions, the Literature Society of National Peking University sent a letter of invitation to The Literary Gazette, inviting Le Jing to give a lecture at their school.

When Yang Jinglun brought the invitation letter to him, Le Jing was busy with his Chinese literature homework.

After all, he was a fraud from the future. Naturally, his foundation in classical Chinese could not compare with that of students in this era, who had been introduced to learning through the Four Books and Five Classics since childhood. This had led to Le Jing’s academic imbalance: his science grades ranked among the top in class, his history was excellent at the grade level, but his Chinese literature was only average.

Mrs. Bai Nianqiu, who taught him Chinese literature, had called him in for talks countless times. Privately, she even gave him extra tutoring. Especially after Le Jing’s pen name Watchman was exposed, Mrs. Bai looked at him with even more confusion, as if she couldn’t understand why someone who had already written several novels could still be so poor in Chinese.

Just yesterday, Mrs. Bai had summoned him again to the office. Frowning at his 75-point Chinese grade, she said anxiously:

“With grades like this, getting into Tsinghua or Peking University might be difficult. Your Chinese is pulling you down too much.”

Le Jing: “…”

He really wanted to tell Mrs. Bai that he didn’t actually have such lofty ambitions, that he wasn’t dead set on Tsinghua or Peking University. He honestly wasn’t picky about universities in this era at all.

There were only a handful of universities in the Republic of China era, so anyone who could get admitted was the cream of the crop—the elite among elites who had studied diligently for over ten years.

Le Jing, on the other hand, had grown up in the modern era, receiving an exam-oriented education that leaned more toward overall development than sheer perseverance. In terms of sheer diligence, he absolutely couldn’t compare with students of the Republic of China.

What made it worse was that Li Jingran himself had been a poor student, leaving behind no “intellectual inheritance.” So, Le Jing truly couldn’t muster up the ambition of “nothing less than Tsinghua or Peking University will do.”

Back then, universities set their own exam questions and handled admissions independently. There were no prep books like Five Years of College Entrance Exams, Three Years of Mock Tests or Huanggang Test Papers. In Le Jing’s view, even passing the entrance exam once had been sheer dumb luck.

But in Mrs. Bai’s eyes, Li Jingran was only 17 years old and had already written so many outstanding articles—undoubtedly a Heaven’s favored child. Although no one could quite explain why this literary genius fared so poorly in classical Chinese exams, with his talent, as long as he applied himself a little, wouldn’t getting into Tsinghua or Peking University be as easy as a flick of the wrist?

Out of this love for nurturing talent, Mrs. Bai sent Le Jing numerous self-designed Chinese exam papers, along with several hundred recommended classics of traditional literature. As a result, apart from writing his novels, Le Jing now had no end of Chinese exam papers to grind through.

So when he heard Yang Jinglun mention that Peking University wanted him to give a lecture, Le Jing was both amused and speechless.

Here he was still worrying about whether he could even get into Peking University, and yet its students were inviting him to lecture them.

Ordinarily, he would never agree to something so high-profile. Le Jing knew perfectly well how much actual “ink” was in his belly—he was only benefitting from the advantage of being from the future.

Other organizations had invited him before; the Beiping Writers’ Association had even asked him to join. But Le Jing had declined them all. He only wanted to write quietly and had no patience for navigating complicated interpersonal relationships.

But… this was Peking University!

This was the cradle that had nurtured countless figures who left their mark on history! If he went there, he might even run into some historical celebrities!

After much hesitation, Le Jing finally wrote a reply to Peking University’s Literature Society, accepting their invitation.

In the reading room of Peking University’s Literature Society—

Between tall, heavy wooden bookshelves, students sat or stood in small clusters. Without exception, each held a book in hand, fully absorbed in reading.

Suddenly, the sharp scrape of a chair leg against the floor broke the silence. Many students frowned and looked toward the source of the noise, only to see a girl with two braided pigtails standing up, her face alight with excitement.

“Great news!” she shouted, raising the letter in her hand, her voice ringing out in the quiet room. “Mr. Watchman has agreed to our invitation! He’ll be here on Saturday to give us a lecture!”

At once, the earlier annoyance in the room vanished, replaced by an uproar of excitement. Students crowded around the girl, chattering in a flurry.

“Really? What time on Saturday?”

“Mr. Watchman has never appeared in public before. I heard he even turned down the Beiping Writers’ Association when they invited him to a seminar! I can’t believe he accepted our society’s invitation!”

“I must bring my copy of Memoirs of a Courtesan for him to sign!”

“When will The Path of a Beast be published already? I’m dying to buy it and have him sign it!” 

“My friend’s younger brother studies at Kaiping Middle School, and he said Mr. Watchman is actually quite handsome, with a gentle personality.”

“Yes, yes, I heard that too! I also heard he’s especially gentlemanly and compassionate—he often goes to orphanages to support the children there…”

The girl in the middle of the crowd, braids swinging, was named He Jingwen, president of the Literature Society. Hearing her members’ excited and scattered discussions, she quickly reminded them:

“This time, we invited Mr. Watchman to analyze his works for us. So when we meet him, our focus must stay on his writings. We must not pry into his private life.”

“Got it.”

“Of course!”

The scattered replies came, but as He Jingwen looked at her members’ eager faces, a deep worry stirred in her heart.

She only hoped that, at Saturday’s lecture, they wouldn’t cause the teacher any trouble.

On Saturday morning, He Jingwen found herself blocked in the corridor outside the society’s activity room. Staring at the long line of people stretching out ahead—she even spotted students in Tsinghua uniforms among them—her voice trembled with weakness:

“What on earth is going on?”

The vice president gave her an embarrassed smile. “Somehow, word got out that Mr. Watchman was coming to give a lecture. So it’s not just our school—students from other universities have come too…”