Chapter 21: Heroes Have Always Emerged in Youth

Zhang Chu descended the stairs with a smile on his face, strolling leisurely until he stood before Zhang Bowen, silently saying nothing.

“What’s your deal, boy? If you’ve got something to say, spit it out. If you’ve got gas, let it out. Don’t circle around me like that!”

Zhang Bowen’s eyes were fixed on his computer screen, but the figure pacing incessantly in front of him was beginning to wear on his nerves.

“Dad, my ‘Detective Sherlock’ made it through the preliminary selection.”

At that moment, Zhang Chu brimmed with pride; had he a tail, it would surely have stood upright.

“Well, isn’t that something? My book made it through too—it’ll be published in the next issue,” Zhang Bowen replied, his smile stiff and insincere. “I knew you just wanted to boast.”

His own story, ‘The Method of Deduction,’ had also passed the editorial review at Years of Mystery magazine. He’d kept this quiet, just to see how Zhang Chu would react!

Zhang Chu pulled out his ID card. “Dad, could you scan this for me? And see if the contract is worth signing. Thirty thousand words for almost seventeen thousand yuan—now I’ve got the money for driving lessons and a new computer for the summer. If I write another, I’ll have enough for tuition.”

“There’s tax on that, you know. After taxes, you’ll only get about fifteen thousand. It’s not safe for you to keep so much cash. Better let me hold onto it for you,” Zhang Bowen said as he scanned Zhang Chu’s ID onto the computer. Father and son, both advancing to the next round, couldn’t help feeling pleased with themselves.

Zhang Chu had started writing novels for financial independence; now that he was about to hand over his earnings, he refused outright, shaking his head vigorously. “No need, no need. I’m an adult now—legally responsible for myself.”

The two of them joked and laughed at the bar, entirely forgetting that there were still customers in their bookstore.

“Old Zhang, your son’s sitting the college entrance exam this year, isn’t he? I think I saw him on Jiangcheng News the other day. What schools is he considering?”

The refined middle-aged man held a copy of ‘Who Moved My Cheese.’ Though a fable, it sold well domestically, recommended by numerous celebrities, and had become an essential book for boosting one’s intellectual image.

Zhang Bowen felt a pang of unease. Zhang Chu’s early exam hand-in had caused a stir just two days ago—even his old classmate knew about it. How much did he actually know about Zhang Chu’s results?

“Zhang Chu, do you remember your Uncle Lin Hua? My boy here is all bluster and little substance—we’ll wait for the results before considering schools.”

Lin Hua glanced at Zhang Chu with a smile, his eyes twinkling with undisguised amusement. “How time flies—the kids are taking the college exams already. When I saw you on TV, I could hardly believe it. You’ve really kept your talents hidden, haven’t you? With grades like yours, I bet Tsinghua and Peking University will be fighting over you.”

The fox-like grin made his intention to mock clear. Zhang Chu replied, “If they do come to recruit me, I’ll be sure to call you over to witness it, Uncle, since you’ve never had a close encounter with a top scorer before. Even if you didn’t attend Tsinghua or Peking, you could still meet their teachers.”

“Watch your mouth, boy!” Zhang Bowen scolded, though he was secretly delighted.

Lin Hua shook his head and changed the subject. “I overheard you two talking about manuscript fees. Bowen, after all these years, you’re still at it—failing and trying again? If you ask me, if you lack talent, no amount of writing will help. But if you want to write for Jiangdong Daily, I can pull some strings for you.”

Knowing his father wasn’t forceful in such matters, Zhang Chu quickly interjected, “Uncle Lin, my dad just received a job offer from them. His story will be published in the next issue of Years of Mystery. You could buy a copy to support the sales, or I could deliver one to your home.”

In Lin Hua’s memory, Zhang Bowen was a book lover, even quitting his job to run a bookstore, but he’d never had the makings of a writer—always rejected, never accepted.

Now his expression stiffened, his words forced out. “Years of Mystery, you say? I’ll be sure to pick up a copy.”

He resolved then and there to read it and write a review, offering his own guidance.

After watching Lin Hua pay and leave, Zhang Bowen finally snapped, “Is that how you speak to your elders? Are you a porcupine, all prickles?”

“I was standing up for you. He can’t stand to see us succeed—he just wanted to mock us,” Zhang Chu replied, quickly filling out the electronic contract. He could hardly wait for the manuscript fee, though he knew it was wishful thinking.

…

At the offices of Years of Mystery, Liu Qiao had already handed ‘Detective Sherlock’ to another editor for proofreading. When she received Zhang Chu’s signed electronic contract and scanned ID, she was stunned.

“The author is only just eighteen? That’s incredible…”

Wanyuan, nearby, heard Liu Qiao’s exclamation and rolled his chair over. “Who’s only eighteen, Liu?”

“Who else? Zhang Chu! The author of ‘Detective Sherlock.’ With such command of structure and detail, I thought he must be middle-aged. How could he be so young?”

Zhou Ling’s eyes widened. He whispered, “At that age, he must still be in high school. When did high schoolers become so impressive?”

“Never underestimate today’s students. This is a genius writer,” Liu Qiao marvelled. She’d found the writing a bit raw, but never guessed the author was a student.

Li Yuanqing, from the side, interjected abruptly, “How could someone so young write a detective novel? Maybe he got someone else to write it for him—just trying to get famous. Seems likely to me!”

“I doubt that. If there’s no evidence, Li, you shouldn’t make baseless accusations.”

Liu Qiao was protective of her author and argued firmly, unwilling to let rumors start in the office.

“No evidence? What would someone that age know about detective stories? It’s obvious ‘Detective Sherlock’ wasn’t written by him.”

Wanyuan muttered under his breath, “Didn’t they say before that ‘Detective Sherlock’ wasn’t any good? And now they’re doubting he could write something so good.”

As the debate heated up, Chen Haodong appeared behind them without anyone noticing, asking, “What’s this about a ghostwriter?”

Li Yuanqing, quick to speak, said, “Old Chen, take a look—how could an eighteen-year-old student write ‘Detective Sherlock’? The sense of structure, the logical flow, the gripping plot—it’s not something an ordinary person could pull off!”

“Li, don’t be so absolute. Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘Heroes have always been young’? Why shouldn’t a student be able to write this? I think you’re being prejudiced,”

Chen Haodong said. He had no such suspicions; without evidence, he refused to judge others harshly.