Chapter 59: My Grandson Is a Maniac (Seeking Recommendations)

In a remote farmhouse on the outskirts of Longsha Town, Zhang Chu sat beneath the shade of a tree, enjoying the gentle breeze. The natural wind was far more pleasant than any air conditioning, cool and soothing.

Beside him, a plump ginger cat cast a disdainful glance his way. The clattering sound of Zhang Chu’s typing was seriously disrupting its nap. The cat’s name was Beibei, a name meant to be cute, though Zhang Chu found nothing adorable about her. Beibei, emboldened by Granny Lin’s affection, acted like a little tyrant at home, lording over everyone.

At this moment, Beibei lay under the jujube tree, pretending to be fierce as she meowed twice, seemingly complaining about Zhang Chu disturbing her dreams. Such a lovely afternoon, ruined by the incessant tapping of keys.

“This Qin Mu just won’t let it go. Is he teaching me how to write a detective novel, or just trying to slap me in the face?” Zhang Chu muttered.

Qin Mu had just posted another long microblog: “Recently, many new readers have joined the detective genre, but most don’t truly understand it. Some authors, in particular, begin writing without any knowledge of detective fiction. This is a highly irresponsible attitude toward readers. Today, I’ve compiled some basic knowledge about detective novels to share and, hopefully, guide young writers in how to write them. @ZhangChu, make sure you read the whole thing—it will greatly help your writing!”

On the surface, it looked like a well-meaning introduction to readers and advice for newcomers, but anyone could sense the underlying sarcasm.

No one thought anything was amiss. Senior writers guiding juniors was perfectly normal, and the comments below were mostly praise for Qin Mu’s “life lessons” series.

Zhang Chu rolled his eyes and wrote on his own microblog: “The famous philosopher Nicholas Zhao Si once said: ‘Your brain has two parts. The left has nothing right, and the right has nothing left.’ After all, Qin Mu is second in command in both the world of numbers and letters—this quote fits him perfectly.”

He hadn’t intended to be so aggressive, but Qin Mu refused to let things slide, openly provoking him and even tagging him. Naturally, Zhang Chu had to respond sharply.

Many of his followers weren’t actually reading his work; they were simply addicted to his biting wit, which seemed even more amusing than jokes.

Sure enough, a new quip had appeared, this time in both English and Chinese.

“Giving you endless likes, that’s brilliant! Turns out English is as profound as Chinese!”

“Newbie question: Who the heck is Nicholas Zhao Si? Where did this philosopher pop up from?”

“He’s the King of Asian Dance, the leading star of the Northeast Four!”

“This is a divine quote, even if I gave all my English back to the teacher, I still get it.”

“Careful with the truth bombs—you’ll get beaten up.”

“Second in command in numbers and letters? Is this the legendary 2B?”

“This is epic, divine quote!”

“Talented, I’m frantically calling Zhang Chu!”

“The pun in English is the punchline—subtle, not easy to explain.”

Zhang Chu finally vented his frustration, but the most important thing now was to produce a work. All these online exchanges were trivial; only an outstanding novel would silence Qin Mu.

...

“Dear grandson, help grandma bring back the two sheep, will you? My rheumatism is acting up again today,” Granny Lin called as she walked into the yard, rubbing her aching knees.

Zhang Chu quickly stood up and helped Granny Lin to a chair. “Of course, where are the sheep?”

He had almost no experience herding sheep, but seeing his grandmother in such discomfort, he couldn’t let her exert herself.

“Your grand-uncle called and said they’re on the eastern meadow, tied to a tree. Our sheep are well-behaved—once they’re fattened up, we’ll have fresh mutton for the New Year.”

“Alright, you rest, I’ll be back soon,” Zhang Chu said, grabbing his phone as he headed out of the yard. The top scholar reduced to a shepherd boy—what a turn of events.

Granny Lin, left idle on her chair, glanced at the ginger cat perched on the fence. “Beibei, come over here.”

But Beibei ignored her, licking her paw pads and fur before closing her eyes again, curling up her front paws for another nap.

With nothing else to do, Granny Lin looked at the laptop in front of her. “Why did this child leave his computer outside? What if it rains or Beibei knocks it over?”

She wanted to move the laptop inside, but the screen was filled with lines of text.

Granny Lin knew her grandson had taken up writing as a side profession, so she decided to see what he was working on.

Putting on her reading glasses, she bent over and began to read carefully.

[2008.

The damp, sweltering weather had lasted nearly half a month. At midday, the streets were deserted, only occasionally disturbed by speeding cars that kicked up dust and hot wind, stinging the lungs.

Inside Yudu Spicy Soup, however, it was bustling. In the narrow hall, every greasy table was packed. Most diners’ backs were soaked with sweat, but it didn’t dampen their love of spicy soup. The sound of slurping echoed one after another.

...

“You don’t need ink,” the man in black said, a smile once again crossing his face. He stood up, pressed the other’s feeble left wrist, and suddenly a gleaming scalpel appeared in his hand.

Just a gentle cut.

After a brief sting, there was a hissing sound like a broken pipe.

Blood sprayed out. He cried out in shock, instinctively reaching his right hand to cover the wound.

Even though the iron chain on his right wrist was pulled tight, there was still half a hand’s width between both hands.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” the man in black scolded, repositioning the small plastic bucket. “Don’t waste your ink.”

Blood splattered into the bucket, making a soft patter.

The man in black pressed his struggling victim, stuffed the pen back into his hand, and indicated he should dip it in blood to write.

Finally, he broke down, sobbing as he knelt on the ground, trembling as he wrote the answer to the first question. The bright red number “45” stood out starkly on the white paper.]

The beginning felt lively enough, but as she read on, cold sweat broke out on Granny Lin’s forehead.

Was her grandson a psychopath?

What kind of novel was this? It had barely begun, and already a man in black was locking a student in a classroom, forcing him to answer questions.

Granny Lin might be elderly, but she watched TV every day and kept up with social issues.

Zhang Chu’s story seemed unfinished, but it was terrifying. One moment, students were solving math problems, the next, someone died, described in such detail it nearly stopped her old heart.

“No, I must call someone right away.”

Granny Lin took out her old mobile phone and slowly found her daughter-in-law Chu Lan’s number, then dialed.

“Listen, dear, how are you raising this child? I just read what he wrote on his computer, and it’s terrifying. Do you think he could be a serial killer? Should we turn ourselves in?”

Chu Lan was mopping the floor. She set the mop aside, baffled by what her mother-in-law meant. “Mom, slow down, what happened?”

Granny Lin sighed. “Isn’t it that Zhang Chu wrote a lot? I happened to read it, and it’s all about crime, described so specifically. How could a normal child possibly know about these things? Is he eighteen yet? He must have seen this at school—or someone did this to him!”

Slitting someone’s wrist and making them use their blood to solve math problems—Granny Lin was so anxious she could barely speak coherently.

*************

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