Chapter 63: A Battle of Wits Among Scholars

Gu Xinxue said, “Let’s all welcome a new face in the world of detective fiction, Zhang Chu. His work, ‘Detective Sherlock,’ will be published by our company, so do give him your support.”

The lively group of forty or so people instantly fell silent. Was this really that unconventional top scorer from the college entrance exam?

At that moment, Zhang Chu sent a greeting emoji to the group. As a newcomer, he was genuinely curious.

“Is it really you, Zhang Chu? Do you still have your study notes? My son is taking the college entrance exam next year—could you share your materials with me?”

Surprisingly, the first to speak was the group owner!

Lin Lang, the deputy editor-in-chief of South Sea Publishing, who was usually elusive as a dragon, was the first to reply—a parent’s heart is always the same.

But this put Zhang Chu in a tight spot. He really didn’t have any study materials to share, so he had no choice but to bluff, replying, “Honestly, I don’t have much in the way of study notes. If there’s a secret, it’s that I have a smart mind and extraordinary luck.”

Truth be told, Zhang Chu had always felt as if he was living the life of a novel’s protagonist—how else could a person have something like a system?

Lin Lang, visibly disappointed, replied with an ellipsis and then vanished from the chat.

After this interlude, the writers in the South Sea Detective group became lively again, each welcoming him, whether genuinely or for show.

After all, people enjoyed their spats from a distance, but rarely let things get ugly face-to-face.

“Is it really Zhang Chu?”

“Impressive—your first book is getting published. When I started, I had no such luck. Sent my work to countless publishers and magazines, and no one wanted it.”

“No wonder you topped the college entrance exam—the threshold is just so much lower for you.”

“‘Detective Sherlock’ is quite good, really. For a debut, it’s excellent.”

Li Siwei, seeing the screen fill with compliments, grew increasingly irritated. The group had been discussing his new book, “Escape from Murder Island,” before.

But the moment Zhang Chu joined, everyone’s attention shifted to him. Li Siwei was so angry he could spit blood; he had always been the rising star of detective fiction in this circle, and now it seemed that title was being handed to Zhang Chu.

He sent a smoking emoji and said, “Welcome, Zhang Chu. You can check out the group files for our collected writing tips and notes—should be perfect for a complete newbie like you.”

Zhang Chu had been enjoying the friendly banter with his fellow writers, but when he saw the message from someone named Li Siwei, his mood soured. Why did someone like this always have to show up when things were going well?

After lurking in the group for ages, Qin Mu suddenly popped up, “Siwei’s right—you’re new, Zhang Chu, best to observe more and speak less.”

He hadn’t expected to see Zhang Chu here, but unfortunately, Qin Mu wasn’t an admin and couldn’t kick him out.

Once Qin Mu appeared, everyone in the group held their breath, eager to watch the drama. After all, these two had exchanged barbs in the newspapers and on microblogging sites, and now they were finally facing each other directly.

Zhang Chu didn’t want to be too ostentatious, but now was not the time to show weakness. He typed, “I must really thank Teacher Qin for his guidance. Without his help on microblog, I could never have written something like ‘Detective Sherlock.’ Winning the prize definitely owes something to Teacher Qin’s contribution.”

The rest of the onlookers were delighted, some even sending laughing emojis. Not everyone felt the need to give Qin Mu face.

“This is hilarious, Old Qin, you’d better take credit for this.”

“Interesting—mentoring across time and space.”

“All these years, Old Qin’s habit of lecturing others hasn’t changed a bit.”

“What kind of attitude is that!” Li Siwei sided with Qin Mu, “Such a sarcastic way of talking.”

Qin Mu’s microblog post had come after Zhang Chu wrote “Detective Sherlock,” so Zhang Chu’s thanks were pure sarcasm.

Zhang Chu immediately apologized, saying, “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. After all, God spread wisdom over the world—except you two brought umbrellas.”

When it came to the art of elegant insults, Zhang Chu considered himself second to none; his words could leave people speechless.

“Don’t go too far, Zhang Chu. Just because you’ve written a book or two doesn’t mean you’re all that. Whether your book will sell remains to be seen.”

With a hint of menace, Qin Mu tried to start a private chat, only to discover Zhang Chu had disabled that feature. He was so angry he could grind his teeth to dust!

Reading Zhang Chu’s words in the group, Qin Mu had no doubt the sarcasm was aimed at himself and Li Siwei, implying they lacked wisdom.

Gu Xinxue, having just finished some work, opened the group chat to see all the drama unfolding. He didn’t know what to say.

These were all his contracted authors, and though Zhang Chu was new, he already seemed to be holding his own in a debate with the veterans. But in a place where seniority mattered, was it really wise to be so brash?

Gu Xinxue simply activated a group-wide mute. Not wanting to single out Zhang Chu, Qin Mu, or Li Siwei, he muted everyone to prevent the situation from escalating.

Zhang Chu, feeling unsatisfied, was just getting warmed up when the mute hit. The words were stuck in his throat, desperate to come out.

So he logged onto his microblog, casually typed, “People keep coming to discuss life with me, but none of them have a life worth discussing. Some people’s intelligence, honestly, is about as high as the temperature at the South Pole.”

The temperature at the South Pole is always dozens of degrees below zero; using it as a comparison for intelligence, the meaning was obvious.

His fans quickly noticed this post and flooded it with likes.

As a so-called writer, Zhang Chu felt deeply wounded. “What’s with these people? Can’t find them when I publish a novel, but whenever I make a snarky comment, they all rush to like it.”

Such was the miserable state of detective fiction—readers would rather watch Zhang Chu insult others than read his books.

Young people these days loved this mischievous, cheeky style; some even used his quips as their messaging status or personal signatures!

“Don’t get angry, don’t get angry—if you fall ill, no one else will suffer for you…”

Qin Mu had rarely encountered a rogue writer like Zhang Chu. Even if he disliked others, he would usually exchange a few polite words and pretend to be friends, never openly falling out.

But now, there was nothing he could do about Zhang Chu. Should he mobilize his readers to attack him?

But his own active followers on microblog were less than half of Zhang Chu’s.

Perhaps the only way to truly punish Zhang Chu would be to ensure his books didn’t sell—but that would hurt South Sea Publishing as well, and if the company found out, it would jeopardize his own position.

Qin Mu began plotting in earnest, determined to deliver a decisive blow to Zhang Chu—by reporting him!

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Happy Mid-Autumn Festival, everyone!

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