Chapter 8: The Disappearing Book

Not only the parents around, but even the teachers accompanying the examinees began to believe—could this child really get a perfect score? So many detailed answers—most underachievers wouldn’t remember them at all. The world of academic prodigies is beyond ordinary comprehension.

“Hey, wait a minute!”

“I didn’t write that down.”

“Did anyone record it?”

“I wasn’t paying attention—could you repeat it?”

The parents looked eagerly at Zhang Chu, their phones already set to record audio or video. The exam papers wouldn’t be released until after the test ended.

But Zhang Chu shook his head, pointing at the microphone logo held by the reporter. “You can just watch their news later. Sister, your station will broadcast this, won’t you?”

“Certainly—provided your answers are all correct,” the reporter, a woman in her thirties, laughed. She had interviewed many examinees over the years, but none quite like Zhang Chu.

“Uncles and aunties, you heard it—remember to watch the news and boost their ratings!”

The higher the ratings for this news show, the more people who know Zhang Chu, and accordingly, his reputation would surely rise.

Squeezing out of the crowd, Zhang Chu gradually disappeared from the sight of parents longing for their children’s success.

“Old Chen, do you think this kid is really that talented?”

“I doubt it. Truly good students wouldn’t act like this—a little knowledge makes a lot of noise.”

“I bet he just wants fame. He’ll regret it soon enough.”

“Even if he’s clever, this is just too reckless.”

Whether out of envy or jealousy, at least these people now knew Zhang Chu’s name.

...

“You handed in your paper early again? Your grandmother just called, saying her eldest grandson was on TV—bringing honor to the family!”

Zhang Bowen truly couldn’t understand his son’s thinking. Back when he took the college entrance exam, he was so nervous he couldn’t eat or sleep—how could he dare hand in the paper early, afraid time would run out and determined to make every minute count.

Zhang Chu waved his hand nonchalantly. “I’ll call Grandma later. There are bigger things to come—even tonight I may be on TV again.”

“Your life is yours—live how you please, but if your scores aren’t good, we won’t let you idle at home.”

“Dad, you’re ruthless… If I stay in school all the way to a doctorate, will you still support me?”

“Why would I? I might as well raise a husky—it at least keeps me entertained.”

Zhang Chu glanced curiously at the battered “Sherlock Holmes Casebook” in Zhang Bowen’s hand. He asked in surprise, “Wow, that looks like a version from the Republic era. Where did you find it, old man?”

“You’ve got a good eye—so you know this!” Zhang Bowen was astonished; his son had never cared about the bookstore, spending his days on computer games.

“This must be from Zhonghua Book Company, translated by the renowned Liu Bannong. With its vertical traditional script, it must be nearly a century old. Preserved so well, without a single wormhole—remarkable!”

Zhang Chu recited the details with pride. In his previous life, after graduating college, he returned to manage Hanlin Pavilion Bookstore, so he was thoroughly familiar with all the editions.

Especially his father’s favorite Sherlock Holmes series—Zhang Bowen’s collection even included works from the late Qing, when Holmes was called He’erwusi or Fo’ermaosi, and Sherlock was Xieluoke or Xiuluoke, while Watson became Huazhen.

There were countless editions—hardcover, paperback, illustrated, pocket-sized—the World Book Company had the most comprehensive collections.

Under Zhang Bowen’s influence, Zhang Chu also developed a love for suspense and detective fiction, finding them mentally stimulating and perfect for passing the time.

“You’ve got taste. I bought this set for just 1,800 yuan from the second-hand market. I need to store them carefully to keep them longer—they’re out of print.”

“Uh, does Mom know you spent that much?” Zhang Chu remarked quietly. His father’s habit was to buy any book he liked.

Owning the bookstore wasn’t enough; at home, one of their three bedrooms had become a study, filled with books bought over the years.

Zhang Bowen glanced around, lowering his voice, “Don’t tell your mom, or I’ll get scolded again.”

“It’s no use. Mom knows exactly how much you have in your wallet and bank card. This isn’t just eighteen yuan—it’s one thousand eight hundred!”

Running a bookstore, especially a niche one like Hanlin Pavilion that doesn’t sell textbooks, hardly turns a profit nowadays.

Fortunately, they owned the property, so only bank loan repayments were needed; otherwise, they’d have closed long ago.

“So what now?” Zhang Bowen looked at the set of books in his hands. He couldn’t bear to return them—for a suspense lover and Sherlock Holmes fan, they were priceless.

“Maybe you could lend me some money to tide me over?”

Zhang Chu emptied his pockets bluntly. “Dad, do I look like someone with a fortune of 1,800 yuan?”

Zhang Bowen shook his head. “Definitely not—you look like a pauper.”

“You don’t either. Better brace yourself—I’ll watch the drama unfold.”

Father and son, wounding each other with words.

“That’s all I can do.” Zhang Bowen took the books and furtively hid them in the study upstairs. “Help me mind the store—I’ll be right down.”

For Zhang Chu, minding the store was routine. He placed his backpack behind the register and wandered among the bookshelves, putting displaced books back in their proper spots.

He was startled by what he saw.

In his previous life, Hanlin Pavilion’s bestsellers were Keigo Higashino’s detective novels, Cai Jun’s books sold well too, as did Wang Xiaobo, Yu Hua, Remy, Zhou Haohui, and Conan Doyle’s “Complete Sherlock Holmes”—always popular.

But now, those familiar authors and works seemed absent from the shelves.

“Were they all sold out? Or did Dad not restock?”

A vague suspicion crept into Zhang Chu’s mind. He scanned the bookstore’s shelves, then checked the inventory on the shop’s computer.

“Nothing? How can there be nothing?”

He opened the browser and quickly searched for the writers and titles he remembered.

Conan Doyle existed—but where was Edogawa Rampo?

Did that mean the eternal grade-schooler Edogawa Conan never existed?

Beyond Zhang Bowen’s beloved suspense and detective fiction, even other genres had vanished, like the earlier “Death of Red Hare” that had faded without a trace.