Chapter Thirty-One: School Is a Bit Difficult

When Xu Chengjun finished the last stroke, dawn had just begun to break.
The ending of "The Fitting Mirror" on the rough paper was still warm.
"When she stepped out the gate, Director Wang was still cursing behind her, but she could no longer hear him clearly. The shattered glass beneath her feet crunched with every step, like a song out of tune. Chunlan looked up at the moon and felt that the moonlight tonight was especially bright, bright enough to illuminate every flower on her skirt."
"Those flowers seemed to truly bloom slowly in the night."
He chuckled at these lines for quite a while, like a gamer who had just cleared a level and was hugging the ultimate gear.
There was a hint of the thrill from his previous life, staying up all night playing games.
This was already the second day since he started writing.
He had spent two days writing and revising.
Fueled by his own emotions, he finished the eight-thousand-word draft of "The Fitting Mirror."
"Another all-nighter?" Qian Ming rubbed his eyes, sitting up in bed with hair messy like a bird's nest. "You're burning through manuscript paper faster than the production team prints work points."
"Inspiration needs to be seized!"

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The guesthouse's public phone suddenly rang loudly. Aunt Wang, who managed the storeroom, shouted down the corridor, "Xu, the educated youth in 302, a call from Director Wang at the Provincial Department of Education!"
Xu Chengjun was in the midst of drafting "The Fitting Mirror." Hearing this, he set down his pencil and stood up, his steps steady.
With fingertips stained by graphite, he walked to the phone and picked up the receiver, his tone calm: "Hello, Director Wang, this is Xu Chengjun."
"There's news from Fudan."

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Higher Education Office.
"Come in."
The voice of Deputy Director Wang came through the door. When Xu Chengjun pushed it open, he saw Wang frowning at a stack of documents with red headers.
The enamel mug on the desk was steaming.
"Sit," Deputy Director Wang gestured to the wooden chair opposite. "There's news from Fudan, but there's a snag."
Xu Chengjun's heart sank.
Ah!
Classic bureaucratic twist—first a sweet date, then a cold splash.
Looks like things won't be simple!
"The recommendation quota for 1978 was supposed to be voided last month, according to regulations."

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Deputy Director Wang opened the top document, its cover stamped "Fudan University 1979 Admission Supplementary Guidelines."
"Their admissions office called, asking why an exception should be made for a Fengyang educated youth."
He pulled a photocopy from the drawer and pushed it across the table: "See for yourself, Fudan's reply from the Chinese Department."
Xu Chengjun picked up the paper, the ink still fresh, the penmanship firm and resolute:
"...Upon verification, the student (Xu Chengjun) has no awards above provincial level, is not a key candidate developed by any unit, and does not meet the special clause for 'expired quota extension' (Edu-High [1979] No.17)."
"If an exception is needed, the following materials must be provided:
1. Minutes from a special meeting of the Provincial Department of Education;
2. Recommendation letters from two individuals with associate professorship or higher;
3. Evidence demonstrating 'special cultivation value';
4. Approval from the university council..."
Xu Chengjun leafed through the pages as Deputy Director Wang glanced at him and continued:
"The meeting minutes are not your concern, leave that to me."
"Yesterday, the Provincial Department of Education held a meeting specifically for your case."
He flipped open another document, and Xu Chengjun saw beneath the title "Meeting Minutes (79) No.42" the densely recorded opinions of the attendees:
"...The student's work 'Granary' has been featured as headline by 'Anhui Literature', reflecting rural reform realities, possessing contemporary value..."
"...His father Xu Zhiguo is a rehabilitated teacher, aligning with the spirit of 'implementing intellectual policies'..."
"...Recommend sending him as a 'special literary talent'..."
The final page bore a vivid red official seal, with a line of small characters beside it: "Agreed to recommend to Fudan University, hope it will be considered accordingly."
"As for recommendation letters, I suggest you approach Editor-in-Chief Zhou, Zhou Ming from 'Anhui Literature,' Old Su from Central Jiangsu, and Group Leader Liu Zuzi—all meet the criteria. It shouldn't be difficult for you."
"As for special materials, 'Granary' should already have a galley proof, and your recent 'Star Naming' has become quite renowned. In my view, these works are sufficient."
"But Fudan University's council just held a meeting." Deputy Director Wang opened another file. "Of seven members, four voted against."
Xu Chengjun leaned in for a closer look. At the document’s edge were pencil remarks, each with distinct handwriting:
"Educated youth has weak academic background, may struggle to adapt to Fudan's curriculum."
"Special quota should be reserved for top candidates developed within the system."
"'Granary' is noteworthy, but ultimately a grassroots piece, insufficient to prove talent."
Most striking was a line of small characters at the margin: "Professor Zhang Peiheng suggests the student's actual academic ability be verified."
"Professor Zhang?" Xu Chengjun gave a wry smile.
He hadn't expected to hear that name here.
In his previous life, Xu Chengjun's undergraduate focus was modern literature, while his graduate studies centered on classical Chinese literature. He had read countless works by this very professor!
Zhang Peiheng was considered the 'ferryman' of twentieth-century Chinese literary history, renowned for his meticulous scholarship and prolific writings!
Though a scholar of ancient studies, he was famous for his progressive outlook.
His lectures were passionate, and he often likened himself to Li Bai, "When the emperor calls, I refuse to board the boat."
More interestingly, in the 1980s, this professor championed martial arts novels, claiming Jin Yong's achievements surpassed those of "Li Zicheng."

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In his later years, he turned his attention to online literature, predicting "literature will ultimately return to individual expression," a notable anecdote in literary circles.
Last year, it was this very professor who supported Fudan University's Chinese Department student Lu Xinhua, class of '77, in the creation of "Scar," stating, "Truth in literature is more important than perfection!"
If it was him, perhaps there was still hope.
Deputy Director Wang took a sip of tea, the stains on the mug forming another layer: "He didn't directly oppose; he simply said, 'Without seeing the original, it's hard to judge its depth.'"
Xu Chengjun lifted his gaze slightly.
"But there's a turning point," Deputy Director Wang shifted tone.
"Professor Zhu Dongrun sent a letter to the university council."
"He wrote, 'If Fudan selects solely by diploma, how can it claim to be a century-old institution? I propose a review and recommend the child be given an interview opportunity.' I heard he included a page-by-page commentary on 'Granary.'"
"The council argued for hours."
Deputy Director Wang stacked the documents neatly. "Professor Zhang Peiheng finally relented, saying, 'If "Granary" is indeed his own work, an exceptional interview may be arranged.'"
"This is the interview letter personally written by Professor Zhu."
Deputy Director Wang handed over a brown envelope, with 'Fudan University' in bold on the cover. "You are to bring your original manuscript to the Chinese Department conference room before August 1."
"In addition,"
He paused, his words unusually gentle.
"Though time's fairly ample, I think it's best to go early, just in case something unexpected happens. There may still be ways to remedy things—for example, Director Zhao of Anhui University's Chinese Department is quite eager for you to join!"
"Go on, then." Deputy Director Wang rose, as if remembering something, stood up and shook Xu Chengjun's hand, then patted his shoulder.
"Let me say something from the heart: don't let down the expectations of so many seniors."
Xu Chengjun looked silently at this bureaucratic elder of '79, and, rare for him, spoke sincerely:
"Thank you, for all your trouble!"
"When I return from Shanghai, I'll thank you in person!"
He meant every word.
No matter how formal Deputy Director Wang might sound,
these carefully prepared documents and meticulously handled matters were real and tangible.