Chapter Sixty: The Five Great Vajra

As he finished packing, Xu Chengjun was shoving "Selected Essays of Lu Xun" into his bag when Wang Zengqi suddenly said, “You should keep that copy of ‘Border Town.’ I’ve written some annotations on the flyleaf—it might be useful for your own writing someday.”

Goodness, are all you literary elders professional book-gifters or something?

He nodded toward a corner of the bookshelf. “I brought plenty of books anyway, I won’t miss this one.”

“So I’m really taking it then?”

“Border Town”—whose book is that?

Shen Congwen!

Wang Zengqi was Shen Congwen’s direct disciple; their literary philosophies were closely aligned, both seeking “the warmth of humanity” and “poetic narrative.”

Shen Congwen’s influence on Wang Zengqi’s writing was profound. Just a couple of days ago, every time Wang Zengqi mentioned Shen Congwen, he’d always say, “The foundation for my writing was laid by Mr. Shen Congwen.”

In a sense, it was a thoughtful gesture from Wang Zengqi.

While perhaps not a direct passing of the torch, he did hope that his young friend Xu would one day grasp “the warmth and purity literature ought to possess.”

Xu Chengjun hugged the book, shamelessly proposing, “I’ll send you one of my novels in return then—call it a book exchange.”

“A book exchange?” Wang Zengqi chuckled. “Neither of your novels have been published yet, and you want to trade with me? Wait until they’re in print.”

“If it’s no good, I won’t admit to it.”

“I won’t guarantee it’s good either,” Wang Zengqi replied, paying him no further mind.

He rose and shuffled toward the bed, shaking his head. “These old bones can’t handle late nights anymore. If I’m not in bed by ten, I’m useless the next day.”

Xu Chengjun got up as well, helping to make the bed, even if he was just busying himself to no real effect.

That’s what happens when you’ve served your superiors too long.

He grinned, “I’ll follow your lead—early to bed, early to rise, keeps the mind sharp.”

The night passed without further words.

-----------------

Early the next morning.

As soon as Xu Chengjun opened his eyes, he saw Wang Zengqi already seated in the old wooden chair, "Shiji New Anecdotes" in hand.

“If you don’t get up soon, there’ll be nothing left in the cafeteria,” Wang called out.

Xu, still half-asleep, sprang up at this, hastily getting dressed and tidying the bed.

Halfway through, he glanced at the old wall clock.

Wait, it’s only five thirty?

“Come on, it’s just five thirty! How could the cafeteria run out of food already? Is our friendship really back to day one?”

Unfazed, Wang Zengqi replied with his usual calm, “The earlier you get up, the earlier you eat, and the earlier you can get to Fudan and… start reviewing.”

Xu Chengjun pouted—well, looks like you’ve already said everything there is to say.

---

By the time they reached the cafeteria, it was nearly six thirty.

The Literary Federation guesthouse was livelier than usual that morning.

Sister Chen Rong, whom they’d met before, greeted them again with a broad smile, even asking Xu, “Didn’t see you yesterday, young Xu.”

She seemed in good spirits—perhaps her manuscript revisions had gone well.

Xu, ever the respectful junior, smiled and replied, “I was out gathering material yesterday.”

Wang Zengqi’s lips twitched.

There you go again, always quick with excuses—good thing I initially thought you were honest.

A cloud of steam scented with fried dough enveloped the cafeteria.

The blackboard above the counter announced in chalk: Today’s menu—Soy milk (three cents per bowl), glutinous rice rolls (eight cents each, two liang grain coupons), plain noodles (twelve cents per bowl, two liang grain coupons).

The cook in a blue shirt wielded a long ladle, the soy milk in the iron bucket bubbling.

Just as Wang Zengqi and Xu Chengjun exchanged two national grain coupons for rice rolls, Chen Rong waved them over, “Mr. Wang, young Xu, come quick—Teacher Ru brought salted eggs.”

Ru Zhijuan, in a gray shirt, was tapping egg shells with her chopsticks, greeting Wang Zengqi warmly.

She then smiled at Xu Chengjun, “Comrade Xu, right? I saw your poem ‘Toward the Light’ in the Guangming Daily yesterday. That line about ‘moonlight planting shadows’ was quite clever. Sister Chen says you have more manuscripts to publish—next time you have a good piece, think of us at Shanghai Literature!”

Don’t take it too seriously—it’s just being polite!

In truth, Xu Chengjun didn’t yet have any works with national influence.

In other words, he hardly had the reputation to be solicited for contributions, much like Sister Chen.

Ru Zhijuan, for her part, was a well-known contemporary Chinese writer of significant literary achievement, author of works like “Aunt Guan” and “Stories Before Dawn,” both highly regarded.

And her family was notable as well.

She was the wife of renowned director Wang Xiaoping and the mother of famous writer Wang Anyi.

At this time, she was also a key force in the relaunch of Shanghai Literature.

If she really did solicit contributions, her words held considerable weight.

Suddenly, a quiet complaint came from a nearby table.

“Hmph, just a poem.”

Ai Xuan, in a white shirt, set down his bowl and chopsticks.

He glanced at Xu Chengjun, “Young people today love writing about romance and beauty, but there’s no strength in their words.”

Xu had just bitten into his rice roll when bits of fried dough fell onto his pants, leaving him momentarily stunned.

Who does this guy think he is?

Do I even know you?

Wang Zengqi slipped a salted egg into Xu’s bowl. “Ignore him. Old Ai is just stricter than most as a manuscript reviewer.”

Ru Zhijuan suddenly laughed, gesturing to the door, “Look who’s here!”

---

“Well, what brings Wang Meng around so early?”

That morning, the guesthouse became a gathering spot for several literary luminaries.

But it wasn’t surprising.

At that time, the Literary Federation guesthouse was the official accommodation for visiting writers and editors—a physical space, but also a “literary salon” for the exchange of ideas.

Groups of familiar writers would chat endlessly, critiquing the latest works.

Breakfast alone lasted nearly an hour.

For the most part, Xu Chengjun could only listen.

He was young, his works unrecognized.

In short, “That year, I stood like a lackey.”

Of course, this was only temporary.

After breakfast, he bade farewell to Wang Zengqi and took the bus once more to the Xianzhou Pavilion.

It was already past nine when he arrived at the archives room.

Xu Chengjun gently pushed open the wooden door, finding Su Manshu bent over “Some Theoretical Issues in Socialist Economics,” pen poised over her notebook, the ends of her hair swaying with each breath.

“Keeping watch over my thesis, are you?” He stepped lightly toward her, noticing a piece of manuscript paper under her hand—the missing annotated page from “The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons,” her handwriting neat and delicate.

Su Manshu looked up abruptly, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Nonsense, I just finished copying it. Your handwriting was so messy I had to redo it three times.”

She slid the paper to him; at the edge of the desk was a piece of toffee. “A reward for you. You said yesterday you’d never had this when working in the countryside.”

Xu Chengjun unwrapped the candy, the sweetness blossoming in the air. “Will there be more in the future?”

“In your dreams.” She arched her brow and pulled out an economic yearbook. “Seriously, Professor Zhang loves to test real-life cases—you’d better pay attention.”

Sunlight crept across the pages as the two leaned together over the annotations. Her hair occasionally brushed the back of his hand, making his pen tremble.

Xu Chengjun deliberately read “the beauty of harmony” as “what’s for lunch,” making Su Manshu laugh so hard her dimples showed. “If you keep messing around, I’ll change the ‘wondrous insight’ in your thesis to ‘empty stomach.’”

...

The next morning, Xu Chengjun arrived in the conference room an hour early, neatly arranging all his works and manuscripts—including his thesis—on the long table.

At 8:25, Dean Sun arrived.

He announced that today’s interviewers would be: Professor Zhu Dongrun, Professor Jia Zhifang, Professor Zhang Peiheng, Professor Wang Shuizhao, and Professor Su Liancheng.

Xu Chengjun’s heart skipped a beat.

Jia Zhifang?