Chapter Seventy-One: The Sect Leader’s Personal Disciple

After a few simple bites, Xu Chengjun buried himself in writing once more.

Where is home?

It is that 2024 he can never return to.

But in this life, Xujia Village is where his spirit finds rest.

It is the starting point for all that lies ahead.

When he wrote, “Where wild roses grow is where I belong,” it was both an admission that these fields had become his roots, and a tribute to the people who, struggling for survival amidst hardship, had taught him the true meaning of “home.”

The thorns of the roses that Axiu once touched, the web spun by insects in the night—these details, both warm and piercing, transformed a foreign land into a homeland for him.

Words became his way of conversing with this land, sowing longing, reverence, and hope between the lines.

Ultimately, this piece was Xu Chengjun’s “spiritual diary.”

With wild rose briars and new shoots, he would inscribe his reverence for the land, his insights for the era, and the purest perseverance of a writer.

Good writing, after all, grows from the soil of life.

Suffering leaves its marks, but hope is always more tenacious than the brambles.

Life may be full of thorns, but there will always be new shoots breaking through the cracks toward the sunlight.

It was a long while before he could detach his emotions from the world of his writing.

Who is Axiu?

Who is Brother Zhuzi?

They are stories tucked away in Xujia Village, more than seventy-seven years ago.

Xu Chengjun rubbed his wrist, glanced at the wall clock—it was nearly one o’clock. When he looked up again, Director Sun was standing at the door, holding a ceramic jar and a cloth-wrapped bundle in his right hand.

“The professors sent me to check on your progress, and they asked me to bring you some food.”

“You must be starving, right?”

Director Sun set the cup and the bundle on the table with a smile, his demeanor noticeably friendlier than before.

Well, should I be hungry, or not? Never mind—cherish the food!

“You arrived at just the right moment. I’ve just finished. I was worrying about where to find the professors, and here you are.”

“Come to think of it, I am a bit hungry. Thank you, and please thank the professors for me as well.”

Director Sun grinned, pleased—see how polite our future “sect heir” is. When you’re in a good mood, even your words sound more robust.

“No need for formalities. I’m just a decade your senior—just call me Brother Sun. I’m a local from Shanghai. When the semester starts, if you need anything, just come to me.”

Calling someone “Brother” is good luck! The last time I called someone “Brother”—Editor-in-Chief Zhou—he really was like family!

The new bamboo surpasses the old only with the support of the roots beneath.

What? Not taller yet?

Well, that’s fine.

Naturally, Xu adapted quickly and played along, immediately saying, “Then I’ll call you Brother Sun!”

“That’s more like it.”

“Hurry up and eat, I’ll go fetch the professors in ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Brother Sun.”

Just that one word—“Brother”—and the relationship had grown by leaps and bounds.

Looking back, Xu Chengjun had been helped by many benefactors along the way. It all seemed smooth, impossibilities made possible.

But why would people help you?

Because you have value, you know how to show respect, and you can walk their path.

He was told ten minutes, but it was fifteen before Director Sun returned with the professors.

At the head of the group, as always, was Zhu Dongrun. When the professors sat, their expressions were slightly awkward.

Zhang Peiheng cleared his throat and spoke, “Xiao Xu, after discussion among the professors, it’s been decided that Director Zhu Dongrun will be your graduate advisor.”

Who?

Zhu Dongrun?

He had thought this distinguished elder was the least likely candidate.

Yet sometimes, what seems impossible is the most likely outcome.

From the beginning, this elderly gentleman had championed Xu Chengjun.

Eighty-three—too old? Unable to teach?

Not at all!

History records Zhu Dongrun, at eighty-three, wrote in his application to join the Party: “Willing to devote my remaining years and energy to nurturing more scholarly talent for the Party.”

And when did he write this? This very year.

In 1978, Zhu Dongrun recruited the first group of master’s students in Tang and Song Dynasty literature, including Chen Shangjun, who would later become a renowned scholar.

In 1979, he continued to guide this cohort, teaching two hours a week himself, insisting on “pursuing knowledge by the most arduous means.”

At that time, the academic degree system was yet to be established, and the advisor system had only just begun. The mentor-apprentice relationship, with the advisor at its core, was the crucial support for the revival of higher education in China.

What future generations may say is another matter.

But for now, this was an incredible stroke of luck for Xu Chengjun. What did he need most?

Fudan’s platform, Zhu Dongrun as a towering figure, and the academic resources behind him.

After all, what he intended to do in the future would face considerable resistance.

But...

He glanced at Zhang Peiheng. Wait a minute...

Senior brother?

Zhang Peiheng caught the glint of mischief in his eyes—don’t get cocky! I’m not done yet.

“Chengjun.”

A change in address!

Behind his black-rimmed glasses, Zhang Peiheng’s gaze lingered on Xu Chengjun, his tone serious.

“But you must understand, Director Zhu has spent these years overseeing academic planning for the department, managing several major research projects, and supervising quite a few graduate students.”

“It’s not that Professor Zhu is unwilling to dedicate more effort, but that his time is simply too limited.”

“He has to focus on the bigger picture and setting research frameworks. The finer points—the polishing, the literature review—he can’t spare the energy for those.”

At this point, he glanced at the other professors and swallowed: “After discussion, you’ll attend Professor Zhu’s lectures and academic seminars, and he’ll personally oversee the framework of your key papers. As for your daily literature review, theoretical studies, and writing revisions, you’ll follow me.”

His final words were emphatic: “My standards are high. You’ll submit two reading notes every week. Come to me with any problems. Don’t even think about slacking off.”

Zhang Peiheng: Still feeling smug?

Xu Chengjun smacked his lips, savoring the moment.

It seemed the professors had reached an impasse, with Zhang Peiheng’s age and academic standing not quite outstripping the others.

So—

Nominally, his advisor was Zhu Dongrun.

But in practice, it was still Zhang Peiheng.

Now the question: should he address him as “teacher” or “senior brother”?

In the end, it was Wang Shuizhao who eased the tension. What else could he say? With Professor Zhu taking charge, all he could do was offer congratulations to Comrade Xu. He recalled the essay Xu had just written and remarked offhand, “Professor Zhu, Professor Zhang, esteemed colleagues—why don’t we take this chance to read Comrade Xu’s writing?”

“Let’s not forget, this young man was originally recommended for his literary work!”

The professors passed the manuscript among themselves—2,500 words, and it took them half an hour to read.

Zhu Dongrun, sitting in his wooden chair, lingered over the line, “The new shoots of wild roses melt even the thin frost,” his gaze behind his reading glasses softening, lips pressing together as if recalling a distant memory.

Zhang Peiheng leaned against the table, turning a half-length pencil in his hand, yet not leaving a single mark on the paper.

Wang Shuizhao, holding his enamel cup, paused with his tea halfway to his lips. Staring at the line, “The stitches were as dense as stars scattered across cloth,” his brows arched, then relaxed, and he hummed quietly, echoing the warmth woven into the words.

Jia Zhifang’s cigarette burned to a long ash between his fingers—he didn’t even notice.

Su Liancheng turned the page with utmost care, as if afraid of disturbing something. When he came to, “Axiu pressed the new shoot to her heart,” his grip on the manuscript tightened, then released, eyelids lowering to hide the fleeting emotion in his eyes.

The meeting room was utterly silent, only the cicadas outside occasionally intruding.

Zhu Dongrun was the first to neatly fold the manuscript. He lifted his head to Xu Chengjun, his gaze full of approval: “You gave life to these shoots.”

Wang Shuizhao added, “When the semester begins, work with me on a study of genealogical charts.”

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A preview: next chapter, the essay.