Wuxia

Chen Qi touched his nose, wanting to laugh, but knowing it would be impolite. *Bro, you're taking this seriously? I was just putting on an act. You're way too empathetic.* "Pardon my reaction!" After a long while, He Chengwei finally wiped his eyes and sighed. "The second half is even more splendid. I thought it would be martial arts fights the whole way through, never expecting the romance between man and woman to be so moving. Especially the ending—it's truly wonderful. While it would be delightful if they ended up together, some things in life are beyond our control. This kind of flawed beauty leaves a lasting impression." *A literary romantic!* Chen Qi mentally slapped a label on him. Aside from an artsy youth, nobody talked like that. "Nowadays, everyone is pursuing serious literature, and almost no one writes popular fiction, let alone writes it well. For you to be willing to write a popular novella is truly commendable. Our editorial department is deeply grateful, and we hope you can submit stories to us on a regular basis." "You're too kind. I'd love to write submissions for you, but I'm not sure where the line is drawn. Would you accept stories with a bit of feudal superstition?" "For example?" "For example, Shen Wansan and the Treasure Bowl." Chen Qi gave a complete overview of the story he hadn't finished telling that afternoon. "The Treasure Bowl? That's not just feudal superstition; that's promoting bourgeois decadent thought of reaping without sowing! I suggest you stick to something more conservative," He Chengwei said, startled. "What about horror and suspense?" "Are there ghosts and deities?" "No, it's all human trickery pretending to be ghosts, or the delusions of a mentally ill person." He was thoroughly familiar with this playbook. In his past life, he had invested in several domestic horror movies, which were packed with wavy-haired babes shedding clothes at every turn. Who watched domestic horror movies for the scares? Everyone was just there for the risqué fanservice. Not quite grasping the idea, He Chengwei asked, "Could you give an example?" Chen Qi casually told a story, leaving the editor completely dazed and even a bit chilled. He shook his head like a rattle-drum. "Be conservative, please! Even though we publish popular literature, we can't disregard boundaries like that." "Then your scope is far too narrow; there aren't many genres left to write." "Something like The Cotton Kasaya is just fine. Keep the martial arts content heavy, and even if there are questionable elements, they can be smoothed over. As for other genres, let's just hope ideological liberation comes faster!" He Chengwei hit it off with Chen Qi, and the two chatted until late into the night. He was astonished to find that Chen Qi was far more formidable than any "Story King" he had ever visited. The man on Chongming Island had told over a dozen stories in one breath, which had already seemed miraculous. Though Chen Qi hadn't recited a dozen tales, his grasp of narrative genres, his control over pacing, and his immensely rich mental repository far surpassed anyone else's. Just like Shen Wansan's Treasure Bowl, it was an inexhaustible treasure trove. Even offhand fragments Chen Qi casually tossed out made one's imagination run wild—it was bound to be a great story. Before coming, the editor-in-chief had instructed him to spare no expense to buy the horse bones. He Chengwei felt the timing was right and said, "We would be delighted to offer you seven yuan per thousand words. As a screenwriter, you must be familiar with industry rates." "As a mere newcomer, I'm truly grateful for your high esteem!" Chen Qi was well-known at Beijing Film Studio, but had zero reputation at Story Session, so a show of gratitude was only proper. Inwardly, he was thrilled. *Sweet, a long-term meal ticket secured!* Writing about four thousand words a day for The Cotton Kasaya, a fifty-thousand-word piece would take a dozen days or so, earning 350 yuan. At this rate, ten stories would only fetch 3,500. The cost-performance ratio didn't seem particularly high, but it was effortless and fun. What he planned to write were movie plots—tweak them slightly and publish them as novellas. It required no real brainpower, just a bit of wear and tear on his hand. If they wanted martial arts, then martial arts it was. He happened to be quite interested in it anyway. …… He Chengwei headed back the next day. Story Session was a bimonthly publication, counting from January, and the next issue was due out in September. Chen Qi's submission had arrived at the perfect time. In 1981, South Wind magazine would serialize Liang Yusheng's The Bride with White Hair, marking the first public appearance of Hong Kong and Taiwan wuxia fiction in the mainland. That same year, Wulin magazine briefly serialized Jin Yong's The Legend of the Condor Heroes, only for it to be ordered to halt. Throughout the 1980s, Jin Yong's novels belonged to pirated literature; no publishing house dared touch them legally. It wasn't until the early 1990s, when Jin Yong authorized Sanlian Bookstore, that an official complete collection was published. The reason the ban lifted in the early nineties was that he stepped down from his post as president of Ming Pao. Why did Liang Yusheng get a pass? Liang Yusheng was a leftist and had always maintained good relations with the mainland... Both Liang Yusheng and Jin Yong had originally worked at Hong Kong's Ta Kung Pao, sharing a single desk. Now, however, the title of the first public wuxia novel after Reform and Opening-up was about to change hands! Romance on Mount Lu had been filming for a month, and in the blink of an eye, it was early September. In the early hours of this day, lights blazed in the printing house. Freshly printed bundles of Story Session were loaded onto trucks, dispatched to newspaper kiosks and post offices everywhere. Story Session's current distribution primarily covered the four neighboring areas: Shanghai, Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Anhui. Shanghai Railway Station. National Day was still some time away, but the station had already begun preparations. This year marked the 30th anniversary of the founding of the nation; round-number anniversaries were always taken with utmost seriousness. Red flags were raised, and portraits of the current leadership hung on the walls as always—solemn, austere, and seemingly unchanged from years past. Yet looking closely at the travelers coming and going, from subtle ornaments in their dress to the literary periodicals they held tightly in hand and the occasional daring jokes... one could sense an awakening urge to release desire, stirring between confinement and openness. "Do you have Flower City?" "Nope!" "What about Harvest?" "Sold out!" "Then what else do you have?" Liu Wanbao wore a gray short-sleeved shirt and carried a leather bag, looking every bit the business traveler on an official trip as he asked in Sichuan dialect. "We've got Story Session!" "Never heard of it. How much a copy?" "Twenty-four cents!" Liu Wanbao hesitated, looking at the unassuming little booklet. On second thought, whatever, he'd buy it—otherwise, the train ride would be unbearable. He was heading back to the southwest, a train journey of over forty hours. He bought a copy of Story Session and found a seat in the waiting room. Looking at the table of contents, there it was in giant font: *The Cotton Kasaya*! "What's this then?" Crossing his legs, he flipped through it casually. Within seconds, an unconscious curse slipped past his lips: "Damn, this looks wicked awesome! It's a martial arts story!" His eyes instantly lit up. A moment later, he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and cradled the magazine with both hands to keep reading. In this version of The Cotton Kasaya, to heighten the prose's gripping appeal, Chen Qi had deliberately added fight scenes, detailing each move and stance, and tossed in utterly cliché names like Arhat Fist, Bone-Crushing Kick, Thirty-Six Styles of Major and Minor Grappling, and Soul-Reaping Overlord Spear. He found them terribly cliché, but to readers of this era, it was entering a whole new world, devoured hungrily. "……" Liu Wanbao remained frozen in that posture, not moving an inch, even rereading certain passages over and over. For instance, when Ding Mo and Lin Ying first met, Lin Ying's secret inner monologue: *Such a handsome young gentleman, and his martial skills are excellent, plus he looks honest and upright. If our feelings are mutual and we roam the pugilistic world together, wouldn't that be blissful? Goodness, I'm shameless! How could I think of such things……* A woman like this, in these years, was practically Pan Jinlian, enough to make young men and women blush and their hearts race. Who knew how much time passed before Liu Wanbao slapped his thigh hard and swore: "You son of a bitch! You went and cut it off right here?! Did he die from falling off the cliff or not? I won't be able to get a wink of sleep!" Fury surged from his chest. He stood up forcefully, looking ready to unleash a torrent of curses, only to suddenly smack his forehead. "Dammit!" "My bloody train!!!"