*Clack-clack, clack-clack!*
*Hoo-o-o-o—!*
A train slowly pulled into Chengdu North Railway Station, its heavy carriage resembling a giant beast as passengers surged in and out through its open doors.
Having missed his train earlier, Liu Wanbao had arrived a day late. Clutching his leather bag, he smelled rather foul, yet his face was glowing with vitality and high spirits. He did not forget to wave goodbye to a group of fellow passengers.
"Heading out first! Stay in touch!"
"I'll definitely write to you!"
*Ah, what a trip!*
Liu Wanbao felt a lingering sense of reluctance to part. He patted the modest little magazine tucked inside his leather bag. It was all thanks to this little gem that the long journey had been lighthearted and delightful, earning him a whole carriage full of friends.
At first, he had merely read it by himself. Then it had been passed around among the nearby seats, and soon the entire carriage had been taking turns reading it. One crafty fellow had almost pocketed it for good.
Men, after all, couldn't resist a bit of martial arts fighting and chivalric romance, so discussions had naturally broken out.
One argued that Ding Mo definitely wasn't dead, insisting he must have fallen off the cliff only to learn supreme martial arts. Another exclaimed that Qi Tianyuan was utterly formidable, declaring that the Thirty-Six Styles of Major and Minor Grappling sounded downright invincible. Yet another claimed his hometown was home to a reclusive master who could carry two massive buckets of water and scramble right onto a rooftop in a few brisk steps, not even breathing hard...
Then everyone sighed in unison, agreeing that hidden dragons and crouching tigers surely lurked among the common folk!
Across five thousand years of China's vast history, who was to say a few ancient immortals weren't tucked away somewhere in the deep mountains?
They had chatted so passionately that they were practically one step away from chopping off a chicken's head, burning yellow paper, and swearing brotherhood on the spot. In the end, they swapped addresses and promised to stay in touch through letters—far more forthright and satisfying than the tedious exchanging of WeChat contacts in later generations.
In 1979, Chengdu had only three districts: Dongcheng, Xicheng, and Jinniu.
The first two were urban areas, while Jinniu was a sprawling suburban district with thirteen communes under its jurisdiction and a large population.
Liu Wanbao was a cadre at the Jinniu District Cultural Center. This business trip to Shanghai had been meant to study how they enriched the amateur cultural lives of the masses. The big metropolis had truly broadened his horizons.
After getting off the train, he boarded a bus toward home. Something stirred restlessly inside him, on the verge of bursting forth. He seemed to have caught an inkling of inspiration as he replayed everything that had happened on the train—those passengers bursting with enthusiasm, spittle flying, on the verge of shouting and roaring with laughter whenever the conversation reached a fever pitch...
"Martial arts—the masses love it!"
"What a bloody fool I am, why didn't I think of this sooner?!"
Everything clicked in an instant. Liu Wanbao got off the bus halfway through his route and took a detour straight to the cultural center.
The mission of a cultural center was to propagate cultural knowledge and enrich the lives of the masses. Jinniu District was entirely rural, and the ordinary folk had low literacy; they couldn't digest highbrow magazines like *People's Literature* or *Sprout*.
"Old Liu? You just got back?"
"Why did you come straight to the office? What's that smell on you?!"
"Oh, it's good stuff! I found something incredible..."
Liu Wanbao pulled *Story Session* out of his bag and said excitedly, "This is it! Let's go to the post and telecommunications bureau right away to subscribe, then distribute copies to the commune cultural stations. We'll get people to tell these stories to the villagers—they'll absolutely love it!"
"Calm down, calm down! Let me take a look first!"
The colleague opened *Story Session* and read the story in silence. After a while, he grew even more thrilled than Liu Wanbao. "Brilliant idea! We were just racking our brains over not having suitable literary works to enrich the masses' cultural life!
"Here's what we do: let's start with a few copies for each commune to gauge public reaction. If the response is good, we'll order more later."
"Works for me. That's the best way."
The direct distribution of *Story Session* covered four regions: Shanghai, Jiangsu, Zhejiang, and Anhui. Readers from other provinces could subscribe through their local post offices, as the magazine listed an address and contact information.
Brimming with energy, Liu Wanbao still didn't feel like heading home. After pondering for a moment, he sat down and wrote a letter to the author, Ah Qi, to be forwarded by *Story Session*.
He opened with words of deep admiration and shared his impressions after reading *The Cotton Kasaya*. Toward the end, he added: *Our Sichuan is likewise a land blessed with remarkable talents and countless scenic wonders. Mount Emei, Mount Qingcheng, and the Leshan Giant Buddha are renowned across the country.*
*You are most welcome to visit Ba-Shu for leisure and sightseeing; we will surely sweep our mats to receive you with the warmest hospitality.*
*Furthermore, if we might have the honor, we would be overjoyed to see you craft a novel set against the backdrop of Sichuan's famous mountains, great rivers, and treasured ancient temples... Naturally, this is merely a small, selfish thought of mine. Please do not take offense...*
Once the letter was written, Liu Wanbao went straight to the post office to mail it, ordering sixty copies of *Story Session* at the same time.
***
Shanghai's lane alleyways, the *nongtang*, shared the same character as Beijing's courtyard compounds: several family members crammed into a dozen square meters, pots and pans cluttering every corner, bamboo poles hung with laundry, and water taps and toilets shared by all.
Every household possessed a wooden chamber pot, and the first chore every morning was emptying it.
Beijingers had their particular standards, and Shanghainese were not to be outdone. Unassuming as the small chamber pot might look, there was a whole world of craft behind it: poor households used simple wooden buckets with lids, while wealthy ones featured copper hoops, golden lacquer, or even elaborate carvings.
Under Jiangnan custom at the time, a daughter's dowry had to include a set of red-lacquered chamber pots in three sizes—large, medium, and small—known as the "descendants' buckets," which showed just how much status they held.
In the afternoon, school let out.
A young boy returned to the lane looking downcast.
"Son, did someone pick on you?" his mother asked while stir-frying vegetables.
"No."
"Then why the long face?"
"..."
The boy pouted for a moment, then burst out, "Everyone else knows how to use the Life-Taking Overlord Spear, but I don't! Everyone else gets to play Arhat Fist to beat up bad guys, but I don't know how!"
*???*
His mother's head filled with question marks, but she didn't pay it much mind.
A short while later, the boy's father returned. Grabbing some toilet paper, he was about to dash to the restroom when the boy hesitantly sidled up to him. "Dad, can your work unit subscribe to *Story Session*?"
"What *Story Session*?"
"My classmate's dad bought it. It's so good! They've all read it, and it took me forever to borrow it for just one day."
As he spoke, he pulled a compact magazine from his schoolbag.
"Our unit has criteria for magazine subscriptions. Ah, let me use the toilet first..."
Unable to hold it any longer, the father took the magazine, hurried into the public restroom, and didn't emerge.
A full forty minutes passed before he tottered out, hunched over, rubbing his legs. "Subscribe! Order a whole year's worth!"
***
"Where's the editor-in-chief? Where is he?"
"What's all the rush about?"
"Big news!"
The September issue of *Story Session* hadn't been out for long, but the comrade in charge of distribution was already dashing frantically through the small office building. After finally catching the editor-in-chief in the restroom, he didn't even care that the man was in the middle of urinating before rattling off:
"Are there any copies of the September issue left? The newsstands at the Shanghai Railway Station are completely sold out! Demand is far outstripping supply!"
"Slow down. What happened?"
"They're just gone! The bus terminals are wiped out too! This issue is selling astonishingly well, the kiosks are raving about it, and everyone's demanding more!"
"Editor-in-Chief! Editor-in-Chief!"
While they were speaking, another staff member came running in. "Hahaha! Suzhou, Wuxi, Hangzhou, Ningbo—all completely out of stock!"
"How short are we?"
"By my rough estimate, at least thirty thousand copies!"
*Hiss!*
The editor-in-chief shuddered, his stream jerking six feet high in astonishment.
Last year, *Story Session* was still titled *Revolutionary Story Session*, selling only tens of thousands of copies a month. Early this year, it reverted to its original name and began carrying popular fiction. Its performance had climbed steadily, currently reaching around two hundred thousand copies monthly.
An unexpected reprint of thirty thousand copies was an increase of nearly one-sixth in one go.
"Where's the editor-in-chief?!"
A third fellow ran in, grinning ear to ear. This trip to the urinal had turned out to be quite an ordeal!
"Chengdu! We've got subscriptions from Chengdu!"
"A cultural center ordered sixty copies outright, plus some individual subscriptions. It adds up to over a hundred copies!"
*Ce na!*
Business had stretched all the way to Chengdu! Pulling up his trousers without caring whether he was finished, the editor-in-chief gave a sweeping wave of his hand. "Meeting!"
Before long, the editorial department of *Story Session* assembled.
When the distribution staff explained the situation, the editors broke into broad grins. "It's driving up the price of paper in Luoyang! A true sensation!"
"We only have one new story, *The Cotton Kasaya*. Obviously, that's what drove this circulation spike. Xiao He, that author is your responsibility now. You must maintain a good relationship with him."
"We could invite him to visit Shanghai and treat him properly."
"Hey, that's a great idea!"
"Comrades!"
The old editor-in-chief remained the calmest among them. He tapped the desk. "We've only just emerged from hardship; it hasn't been easy. The momentum looks promising now. I think once circulation breaks three hundred thousand, we could consider organizing a literary salon, or perhaps a storytelling conference—some event to bring the author closer to us and to the readers."
"Right, right! We definitely need a literary salon!"
"Only by hosting a salon can we prove we're a major magazine!"
Everyone chattered excitedly, envisioning a bright future.
Ah Qi had driven sales single-handedly, yet not a soul suggested raising his remuneration rate.
In this era, article fees were fixed. A magazine could treat an author to lavish meals and drinks, or even pay for their travel, but increasing word rates or offering higher royalties was completely out of the question!
Take Zheng Yuanjie, for example. In his early days, his writing fees were meager, but he noticed that whichever issue featured his stories sold exceptionally well. Full of confidence, he approached the publisher and requested a raise.
The publisher asked: *How do you prove it's your work driving the sales?*
Zheng Yuanjie replied: *Simple. Let me be the sole contributor, and you'll see whether circulation has anything to do with me.*
The publisher's response: *Are you out of your mind?*
Later on, Zheng Yuanjie still fulfilled his ambition by founding *King of Fairy Tales*, writing every single piece himself. He worked himself half to death every day, but he truly made a fortune, buying ten apartments in Beijing just to store fan mail.
One of those apartments was once burgled, and the thief was sentenced to twelve years in prison.
***
The September issue of *Story Session* became a hit—both unexpected and entirely reasonable.
It spread rapidly across the Jiangnan region, occasionally spilling into other provinces. Yet nobody realized that *The Cotton Kasaya* was the very first martial arts/wuxia story to appear in mainland China since the dawn of Reform and Opening-up.
In those days, a sharp line was drawn between a "writer" and an "author." To be a writer, one first had to join the Writers Association. The association would then assemble a group of critics to hold symposiums on your work, analyzing its artistic merit and ideological significance, before publishing it. Only after going through that whole process could you be called a writer.
Otherwise, you were merely an author.
Chen Qi was just an author—and an author of popular pulp fiction at that, looked down upon by the mainstream. Naturally, no one would bother studying his work.
*Story Session* and *The Cotton Kasaya* failed to make even the slightest ripple in the mainstream literary establishment, nor did the establishment deign to pay attention to a shoddy little magazine—unless they felt threatened.
Chapter 46