Chapter 96: Visiting the Writer

Xiao Wang and Mo Fei moved swiftly; everything that could be carried from Lü Chunqiu’s modest room was hauled out in one go. As for the warped door, the security door manufacturer could only deliver a replacement tomorrow, but since the house was now empty, it wasn’t a pressing concern.

With the move completed, a weight seemed to lift from their shoulders. Mo Fei let out a long breath, preparing to invite Ji Xingyu and Xiao Wang for a meal in gratitude, when his phone screen lit up. The caller was Director Wang.

That was rare.

Mo Fei picked up, but before he could speak, the other side fired off words like a string of firecrackers: “Mo Fei? Mo Fei! We’re getting started on what you mentioned at noon!”

“There’s something you need to help us with, and you’re not allowed to shirk it!”

Mo Fei was confused: “What could there possibly be that I could help you with?”

Director Wang sighed deeply: “It’s about the new film. My team is great at adapting scripts, and I have ideas, but turning those ideas into a full story—we’re missing someone.”

“You have more connections in this area, right?” Mo Fei couldn’t help but tease, “How could a small-time actor like me possibly match your years of contacts?”

“Nonsense!” Director Wang snapped, “I have someone in mind, but convincing him is the problem.”

Mo Fei smiled slightly: “Even you have someone you can’t persuade?”

Director Wang clicked his tongue: “It’s complicated. He’s best at writing anti-corruption and crime stories, but for certain reasons, he refuses to come out of retirement.”

A storyteller who won’t come out of retirement?

Mo Fei pondered, “Did he cross a line? Plagiarize? Was plagiarized?”

Director Wang fell silent for several seconds before replying, painfully, “...All of the above.”

Mo Fei couldn’t help but feel respect: “How did he manage that?”

“It’s very complicated, and his mental state isn’t great right now. Anyway, tonight you and Wu Miao are coming with me to meet him.”

Director Wang sounded troubled just talking about it.

If not for the man’s actual talent and reasonable price, Wang wouldn’t want to tackle such a difficult case.

The only option now was to bring their ideas and actors to his door, hoping to spark his creative passion.

After all, he really was cheap these days.

Learning that they were going tonight, Mo Fei glanced at Ji Xingyu and Xiao Wang.

Both assured him not to worry; they could make their own way home.

Mo Fei nodded apologetically, responding to Director Wang: “Alright.”

He felt embarrassed not to offer even a token of thanks for their help.

Ji Xingyu didn’t mind in the slightest, smiling, “Friends are there to help each other. Let’s go.”

Xiao Wang was getting overtime, but he was here as a friend.

Things were settled, and Director Wang’s car arrived outside the old neighborhood.

The driver was the screenwriter, Director Wang sat in the passenger seat, and in the back were Wu Miao and his manager.

“Brother Mo!” Wu Miao waved excitedly.

His manager, unruffled, didn’t even bother to pull him back.

Once Mo Fei was in the car, he asked Director Wang up front, “So who exactly are we going to meet?”

Director Wang’s round face was full of worry: “You’ll know when you see him.”

A bit mysterious.

The car drove farther and farther from the city center, finally stopping at a development on the outskirts where the property prices were very low.

Wu Miao and Mo Fei, both wearing masks, followed Director Wang.

Mo Fei overheard Wang and the screenwriter mumbling about “not sure if his mental state is any better.”

Mo Fei’s curiosity was only growing.

They took the elevator to the eighteenth floor, where the screenwriter knocked on the door of the leftmost apartment.

“Old Deng, open up, I brought you a god of fortune!”

“Old Deng, it’s Old Yu! Open up!”

The screenwriter shouted for over a minute before the security door finally opened.

A disheveled, scruffy middle-aged man reeking of alcohol appeared.

“Old—Old Yu?” Old Deng squinted at the screenwriter, burping, “So many people, what—what do you want?”

Director Wang couldn’t bear to look: “It’s over, he’s worse off now—completely unhinged.”

The screenwriter kept trying: “We’re here specifically to invite you out of retirement…”

“Out of retirement?” Old Deng laughed, tears mingling with his laughter. “You mean you want me locked up!”

“I was warned for writing about the military, censored for writing about high officials, even supernatural stories got banned!” Old Deng shouted, “What do you want me to write?! What do you want from me?!”

“All my strengths have become forbidden zones. To make a living, I wrote all kinds of online novels, and no matter what I wrote, someone accused me of plagiarism! Do you know how many times I’ve been targeted this year? Four times! By the same person each time! Whenever things start to look promising, I get hit again! Can you understand that?!”

“Take your leave—don’t let me see you out!”

Old Deng stepped back, ready to close the door.

Mo Fei sighed, “So you don’t even have the heart to slap them in the face anymore?”

Old Deng paused, his cloudy eyes turning to Mo Fei: “How do you know I haven’t tried?”

“There are only so many protagonist types: cheerful, lively, humorous, silent, reliable. Hundreds of thousands of books have already explored them. As long as the personalities match, it’s called plagiarism.”

“Dominant male leads in romance, gentle second males, beautiful friends in men’s fiction, face-slapping and cancelled engagements—any resemblance and it’s called blending plots. I don’t even know how that term came about!”

“Following trends is a dead end, but even in such circles, there are things outsiders can’t imagine.”

“I’ve explained myself, but people don’t want to listen. Time goes by, and the original events become mere impressions.” Old Deng’s back bent in defeat. “They believe what they want to believe, standing on the moral high ground and criticizing freely, never caring about the truth.”

“And when everything finally comes to light—what then? No one can compensate me for the mental torment and wasted years.”

After his speech, everyone fell silent.

The screenwriter, himself a wordsmith, felt the most empathy for Old Deng’s plight.

Mo Fei saw no solution: “It’s true—no one ever cares how many bowls of noodles Liuzi ate.”

Old Deng paused in closing the door: “What Liuzi? What noodles?”

“It’s a story,” Mo Fei replied, his gaze gentle, “A man named Liuzi goes to eat noodles. He only had one bowl, but everyone insists he had two.”

“To prove his innocence, he cut open his own stomach to show he’d only eaten one bowl—but in doing so, he died.”

Old Deng loosened his grip on the security door and turned away silently.

The screenwriter glanced at Mo Fei and the open door, gesturing, “Go in.”

There was hope now.

Though Old Deng appeared unkempt, the apartment—aside from the pervasive smell of alcohol—was fairly clean, albeit cluttered.

He walked to the coffee table, grabbed an unfinished bottle of cheap liquor, and put it in the fridge. He pointed at the sofa: “Sit, let’s talk.”

The group lined up and sat obediently, like schoolchildren.

There was no other way; Old Deng’s emotional state was clearly fragile, and they dared not provoke him.