You and your daughter have paid your dues far too harshly, haven’t you?

“Old Wang, you’re here too! Perfect, you can help us go over these manuscripts!”

Madam Feng strode straight into Liu Xinwu’s office, noticing that the head of the editorial team, Wang Shimin, was present as well, so she greeted him.

“Lao Liu, I’ve collected two manuscripts for you—take a look!”

She walked over, dropping a hefty stack of manuscripts onto Liu Xinwu’s desk, her expression brimming with anticipation.

“Teacher Gu, about this… Actually, I already had a word with Xiao Yang and the others yesterday,” Liu Xinwu said, eyeing the thick pile of papers, his heavy features twitching with concern.

Just how rattled must Teacher Gu have been yesterday to haul out all those manuscripts she’d kept tucked away?

There was no need to guess.

These had to be drafts written by her husband, Old Feng.

Liu Xinwu had coveted Old Feng’s manuscripts before. Since they were relaunching *October* and couldn’t secure contributions from their esteemed colleague, Old Qian, at least getting Old Feng’s work would be something.

Besides, once Old Feng’s wife returned, she had been working with Liu Xinwu to relaunch *October*. Out of professional courtesy, shouldn’t she support her husband’s workplace’s relaunch with a few manuscripts?

But alas, none had been given.

Now, with the third issue of *October* already out, they still hadn’t seen a single piece from Old Feng.

Who could have guessed that, perhaps stung by yesterday’s events, Teacher Gu would bring out all of Old Feng’s hidden manuscripts?

So many—enough to make Liu Xinwu feel awkward. The manuscripts were good, yes, but if they were offered out of spite, perhaps it was best to pass.

After all, if *October* published them in a fit of pique, would the couple have a row over it?

“Teacher Gu, truly, this is my fault. I was too hasty. It was because I, Liu Xinwu, felt provoked by Li Qingquan that I pushed your daughter to ask around and solicit submissions, which led to this misunderstanding.”

“So the responsibility is mine! I was too eager, wanting *October* to make a mark quickly.”

“I apologize. Teacher Gu, there’s no need for us to act out of spite. The atmosphere here is good; please don’t take it to heart.”

Liu Xinwu concluded with a self-critical reflection, hoping to reassure Gu Xueqing.

“Lao Liu, do you think I’m so thin-skinned? Since when have I held a grudge?” Gu Xueqing replied. “Read the manuscripts first. My daughter worked very hard to secure these; have a look!”

Why should the chief editor, Liu Xinwu, be apologizing to her? This whole mix-up was her doing!

But that was beside the point. What mattered now was the manuscripts. She wanted to see if, after all Liu Xinwu’s desperate requests, he would dare publish these.

Her husband was convinced Liu Xinwu would be bold enough.

“All right, let’s read,” Liu Xinwu nodded, feigning surprise. “Teacher Gu, is this entire stack all Old Feng’s manuscripts?”

“They’re not Old Feng’s! He treasures his work—no one dares touch it. Besides, he hasn’t written fiction in ages; he’s been busy with academic work,” Gu Xueqing said with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Not Old Feng’s? Then whose are these? Did you really secure them?”

Liu Xinwu was surprised. If these weren’t Old Feng’s, there was only one possibility: Teacher Gu had actually gotten manuscripts from Lao Xu, the author of *The Horseman* published in Yanjing Literature.

And such a thick stack!

Could it really be?

“You tell me,” Gu Xueqing replied, her face radiating pride.

“Are these really Lao Xu’s manuscripts? And so many?” Wang Shimin exclaimed, immediately reaching for the pile. Such a hefty stack—how long did it take Lao Xu to write all this?

Hadn’t Li Qingquan said Lao Xu was a newcomer? But for a new writer to sit on so much material without submitting it?

---

Cao Aiqin and Xiao Yang, who had come in out of curiosity, were equally amazed. Gu Xueqing had really acquired manuscripts from Lao Xu, the author of *The Horseman*?

And she’d mentioned two pieces—but this stack was far more than just two!

“Now, Lao Wang, Lao Liu, let me clarify: I can’t guarantee these are really from Lao Xu, the author of *The Horseman*!”

“You all know my daughter is unreliable. For all I know, she could be passing off her classmate’s writing—maybe it’s even from her friend Cha Jianying!”

“So I won’t swear these are authentic. Just read them—if you can use them, do. If not, I’ll return them and tell my daughter’s friend to submit them to Yanjing Literature instead.”

Gu Xueqing waved her hands, maintaining the pretense. She’d brought the manuscripts—if they were suitable, great; if not, she’d just send them back and let Li Qingquan make whatever fuss he wanted.

Of course, Gu Xueqing was just venting. If Liu Xinwu didn’t accept them, she wouldn’t really send them to Yanjing Literature.

“Well, let’s read, then.”

Since it was uncertain whether these were really from Lao Xu, Liu Xinwu’s facial muscles twitched again, and he grew even more anxious.

If these really were written by her unreliable daughter’s classmate, should he take them or not?

If he did, and they were poor, it would be a waste of resources. But if he didn’t, and Teacher Gu, already frustrated, was now excitedly bringing in this stack—wouldn’t it be awkward to reject them?

He glanced at Cao Aiqin and the others—all those eyes watching. If the manuscripts were bad, could he send them back?

He could only hope Teacher Gu had already vetted them.

“Hmm! There are two manuscripts here—one short story, one novella. Lao Liu, read the short one first; the novella isn’t finished yet,” Madam Feng said, grabbing a chair and sitting down to wait.

But soon, her exhaustion got the better of her. After staying up all night to finish the novella, she was already nodding off.

She’d barely slept, itching to know how the unfinished novella would end, and cursed her son-in-law for being so talented yet not finishing before letting her read.

If she didn’t have to come to work, she’d have locked him in a room to make him write more.

“There’s a novella, too?”

Liu Xinwu sifted through the stack, realizing the thickness. Otherwise, it would have been ten short stories—enough to fill *October* for a year!

He separated the short story and handed the novella to Wang Shimin so they could read simultaneously.

“This manuscript…”

Liu Xinwu had barely started reading when a thrill went through him. He wanted to say something but kept silent, engrossed.

Wang Shimin glanced at Liu Xinwu, then lowered his head to read the novella.

Outside, Cao Aiqin and the others wanted to peek too, curious about the quality of the work Gu Xueqing had obtained. Judging from her proud demeanor, it couldn’t be bad.

---

But this was still a workplace. No matter how curious they were, nobody would dare ignore Editor-in-Chief Liu’s authority. If he didn’t invite them in, they dared not look.

They could only wait eagerly at the door, watching for a reaction.

Soon, the office fell silent, the only sound the rustling of pages as Liu Xinwu and Wang Shimin read.

Gu Xueqing couldn’t sit still. If she stayed any longer, she’d doze off embarrassingly, so she got up and began pacing the office.

“Teacher Gu, here you go!”

The alert junior editor, Xiao Yang, hurried to make her a cup of tea.

“Thank you. You all go back to work. Lao Liu will need some time with these manuscripts.”

Even the short story was over thirty thousand words—reading it would take at least an hour or two. The novella, though unfinished, was over a hundred thousand words.

So, taking her tea, Gu Xueqing told Xiao Yang and the others to return to their tasks and left herself.

Waiting here served no purpose, and she had other business to attend to.

---

“Xue Min, you’ll probably have to write another manuscript! That novella will never come back from my mother once she gets her hands on it.”

Meanwhile, Cheng Xuemin had dropped Feng Jiayou off at school and, as they parted at the intersection, she delivered this reminder.

A daughter knows her mother, and vice versa. Last night, her mother claimed she just wanted to look at the novella, but this morning, Feng Jiayou saw her mother’s briefcase bulging suspiciously—it was obvious she’d taken the novella to work.

It was like sending a lamb into a lion’s den—no chance of getting it back.

Cheng Xuemin would have to implement Plan B and write another manuscript for Zhang Dening at Yanjing Literature.

“Let’s see what your mother says. I’ll finish the novella first,” Cheng Xuemin replied, but inwardly he was cursing. Mother and daughter—what a pair of bandits!

One after another, they demanded manuscript after manuscript—this was outright robbery!

He had been secretly working on new pieces for other journals, quietly amassing his own little stash of writing fees. But with only so much time in a day—and with his domestic duties to fulfill—what was left for himself was precious little.

Now, with the two of them squeezing him for more, his little savings stood no chance of growing.

“Well, fine. Take your time, but my mother’s journal won’t need the novella right away—it won’t be published until after New Year, at the earliest.”

“I keep saying my mother is overbearing. She could have let Yanjing Literature publish it first—why hoard so many manuscripts for a monthly journal? If she’d just let you submit it, you’d have moved on to the next piece already!”

Thinking of her mother monopolizing both manuscripts, when *October* couldn’t possibly publish them both in one issue, Feng Jiayou wondered why not let Yanjing Literature have one.

She and her husband were counting on the novella’s payment to help them look for a new place to live before the holidays.

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