Chapter 30: My Mother-in-law Can Be Fooled? Only If She’s Blind (Please Keep Reading)

“This Old Li… isn’t he acting a bit strange?”

Over at the editorial offices of “October,” Editor-in-Chief Liu Xinwu had just gotten off the phone with Li Qingquan, the chief editor of “Yanjing Literature,” and was left thoroughly baffled.

Out of the blue, Li Qingquan called to thank them, even saying he’d treat Liu to a meal. There was no rhyme or reason to it. What on earth had gotten into Li Qingquan?

Their two magazines were the only ministerial-level publications recently revived in Yanjing, and the competition between them was fierce—neither willing to concede, both striving to be second only to the best.

But the reality was that “Yanjing Literature” had been edging ahead of “October,” and Li Qingquan had only just taken the helm at the start of the month.

So, could this sudden, inexplicable call be interpreted as a provocation?

“What’s wrong, Old Liu? Was that Li Qingquan from ‘Yanjing Literature’?” Gu Xueqing and the rest of the editorial team were in Liu Xinwu’s office, laying out the current issue, when they noticed his odd expression and tone after the call. Gu Xueqing couldn’t help but ask.

“He just took over, called to say thanks, and wants to invite us to dinner—what’s going on?!” Liu Xinwu repeated the gist of Li Qingquan’s words, hoping the team could make sense of it.

“Li Qingquan from ‘Yanjing Literature’? This isn’t the New Year or any festival—why invite us for a meal out of nowhere?” Editor Zhang Shouren looked up in surprise, equally perplexed. What on earth was Li Qingquan scheming?

“No, no, something’s off. I think he’s trying to mess with us! Isn’t this about the time when ‘Yanjing Literature’ finalizes their content for the next issue?” Liu Xinwu walked around the desk to join the others. “Teacher Gu, has our editorial team recently sent any rejection letters suggesting contributors try ‘Yanjing Literature’ instead?”

“Could it be that we overlooked a masterpiece, and Li Qingquan picked it up? Is he calling just to rub it in?” Their competition with “Yanjing Literature” mostly played out in their selection of works, with both sides always vying for higher sales and better quality.

There were, of course, little backhanded moves behind the scenes.

Take, for example, submissions that were simply unfit for publication but too awkward to reject outright. Rather than bluntly saying, “Your work isn’t good enough,” they’d gently suggest, “Your piece doesn’t currently meet our requirements—you might try submitting to ‘Yanjing Literature’ instead.”

Now, Liu Xinwu began to worry that his editorial team had missed a gem, and Li Qingquan had stumbled across it—especially if he’d learned it was “October” who had suggested the author submit elsewhere.

Was that the real reason behind this strange call of thanks?

In the nationwide flood of submissions, it wasn’t uncommon for a decent piece to be returned and then picked up by a rival. Ordinary works could come and go, and it wouldn’t matter. But for Li Qingquan to make a point of thanking them and offering a meal?

That would mean they’d missed something truly significant.

If word got out that “October” had let a masterpiece slip through their fingers, only for “Yanjing Literature” to scoop it up, they’d be the laughingstock of the literary world. In such a small circle, the joke would last for years, and any chance of surpassing “Yanjing Literature” would vanish.

No, the more Liu Xinwu thought about it, the more convinced he became—that had to be it! He couldn’t sit still any longer.

“Come on, Old Liu, it’s just a phone call. No need to panic!” said Wang Shimin, the group leader, thinking Liu was overreacting. “Maybe Li Qingquan just wanted to thank an old friend. He’s just been transferred back to Yanjing, after all!”

“Our review process is thorough. Every submission is screened by multiple editors. Could we really have missed something so big?”

“He even called to thank us and wants to treat us to dinner—how big would this masterpiece have to be? I’ve overlooked things before, but it’s not as if all five or six pairs of eyes in our department could miss the same thing!” Gu Xueqing bristled at Liu Xinwu’s implication that they needed to “double-check” for any overlooked submissions. A masterpiece? If they’d really let one slip, she’d have to be blind!

“I’m just worried that Li Qingquan’s found a chink in our armor,” Liu replied sheepishly after being rebuffed. “Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Perhaps Li really does just want to reconnect now that he’s back.”

“Exactly—let him buy us dinner! I’ll arrange a meeting and sound him out,” Liu added, trying to lighten the mood.

“Alright. Old Wang, let’s still go over last month’s submissions again, just to be sure we haven’t missed anything,” Gu Xueqing said, though she was beginning to worry that maybe, just maybe, something had slipped through.

“Of course, Teacher Gu. But I doubt it,” Wang Shimin agreed.

Li Qingquan’s baffling phone call had put the whole “October” editorial office on high alert.

Meanwhile, Cheng Xue-min had already wrapped up talks with “Yanjing Literature.”

True to their reputation for deep pockets, “Yanjing Literature” offered top-tier rates for both “The Horse Herder” and “A Heart of Tender Grass”—seven yuan per thousand characters, the premium rate reserved for renowned veteran writers.

The two stories together totaled forty-five thousand characters, rounded up to forty-six thousand—making the payment three hundred and fifteen yuan in total.

“Then it’s settled! ‘The Horse Herder’ will lead the next issue as the cover story,” said the editor.

“‘A Heart of Tender Grass’ is also excellent—we’ll feature it as the lead story in the following issue, both under your pen name ‘Old Xu,’ as you requested. Is that alright?”

After everything was decided, Li Qingquan had to leave for a meeting at the Humanities Press, leaving the details of publication to Zhou Yanru and the responsible editor, Zhang Dening.

Once the payment terms were set, Zhou Yanru smiled and explained the publication schedule to Cheng Xue-min.

Both “The Horse Herder” and “A Heart of Tender Grass” were exceptional pieces—that was why, after hearing the news, Li Qingquan couldn’t resist calling the chief editor of “October.”

Such strong works would never be published all at once. Before leaving for his meeting, Li Qingquan had decided: “The Horse Herder” would headline the upcoming issue, and “A Heart of Tender Grass” would be the following issue’s lead—both as cover stories.

Clearly, Li Qingquan intended to launch this new author, Cheng Xue-min, straight into the limelight.

Perhaps he also wanted to show up Liu Xinwu at “October”—as if to say, “Take a good look! These two major cover stories were submitted by your son-in-law and ended up at ‘Yanjing Literature’!”

Just wait and see.

“That works perfectly, Teacher Zhou!” Cheng Xue-min readily agreed.

Since “The Horse Herder” was already set as a cover story, what was there to fear if “A Heart of Tender Grass” got the same treatment? Both had once won national first prizes for short fiction; anything less would be an injustice to the original author.

And if his mother-in-law ever found out, well—he’d just sacrifice Feng Jiayou, her wayward daughter, as a shield.

“Excellent, it’s settled then!” Zhou Yanru nodded. “A Heart of Tender Grass needs no changes and can be published as is. The Horse Herder needs a few tweaks—Dening will help you with that in a bit.”

“As for payment, we’ll settle both pieces together, but it’s not time for payment yet. You’ll receive it with your contributor’s copies at the end of the month.”

“Whose name shall we write on the payment slip—yours, or Jiayou’s?”

“Mine! Teacher Zhou, write my name!” Before Cheng Xue-min could answer, Feng Jiayou’s eyes lit up at the mention of payment and she answered for him.

Cheng Xue-min rolled his eyes—was it really necessary for Teacher Zhou to ask that? Couldn’t she just write his name and send it over? Besides, he’d have been happy to come collect the money himself!

…