Chapter Twenty: The Booklet

“Auntie? You call me that once and now it’s rolling off your tongue? Try calling me ‘sister’ again and see if I don’t tell your sister-in-law.” Wang Mengzi realized she wouldn’t get any more answers, so she seized on the matter of address to lecture him.

“You’re the one who told me to call you ‘sister,’ it’s not like I wanted to,” Zhang Ye muttered.

“What did you say?”

“Ahem, nothing, nothing at all... What a wonderful day, spring in full bloom, the sun shining brightly…”

“It’s almost dark, where’s your sunshine? You brat, you’re just asking for a beating.”

...

After dinner, Zhang Ye returned to his own room.

This was his personal sanctuary; usually, no one entered without his permission, not even his parents. Posters of celebrities covered the walls. On the desk were airplane models, an old tape recorder, comic books, trading cards, steel marbles, and rolling balls—every item a witness to the journey of his childhood. He remembered that later, when the house was demolished, all these things became a pile of junk, tossed into a sack and thrown away. Seeing them now filled him with nostalgia. He resolved that this time, he would keep them all, so that in the future, seeing these objects would bring back memories of his youth.

Sitting at his desk, Zhang Ye noticed a small booklet. He couldn’t help but laugh as he recalled that this was something he’d created years ago, inspired by Wang Mengzi. Only now did he remember, with a sense of déjà vu, that he’d written it shortly before he was reborn.

Back then, he’d written it out of spite after Wang Mengzi mocked him, saying that reading novels and writing them were two entirely different things. Unwilling to concede, he wrote this story.

It was a martial arts novel. At that time, martial arts fiction had been popular for decades, and Zhang Ye had read countless works from the great masters—Jin, Gu, Liang, Wen, and Huang. He fancied himself quite skilled and, burning with passion, produced this piece.

Flipping through the booklet, Zhang Ye’s lips twitched as he took in the familiar words and immature prose—it was almost painful to read. The writing itself was fine, but the plot and descriptions were full of flaws, clear as day to his current, more discerning eyes.

Such writing must have embarrassed him back then, Zhang Ye thought. No wonder he hadn’t dared to show it to Wang Mengzi.

Still, the sweetness of memory brought a smile to his face. Suddenly, an idea struck him: why not pick up the pen again and write a new novel, just to surprise Wang Mengzi and show her what he could do?

Wang Mengzi wasn’t actually related to him by blood, but since his rebirth, Zhang Ye had made up his mind: he would hold tight to the people who had once been part of his life. His parents, who had grown old before they could truly enjoy life, he would ensure they lived a good retirement. As for the tragedies that fate seemed to demand, he would struggle to change them.

And Wang Mengzi was the first person he intended to hold onto.

In the past, she might have seen him as just a child, but now Zhang Ye wouldn’t let her continue to think that way. A complete transformation overnight was impossible, but he could gradually exceed her expectations and reshape his image in her eyes.

In his previous life, after his business failed, Zhang Ye had worked many side jobs, one of which was as an online writer. At his peak, he’d made over ten thousand a month. Though that wasn’t much among professional writers, it meant he had no shortage of skill.

Now, as he picked up his pen again, Zhang Ye had no intention of continuing that juvenile martial arts story. Instead, he would begin anew—with an immortal fantasy novel.

There were many classic and outstanding stories in that genre, and the ones that had left the deepest impression on him were “The Legend of Chusen” and “A Step Into the Past.” Neither had been published yet, but Zhang Ye had his own principles and would never plagiarize. Besides, even if he wanted to, he couldn’t recall the original texts word for word—both novels were vast, with millions of words.

Still, he remembered many settings and spent over an hour organizing his ideas before outlining the main plot. The entire night passed in this way.

The next morning, Zhang Ye woke up as usual. Despite staying up late, he was as energetic as ever. Shrugging his shoulders and swinging his arms, he began his warm-up exercises.

By now, he had changed his workout location. It wasn’t because the old place was inadequate, but his routines had become too vigorous. The small park was full of elderly people and children, and to avoid unnecessary trouble, he had to keep his distance.

So, a few days earlier, he’d found a secluded spot by the riverside woods and officially started training there.

In his previous life, Zhang Ye had learned kicking techniques from a martial arts master in Guangyang City, but those were for combat—fighting skills. The exercises he did now, however, were for physical cultivation.

He’d studied fighting from the master in Guangyang, but the training methods he used now came from a different, fortuitous encounter.

He remembered it well—it was a few months after he’d been scarred on his face. School had started again, and every day at the gate, there was an old man in a tattered Taoist robe, holding out a bowl for alms.

Moved by kindness, Zhang Ye would drop in some money every day—sometimes a yuan or two, sometimes just a few coins—but he never missed a day. Eventually, the old man noticed him. One day, as Zhang Ye was about to put in more money, the old man stopped him and asked, “I’ve been watching you for a while. Some people are generous at first, but only you persist every day. Why do you do it?”

Back then, with a scar on his face and a changed temperament, Zhang Ye thought for a moment but didn’t answer. He simply walked silently into the school.

To his surprise, after school, he saw the old man again. He had changed into clean, though still shabby, clothes, but now looked almost ethereal.

The first thing the old man said to Zhang Ye that day still echoed in his mind: “Everyone has a past they cannot avoid, but the real wonder of life lies in the future. I have nothing to give but my skills; consider this my repayment for your kindness these past days.” With that, he led Zhang Ye to a secluded spot and began to teach him martial arts.

Three days—that was all it took. After teaching him, the old Taoist vanished from Zhang Ye’s life as mysteriously as he had appeared.

For a month afterward, Zhang Ye trained as if he were a hero in a martial arts novel, desperate to master what he’d been taught. But when, a month later, he was surrounded and beaten, utterly powerless to resist, his hopes were dashed. From then on, he stopped practicing and began searching for famous teachers to learn combat skills instead.