Chapter 067: Who Did This?

Zhang Tan turned the page of the magazine. After the lavish praise for the novel and its author, the main body of the interview began. The content was much like the last time Zhang Tan had been interviewed, only some playful banter had been omitted and the sequence rearranged; the overall message hadn’t changed much. He was quite pleased with this interview. The removal of frivolous jokes that might leave an impression of levity, while retaining the witty and humorous parts, seemed to elevate Zhang Tan’s persona to another realm.

He was actually quite self-aware. Having been a nobody for years, it wasn’t easy to scrub off the showy traits of a small-time character; those habits would inevitably surface. He knew that fame was just a matter of time, and that as a public figure, he couldn’t afford to keep acting like a clown—otherwise, his image would be far too low-class.

So, while Zhang Tan wrote, he also studied music, hoping to cultivate a more artistic flair, refine his taste, and elevate his temperament. He aspired to one day stand in grand halls, bask in the adoration of thousands, maybe, by some stroke of luck, become a heartthrob.

He wasn’t entirely without ambition regarding the title “heartthrob.” If his looks weren’t enough to meet the standard, he would have to make up for it with talent and presence.

In short, this interview titled “Talents Rise in Succession—A Special Interview with the Author of ‘The Famous Four Captains,’ Zhang Tan” was but the tip of the iceberg. His reputation would only grow, and eventually he would reach the pinnacle of his life.

With that contentment, he read through his own feature.

Then Zhang Tan flipped to the other stories published in the magazine. The inaugural issue was weighty, featuring six stories in total: his own “The Four Famous Captains Shake the Northeast,” Xiao Duan’s “Heroes of Chaos,” Ye Run’s “The Plum’s Love and Hatred,” Yi Qian’s “Legend of New Weapons,” Xiangxiang Ao Feiyang’s “The Greatest Sword Under Heaven,” and Yang Jinshu’s “Young Blade: Haunted Police Station.”

Understanding the works and levels of other authors was a crucial reference for Zhang Tan. It showed him where his own writing stood, and then he could negotiate payment with the magazine accordingly.

After reading, a confident smile appeared on his face. “All these novels are decent, but none are truly exceptional; it’s obvious they’re just mixing it up in magazine circles. However, Xiao Duan’s ‘Heroes of Chaos’ is remarkable—unexpected, given how the world has changed, that Xiao Duan still managed to emerge. This ‘Heroes of Chaos’ was later published under the title ‘Cup of Snow.’”

Xiao Duan was a famous martial arts author. Zhang Tan had read his breakout work “Cup of Snow” in his previous life. It was impressive, though not quite on par with the classics of the Five Greats, but among mainland martial arts writers, it was certainly top-tier.

Comparing the stories in the magazine, Zhang Tan felt even more confident in seeking higher compensation.

He picked up his guitar, improvising, preparing to sing a song to the night outside, where the salt-like snow had slowly turned into falling flakes.

An expression of his current pride.

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“The first snow of 2002 came later than usual.”

Without a horse-head fiddle, Zhang Tan used his guitar instead. Lacking the weathered, sandstorm voice of Daolang, his style was closer to that which Zhang Jie once brought to the song “The First Snow of 2002.”

Sitting by the window, he strummed his guitar and shook his head, singing this classic that fit the scene: “The bus parked on the eighth floor, route two, carried away the last falling yellow leaf.”

It was December 2001, a month away from 2002, and in the blink of an eye, he had been reborn for over three months. These months, he hadn’t accomplished anything earth-shattering; in fact, he had indulged in a bit of “small wealth, contentment,” living leisurely on campus.

Zhang Tan didn’t want to admit he lacked ambition, but it seemed he really wasn’t striving much.

By the usual script, he should have immediately dropped out, thrown himself into the coming internet boom; or written songs, gained fame, entered filmmaking, shaking the world; or dominated games as a legend in “Hot-Blooded Legend,” becoming an idol of players; or buried himself in study, aiming for a prestigious university and academic glory.

But Zhang Tan had done none of these things. Secretly, he felt his life was happy.

He slept when tired, ate when hungry, played sports when he felt like it. He bantered with the kids, teased shy girls, occasionally drank tea with Teacher Yu, wrote some novels and earned a bit of money. He could enjoy others’ admiration, accept interviews from editors unaware of beauty and ugliness.

He’d gained a few fans, and would gain more.

Life was pretty sweet.

“Enough!”

Zhang Tan abruptly pressed his guitar, shaking his head vigorously. “Zhang Tan, Zhang Tang, pull yourself together! You’re meant for the summit—mansions, nice cars, dazzling stages, cheers and screams. You’ll be the white-collar beauty who can impress in the drawing room, cook in the kitchen, and warm the bed! You must have it all!”

He didn’t have any of it yet.

The revolution was not yet successful; comrades must still strive.

Zhang Tan picked up his new fountain pen and scribbled Sun Cannon’s famous motto across his manuscript paper, then stuck it to the wall above his desk, constantly reminding himself to keep a youthful, enterprising heart.

...

A night of drifting snow, and by morning, the world was clad in silver.

Leaving the room warmed by the radiator, Zhang Tan shivered as soon as he stepped out; his clothes were too thin, mainly because he hadn’t anticipated the sudden drop in temperature and forgotten to buy winter clothes. It wasn’t his fault—just days ago it was over ten degrees, but now, after nightfall, it was below zero.

Luckily, if he could withstand these two days, the forecast said temperatures would rise.

“Didn’t they say the first snow of 2002 came later than usual? It’s only just December,” Zhang Tan complained as he stepped on the snow.

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He disliked winter, just as much as he disliked broccoli.

Utterly, deeply.

So his mood was sour the whole day.

Watching his classmates run downstairs to play in the snow, Zhang Tan felt a generational gap—no matter how much his hormones surged, he was no longer a sixteen or seventeen-year-old high schooler.

Thud!

As Zhang Tan was lost in thought, Cao Yuchuan downstairs threw a snowball, grazing Zhang Tan’s ear before hitting the wall.

“Detective, come down and fight!” Cao Yuchuan stood hands on hips, arrogantly provoking him.

“Boring,” Zhang Tan replied coolly, rolling his eyes.

Seeing Zhang Tan wouldn’t come down, Cao Yuchuan turned to seek a new opponent.

Just then, Zhang Tan grabbed some snow from the corridor, quickly formed it into a ball, and hurled it in a flash. The snowball traced a perfect arc and smacked into Cao Yuchuan’s neck.

“Oh! Ah!” Like a cat confronted by a dog, Cao Yuchuan nearly jumped, yelping as he shook off the snow and turned, scanning the upstairs corridor to find his assailant.

On the balcony rail, a group of classmates chuckled at him, while Zhang Tan had already resumed his calm demeanor.

“Who did that?”

Cao Yuchuan shouted.

No one answered; everyone just laughed.

Zhang Tan smiled silently.

Unable to find the culprit, Cao Yuchuan turned back to gather more snowballs. He bent down and quickly spun around to see if anyone would strike again—if he’d been ambushed once, surely it would happen again.

But the rail was still lined with silent, smiling faces.

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