Chapter Eight: The Time Has Not Yet Come

At this time, the variety of Chinese input methods was not yet available; everyone typed on computers using either Smart ABC or Wubi input. Gu Zhi had previously alternated between QQ and Google input methods, but now, confronted again with the ancient Smart ABC, he found it difficult to adjust, and his typing speed dropped considerably.

Yet, once he finished entering the title “Wukong Chronicle,” his fingers could not stop. The keyboard clattered incessantly; as soon as he started writing, he was completely absorbed.

“Wukong Chronicle” was the first online novel Gu Zhi read in his previous life, and also the most unforgettable. On the Chinese internet, it had long enjoyed the reputation of “the number one online book,” and was once voted the best among the top ten online novels by various publishers, newspapers, and websites.

Almost everyone who read online novels had heard of this work, and many regarded it as a classic among classics. “Wukong Chronicle” was adapted from “Journey to the West” and “A Chinese Odyssey,” telling the tale of the tragic hero Sun Wukong and the struggles of Tang Monk, Pigsy, and others against fate, interpreting the old legend from a modern perspective.

The entire novel was suffused with the force of rage—grief and despair in the face of authority and destiny, reckless devotion to love and warmth. It tore apart the conventional masks of justice and heroism, transforming each “classic” character from “Journey to the West,” endowing them with complex emotions and depth.

Moreover, the book was passionate, youthful, and adept at stirring its readers. The first time Gu Zhi read it, he was so fired up he wished he could storm the heavens himself and smash the Southern Gate to pieces. Who among youth has not dreamed of being a hero?

Thus, this book became a sensation, enduring the test of time, remaining popular for nearly twenty years, its fervor undiminished.

A few months before Gu Zhi’s rebirth, “Wukong Chronicle” was adapted into a film. As an early fan, he made time in his busy schedule to buy a ticket and support it in the cinema.

“What on earth is this supposed to be?”

From the first ten minutes until the credits rolled, this was the only thought in Gu Zhi’s mind.

A fiery, stirring story was forcibly transformed into a costume romance idol drama. There was no plot, only special effects. The story was childish to the extreme, the romance akin to a schoolyard crush, utterly devoid of emotional resonance. The pacing was chaotic, the threads incoherent—it was nothing more than a marketing product wearing the skin of “Wukong Chronicle.”

It was neither passionate nor unforgettable, wasting two hours of his life.

The reason Gu Zhi now chose to write this work himself was, firstly, its unparalleled influence—he wanted his name to be known through it. Secondly, he wished to hold the IP in his own hands, so that one day he could produce a “Wukong Chronicle” film worthy of both viewers and fans of the book.

Moreover, “Wukong Chronicle” had sparked another inspiration within Gu Zhi, though this idea was grand in scale. For now, he had yet to establish any foothold in the entertainment industry; regardless of how much he dreamed, it was too early.

Gu Zhi decided to bury this inspiration deep for the time being, waiting for the right moment to bring it into action.

Time flew by as he typed away—without realizing it, Gu Zhi had spent five hours at the computer, completing nearly ten thousand words. “Wukong Chronicle” totaled around 150,000 words; idling at home, counting the hours in the day, he reckoned that at most a week would suffice to finish it.

Six days later.

It was noon, the sun hung high, and the world outside was silent—even the cicadas had ceased their song. It was Sunday, the temperature outside had reached thirty-three degrees; at midday, almost every household lay in air-conditioned rooms, unwilling to venture out.

Gu Zhi stood before an old calendar, flipping through the recent dates. Nearly every family had one of these poorly printed old almanacs, containing not only dates but also feng shui taboos, gossip, and the five elements. They listed things like “auspicious for travel or marriage, inauspicious for moving house or haircuts”—an old-fashioned superstition, yet even in 2017, many elders still believed in it.

Gu Zhi had spent the past few days at home writing, day and night blurring together, utterly forgetting the passage of time.

Today, at last, he finished “Wukong Chronicle.” Glancing at the calendar, he saw it was June 29th—summer break would begin at school tomorrow.

Brother Ma had finally agreed to his friend request a few days ago; the two exchanged only a few words on QQ before Brother Ma excused himself, claiming work was too busy.

Gu Zhi was unsure whether this was an excuse or the truth, but from their chat history, he could clearly sense a strong lack of trust.

Gu Zhi understood this. A high school student, barely qualifying as a rich kid, suddenly proposing to invest heavily in an obscure “Penguin”—anyone would find it fantastical.

If it weren’t for Gu Wenzhi being Brother Ma’s teacher, Gu Zhi doubted Brother Ma would have accepted his friend request at all.

So Gu Zhi decided not to pursue him further, lest he arouse more suspicion.

It was not yet the right time; QQ’s user base had only just begun to grow. In another two or three months, Gu Zhi believed Brother Ma would remember him.

“Dad, could you come take a look at my novel when you have a moment?”

Gu Zhi called out to his father, who was washing dishes.

Gu Wenzhi heard his son’s voice and, without hesitation, untied the women’s apron from his neck, wiped his hands on it, and passed it to Lin Zhi, who was sitting on the sofa watching the midday news on CCTV.

“Our son’s calling me, hurry up!”

Lin Zhi rolled her eyes at her husband, pursed her lips, and took the apron with ill humor, then glared at Gu Zhi before slowly walking into the kitchen.

“Dad, I meant later—you’re shameless...”

“I really can’t wait, I want to see my son’s work right away.”

Gu Wenzhi spoke with conviction, his expression solemn.

The next second, his face changed, and he glanced furtively toward the kitchen before lowering his voice:

“Your mother hasn't washed the dishes in a week—it’s her turn today, hehe.”

With that, Gu Zhi laughed along with his father.

Gu Wenzhi and Lin Zhi always got along well—rarely quarreling, occasionally bantering, playing little tricks on each other to add fun to life.

To see his parents standing before him, healthy and happy, was for Gu Zhi the greatest joy since his rebirth.

He led Gu Wenzhi to the computer, opened the document for “Wukong Chronicle,” and soon, his father was immersed in the novel.

Two hours passed quickly; Gu Wenzhi read through “Wukong Chronicle” in one sitting, never pausing, from beginning to end.

He glanced at Gu Zhi beside him, amazed that his son had completed such a work in just one week.

Though a science student, Gu Wenzhi read extensively and was not lacking in appreciation. As a frequent visitor to the library at Deep Well University, he spent nearly all his free time there.

Back then, entertainment was scarce, so reading became one of his few pleasures.

This novel, though adapted from “Journey to the West,” was entirely different from its source. Compared to the literature he usually read, it was vastly distinct—the writing was full of strange energy and complex emotions.

At his age, it was not easy for a novel to stir his feelings or evoke resonance; many scenes in the book seemed impulsive or reckless to him.

But wasn’t that the very spirit of youth—their drive and fearlessness?

“Not bad—this book should suit young readers’ tastes.”

Gu Wenzhi nodded, gazing at Gu Zhi deeply.

When had his son grown so much?

Since half a month ago, Gu Zhi had changed tremendously.

He could not help but feel a mixture of pride and unease.

“That’s good. Dad, do you know anyone at a publishing house? Could you help me submit it and see if any publisher would print this novel?”