Chapter 42: The Kapok Kasaya

Shanghai, 74 Shaoxing Road.

Two lush camphor trees stood guard over the standalone courtyard, creating a quiet and secluded atmosphere. Inside stood a three-story building with a sign hanging at the entrance: Story Magazine!

Early in the morning, He Chengwei rode his bicycle to work. Having joined the magazine in 1974, he was its youngest editor.

"Morning, Editor-in-Chief!"
"Morning!"

He Chengwei went up to the second floor and took his seat. The magazine office had a small staff; editors, art designers, and distribution personnel totaled only twenty people.

As a bimonthly publication, gathering manuscripts should have felt leisurely, but every day felt intensely stressful for him.

That was because there were far too few usable manuscripts.

At present, *Story* had no fixed columns, featuring five serialized full-length stories per issue. Two were handwritten copied manuscripts, two were old revolutionary tales, and only one was a new story.

When pushed to the absolute limit, the editors had to write the stories themselves or scour everywhere for material.

Yesterday, He Chengwei had visited a legendary braggart on Chongming Island. Since those who loved to brag were often exceptional storytellers, he had completely picked the fellow's brain, extracting over a dozen short stories that filled a notebook entirely.

"Xiao He, take a look at this copied manuscript and see if we can publish it."
"Alright!"

The editor-in-chief tossed him a battered, thick notebook with messy handwriting and missing pages.

He Chengwei was already quite accustomed to this. From the beginning of the year until now, he had read countless handwritten copied manuscripts, all of them "forbidden books" from the extraordinary era. Examples included *The Second Handshake* mentioned earlier, as well as *The Green Corpse*, *A Pair of Embroidered Shoes*, *The Plum Blossom Party*, *A Young Girl's Heart*, and so on.

To what extent were people obsessed with handwritten copies back then?

It was said that an educated youth, upon learning someone possessed a copy of *The Second Handshake*, walked twenty miles to borrow it. He fashioned a crude oil lamp out of an ink bottle and hid away to read secretly in a sweltering livestock shed at night. With mosquitoes swarming in the summer, he put on thick clothes, soaked his feet in a bucket of water, and spent five consecutive nights finally finishing *The Second Handshake*.

*A Young Girl's Heart* was even more renowned, telling the tale of two young people falling in love, complete with sexual descriptions.

The so-called sexual descriptions were actually quite comical.

The nature of the earliest version remained unknown, but during circulation, these restless young men and women, overwhelmed by passion at intense moments, gave free rein to their imaginations and added numerous sexual descriptions themselves.

Yet, lacking any sexual experience, what they wrote was utterly laughable, amounting to little more than clicking tongues, groping breasts, and gazing at babbling brooks.

Much like certain web novel authors today who managed to write virgin literature like, "He massaged his girlfriend's breasts bigger, growing them from a C-cup to a B-cup"...

Back then, however, *A Young Girl's Heart* was no less than a devastating flood of spiritual nourishment; countless people circulated it, and many were corrupted by it. Legend has it that a student in Shanghai read the book, began pursuing his own younger sister, and imitated the romantic misconduct depicted in the plot, ultimately leading to a death sentence.

He Chengwei skimmed through the handwritten manuscript at top speed.

He merely needed to confirm the general outline of the story and whether it was suitable for publication. As for any prohibited content, a meticulous review would follow later.

"This story can be used!"
"Good, you take charge of it."

By the time this matter was settled, it was already noon.

He Chengwei had lunch, went outside for a brief stroll, and returned just as the postman arrived.

"Your magazine is receiving more and more letters. I read every issue of *Story*, keep it up!"
"Thank you, comrade!"

He Chengwei carried the package upstairs and unwrapped it to find both reader letters and submissions packed inside kraft paper envelopes.

He looked at the submissions first. The first one was a new story written by an amateur author in Jiangsu who claimed to be a factory worker, detailing a story about the factory security department catching thieves and pursuing the factory belle.

"Mediocre quality!"

He marked it to be kept and moved on to the second one.

"Mailed from Mount Lu..."

As soon as He Chengwei flipped open the manuscript paper, he could tell it was around twenty thousand words. The handwriting was not particularly pretty, though barely legible, with the title written at the very beginning:

*The Cotton Cassock!*

"What is this? Such a strange name."

He read the opening sentence.

"It is said that in the late Ming dynasty, the people lived in extreme misery, treacherous officials held power, and exorbitant taxes were levied regardless of the people's survival. Righteous men across various regions raised the banner of Shaolin's true teachings to resist them. The arch-traitor Wang Cheng harbored a deep hatred for this and summoned Qi Tianyuan, a rebellious disciple of Wudang, ordering him to go to Shaolin Temple and seize the cotton cassock..."

He Chengwei's spirits lifted instantly.

This person knew how to tell a story!

Though named a magazine, *Story* actually published oral literature, demanding accessibility, brisk pacing, and cresting climaxes, bearing a striking resemblance to contemporary web novels.

Writing a novel in *People's Literature*, for instance, might describe a woman thusly: "She was in her early twenties, tall and fair-skinned, with brows like painted mountains and eyes shimmering like autumn waves..."

Yet in *Story*, it simply became: "There was a woman, and she was very beautiful."

This was also why *Story* was looked down upon, dismissed as reading material for migrant workers and vagrants. Even Sister Feng, far away in the United States, held it dear to her heart and continued reading *Story* after emigrating.

He Chengwei continued reading.

The subsequent text maintained this accessible and brisk style with extremely plain phrasing, unexpectedly unfolding into a martial arts tale.

It was said that when Bodhidharma traveled east in former times, he brought a cotton cassock, which was passed down through generations at Shaolin Temple; whoever possessed this cassock could become the abbot. The rebellious Wudang disciple Qi Tianyuan shaved his head and infiltrated Shaolin Temple with the intention of seizing the cassock and claiming the abbotship.

Meanwhile, the story branched elsewhere.

Ding Mo, a lay disciple of Shaolin, was traveling widely and befriended a horse dealer named Lin Cangbo.

Lin Cangbo had four daughters, all remarkably skilled in martial arts, especially the eldest, Lin Ying, who was both breathtakingly beautiful and accomplished in both scholarship and combat. One day, Wang Cheng's subordinates suddenly arrived, attempting to forcibly requisition horses.

Lin Ying secretly incited the herdsmen, causing the herd to stampede.

Across the boundless grassland, ten thousand horses thundered past, leaving Wang Cheng's men with no way to pursue them, forcing them to back down in frustration. Lin Ying led her three younger sisters to round up the horses, and Ding Mo, happening upon the scene, lent a hand. Struck by his heroic and extraordinary bearing, Lin Ying secretly developed feelings for him.

Ding Mo was equally taken with her, and the two exchanged tokens of affection.

Learning from Lin Cangbo that Wang Cheng might target Shaolin Temple, Ding Mo departed hurriedly, heading south to Mount Song.

On the other side, Qi Tianyuan attempted to forcefully seize the abbotship and fought Master Yuanhui of Shaolin. Outmatched, Wang Cheng arrived with troops and ordered a full assault on Shaolin. Ding Mo rushed back in time to rescue Master Yuanhui, retreating to guard the Scripture Pavilion.

Master Yuanhui handed the cassock to Ding Mo and several other disciples, telling them to leave first.

Wang Cheng's forces conquered Shaolin Temple, detaining the disciples and threatening Master Yuanhui with their lives to surrender the cassock. Master Yuanhui resolutely walked into the raging flames.

"Abbot!"
"Abbot!"
"I came with a clean body, and I leave with a clean body. What can mountains of knives and seas of fire do to me?"

Amid the grief-stricken cries of the disciples, Master Yuanhui stepped into the sea of fire, choosing self-immolation to attain nirvana.

Ding Mo and his fellow apprentices fled while the imperial lackeys pursued them relentlessly. Creating a fake cassock, Ding Mo drew the pursuers away alone, but he was overpowered by Qi Tianyuan and knocked off a cliff...

"Oh!"

The story flowed as smoothly as drifting clouds and flowing water. He Chengwei felt a mix of thrills and sorrow as he read. When he saw Ding Mo plunge off the cliff, his heart tightened and he desperately wanted to know what happened next. He turned the page...

"It's over?"
"Damn it!"

He Chengwei felt as restless as a rutting wild donkey. Wasn't this pure torture? How could it cut off right after falling off the cliff?!