Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

Shanghai in August is unbearably hot.

Fang Yuan arrived at Hongqiao Airport from New York at 4 p.m., and the temperature outside the cabin was 37 degrees Celsius.

He only had a backpack and took a taxi directly from the airport.

In front of the building on BJ West Road, a row of plane trees drooped listlessly in the hot wind, and the chirping of cicadas filled the air like some kind of tireless background noise.

The coolness in the hallway was a welcome relief, but the old elevator made a buzzing sound as it went up.

The door was open on the eighth floor.

The room was noisy with people talking, phones ringing incessantly, and the sounds of keyboards being typed and young people laughing.

Fang Yuan walked to the door and saw Zhu William standing in front of a table talking to someone. He was wearing a white T-shirt, his hair was a bit long, and he looked younger and thinner than Fang Yuan remembered.

"Here you are." William Zhu turned his head and saw him.

She smiled and invited him inside, saying, "Come on, let me show you around."

Fang Yuan followed him inside, then stopped.

In the very center of the office, a large banyan tree made of concrete rises from the ground, its branches thick and its leaves dense, almost completely obscuring the ceiling.

The tree is the heart of the space; tables are arranged around it, and cables run through its roots.

Fang Yuan circled the tree, reached out and touched the rough surface of the cement branches, his fingers covered with a layer of grayish-white powder.

"This tree is a better deal than greenery. Greenery needs watering and will die. Concrete will never die; it will stay green forever."

William Zhu said, with a hint of smugness in his voice.

"To be honest, seeing this made me understand why you called it 'Under the Banyan Tree'."

Fang Yuan said, "You put this thing here, there's no need to explain your brand at all."

"That's exactly what I mean," William Zhu said, leading him further inside.

"Come on, let me show you the office."

The office area is not large, with a dozen or so tables crammed together, each piled with documents, sample books, printouts, and snacks.

There was a large cardboard box in the corner, inside which lived two chubby guinea pigs. One was munching on an apple, while the other was curled up in a corner sleeping.

Fang Yuan glanced at it a few more times, thinking to himself that this art style was quite unexpected.

"That's Ning Caishen's pet." Zhu Weilian smiled when he saw the look in his eyes. "Have you seen him before?"

"I've seen his articles online," Fang Yuan said.

"There will be plenty of opportunities to meet in the future," William Zhu said.

Fang Yuan noticed that there were actually quite a few people crammed into this small office.

There was a man sitting behind the table by the door. He looked to be under thirty years old, with an ordinary face, but his typing speed was very fast.

Another person was on the phone by the window, speaking in a deep, Beijing accent.

Fang Yuan glanced around calmly, knowing in his heart the significance of these names.

The office was filled with books and papers, with sample books piled up on the floor like a small mountain.

There was a stack of printed manuscripts in the corner. Fang Yuan glanced at the cover and saw that it was a printed copy of a competition entry.

"How many people are there in your group now?" Fang Yuan asked.

"There are fewer than twenty in Shanghai, and a few in Beijing, Guangzhou, and Chongqing, totaling about thirty or forty people."

William Zhu said, "It's not easy to recruit people. It's too hard to find someone who understands the Internet and loves literature."

The two walked to a small table in the corner. Zhu Weilian pointed to a chair, indicating that he should sit down. He then picked up a paper cup from the table and poured him a glass of water.

This office doesn't resemble a CEO's office at all; it's more like a literary society's activity room, except that there are a few computers and telephones on the desk.

"William," Fang Yuan sat down, "what's the background of this building?"

"Jianjing Building," William Zhu said.

"The intersection of BJ West Road and Jiangning Road. Not bad, right? It's just that the row of plane trees at the entrance is prettier than the trees themselves."

I've built my personal homepage to what it is now—

You know, when I first went online in 1997, it was just me, one page, and one line of text: "Welcome to Banyan Tree." Now there are dozens of people here.

Fang Yuan nodded.

"Those things you said to me in Los Angeles last time," William Zhu suddenly said, then paused.

He leaned back in his chair, looking at the direction in which the branches of the concrete banyan tree stretched out.

"I thought about it a lot later. You said that Banyan Tree can't just be a platform for publishing; it also needs to take on the responsibility of guiding and nurturing."

I thought you were right at the time, but I hadn't figured out how to land the land.

"Have you got an idea?" Fang Yuan asked.

"I've been thinking about it recently," William Zhu said.

"Could we turn all the submissions into individual 'products'?"

It doesn't have to be a book; it could be a radio drama, a stage play, or a movie. Do you understand what I mean?

"I understand. It's about monetizing copyrights."

"Yes." William Zhu slapped the table.

"My goal is to build the brand value of Rongshuxia, making it not just a publishing tool, but a real place that can incubate good works."

Just as Fang Yuan was about to reply, footsteps came from the doorway, and a person walked in.

He was in his forties, of medium build, with a gentle, unhurried smile on his face. Zhu Weilian stood up to greet him, and the man walked towards Fang Yuan, extending his hand.

"Fang Yuan, right? Chencun." His voice was quiet and steady.

"William told me about you, saying you're a very interesting lad."

Fang Yuan stood up and shook hands with him. "Hello, Teacher Chen."

"Don't call me teacher, call me Lao Chen. Or just call me by my online name like everyone else."

Chen Cun waved his hand and sat down opposite Fang Yuan, acting as if he were at home.

Fang Yuan was taken aback.

After graduating from Shanghai Normal College, Chen Cun joined the Shanghai Writers Association as a professional writer, eventually rising to the position of vice chairman.

But when he took a part-time job as art director at Rongshuxia in 1999, he said he was a middle-aged man who had gone astray.

His facial features were soft, and he spoke slowly and deliberately, completely unlike the traditional writers.

"Fang Yuan," Chen Cun said, holding up the cup in his hand.

"I've read your novels, especially the ones about youth. To be honest, you're more talented than we were when we were young."

"Brother Chen, I'm lucky," Fang Yuan said.

"No need to be modest. Your writing is natural, vivid, and very engaging." Chen Cun sipped his water leisurely.

"I've been with the Writers' Association for over a decade, and I've seen more manuscripts than most people."

To be honest, much of what so-called "professional writers" produce is less sincere than what netizens on Rongshuxia (a Chinese online forum) write.

"But you can't say that everything on the internet is good," Fang Yuan said.

"Most of the submissions are emotional outbursts and rambling accounts."

The door to openness has been opened, but the things inside need to be organized, screened, and guided.

Otherwise, no matter how wide the door is opened, if someone walks in, sees only shattered pieces, and turns away, they'll leave.