Back to 17, My Brother is the Cult Leader

Chen Cun looked at him, his gaze now carrying a hint of seriousness.

"You think things through more clearly than many young people I've met over the years."

Chen Cun said, "Then how do you think we should screen them? How should we guide them?"

Fang Yuan thought for a moment, carefully considering his words.

"First, there must be a good editorial review system, especially for works that are being promoted, which need to meet certain qualifications."

Second, these works should be promoted to more media formats—radio, stage plays, movies, and other channels.

Third, we must strengthen copyright protection, enhance legal capabilities, and safeguard the interests of platforms and authors.

Chen Cun looked at Zhu William and said, "It seems we have similar opinions."

William Zhu smiled.

Chen Cun turned the cup around and spoke again:

"We plan to make the online literature competition next month a bigger event."

Invite some traditional writers to take charge and set a benchmark for the entire industry with their review standards.

Fang Yuan, you're joining us too.

"Brother Chen, I have a lot of courses at the end of the year. Besides, I'm not qualified to be a judge," Fang Yuan said.

"Why aren't you qualified?" Chen Cun retorted. "Don't think I don't know your novels are bestsellers in North America."

Fang Yuan was speechless. He had originally thought that a traditional writer like Chen Cun would never read "Twilight".

"I'm not an old-fashioned person," Chen Cun said, as if he could read Chen Cun's mind.

"To be honest, that novel was indeed not easy to publish in China, but it was very popular abroad. It was very creative."

"I plan to write a series and see if there's a chance to adapt it into a film or television series in the future."

"Young man, you have great opportunities and resources; I'm truly envious."

"Actually, I prefer your book 'Edge of Tomorrow,' which is a science fiction novel. There are also writers in China who like to write this kind of novel."

Are you familiar with the science fiction magazine "Science Fiction World" from Sichuan?

"I have read science fiction novels by Han Song, Xinghe, and Wang Jinkang."

Fang Yuan remembered that Liu Cixin's "The Wandering Earth" should be published next year.

When Zhu Weilian came out of Jianjing Building, he took out his car keys.

The plane trees in front of the door cast dappled shadows in the evening light, and among a row of cars parked on the roadside, a red convertible sports car stood out.

Fang Yuan glanced at the surrounding traffic—one of the busiest areas in Shanghai. The car lay quietly within the parking lines on the ground, its ostentatious presence somewhat out of place.

"Is this your convertible sports car?" Fang Yuan asked.

William Zhu patted the roof of the car. "This is the only one of its kind in Shanghai."

Chen Cun had already sat in the back seat, his movements natural, as if he had long been accustomed to this position.

Fang Yuan opened the passenger door and got in; the leather seats were a little hot from the sun.

William Zhu started the car, and the engine emitted a steady roar.

The car departed from Jianjing Building and drove west along BJ West Road.

William Zhu drove with a reckless abandon, quickly picking up speed. Chen Cun, sitting in the back, was jolted so much that he closed his eyes for a moment, but said nothing.

"This road," William Zhu said, one hand on the steering wheel, the other pointing out the window.

"I enjoy looking at this row of houses every day when I drive this road."

Look over there—the old racecourse is now the city government building.

Further ahead is the Shanghai Exhibition Center, designed by the Soviets, formerly known as the Sino-Soviet Friendship Building.

Fang Yuan looked out the car window and saw a pointed tower bathed in the golden light of dusk.

The city's face blurred as it receded rapidly, but a certain feeling remained clear—a sense of the end of the century, yet also a vibrant, restless atmosphere.

"Fang Yuan," Zhu Weilian said.

"Besides courses and exams, do you have any writing plans for the end of the year?"

"We have three scripts that have already been signed in Hollywood," Fang Yuan said.

"There's another project I plan to film myself."

In addition, I also have to deal with classes at the Central Academy of Drama. The midterm assignment for my drama class is a four-act play, and I've only written the first act.

"You'll film it yourself?" Zhu Weilian's attention was drawn to him. "What kind of subject matter?"

"A low-budget, locked-room thriller—two men are locked in an abandoned bathroom and find a corpse lying in the middle, clutching a cassette tape and a gun."

Fang Yuan said, "There are no special effects, no grand scenes, and one scene carries the entire film."

Chen Cun shifted in the back seat, indicating that he was listening.

"What will keep the audience engaged with a script like this?" Chen Cun asked.

"Suspense," Fang Yuan said.

"Suspense from beginning to end. You don't know who arrested them, why they were arrested, the identities of the corpses, or whether what was said on the tape was true or false."

Every new piece of information overturns the previous judgments, until the very last frame.

William Zhu pondered, remaining silent.

The car turned a corner and entered a narrower, tree-lined road. Chen Cun suddenly spoke up.

"Bella, the female protagonist in your vampire novel,"

Chen Cun asked, "Did she know that she would lose her human body temperature after becoming a vampire?"

Fang Yuan turned his head and glanced at him.

Chen Cun's expression held no mockery, but rather a hint of curiosity.

"She knows," Fang Yuan said.

"But that's not the point. The point is that she felt it was worth it. Edward waited ninety years for her, and she was willing to pay that price."

Chen Cun remained silent. The air inside the car was quiet for a moment, broken only by the sound of the wind and the engine.

William Zhu turned on the car radio, and an old Chinese song that Fang Yuan couldn't name was playing on FM. The melody was soothing and matched the twilight of Shanghai perfectly.

They stopped by the river on the Bund.

William Zhu parked the car on the side of the road, and the three of them got out and took a walk along the river embankment.

The August river breeze carried a slightly fishy smell, but several high-rise buildings had already sprung up on the opposite bank in Lujiazui.

The Oriental Pearl Tower is the tallest of them.

"Look over there," William Zhu said, pointing to the skyline across the Huangpu River.

"When I came back three years ago, the area was all construction sites. Now look at it, each building is taller than the last."

"Haven't you risen very quickly these past few years?" Fang Yuan said.

"It's different." Zhu Weilian put his hands in his pockets and looked at the river.

"What I'm doing under the banyan tree is different from building a house. A house is built upwards, and you can see and touch it."

The banyan tree is planted in the soil; I wonder what will grow underneath it.

Chen Cun stood to one side, hands in his pockets, gazing at the river and listening to the cacophony of traffic and people behind him.

"I believe it will grow into a towering tree," Fang Yuan said.

William Zhu looked at him in surprise.

As dusk fell, the lights on the dock came on one by one. Fang Yuan had no idea that one day his words would be repeatedly mentioned in an article reminiscing about the history under the banyan tree.

But at this moment—August 1999—these words were just idle chatter among a few young people on the banks of the Huangpu River, like buoys on the water, gently rising and falling with the ripples.