Chapter 149: Words That Command Law

Zhang Tan was the worst at naming things.

For his short stories published in "Martial Arts Tales," he used the pen name Jin Su—both "Jin" and "Su"—a crude imitation of the famous author Jin Yong’s name, but truly tacky beyond measure. As for the pen name he used publicly, Tan Zhang, it was even more mundane, simply reversing his own name.

By now, many people who met him didn’t know whether to call him Tan Zhang or Zhang Tan.

The name of the Luzhou Studio was another one of Zhang Tan’s masterpieces.

Originally, his parents and Li Yan wanted to call it “Zhang Tan Studio” or “Tan Zhang Studio,” but Zhang Tan vetoed both options.

“No personal worship allowed,” he said, imitating the Chairman, hands clasped behind his back, full of swagger.

Why naming a studio after himself counted as personal worship was anyone’s guess.

In any case, after Zhang Tan’s refusal, he personally named the studio “Luzhou.”

Luzhou is an old name for Hefei. In a previous life, there was a singer named Xu Song who sang "Luzhou Moon," referring to Hefei. The reason for the name Luzhou traces back to the Western Zhou dynasty, when a vassal state called Luzi was established there.

The old residents of Hefei hold the name Luzhou in great regard.

Because they love opera—not the national treasure Peking opera, nor the distant-influence Hui opera, nor the famous Huangmei opera of Jianghuai—but Luzhou’s own Lu opera.

When Zhang Tan was a child, every season a Lu opera troupe would come to perform. During the performances, the whole town—young and old—would squeeze together to listen.

Lu opera is performed by rural folk, emphasizing strong vocals over elaborate movements. During busy farming seasons, everyone was busy in the fields; in the off-season, a small group of three to five could form a troupe and perform. Zhang Tan’s mother, Tan Mingxia, was a skilled Lu opera performer, often practicing her voice with the town’s women. When Zhang Tan came home from school, the county TV channel always aired Lu opera programs.

Some were sorrowful and lingering, others playful and lively. At first, they sounded rough, but their charm was endless.

Especially the stories in the repertoire—twisted and intriguing…

“Ahem, Luzhou Studio is officially established.”

Inside a three-bedroom apartment, about a dozen people sat or stood sparsely. Except for Zhang Quanshun, Tan Mingxia, and Li Yan, the rest were newly hired employees.

General Manager and Legal Affairs Supervisor Li Yan; Legal Representative and Finance Supervisor Zhang Quanshun; Logistics Supervisor Tan Mingxia.

Legal team members Hou Lei, Li Yingjie, and Ding Xiaoyu. Among them, Hou Lei, about forty years old, was formerly a lawyer at Hefei Yang Zheng Law Firm and had switched over; experienced and a key member of the legal team. Li Yingjie and Ding Xiaoyu were both recent graduates from Anhui University Law School, majoring in intellectual property, currently interns.

The legal team was currently light on work, so Li Yan arranged for them to assist Anhui Literary Publishing House in cracking down on piracy. The results didn’t matter much; the important thing was gaining experience and familiarizing themselves with various legal aspects of copyright operations.

The studio also had an accountant for preparing reports and a receptionist whose job mainly involved serving tea, fetching water, and answering calls. Apart from these, two other positions were quite important.

Ma Weiwei and Zhou Nan.

Ma Weiwei was also a student at Anhui University, majoring in Editing and Publishing at the School of Journalism and Communication. She was entering her senior year in the second half of the year. Originally, she was supposed to intern at Anhui Literary Publishing House, but because of her excellent performance and consecutive scholarships, Li Yan intercepted her.

She replaced Li Yan as Zhang Tan’s assistant, since Li Yan was already the studio’s general manager and couldn’t follow Zhang Tan around every day.

Zhou Nan was also a female university student. She graduated from Anhui Agricultural University’s Chinese Language and Literature Department. She was a distant relative on Tan Mingxia’s side and came through connections. Her literary knowledge was decent, and she had interned at a newspaper. Although she wasn’t retained there, Zhang Tan hired her as his personal editor.

From then on, he could hand over his drafts to Zhou Nan for proofreading to save time.

And when he didn’t feel like writing, he could dictate and have Zhou Nan ghostwrite for him.

An assistant and an editor. Zhang Tan felt he was truly reaching the pinnacle of his life.

The only regret was that these two girls were quite ordinary-looking, common faces without the allure of a personal muse. But if they were truly beauties, Zhang Tan’s parents probably wouldn’t have agreed to have them as his assistants. What if the other party had ill intentions and ended up giving Zhang Tan a grandson someday?

Scanning the unfamiliar faces in the studio, Zhang Tan wanted to say something uplifting as the boss.

But after coughing for a while, he couldn’t think of anything to say.

After a long pause, he wrinkled his brow and called out, “Well... the revolution has not yet succeeded; comrades must continue to work hard!”

*Clap, clap, clap.*

The response was sparse applause.

“Alright, I won’t say more,” Zhang Tan slumped back into his chair and looked at Zhang Quanshun. “Dad, why don’t you say something?”

Zhang Quanshun stood up unhesitatingly. Today, his hair was parted neatly and waxed, shining brightly. He wore a blue Armani shirt worth over three thousand yuan that Zhang Tan had bought him, looking every bit the successful businessman.

“Ah, then I’ll keep it brief. The studio is run by Zhang Tan and mainly handles the copyright operations of his novels.”

He paused for three seconds, then summarized, “Currently, the workload isn’t heavy; the studio has just been established. Regarding compensation, as long as everyone is dedicated to maintaining the studio, you definitely won’t be shortchanged, right? The studio is small, but we follow all the standards of a formal company: five social insurances and one housing fund, paid holidays, overtime compensated according to national law...”

Zhang Quanshun wasn’t very good at motivational speeches; his words gradually turned into rambling.

But since it all concerned employee benefits, everyone listened attentively.

Zhang Tan was always casual about details, but when it came to employee benefits, he was generous, offering much better treatment than ordinary companies.

They clearly stipulated overtime pay, salary, year-end bonuses, meal subsidies, transportation subsidies, communication subsidies, and seniority awards. After a few minutes, Zhang Quanshun’s words had a good effect; the employees’ morale, especially among the university students, soared.

After Zhang Quanshun finished, Zhang Tan looked at Li Yan. “Li Jie, do you want to say something?”

Li Yan smiled and shook her head. “I said what I needed to say during recruitment, so I won’t say more now.”

…

The company’s first full meeting ended just like that.

The next day, Zhang Tan set off for Wuhan to attend the last book signing of the summer break.

Wuhan in summer was like a giant pressure cooker.

So stiflingly hot that it was hard to breathe.

It had been over a year since he last came to Wuhan, and this was his third visit.

As a popular and well-known contemporary author, Zhang Tan’s arrival attracted much attention. Media outlets had already secured an interview with him well in advance.

It was the Chutian Metropolitan Daily.

The interview took place the afternoon before the book signing, shortly after Zhang Tan had landed, at a café.

“Give me a glass of mango juice, iced,” Zhang Tan said. He didn’t like coffee and ordered juice instead.

Sipping the cold mango juice, the interview began.

The reporter was a fairly attractive woman with sharp short hair and lively eyes. She started with a simple opening question: “How many times have you been to Wuhan? What do you think of the city?”

“This is my third time in Wuhan. It truly lives up to its reputation as a hub connecting nine provinces—very prosperous.”

“Were your previous visits for tourism or work?”

“All related to work.”

“Did Wuhan leave any deep impressions from those trips?”

“Deep impressions, yes.” Zhang Tan’s eyes flickered as he recalled his first visit, which had been unpleasant. “Many impressions, but the most profound one wasn’t a good one.”

The female reporter perked up, sensing a big story. “Not a good impression? Are you saying Wuhan showed you some unfavorable side? Could you elaborate?”

Seeing her interest, Zhang Tan smiled inwardly. As the saying goes, a gentleman takes revenge even after ten years. Though not a gentleman himself, he had never forgotten the grudge he bore. He took a sip of mango juice to soothe his throat and continued: “When I first came to Wuhan, the Wuhan University Press wanted to publish my novel 'The Four Great Constables in the Capital.' The deputy director in charge of contracts was a man named Chen Liangjun.”

“And then?” The reporter eagerly took notes.

Zhang Tan calmly recounted, “We sat down for a meal to discuss publishing. After a few drinks, Chen Liangjun told me that the book could be published, but I had to give him a 30,000 yuan kickback. You know, I was only sixteen then, barely understanding what a kickback was. Even if I had known, I wouldn’t have paid it.”

The reporter quickly asked, “What happened after that?”

“I refused. Then he slammed the table and threatened me, saying if I didn’t agree, my book wouldn’t be published and that he would blacklist me. I had no way to fight back, so I gave up. That left a deep impression on me. I couldn’t understand how such things could happen. I was writing books to earn royalties, yet I had to give part of it to someone else. It was like paying protection money to the mafia.”

Zhang Tan feigned innocence and naivety.

Only by doing so would the Chutian Metropolitan Daily’s report stir strong indignation among readers.

A person who would demand a kickback from a teenager’s royalties was obviously despicable. The greater the public outrage, the more pressure on Chen Liangjun.

Zhang Tan had never forgotten the humiliation he suffered back then.

Now, returning with momentum, ready to ride the wave and take down that scoundrel. Every snake has its path, every rat has its way. Zhang Tan was a grassroots writer with almost no network; before, he had no way to deal with people like Chen Liangjun. Even writing complaint letters only disgusted them.

But now was different. As a highly popular author with a huge fanbase, when Zhang Tan accused someone, it essentially meant that person had to face public judgment. Like the future's online microblogging celebrities, with millions of fans, a single word could attract hundreds of millions of views. To borrow a phrase from fantasy novels, his words carried the force of law—this was the power of celebrity aura.

In front of the reporter, Zhang Tan spoke freely and candidly.

It was well said by the old adage:

"Thirty years on the east side of the river, thirty years on the west." (To be continued.)