Chapter 16: The Poisonous Gamble

They were all good friends who got along well; usually, when they had nothing better to do, they’d shoot some hoops or head to an internet café to game together. Sometimes, even during class, they’d sneak in a round or two of mobile games. Now, it was clear to everyone that once they entered university, things could never stay the same. No more gathering at a moment’s notice—soon they’d be scattered in all directions, maybe only reuniting during winter or summer breaks.

Wei Wenlin’s tolerance for alcohol was poor—now he was already tipsy, his words stumbling over themselves. “Everyone wants to go to college, but I don’t. I actually like our high school days.”

“Zhang Chu, what are your plans for the summer?” Feng Tianrui, tall and lanky, could surprisingly hold his liquor. While several of the group were already close to their limit, his expression remained unchanged.

“I’m working on a Sherlock Holmes fanfic contest. After that, I’ll probably go back to my hometown for a few days. Why do you ask?”

“The rest of us have already agreed to sign up for driving school. We want to get our licenses this summer. Why don’t you join us?”

In his past life, Zhang Chu actually knew how to drive, but now he didn’t have a license. He was tempted. “I’ll ask when I get home and let you know.”

The chubby Wei Wenlin, already collapsed on the table, lifted his head in a daze. His eyes were bloodshot. “Who just said they were writing a novel? I’ll give you some clicks when it’s out—I’m a veteran reader!”

“Right, right, you’re the old bookworm, always reading novels during class,” Zhang Chu teased. The chubby one’s family was well-off; for him, school was just another life experience, not something he had to excel at.

“I’ll help you get a chapter recommendation from those top authors. I’m the chief supporter of a lot of books—once I push it, it’ll be a hit.”

Zhang Chu patted Wei Wenlin’s back, laughing. “Unfortunately, I’m not writing an online novel. But you can take a look when I’m done and give me some feedback.”

“And me! Let me read it, too. I love reading,” Fu Deyu chimed in, not thinking much of it, assuming Zhang Chu was just writing for fun.

After leaving Xiaolongkan Hotpot, the cool night breeze sobered them up a bit. The five parted ways, each catching a ride home. The melancholy of farewell had yet to settle in; for now, they were simply celebrating their escape from the cage.

...

It was past nine when Zhang Chu returned home, reeking of alcohol. He felt a little guilty at first but relaxed when he found the house empty—Zhang Bowen and Chu Lan were nowhere to be seen.

That was a relief; at least he wouldn’t get scolded. He quickly grabbed clean clothes and headed for the shower. Zhang Chu was eager to finish his Sherlock Holmes novel—after the night’s hotpot and drinks, his pocket money was almost gone. He desperately needed some income!

By now, he’d stopped dreaming of winning first or second prize in the Sherlock Holmes fanfiction contest; he just hoped to pass the preliminary selection for the “Chronicles of Reasoning” magazine and earn a few hundred yuan per thousand words. It would be a timely relief—otherwise, he might not even have money to game at the internet café, which would be embarrassing.

Fortunately, he’d only had beer tonight. Otherwise, how could he keep his mind clear enough to write—especially for a detective novel that required careful logic?

“Hey, you’re back this early?” Chu Lan said in surprise. She’d thought Zhang Chu would be out with his friends until dawn, maybe even pulling an all-nighter. He was showing remarkable restraint.

Zhang Chu glanced at his mother and smiled. “There’s a whole summer ahead—no need to go wild all at once.”

Just then, Zhang Bowen squeezed into his son’s room. Seeing the document open on Zhang Chu’s monitor, he walked right over. “So this is your novel? What’s it called?”

“Sherlock the Detective. It’s not finished yet—I’ll show you when it’s done.” Zhang Chu was still a little shy and quickly minimized the document, trying to nudge Zhang Bowen away.

But Zhang Bowen’s curiosity was piqued. “Let me check it first. If you can’t impress even me, how will you impress the editors?”

In truth, Zhang Bowen just wanted to see what kind of story his son could come up with.

Chu Lan, meanwhile, spoke to Zhang Chu with heartfelt seriousness. “Son, write whatever you want, but don’t follow in your father’s footsteps. He’s so stubborn—even after years of rejection, he keeps writing.”

“Everyone needs a hobby. Dad doesn’t smoke, barely drinks, doesn’t gamble or play mahjong—writing is a good pastime. Didn’t you always say you fell for him because of his poetry?”

“That was just me being young and naïve. But when you get to college, you’d better find a girlfriend soon. The country says the gender ratio is already way off. I don’t want you to end up alone.”

Chu Lan’s thoughts jumped quickly—from criticizing Zhang Bowen to worrying about Zhang Chu’s love life.

Zhang Chu hastened to reply, “Once I get to college, I’ll make sure to bring you a daughter-in-law. Don’t go calling it puppy love then.”

“College romance is hardly puppy love. There are already two kids in my class dating—and they’re only in fourth grade. You’re way behind—you need to hurry up.”

At that moment, Zhang Bowen slapped his thigh loudly, the sound sharp and almost painful.

Chu Lan walked over to him. “Old Zhang, how’s your son’s novel?”

“It’s really good—no doubt about it, he’s one of us!” Zhang Bowen didn’t exaggerate. The “Sherlock the Detective” he’d just read, though unfinished, already showed impressive style and structure. The game theory puzzle involving the real and fake poison was especially breathtaking.

In the chapter titled “A Study in Pink,” the taxi driver’s murder method wasn’t complex: the killer placed two pills, one poisoned and one harmless, before the victim, pointed a gun at him, and discussed philosophy and the meaning of life, forcing the victim to choose a pill.

There were two capsules—one lethal, one safe—each person picked one and swallowed them at the same time. But the killer knew which was which. When the killer handed a capsule to the victim, what should the victim choose?

Zhang Bowen had just reached this point when the text ended, and the excitement made him slap his thigh in frustration, desperate to know the conclusion.

“You brat, tell me—should the victim swallow the capsule he’s given, or should he swap with the killer? Or are both capsules poisoned, and the victim has no choice but to take the deadly one?”

Zhang Bowen was eager to know how Sherlock Holmes would solve this game theory puzzle.

“To find out what happens next, you’ll have to wait for the next installment,” Zhang Chu replied with a smile. Though his father was a mediocre writer, he was a die-hard reader.

If even someone like that could be drawn in by the plot of “Sherlock the Detective,” then his decision to take his time crafting the story was justified. At last, he felt a surge of confidence!