Chapter 60: "Criminal Psychology"

Zhang Chu nearly lost his way as he walked along the winding path at the edge of the village. The scene was nothing like what he remembered—ponds stretched in neat, crisscrossing rows.

On the distant hillside, two gray-white goats ambled around a tree, nibbling as they moved. Goats, after all, eat as they walk, grazing on the go.

As the old saying goes, “Shepherding goats will break your heart, while tending cattle will flatten your head.” Zhang Chu, after much effort, finally reached the slope, only to realize the two goats paid him no mind at all!

He tugged hard on the ropes tied around their necks, but the goats bleated and forged ahead in opposite directions, their combined strength more than he could handle.

He had always assumed shepherding was easy, but now it seemed anything but. Stumbling, pulling, trying every trick he could think of, Zhang Chu ended up spending two or three hours just to drag the goats home.

“Exhausting! Next time you misbehave, I’ll just butcher you and eat you, save myself the trouble!”

He shut the gate of the goat pen, then jogged back to the courtyard. His throat was parched, his gray T-shirt soaked and dried by sweat several times over.

He gulped down a few mouthfuls of water, then suddenly noticed several people sitting at the doorway. “Dad, Mom, what are you doing here?”

Having sped all the way home, Zhang Bowen had been waiting and waiting, but only now did his son finally appear.

Hearing Zhang Chu’s question, he didn’t answer, but asked instead, “Why did you take so long to walk the goats? Are they alright?”

“You make it sound like I’d do something to those goats. Am I that kind of person?” Zhang Chu protested.

“No, no, just worried about you,” Chu Lan quickly interjected, giving her husband a meaningful look.

Zhang Chu set down his bottle and muttered, “So why are you here? Feels like I’m being interrogated.”

“It’s your novel,” his mother said. “The details about those crimes—how did you come up with them? Your grandmother was so shocked after reading it, she called us to discuss your upbringing. She’s even worried you’ll be caught committing a crime and wondered if you should turn yourself in.”

Zhang Chu was stunned by his grandmother’s wild imagination. Clearly, he’d inherited a bit of that himself. Spreading his hands helplessly, he replied, “It’s just a novel. I may not have eaten pork, but I’ve certainly seen pigs run, haven’t I?”

In truth, this was one of the works from Zhang Chu’s “Psychological Crime” series. In his original world, “Psychological Crime” and “Death Notice” were among the most renowned domestic suspense novels. “Psychological Crime” had even been adapted into a web series and a film, while “Death Notice” became the web drama “The Darker.”

At this moment, the system’s outside assistance function was still running. Zhang Chu just needed to type out the words appearing in his mind, allowing him to work with great speed.

He had chosen to write “City of Light” from the “Psychological Crime” series because it was particularly popular, drawing much discussion. In fact, he’d only ever heard of “The Darker” before and had never read “Psychological Crime” at all.

Chu Lan produced Zhang Chu’s laptop and, reading aloud from the synopsis, said, “A killer who enjoys mixing milk and human blood—does he have a rare disease, or is he an immortal vampire of legend? Four consecutive assault-murders in City C: all the victims are white-collar women aged twenty-five to thirty. Is this revenge or simple lust? A model graduate student suddenly attacks his classmate—was he hypnotized or was it premeditated murder? Just listen to yourself. Your grandmother’s worries are perfectly reasonable. What on earth goes through your mind all day?”

Zhang Chu wanted to protest his innocence—he’d simply copied the synopsis from “Psychological Crime.” He was as pure and blameless as they come, with no understanding of such things.

“You should focus on your studies,” Grandma Lin said earnestly. “There’s no point in writing things like this. It frightens people.”

For her generation, nothing was more important than reading and learning. Everything else was secondary.

“I got all this from TV and online research,” Zhang Chu explained. “Didn’t Qin Mu say I couldn’t write a detective novel? I just want to post this book and let him see.”

“Enough,” Zhang Bowen declared. “You’d better write things with literary value from now on. Don’t write these kinds of stories anymore. I worry it’ll twist your mind.” Suspense novels required imagination and life experience, and he didn’t want his son writing about deranged killers.

Zhang Chu wouldn’t have it. “How can you doubt my socialist commitment? I’m a designated successor of the nation, actively practicing the core values of socialism. Guided by the spirit of prosperity, civility, democracy, and harmony, this is nothing at all.”

Chu Lan was at a loss for words—her son’s shamelessness was unmatched.

Zhang Bowen snorted, “And what about me? I was Time magazine’s Person of the Year in 2006 and received the Special Award for Moving China in 2008. Just make sure you write more works full of positive energy in line with your status as a student.”

“So, can I post this novel online?” Zhang Chu pressed. “It’d be a waste not to, now that I’ve written it.”

“Go ahead,” his mother finally allowed.

Relieved, Zhang Chu felt justified in extending his foray into detective fiction, though he’d intended to quit after his father’s interference.

Despite his current online popularity, public interest was already waning. Other than those in the mystery community, few cared about his spat with Qin Mu—the slowing growth of his reputation value was proof enough. It hadn’t returned to its former peak.

There were many books in the “Psychological Crime” series, but Zhang Chu only selected “City of Light.” The rest would have to wait for the future.

If he wanted more readers, he couldn’t serialize in a magazine behind a paywall. After pondering the features of Micro.blog, Zhang Chu decided to use a paid reading model.

After all, he’d spent so much reputation value and energy writing. Posting it for free online would be a waste. Though he didn’t expect to make much money, he wanted readers to get used to paying for content.

Once his wife and mother had gone inside, Zhang Bowen lowered his voice. “Honestly, I think your novel is gripping. I want to know how this cold-blooded killer gets caught in the end. When you finish, send me the manuscript. I’ll give it a read and some feedback.”

“Dad, I’ll be posting it on Micro.blog soon. Don’t forget to spend a few cents to support my writing.”

“You want me to pay to read your book? After raising you for eighteen years? That’s unfilial.” Zhang Bowen rapped his son’s head with his finger. “Now your wings are hard and you want to fly, eh? Not a chance! Send it to me right now.”