Chapter 52: In Conversation with Learned Scholars

Gu Cheng sat in the study for a while with his “convenient cousin by marriage,” sipping some Dong Ding Oolong as they waited for the guests inside to take their leave before making his formal entrance. The elaborate etiquette so treasured by out-of-province families in Taiwan struck Gu Cheng as a bit excessive, something he wasn’t quite used to.

During their idle conversation, Gu Cheng gathered a rough understanding of this family’s history. His maternal grandmother’s father had been Long Xiaosheng, Major General and commander of the 204th Division of the 37th Army, leading the “Hundred Thousand Youths, Hundred Thousand Soldiers” student battalion. After the army was destroyed at Shanghai, he managed to commandeer a few local boats and evacuate with only his closest, most loyal men, eventually making their arduous way to Taiwan. By rights, he should have been relegated to obscurity like so many officers who lost their troops, such as General Hu Zongnan.

However, the treatment afforded to the loyalists from Huangpu was not the same as that of the old warlords. Furthermore, the 204th Division had been slated for evacuation, but failed to withdraw in time because Liu Anqi’s unit from Qingdao was slow to pull out and held up the ships. Besides, President Chiang always favored his fellow Wu-Yue compatriots, so the few remnants who did escape were shown considerable leniency.

When Gu Cheng’s great-uncle followed his father over to Taiwan fifty years ago, he had been just a boy of seven or eight. As he grew up, he entered the military on the strength of his family connections and gradually worked his way up to a junior adjutant in the Shilin official residence. In 1969, the car accident on Yangmingshan left President Chiang badly injured, and a sweeping purge cleared out most of the senior adjutants within the residence, opening up many positions.

Gu Cheng’s great-uncle was reassigned to drive for the young master—he kept at it for twenty years and eventually became an assistant adjutant, staying until the young master’s death. After the 1990s, he retired and lived a quiet life at home.

Having finished this summary, Gu Cheng reciprocated by briefly recounting the fate of his mother’s side of the family in the mainland over the past decades. Just as their conversation was in full swing, the doors of the main drawing room upstairs opened, and an elderly man of fifty-something personally accompanied a strikingly handsome young man—about twenty-four or twenty-five—down the stairs. Gu Cheng immediately rose, and the conversation naturally drew to a close.

The old man was of course Gu Cheng’s great-uncle; the young man was a frequent guest at the Long residence. “Hello, Great-Uncle. Hello, Mr. Jiang,” Gu Cheng greeted them politely, reaching out for a handshake and offering his business card to the guest—whose name he had just learned during his earlier chat.

A light of emotion flickered in the old man’s eyes; he paused for a moment before sighing, “You’re little Gu? Good, good. I never thought there’d come a day we’d reconnect with family on the mainland. To think my elder sister actually has descendants.”

The guest beside him paused awkwardly, uncertain whether to stay or go. Fortunately, Gu Cheng’s cousin stepped in to smooth things over, introducing Gu Cheng: “This is my aunt’s grandson, from the mainland. Back when my father heard that his sister’s family had perished in the cowshed in the ‘70s, he gave up searching. Only in recent years did we discover there were still relatives left. Please don’t mind if my father gets a bit emotional, Brother Youbo.”

The handsome young man suddenly understood and waved off the formalities with a friendly gesture. “No need for such ceremony between us. You go ahead—I don’t mind staying for a bit if I’m not in the way.”

“Of course not—please, stay, Brother Youbo.”

Jiang Youbo settled in comfortably nearby, joining the family’s leisurely conversation.

After the initial wave of emotion, Gu Cheng’s great-uncle, somewhat bashful, asked him, “Did your grandmother ever bear a grudge against my father or me for staying on the mainland?”

Gu Cheng spread his hands helplessly. “Grandmother passed away ten years before I was born…”

The old man realized his mistake and gave a self-deprecating smile. “Of course, senility is catching up with me—what a foolish question. Sigh.”

Gu Cheng, not wanting the old man to blame himself, added, “But I remember my mother mentioning that Grandmother had little to say about it. She found life on the mainland quite stable, and as for what happened in the end, well—one can only call it a calamity of fate.”

His great-uncle seemed relieved. “That’s good, that’s good. My father had no choice back then. Just two months before the retreat, there was that terrible Taiping ferry disaster. The boat we escaped on was grossly overloaded—no one knew if we’d even survive the journey to Taiwan. My father thought it best not to implicate his wife and daughter: leaving them on the mainland would at least spare them being killed, and certainly better than the whole family perishing at sea…”

“I understand—really, Grandmother never blamed any of you,” Gu Cheng reassured him, eager to leave these somber topics behind. Some sadness simply defies right or wrong; what’s past is past.

The family continued reminiscing until noon. Decades of tangled history were gradually unraveled. Naturally, the Longs insisted Gu Cheng and Jiang Youbo stay for lunch, and Jiang Youbo did not demur—a true old family friend.

“Is your visit to Taiwan just for family, Mr. Gu?” Jiang Youbo asked with friendly curiosity over the meal.

Gu Cheng smiled modestly. “Yes, and to do a bit of business on the side.”

His cousin nudged him, “Call him Uncle Jiang! Mind the generations.”

“Hey, we’re barely ten years apart—calling me Uncle just makes me feel old,” Jiang Youbo protested, putting a stop to the formalities.

Jiang Youbo found Gu Cheng strikingly handsome, more than ordinary—there was something inexplicably familiar about him, a kinship even. He couldn’t help but ask, “Are you mixed-race?”

Realizing the question might be impolite, he nonetheless pressed on out of curiosity.

“Uh… my grandmother was from the Eastern Barbarians—does that count?” Gu Cheng answered a bit awkwardly.

“No wonder! They say mixed-race children are always especially good-looking.” Jiang Youbo laughed it off, then added, “You know, my grandmother was Russian—so I’m a quarter mixed myself.”

Everyone at the table laughed; after all, in Taiwan, everyone knew the late president’s wife was Russian.

Taking advantage of the interest, Gu Cheng explained his purpose in setting up an entertainment company in Taiwan. He frankly admitted he needed someone to hold a small percentage of shares on his behalf to sidestep regulatory issues, clarifying that the company was just a shell for transfer purposes and wouldn’t make a profit.

When Gu Cheng laid out this plan, everyone at the table was stunned—for he was not yet even seventeen. But once they learned he’d already started an online gaming company from scratch on the mainland, all doubts vanished. Gu Cheng couldn’t be bothered to show off in front of these distant relatives and deftly steered the conversation elsewhere.

Such matters were trivial. Once the family understood the situation and their initial surprise faded, they readily agreed to serve as nominal shareholders. Though not fabulously wealthy, the Longs were certainly above the average middle class and wouldn’t stoop to jeopardize kinship and reputation for a mere few hundred thousand yuan.

Moreover, hearing that Gu Cheng was so optimistic about several up-and-coming Taiwanese musicians, they felt a vicarious pride—proof, in their eyes, that the mainland still looked up to Taiwan’s cultural industry. This was, after all, a favorite topic of conversation.

After lunch, Gu Cheng and Jiang Youbo found themselves getting along quite well. He learned that Jiang had grown up in Canada and initially began his undergraduate studies there, but after a year detoured to New York, drifting between several majors before finally settling on design.

Perhaps that’s how all sons of privilege live—studying for a year or two before discovering their true passion, and if bored, simply switching tracks.

As they chatted, Gu Cheng casually inquired about Jiang’s current work.

Jiang replied offhandedly, “I just started a design firm for fun, but it’s not very reliable. I’m still taking classes at Parsons, and I’ll be heading back to New York soon.”

Gu Cheng seized the opportunity: “Well, my new company is renting an office tomorrow—maybe I could ask you, Brother Jiang, to help with the design?”

Jiang’s face darkened, as if something had disgusted him. He hesitated, then spoke in a measured, even voice: “Having me design your office won’t help your business at all. I won’t use my family name to get business, nor will I take jobs just because of it.”

Gu Cheng was momentarily taken aback, then laughed at himself. “What does your family name have to do with it? I’m asking because you’re my cousin’s friend, and I trust your character and skill.”

Jiang straightened, clarifying haughtily, “That’s better. I just wanted to warn you—some people from the mainland don’t realize things work differently here, and think business is all about connections. Plus, you don’t even know my design abilities—it’s rash to decide so quickly.”

“Talent is in the details. For me, it’s enough to judge a designer by their character,” Gu Cheng replied with quiet confidence.

“You really are something…” Jiang started to lecture him, but thought better of it, swallowing the words. Unwilling to let it go, he began explaining his design philosophy.

He was a man of temperament, only willing to work with those who shared his outlook. Otherwise, no amount of money could tempt him. After all, every branch of the Jiang family had considerable assets—rental income alone brought in tens of millions each year. For sons of wealth, business was just a hobby.

If the values weren’t aligned, even profitable business brought only resentment.

“I believe the essence of design lies in inheriting and reinterpreting traditional culture. At least, that’s as far as I can go. The treasures left by tradition are more than enough for us to digest over several generations. As Chinese, it’s pointless to bite off more than we can chew. If we can find a new structure to express the culture we already have, that’s the best design.”

Jiang Youbo pondered for a long time before sharing these thoughts. If Gu Cheng couldn’t understand, he planned to refuse the job.

Yet Gu Cheng didn’t hesitate at all, picking up the thread with ease. “Interpretive art—I understand. I really appreciate that approach. It’s foolish to claim innovation without first understanding what’s come before.”

“Is that so? I don’t usually like talking with people who quote books. You’re in internet business—how did you come by this view?”

“Through my own work, of course,” Gu Cheng replied lightly, without a trace of affectation.

Jiang Youbo found himself increasingly interested in this new acquaintance.