Chapter 26: You little brat, still not coming to kneel and welcome your sister?

Back then, "The River Without a Beacon" stood shoulder to shoulder with well-known works such as "The Hibiscus Town" and "Night Rain in Bashan." Naturally, the novel was bound to move the editors.

Lin Junsheng’s two contributions to "Literature of Shanghai," "The Chess King" and "The Tree King," both belong to the genre of root-seeking literature.

"The Chess King" primarily narrates the life story of a chess enthusiast named Wang Yisheng. Wang is utterly obsessed with chess; wherever he goes, he carries a chess set and seizes every moment to find someone to play with. In Wang’s eyes, there are two things most important in life: playing chess and eating.

The description of Wang’s eating habits in the book is nothing short of remarkable:

“Once he got the food, he immediately began eating, quickly, with his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, veins tense on his face... If a grain of rice fell on his clothes, he’d immediately press it and pick it into his mouth. If one slipped and fell to the ground, he would stop moving his feet and turn his body to search for it. If at that moment he caught my gaze, he’d slow down.”

He stopped moving his feet because he feared stepping on the precious grain, not wanting to waste the rare food. Wang Yisheng’s hardship and dignity leap vividly off the page.

Later, Wang and I were assigned to different farms. Life on the farm was dull, and I eagerly awaited Wang’s arrival one day—and finally, he came.

I warmly welcomed Wang. Through introductions, he met Ni Bin, the only person on the team who could play chess. Ni Bin told Wang that the district was about to hold a sports meet. Wang was very interested but missed the registration deadline due to some issues.

Ni Bin regretted this and promised to find a way to help Wang enter the competition. Unexpectedly, Ni Bin planned to persuade the party secretary with his ancestral “Ming Dynasty ebony chess set” to secure Wang’s spot.

Upon learning this, Wang flatly refused: “I’m not competing anyway... If I play like that, people will point fingers at me.”

After he said this, someone in the crowd muttered quietly, “Idiot.”

But Wang Yisheng was exactly that kind of “idiot.” Despite his obsession with chess, he had his bottom line; he knew what was acceptable and what was not.

After the competition ended, the champion, runner-up, and third place were announced. Wang was passionate about chess and eager to challenge the top players. Although he declined Ni Bin’s favor, he still wanted to play fairly against the winners.

He privately approached the second and third place players, but they were in a hurry to leave. Seeing this, Wang said, “I won’t hold you up; I’ll play both of you at once.”

Later, the champion’s family sent someone to challenge him. Having promised not to delay the runner-up and third place, Wang proposed a three-on-one simultaneous match.

News of this caused a stir; on the streets, a hundred or so people followed in a crowd. More challengers came, and the number eventually reached “one against nine,” meaning Wang faced nine top chess players, including the top three winners.

What was more astonishing was that Wang played “blind chess”—playing without looking at the board, something impossible for anyone but a master.

Ni Bin remarked, “I’ve never seen a formation like this before. Imagine, nine people against one, nine continuous games—a battle like a wheel turning!”

The book’s portrayal of Wang’s intense focus during the matches is truly classic:

I brought some cool water and quietly approached him. When I blocked his view, he flinched, glared at me sharply, and only recognized me after a moment, giving a dry smile.

I pointed to the water bowl; he took it, just as a move number was announced. He held the bowl high and steady, the water not rippling. He looked at the rim, responded with his move, then slowly brought the bowl to his lips.

At that moment, another move number was called. He kept his mouth at the bowl’s edge, paused, reported his move, then swallowed. The gulp was loud, almost terrifying, his eyes moist with tears.

After a fierce battle, eight opponents gradually succumbed and withdrew, leaving only Wang and the champion face to face.

At this point, the champion’s position was precarious. After a long while, an elderly man arrived, leaning on others for support, seeking a draw with Wang out of respect.

This man was the champion, also from a prestigious family and highly respected. Exhausted from the intense match, Wang finally sighed, “Let’s call it a draw.” The old man was deeply moved and invited Wang to his home.

Wang declined, saying he could not abandon his friends.

Wang Yisheng’s life was marked by dignity without arrogance, calm without impatience, indifferent to fame or gain. He was an ordinary man, yet extraordinary, possessing many touching qualities.

His refusal of Ni Bin’s offer, which would have meant sacrificing the ancestral chess set, showed he was upright and kind, unwilling to achieve success at others’ expense.

He respected his opponents, choosing to shake hands and accept a draw even when victory was likely.

Though a poor boy, Wang had a chance to make powerful connections and perhaps escape backbreaking farm labor, but this “idiot” declined, choosing instead to stand with his comrades, even if it meant sleeping on the theater floor at night.

Wang Yisheng was the true uncrowned king of the chessboard.

All editors regarded Ah Cheng’s "The Chess King" as a paragon of root-seeking literature. Its detailed descriptions resembled classical novels, reminiscent of character portrayals in "Water Margin."

"The Tree King" is a somewhat heavier story.

The protagonist, Xiao Geda, is a veteran. When my companions and I first arrived at the farm, he was assigned by the village to help us with various chores.

At first, Xiao Geda was silent and focused solely on work, physically strong and radiating a “stranger keep away” aura. Later, I deliberately struck up a conversation, and we quickly became close.

With familiarity, Xiao Geda’s past unfolded. He was once an exceptional scout, promoted to squad leader for his bravery and climbing skills.

On one mission, his team endured thirst and hunger crossing mountains with no water. On the way back, they passed an orange grove. His thirsty comrades begged to pick a few oranges.

Xiao Geda initially refused, citing discipline, but relented out of sympathy: “Eat one, but leave money under the tree.”

After enduring great hardship, they returned to the unit. During a commendation, they discovered one comrade hiding an orange in his pocket.

Xiao Geda’s rage flared immediately. Without a word, he stepped forward and kicked the man, breaking his leg, who collapsed on the ground.

Afterward, Xiao Geda chose to leave the unit and come to the farm.

At the farm, Xiao Geda took on the role of “Guardian King of the Forest.”

But we had orders to cut down trees.

As the task went on, the mountain’s trees were felled one by one.

Eventually, only a towering tree—like a hundred-meter-high umbrella—remained atop the mountain.

Xiao Geda called this the “Tree King” and forbade its cutting, but no one heeded his plea.

In the end, the tree was felled. Xiao Geda fell gravely ill and called me over to settle his affairs.

It turned out that Xiao Geda’s family lived in poverty because every month he sent money to the comrade whose leg he broke, burdened by guilt. He asked me to write a letter of apology and explain the current situation.

Amid the blazing forest fire, Xiao Geda breathed his last.

The tree fell, and with it, the Tree King.

Ah Cheng’s two works are remarkable for their meticulous detail.

At this time, Lin Junsheng’s "The River Without a Beacon" shifted focus away from such detailed portrayals.

As a work of reflective literature, it prioritized recounting the stories of the past.

Hence, a change of pen name was necessary.

Like ancient martial arts schools, where a single move reveals the disciple’s origin, Ah Cheng’s distinctive style would be recognizable. If it became known that Lin Junsheng wrote these books, suspicion would inevitably arise.

But these were thoughts for later.

First, "The River Without a Beacon" needed to be written.

The novel is told from the perspective of university student Dong Ping, traveling by wooden raft to university, through Pan Laowu and the Xiao Shui River, sketching a vivid portrait of a society in turmoil.

Everything here is chaotic and upside down; ugliness flaunts itself, beauty is trampled.

Though the ugly rampages wildly against the beautiful, the good has not vanished but fights on with stubborn vitality.

Secretary Xu, even at death’s door, worries about the people around him and clings to his convictions.

Lonely Pan Laowu, hatred for evil and a sense of justice burning within, hides kindness, integrity, and generosity beneath a rough, wild exterior.

For the people of that oppressive era, this was a powerful breath of life.

One Pan Laowu painted the image of peasants of the time; one Xiao Shui River reflected the world’s human nature.

Through personal tragedy, the novel questions the era—not with bitter lament but with a richly literary tone, telling the stories of countless souls lost in the flood of history.

Lin Junsheng chose this work with care.

He once thought it far superior to "The Hibiscus Town" and "Night Rain in Bashan."

Using small characters to reflect the grand era; the rough flesh fighting against a harsh life.

Interwoven flashbacks trace the emotional paths of two generations—Wu Aihua and Pan Laowu’s tragic love, Gai Xiu and Shigu’s daring ventures.

Water flows, mountains collapse, human relations are as fragile as paper.

Truly, “In these times, the truth cannot be spoken.”

Lin Junsheng spent several days crafting "The River Without a Beacon."

Suddenly, a familiar shout came from outside the door.

“Little bastard Wang, come out quick! Won’t you kneel and greet your sister?”