146: Don't say you know me when you go out in the future.

The bell for morning self-study,

abruptly pulled Jiangcheng No. 1 High School out of the morning mist.

The air in grade 11, class 3 felt sluggish,

like sleep crusts that hadn't been wiped away, sticking in everyone's throats.

Lin Que was slumped in the back row, the black gel pen twirling between his fingers, leaving a blur.

“Click.”

The front door was pushed open.

Shen Qingqiu walked onto the podium holding a stack of documents.

She didn't rush to speak,

first using her eyes, which always held a hint of scrutiny, to scan the classroom.

“Everyone stop.”

The previously fragmented reading sounds were instantly choked off.

Shen Qingqiu tapped the documents against the podium, sending up a small puff of white chalk dust.

“The preliminary selection results for the 'Fu Zhi Yao Competition' essay competition are out.”

The classroom was frighteningly quiet,

only the subtle crunching sound of Wu Di secretly eating instant noodles could be heard from the back row.

Wu Di froze, silently dissolving the noodle crumbs in his mouth,

his Adam's apple moving slightly, daring not to make a sound.

“For this preliminary essay selection, the entire school submitted over five hundred drafts.”

Shen Qingqiu held up five fingers, her tone flat.

“One hundred and thirty-seven people passed the preliminary round.”

Below, there was a collective gasp.

Five hundred submissions reduced to one hundred and thirty-seven—more than half were eliminated.

This was only the preliminary round, not even the first official contest.

“Seven people from our class signed up, and three passed.”

Shen Qingqiu pulled out three printed sheets.

“Zhang Ya, Li Bowen, and... Lin Que.”

Zhang Ya was lying on her desk, Li Bowen pushed up his glasses, which were as thick as the bottom of a beer bottle,

and Lin Que maintained his posture of resting his face on one hand.

“Students who didn't pass, don't be discouraged. Those who did, don't get complacent.”

Shen Qingqiu took the first sheet and shook it in the air.

“Zhang Ya, your writing is florid, but slightly excessive. Although you passed, next time be sure to focus on subtraction.”

Zhang Ya blushed slightly, biting her lip as she nodded.

“Li Bowen, your argumentation is rigorous, and your logical closure is excellent, but it lacks emotional appeal.

Writing is not a math problem; you don't need to derive every step flawlessly.”

Li Bowen paused, then thoughtfully took notes.

“Lin Que...”

When she read this name, Shen Qingqiu's voice clearly paused for a second.

A momentary vacuum appeared in the classroom,

followed by the faint sound of fabric rubbing against chair backs,

as dozens of gazes, like iron filings drawn by a magnet, slowly converged on the corner by the window in the back row.

Everyone remembered,

that essay was the “weather report” Lin Que had written in just forty minutes.

Shen Qingqiu picked up the top sheet of paper; it was Lin Que's “listening to snow.”

“Overall, there are no major issues.

The concept, the angle, and the textual tension are all among the best of this batch of submissions.”

Having said this, Shen Qingqiu suddenly changed her tone.

“But there is one minor flaw.”

Lin Que raised an eyebrow, finally pulling his gaze back from outside the window.

“The judges' comment was: ‘The writing style is seasoned and profoundly awakening.’

However, for a high school student, your writing possesses a nearly cruel calmness.

You don't seem to be writing about snow, but rather about a kind of... judgment.”

“In other words...”

Shen Qingqiu paused, her tone becoming complicated.

“Unfeeling.”

When those four characters landed, the classroom fell into complete silence.

Lin Que didn't refute her, merely fiddling lightly with his pen cap.

Perhaps.

After experiencing true hell, when looking at the snow of the mortal world,

it was indeed difficult to write about the joy of “auspicious snow promising a bumper harvest.”

“I'll read a paragraph. Listen closely.”

Shen Qingqiu said nothing more, her gaze fixed on the paper.

She read slowly, as if reciting a heavy judgment.

“The snow of Jiangnan is dead rain. It is a wound that has not yet had time to scab over...”

Her voice carried a chill that seemed to seep into one's bones.

Even though she only excerpted a middle section,

that sense of oppressive weight followed her voice,

gradually suppressing the restlessness in the classroom.

When the last word fell, Shen Qingqiu put down the manuscript.

A full five or six seconds passed,

before an unknown bird outside the window chirped, finally pulling everyone's thoughts back.

Wu Di opened his mouth wide and finally managed to squeeze out a sentence:

“Brother Que... are you writing about snow? I feel like you're writing about fate!”

Although he didn't quite understand terms like the wheel of history or the sense of nihilism.

He just felt cold.

Zhang Ya turned around, her gaze toward Lin Que complex.

She had stayed up late that night, scouring through years of perfect-score essays,

piecing together a florid essay titled “Silent Fatherly Love,” believing she was guaranteed to pass.

But compared to this,

hers was like a beautifully decorated show home—pretty, yes.

But this essay, “listening to snow,” was like a lonely grave on a desolate plain,

standing there, making people want to cry.

“It doesn't follow the typical high school essay structure at all.”

Li Bowen pushed up his glasses and muttered softly.

“This is Lin Que's 'listening to snow.'”

Shen Qingqiu said flatly.

“Writing is not just about recording beauty.

Although I don't advocate for you to adopt this style right now,

you must understand that good writing has weight.”

Lin Que looked at Shen Qingqiu on the podium, feeling somewhat surprised.

“The essays of the three of you will be posted on the back blackboard. Students who want to read them can do so after class.”

Shen Qingqiu handed the three manuscripts to the front row, then looked toward the back.

“Lin Que, step outside for a moment.”

The wind in the corridor was quite strong, stinging their faces.

Shen Qingqiu leaned against the railing, watching the scattered figures on the playground below, not looking at Lin Que:

“When I was reading just now, I saw you kept frowning.

What, are you dissatisfied with your own writing?”

“No.”

Lin Que put his hands in his pockets and shrugged slightly.

“It's just that you read it with too much emotion; it gave me goosebumps.”

Shen Qingqiu was so exasperated she laughed, the “don't be arrogant or impatient” speech she had prepared stuck in her throat.

“Whenever I try to talk serious business with you, you brush me off.”

“The requirements for this preliminary round were not high; basically, everyone without obvious errors passed.

But in the initial contest, it's a real fight, blade against bayonet. There won't be time for you to 'listen to snow.'”

“What if you encounter a rigid topic, and then a rigid reviewer...”

“Got it, Teacher!”

Lin Que interrupted her with a sincere expression.

“I'll try not to send out any knives!”

“You... sigh.”

Shen Qingqiu pointed at him, finally dropping her hand in resignation.

“Alright, go back inside.”

When the two returned to the classroom, the atmosphere had become extremely solidified.

The way the students looked at Lin Que seemed to have changed slightly.

Wu Di held the paper, staring at it for a long time as if it were a talisman,

then suddenly slapped his thigh:

“Brother Que, I get it!

Your line, ‘Snow is dead rain,’ is a universal formula!”

He leaned closer, his face asking for praise:

“Then next time I write ‘Fart,’ can I write,

‘A fart is dead rice’?”

Lin Que's foot slipped, and he almost collapsed to his knees.

“Pfft—”

Li Bowen, who was drinking water in the front row, nearly spat it out.

Immediately afterward, bursts of laughter erupted like thunder, threatening to lift the classroom roof.

The heavy, oppressive atmosphere from moments before,

was instantly shattered by this “philosophy” full of scent.

“Wu Di, you are truly invincible (Wu Di)!”

Lin Que patted his shoulder, his expression sincere.

“The path of literature is too narrow. You should switch lanes,

For example, try stand-up comedy or talk shows. There's no need to cling to this one tree of studying.”

Zhang Ya laughed so hard she couldn't straighten up from her desk,

and even the athlete sleeping in the very back row woke up laughing, asking blankly, “Who farted?”

Lin Que looked at Wu Di's large face, which was clearly inscribed with “I'm serious,”

and his mouth twitched twice.

He reached out, grabbed the half-eaten bag of instant noodles from Wu Di's desk,

and accurately tossed it into the trash can by the back door.

“Besides, dead rice is called shit, not a fart.”

Lin Que was expressionless.

“A fart is, at most, the aggrieved spirit of the rice,

and also, don't tell anyone you know me from now on.”

...