165: Eight hours of fierce battle

Jinling University's campus was as vast as a labyrinth.

As the sun rose higher, the phalanx of thousands silently broke apart at several intersections,

the dense crowd splitting into a dozen smaller streams following the signposts, surging toward every corner of the campus.

The main road, which had been bustling just a moment ago, now held only the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustling of paper.

At a fork in the road, Shen Qingqiu stopped.

She didn't offer any more advice on exam techniques, only reaching out to straighten Zhang Ya's collar,

her gaze lingering briefly on the faces of the three before finally giving Lin Que a slight nod.

"Go on."

The team from Jiangcheng No. 1 High School dispersed.

Zhang Ya headed to the Run Run Shaw Building, while Li Bowen was assigned to the furthest Science and Technology Museum.

Lin Que checked his admission ticket; his destination was the century-old Grand Auditorium next to Shuhua Building.

The further in he walked, the quieter it became.

The Grand Auditorium was a landmark of Jinling University, its red brick walls covered in withered ivy, with massive Roman columns supporting a heavy porch.

Standing under the porch, even before entering, the cool, damp air from inside had already begun to seep out.

He pushed open the heavy solid wood doors.

"Creak—"

The sound was muffled, as if pushing open a sealed chapter of history.

It wasn't as dim inside as he had imagined; instead, it was as bright as day.

The dome was extremely high, and the air was filled with a mixture of aged wood wax, old paper, and an indescribable, solemn scent.

It made one subconsciously want to hold their breath.

Lin Que raised an eyebrow.

This venue choice was quite interesting.

It didn't look like an examination hall; it looked more like a courtroom.

Even more surprising was the interior arrangement.

The rows of red velvet chairs had all been removed,

replaced by hundreds of uniform single desks.

On each desk sat a black portable laptop,

thoughtfully accompanied by a thick stack of answer sheets and two spare pens.

This was leaving a path for both the "keyboard crowd" and the "handwriting crowd."

Lin Que found his seat according to his exam number—Number 107.

Just as he sat down, Lin Que habitually scanned his surroundings, and his brow twitched slightly.

The organizing committee had pulled a clever move.

The boy sitting upright to his left wore a gray school uniform with "Xicheng Senior High School" printed on the chest.

To his right was a girl with a ponytail, wearing a red and white uniform that looked like the style from Hong Kong.

Clearly, the organizing committee had used big data

to completely scatter students from the same school or even the same region.

In this massive formation, everyone was an island.

"Candidates, please place your personal belongings in the designated area. Turn off your mobile phones; all electronic devices must be handed in."

A gentle female voice came over the loudspeaker.

The red countdown on the large screen began to tick, the bright red numbers looking like a bleeding countdown.

There were 15 minutes left until the start of the exam.

"Tap, tap, tap."

Rhythmic footsteps echoed from the side door.

A dozen proctors filed in one after another.

They weren't in casual clothes, but all wore white shirts and black trousers. There were even two roving invigilators wearing body cameras, standing expressionless at the very front and back of the auditorium.

The auditorium, which had been filled with rustling sounds, fell instantly silent; even the sound of coughing was suppressed.

The chief proctor was a gray-haired old man who walked to the front of the stage.

Without using a microphone, his voice resonated powerfully under the vast dome.

"Students."

The old man's gaze was like lightning as he scanned the room.

"I know you are all top students from across the country. Getting over 50 points on an essay is usually as easy as drinking water for you.

But I want to remind you to put away those exam-oriented templates."

"The preliminary round tested your inspiration—to see who could have a flash of genius."

The old man paused, pointed to the large screen behind him, and pressed the remote control at the same time.

"The semi-finals test your depth, your endurance, and whether you can endure the loneliness of hard work!"

"Buzz—"

The screen flashed suddenly.

A line of massive text popped up. It wasn't the prompt, but the time.

[Exam Time: 09:00 — 17:00]

[Total Duration: 8 Hours]

The entire hall broke into an uproar.

"Holy crap?!"

A boy in some corner of the hall couldn't help but blurt out a curse,

his voice exceptionally piercing in the quiet auditorium.

No one laughed at him because everyone's expression was just like his—completely shattered.

Eight hours? Is this an exam?

Usually, a two-and-a-half-hour Chinese exam is enough to make one's hand fall off.

"Quiet down, students!"

The old man barked, continuing:

"You've all seen the exam time. At 12:30 PM, staff will deliver lunch to each of your desks.

Please eat at your seats. Mealtime is included in the exam duration."

Lin Que adjusted his posture, his fingertips lightly tapping the black laptop casing.

No wonder.

A week before the exam, the school had suddenly handed out a form,

surveying all semi-finalists for "dietary restrictions" and "allergens."

At the time, everyone joked that the organizers had found their conscience and were going to treat them to a meal. So, this was the foreshadowing.

This wasn't a treat; this was for fear they'd starve to death in the exam hall.

"Furthermore."

The old man knocked on the desk and dropped the final bombshell.

"In principle, frequent trips to the restroom are not recommended. Each entry and exit requires a security re-check, and the time spent will be your own responsibility."

As soon as these words were spoken, the faces of many below changed instantly.

The boy to the left turned pale and cursed under his breath:

"Damn, if I'd known, I wouldn't have drunk that bottle of milk tea to calm my nerves before coming in."

Eight hours of eating, drinking, and basic needs, all at this tiny desk.

This was a triple-limit pressure test on physical strength, mental capacity, and even the bladder.

Lin Que looked at the exam time on the screen, his mind racing.

An eight-hour duration meant that what they had to write this time was definitely not the mere 1500-word "tofu block" article from the preliminaries.

The "Phoenix Head and Leopard Tail" style, which relied on flowery language and a few quotes from famous people or classics at the beginning and end to get high scores, would be exposed for what it was in the face of such a duration.

This was the pace for writing a short story.

And one with a structure of at least eight thousand words.

For these high school students who were used to prompt-based essays and dancing within the squares of manuscript paper, this was nothing short of an unprecedented battle.

They needed to construct a complete worldview, create solid characters, and lay out a plot with ups and downs in a short period.

If the logic faltered even slightly or inspiration ran dry, the remaining hours would be pure torture.

The surrounding atmospheric pressure was terrifyingly low.

The girl from Hong Kong to his right was already taking deep breaths, her hands shaking so much she couldn't even pull off her pen cap.

A boy in the front row even slumped directly onto his desk, as if he were already exhausted before the exam had even begun.

Lin Que leaned back, his spine pressing against the back of the chair.

This kind of enclosed, high-pressure, long-duration extreme creative environment was torture for others,

but for a keyboard user like him who was used to typing words late at night,

eight hours, an enclosed space, and absolute silence...

it was simply... paradise.

He could recklessly construct a dream.

"One-minute countdown."

The chief proctor's voice rang out again.

"All candidates, check your computers, check your equipment, and open your documents."

Lin Que reached out and flipped open the laptop in front of him.

The screen lit up, its ghostly blue light reflecting on his calm face.

His fingertips lightly touched the membrane keyboard; it was a bit stiff, but the tactile feedback was strong.

It was enough.

"Final ten seconds."

The red numbers on the screen began to jump frantically.

10, 9, 8... Hundreds of candidates in the hall held their breath simultaneously.

Hundreds of eyes stared fixedly at the large screen, waiting for the prompt that was about to decide their fate.

The air was as taut as a fully drawn bowstring.

3, 2, 1.

"Ding!"

A crisp electronic chime sounded.

The red countdown on the screen faded away.

Then,

two images with extreme color contrast and no apparent connection

slowly emerged...