170: The old scholar is only seventeen this year.

Shanghai, International Convention Center.

Tonight, both sides of the Huangpu River seemed to have made way for this grand ceremony.

As the most powerful rising literary award in the country in recent years,

the prestige of the "Moyun Award" was pushed to the limit.

The red carpet stretched for a hundred meters, and the camera flashes merged into a sheet of daylight,

while media outlets of all kinds set up their cameras and lenses so densely that not even a gust of wind could pass through.

In the online livestream room, the number in the "online viewers" column...

...was jumping frantically at a heart-stopping speed.

It finally settled at 990,000+, and likes were increasing by millions every second.

The bullet chat scrolled so fast it looked like a waterfall; blink and you'd miss dozens of messages.

[Is that chair for Great Master Jian Shen? Is he planning to use this to protest the organizers not reimbursing his travel expenses?]

[Betting fifty cents that Jian Shen is definitely a socially anxious shut-in!]

[Don't go, person above... someone who can write those words might just be a bald uncle who has seen through the vanity of the world.]

[Who cares who he is! Am I here to look at his face? I'm here to worship!]

The camera panned over the guest seats.

The front row was filled with rising stars of the literary world and nominated authors, all sitting upright and maintaining polite smiles for the camera.

However, the director was extremely savvy; every few seconds,

the camera would strangely cut to that seat in the middle of the second row.

There was an empty chair there.

On the back of the chair was a gold-stamped nameplate on a black background—[Jian Shen].

Right next to this empty seat, Wang De'an, the Editor-in-Chief of New Tide Press, was experiencing the most agonizing moment of his life.

Even though the air conditioning was on full blast, the shirt inside his expensive haute couture suit was already stuck to his back.

He sat with his hands folded on his knees, seemingly as steady as Mount Tai, but in reality, his palms were covered in sweat.

In the past, if he could sit in a position like this,

and be watched by tens of millions of people across the internet, Wang De'an would have woken up laughing from his dreams.

But today, he felt like he was carrying a bomb.

Wang De'an subconsciously pressed the inner pocket of his suit.

There, tucked against him, was a folded piece of printed paper.

"Editor-in-Chief Wang, is Teacher Jian Shen really not coming this time?"

The Vice President of Shanghai Liangwen Publishing House leaned in, his tone sounding a bit sour.

Wang De'an nodded, not saying much.

"Teacher Jian Shen is truly low-key, not even attending the awards ceremony?"

Wang De'an glanced at him, didn't bite, and simply straightened his back a bit more.

Low-key?

In a moment, you'll know what low-key really means... The camera shifted, cutting away from the glittering scene.

Jiang City, Xisheng Mansion.

The wall-mounted air conditioner in the living room was humming and blowing cold air, while the TV screen was broadcasting the grand event in Shanghai,

where the 8K high-definition picture showed every pore on the scene with absolute clarity.

Sunflower seed shells were piled messily on the coffee table.

Lin Que was curled up on the sofa without any sense of decorum,

wearing a grey cotton pajama set with a cartoon pattern, one foot resting on the edge of the coffee table,

holding half a chilled watermelon in his arms and happily digging into it with a stainless steel spoon.

If no one told you,

who could associate this high school student spitting out watermelon seeds with the "Jian Shen" who tens of millions of people in Shanghai were eagerly awaiting?

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, this scene is truly grand."

Lin Jianguo was holding a thermos with goji berries soaking inside,

with reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, leaning forward as if he wanted to dive into the TV.

He pointed at the guest seats that the camera had just panned over and began his "expert analysis" with a serious face.

"Son, do you see that empty seat? That's Jian Shen's spot."

"Looks like he hasn't arrived yet."

Lin Jianguo took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and spoke with a certainty as if he had just finished tea with Jian Shen:

"Let me tell you, someone like Jian Shen who can write a book like 'the ferryman,' with that kind of insight into life and death, is definitely at the level of a scholar. As for his age..."

Lin Jianguo made a gesture for the number six and gave a look that suggested he saw through everything:

"At least sixty and up! That kind of understanding of life and death can't be written without the experience of having one foot in the grave.

Maybe he's some retired old scholar from Peking University or University!"

Lin Que, who was busy eating the watermelon, almost choked.

He suppressed his cough, his face turning a bit red, and used a tissue to wipe his mouth, hiding the wildly upward-curving arc of his lips.

An old scholar over sixty?

Dad, your son is only seventeen this year.

"What's wrong? Did you choke?"

Wang Xiulian came out of the kitchen carrying a plate of sliced cantaloupe and glared at Lin Que.

"How can you choke just by eating watermelon? You're so old now."

She set the plate on the coffee table and sat down beside him, her gaze also falling on the TV.

"Is this that awards ceremony? Oh, then we must watch it carefully."

Wang Xiulian turned her head:

"Little Que, you should also watch closely and learn.

Watching programs with masters like this and getting some cultural immersion will definitely benefit your future essay writing."

Lin Que: "..."

This was probably the legendary "darkness under the lamp."

Lin Que put down his spoon and sat up straight,

putting on an extremely sincere and humble expression, as if he were taking the lesson to heart.

"Mom, you're absolutely right. I'll definitely immerse myself well."

He nodded with extreme seriousness.

"That's the spirit. You need a proper attitude."

Lin Que picked up his spoon again and lowered his head to dig into the watermelon.

The moment he lowered his head, the smile in his eyes could no longer be hidden, rippling out like waves... Back at the scene in Shanghai.

The awards ceremony was halfway through.

Most of the previous awards were things like "Annual Best Children's Literature" or "Annual Best Popular Science Book,"

and while the winners were also leaders in their fields, in tonight's special atmosphere, they were clearly just appetizers before the main course.

The bullet chat in the livestream room was already becoming restless.

[Hurry up, hurry up! We want to see Jian Shen!]

[That uncle who just accepted the award has been giving his thank-you speech for almost ten minutes. Can we fast forward?!]

[Where is Jian Shen? Why aren't they showing Teacher Jian Shen?]

The host clearly understood the traffic secret code.

After every award, during the transitions, they would intentionally or unintentionally mention Jian Shen.

Mentioning how sales exceeded three million in just one week,

and how he created a miracle in the publishing industry... Every time he was mentioned, the cheers from the audience rose by another decibel.

The anticipation was like a fully drawn bowstring, pulled tight.

Wang De'an sat below the stage, listening to the winners' monotonous speeches—

"—'Thank you to the Mòyùn committee, thank you to the publisher, thank you to the readers, thank you to my family...'"

Boring.

Truly boring.

He used to think these were proper and followed protocol.

But ever since reading the email Lin Que sent, hearing these steady and formal platitudes,

was like someone used to strong liquor suddenly drinking plain water; it was incredibly bland.

He touched the paper in his pocket, his fingertips even feeling the texture of the paper.

He knew that once these words were read aloud, the nature of tonight's awards ceremony would change.

It would no longer be a mutual-praise commendation meeting.

It would be a baptism.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen!"

On stage, as a stirring electronic drum beat faded, the lights in the entire venue suddenly dimmed.

Only a single spotlight remained, spinning wildly in the center of the stage,

before finally settling on the golden envelope in the host's hand.

The host paused for two seconds, not raising his voice as before,

but instead lowering it.

"Next, we are going to present the two most anticipated and prestigious awards of the night—"

"Annual Best Rising Author!"

"And, Annual Best Rising Book!"

...