171: Sole winner

On the television screen,

the display for the number of online viewers in the livestream had frozen, with only the like count in the upper-left corner

rapidly ticking upward at a heart-pounding speed, having long since surpassed the one billion mark.

The event director's hands were trembling as he switched between camera feeds; this level of popularity was an unprecedented spectacle compared to any previous year.

Just after the host finished announcing two awards, he suddenly pressed his hand against his earpiece.

In the center of the stage, the host, who was in the middle of his transition lines, suddenly paused.

His expression stiffened visibly, and he instinctively pressed his earpiece,

his brow furrowing slightly as if listening to urgent instructions coming from backstage.

After hearing the instructions, he took a deep breath and gave a slight nod.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have just received an urgent notice from the organizing committee."

The host's voice trembled slightly, yet it carried an irrepressible excitement:

"Given the phenomenal dominance this work has achieved in the literary world,

the organizing committee, after careful deliberation, has decided to break a ten-year tradition of the Moyun Award."

The entire venue fell into a dead silence as everyone held their breath.

"The two major awards for this year, 'Best New Author of the Year' and 'Best New Book of the Year,' will no longer be presented separately."

The host paused, his voice suddenly rising in pitch:

"Because the winner is only one person."

"And that person is—"

The host raised his right hand, and the giant screen behind him lit up in response.

On the screen, light and shadow flowed.

The image froze on a warm grocery store, its mailbox stuffed with the confusion of lost souls.

"He once used a grocery store to heal tens of millions of lonely nights."

...Then, the scene changed abruptly.

The tones shifted from warm to cold: an endless wasteland, howling evil spirits, and that small boat drifting lonely on the River Styx.

"Now, he has shattered the warm illusion of the healing genre, using the grimness of life and death to ferry our souls."

..."With sales exceeding three million in its first week and ranking first in online discussion, it has created a phenomenal literary miracle."

"Jian Shen—'the ferryman'"

The image on the screen froze on those five characters.

The stirring award music exploded instantly, the waves of sound nearly lifting the roof off the dome.

Two dazzling spotlights lit up simultaneously,

converging in the air before slamming down onto the second row of the guest seating area.

There, at the seat marked with the nameplate "Jian Shen."

Beneath the pillars of light, it was completely empty.

There was only a solitary black chair, bathed in the glow of everyone's attention.

The applause had only lasted for two seconds before it cut off awkwardly.

The guests at the scene looked at each other in bewilderment, and the bullet comments in the livestream instantly collapsed into chaos.

"Where is he?"

"Didn't they say 'be there or be square'?"

Just as the questioning voices were about to ferment into anger, a figure moved beside the empty chair.

Wang De'an took a deep breath and straightened the slightly wrinkled hem of his suit jacket.

Amidst the dead silence and questioning gazes, he slowly stood up, his eyes shifting from initial trepidation to gradual determination.

The camera lens zoomed in on him instantly.

In the high-definition footage, Wang De'an's somewhat plump, shiny round face,

along with the fine beads of sweat on his forehead, were magnified countless times.

"Pfft—"

In a high-end apartment in Jin City, a middle-aged director who was drinking tea spat a mouthful of water onto the screen.

He pointed at Wang De'an on the TV and shook his head repeatedly:

"This is Jian Shen? This image... could 'the ferryman' really have been written by him?"

The woman next to him, who was wearing a facial mask, rolled her eyes:

"Are you blind? That's the Editor-in-Chief of New Tide. I've seen him on the financial news."

...On the TV, Wang De'an braved the thousands of questioning gazes from the audience and forced himself onto the awards podium.

He accepted the two heavy crystal trophies, feeling as if he were holding two pieces of scalding hot iron.

"Friends here at the venue and those watching the livestream, there might be a misunderstanding."

Wang De'an wiped the sweat from his forehead and spoke into the microphone, his voice sincere:

"I am not Teacher Jian Shen; I am Wang De'an, the Editor-in-Chief of Xinchao Publishing House.

Teacher Jian Shen was unable to attend for certain reasons and specifically entrusted me to accept this award on his behalf."

"A stir—"

An irrepressible wave of sighs and murmurs rippled through the venue.

The media reporters looked at the man on stage with waning interest.

In the livestream, public opinion took a sharp turn for the worse,

and many internet trolls and keyboard warriors finally caught their chance, flooding the screen with negative comments.

In this era where traffic is king, not showing one's face is an original sin, and not cooperating is seen as arrogance.

Facing the cold reception, Wang De'an did not panic.

He placed the trophies on the lectern and pulled out a sheet of printed paper warmed by his body heat from his pocket.

At this moment, the businessman-like air on his face vanished, and his expression became solemn.

"However, before I came, Teacher Jian Shen gave me a letter."

Wang De'an said in a deep voice:

"He said that since he couldn't be here, I should read this letter he wrote to all of you."

The boos from the audience were cut short as if someone had grabbed their throats, vanishing instantly.

Everyone pricked up their ears.

The venue fell silent.

Wang De'an unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the few lines written on it,

and the opening remarks, which he had polished, came out of his mouth:

"First, I would like to apologize to all the readers who wanted to see me."

The tone was flat, without excessive pleasantries.

This cold opening was very much like the ferryman in the book who controls life and death; an inexplicable sense of pressure enveloped the entire venue.

Immediately after, Wang De'an read the second sentence.

"Words are a symphony of the soul. In this noisy era, it is already a blessing to connect spiritually through the pages of a book.

Since I have chosen to refine my words in the long night, there is no need for me to stand under the spotlight and be scrutinized.

As for red carpets, flowers, and applause, those are for celebrities, not for a writer."

As soon as these words were spoken, the faces of those so-called 'traffic authors' in the audience, who had originally wanted to see a joke, instantly turned red with embarrassment.

The exposure you all fought tooth and nail for was nothing more than passing clouds in his eyes.

Wang De'an took a deep breath, his voice suddenly rising as he read the final sentence.

"If you ask why I did not come, the answer is already in the book—"

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the entire venue, emphasizing every word:

"The one who ferries others does not go ashore."

These words, echoed by the microphone, resonated under the hall's dome for a long time.

The entire venue was silent.

A full three seconds passed.

"Boom—"

Applause erupted like a tsunami.

Countless viewers felt goosebumps all over their bodies.

The direction of the bullet comments in the livestream reversed instantly, and the negative comments were swept away.

"Holy crap! This level of enlightenment!"

"Where are those people who just called Teacher Jian Shen arrogant? Come out and take a few steps. Does your face hurt?"

"This is the true integrity of a man of letters! He doesn't need to rely on his looks to make a living, understand?"

"Those traffic authors should learn what true vision is! Stop thinking about walking red carpets and riding the hype all day!"

On the trending search list, the hashtag #TheOneWhoFerriesOthersDoesNotGoAshore climbed to the top with rocket-like speed.

In front of the television.

Father Lin's eyes welled up with tears as he listened; he took off his reading glasses to wipe the corners of his eyes.

"Good! Well said!"

He turned his head and looked at his son, who was still eating watermelon, and said earnestly:

"Little Que, look at his level of enlightenment! There are so few people nowadays who care so little for fame and fortune; this is how a true scholar should be."

Lin Que swallowed the last bite of watermelon and accurately tossed the rind into the trash can.

He pulled out a tissue to wipe his mouth and nodded with a look of having learned something:

"You're right, Dad. I'll definitely work hard to learn from Teacher Jian Shen and strive to 'go ashore' as soon as possible."

After saying that, he stood up and stretched:

"It's late; I'm going back to my room to sleep."

He closed his door, shutting out the sound of his father's incessant praise in the living room.

The smile on Lin Que's face faded.

He walked to his desk just as his phone screen lit up.

It was a message from his editor, Hong Hu.

[Hong Hu]: Dream Weaver Great Master, have you run into some trouble lately?

Lin Que looked at the screen, his fingertips tapping lightly on the desk.

These past few days, he had been busy with the "Fu Zhi Yao Competition" semi-finals and had to deal with the awards livestream; he had indeed neglected "soul ferry" for a few days.

Hong Hu wasn't just being concerned; she was clearly looking at the stalled update list,

wanting to urge him but not daring to, so she could only beat around the bush to test the waters.

[Mu Xia]: Everything is fine at home.

[Mu Xia]: New chapters are on the way. After midnight, please have them check...