178: The essential things are invisible to the eye.

Xisheng Mansion.

The television was playing the evening news, the articulate broadcasting voice serving as background noise.

The spread on the table was lavish; the braised hairtail was glossy and bright, a signature dish of Lin Jianguo.

Lin Que held his bowl, seemingly nonchalantly picking up a piece of green vegetable with his chopsticks.

On this ordinary Tuesday evening, he casually dropped a nuclear bomb of staggering proportions.

"Dad, Mom, the rewards for the 'Fu Zhi Yao Competition' finals have been decided."

Lin Jianguo was just picking up a trembling piece of hairtail:

"Is that so? A reward for a national final should at least add a few dozen points to the College Entrance Exam, right?"

Lin Que swallowed the vegetable, his tone flat:

"The top ten will be directly admitted to the School of Liberal Arts at Tsinghua and Peking University. No need for the College Entrance Exam."

The air froze.

Lin Jianguo's hand, holding the hairtail, trembled.

The tenderly cooked fish broke into two; one half fell back into the plate, splashing a few drops of sauce.

He didn't care at all about the ruined appearance of this perfect piece of fish belly.

He simply held that posture, staring blankly at his son, his Adam's apple bobbing several times.

"What?"

Lin Jianguo braced his hands against the edge of the table:

"No College Entrance Exam? Direct admission to Tsinghua and Peking University?"

In his understanding, the College Entrance Exam was like thousands of troops crossing a single-log bridge.

And Tsinghua and Peking University were the top institutions in China.

Direct admission? To the very pinnacle of China's academic pyramid?

This sounded more magical and unreal than winning the lottery jackpot.

"Yes, the official document has already been released."

Lin Que pulled out a tissue and picked up the fallen piece of braised hairtail.

"As long as you're in the top ten, the admission letter will be sent straight to our home."

"Clang."

The soup spoon in Wang Xiulian's hand slipped into the porcelain bowl, the crisp clatter breaking the dead silence.

She didn't scream or speak; her eyes simply turned red at a visible speed.

Suddenly, she pressed her palms together, eyes closed, muttering toward the ceiling.

Her expression was so pious it seemed as if she would invite an idol of the wenqu star into their home the next second.

Watching this, the sense of superiority Lin Que felt from being in control dissipated, and his nose felt a bit prickly.

To him, with his dual identity, Tsinghua and Peking University were just a larger stage.

But for this ordinary couple, it was a ladder to change their fate, the greatest glory of their lives.

"The exam hasn't happened yet; it's just an opportunity."

Lin Que placed a serving of food into each of his parents' bowls.

"Let's eat. The hairtail will get fishy once it's cold."

"Eat! Let's eat!"

Lin Jianguo wiped his face haphazardly, his hands shaking so much he couldn't even hold his chopsticks steadily, yet the wrinkles on his face bloomed into a wide smile.

"Dad outdid himself with this fish tonight! Son, eat more, it's good for the brain!"

...After soothing his parents, who were so excited they wanted to go to a temple to burn incense overnight,

Lin Que retreated to his studio in SOHO Future City.

The heavy curtains were drawn, shutting out the city's clamor.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, pulled the curtains, and turned on the computer at his workstation.

His phone vibrated.

The screen lit up with a message from "Fugitive Beethoven."

[Fugitive Beethoven]: [Image]

The photo showed a fair hand covered in medical tape, the fingers slightly red, clearly from just finishing a high-intensity practice session.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: My hand is about to break... Sister Yang has gone crazy; she added three hours to my practice load.

I want to eat that pork rind noodle soup from the other day, I want to drink Coke, I want to just lie down... [Wailing] [Wailing]

Lin Que stared at the hand covered in tape on the screen, his fingers lightly stroking the edge of his phone.

The coldness in his eyes dissipated, replaced by a trace of playfulness characteristic of a young man.

That noble and cold piano princess on stage was actually just a little girl who would complain about being tired and want to slack off in private.

[Mu Xia]: The current pain is so you can eat noodles even more arrogantly in the future. Keep it up, pianist. [Pat on the head]

After replying, Lin Que tossed his phone aside.

The computer screen lit up, casting a faint blue glow on his face.

His QQ chat was still stuck on yesterday's records.

The editor, Hong Hu, had sent a string of exclamation marks.

[Hong Hu]: Great Master!!! The stats for this chapter of "Ghost Market" have exploded again!

[Hong Hu]: The satirical power is incredible. Everyone online is discussing which artist that "shadow-selling" performer is actually implying.

By the way, the royalty details for last month... See for yourself, it's definitely a surprise!

Lin Que glanced at the number.

It was indeed a huge sum, enough to pay in full for a luxury apartment in the center of Jiang City.

His expression didn't change.

He casually closed the window. This money was merely enough to buy an entry ticket for his future plans... He moved the mouse and clicked on his email, the dedicated channel for Xinchao Magazine Agency.

There was only one unread email, from: Wang De'an.

Opening the email, the fanatical emotion between the lines practically overflowed from the screen.

[Wang De'an]: Teacher Jian Shen, it's crazy! Utterly crazy!

Ever since your quote "the ferryman does not go ashore" was read at the awards ceremony, our magazine agency's phone lines have been ringing off the hook!

Bookstores across the country are clamoring for stock, and the printing factory's machines can't keep up even running non-stop!

[Word is spreading outside that you are a contemporary hermit, the last pure stream in the literary world.

With such prestige, even winners of long-established awards have to avoid your brilliance.]

[Everyone is frantically asking, when will Teacher Jian Shen's new book be released?]

Lin Que looked at these words, his fingers lightly tapping the desk.

The timing was right.

At a time like this, releasing "the ferryman 2" would certainly be very profitable, but that would be too cliché.

Since he had established the persona of a "hermit" and a "master," he had to produce something that people wouldn't quite understand but would be deeply shocked by.

He opened a folder and found the document he had prepared long ago.

Drag, drop, upload attachment.

In the reply box, he typed a few lines.

[Jian Shen]: Editor-in-Chief Wang, sorry for the wait.

[The new book "the little prince" is ready. It's not long, just over thirty thousand words.]

[This isn't a fairy tale written for children; it's a book written for adults when they were still children.]

Click send... Jiang City, Xinchao Magazine Agency.

It was already 11:00 PM, but the Editor-in-Chief's office was still brightly lit.

Wang De'an stared at the newly received email on the screen, his brow furrowing instantly.

"the little prince?"

He muttered to himself, his heart skipping a beat.

A thirty-thousand-word... fairy tale?

Having just finished the profound and grand "the ferryman" about life, death, and redemption, he suddenly turned to write a short fairy tale?

Wasn't this leap a bit too large?

You have to understand, the readers' appetites have been whetted.

What everyone wants to see is deeper human nature and a grander worldview.

Throwing out a fairy tale now might lead to being labeled as "at his wits' end" or even seen as a cash-grab work.

Wang De'an sighed softly.

Although he was apprehensive, out of trust for the "Jian Shen" brand, he still clicked on the attachment.

The document opened.

Chapter One.

["Please... draw me a sheep."]

Wang De'an's brow furrowed even tighter.

His finger scrolling the mouse hesitated as words jumped on the screen:

Boa constrictors, elephants, roses.

These childish images made him subconsciously reach for the cigarette pack on his desk.

If the sender column hadn't said "Jian Shen," this manuscript would already be lying in the wastebasket.

Wang De'an lit a cigarette and took a puff.

"This time... it's looking dicey."

He patiently continued reading, purely wanting to find a reason...

...to tactfully advise this Great Master later on whether he could change the subject matter.

However.

As smoke curled and the mouse wheel scrolled down.

The office grew so quiet that only the soft clicking of the mouse wheel remained.

Wang De'an's body, which had been leaning back in his executive chair, had leaned forward at some point, his whole person almost pressed against the monitor.

His gaze was fixed firmly on the screen, his breathing becoming lighter and lighter.

When he read about the fox waiting to be tamed speaking that secret to the little prince:

["It is only with the heart that one can see rightly."]

["What is essential is invisible to the eye."]

A burning sting from his fingertips brought Wang De'an back to his senses.

A long trail of ash had already fallen onto the expensive mahogany desk, and the cigarette butt was nearly burning his fingers.

But he didn't care to shake his hand, hurriedly stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray full of butts.

He couldn't bear to look away from the screen for even a second.

How was this a fairy tale?

Using the most childish language and the most innocent perspective,

It laid bare the adult world—full of utility, numbers, vanity, and numbness—in a bloody display!

That businessman who was too busy counting stars,

That man who wore a hat for vanity, that lamplighter who kept lighting and extinguishing the lamp... Isn't that us right now?

The screen's light reflected on Wang De'an's slightly oily face.

He took off his glasses and tiredly rubbed the space between his eyebrows.

A long-lost sourness welled up in his nose, not for any specific tragedy,

But for himself, who once had a rose but now had nothing left but numbers and reports.

"A masterpiece..."

Wang De'an's voice was hoarse as he spoke those two words to the empty office.

"This is absolutely a masterpiece!"

The impact of this book was definitely not inferior to "the ferryman."

In fact, because it was cloaked in the guise of a fairy tale, the stinging sensation was even more bone-deep.

It would become the bedside bible for all adults.

Wang De'an unfastened the button at his shirt collar that was choking him,

Picked up the long-cold tea and took a large gulp.

His hands hovered over the keyboard for half a second, then his fingertips fell like raindrops.

[Wang De'an]: Teacher Jian Shen, I take back my momentary shallowness and doubt.

This book, New Tide will still publish with the highest specifications. This first printing... two million copies!

Besides, there's another piece of good news.]

As he wrote this, a smug smile appeared at the corner of Wang De'an's mouth.

This was a grand gift he had specially prepared to retain this Great Master.

It was also a response to Lin Que's previous strict requirement that "translations must have an Eastern charm."

[Regarding the overseas translation of "the ferryman," we've found a candidate.]

...