181: You've also become a boring adult.

In June, the air in Jiangcheng clung stickily to the skin.

At Xisheng Mansion, the central air conditioning kept the temperature at the most comfortable level.

On the dining table, a clay pot of steaming "Zhuangyuan Jidi Porridge" was bubbling away.

Pork liver, chitterlings, and meatballs tumbled in the rice oil, their aroma aggressively invading the nostrils.

Lin Jianguo, wearing an apron and holding a ladle,

looked at his son, who was slowly and methodically eating the porridge, with a complex expression.

It was currently 9:30 AM.

Normally, at this hour, a high school sophomore would be buried in a sea of practice problems, timing even their bathroom breaks with a stopwatch.

But his son was just fine, wearing pajamas,

sitting with his legs crossed, and even casually peeling a salted duck egg.

"Um... son."

Lin Jianguo gripped and released the rag in his hand several times before finally being unable to hold back.

"Even though the leaders gave you that 'freedom' thing, it's almost ten o'clock. Shouldn't we... glance at some books for a bit?"

Wang Xiulian brought out a plate of sliced cantaloupe from the kitchen and shot her husband a glare:

"What do you know? This is called balancing work and rest."

"The leaders said to let Little Que set his own pace."

"Besides, that's the only premium selection in the entire province. Do you think they're as common as cabbages?"

Although she defended him verbally, when Wang Xiulian set the plate down,

her eyes couldn't help but glance several times at Lin Que's empty schoolbag.

That was the reverence for the College Entrance Examination etched into the bones of Chinese parents.

Even if their son held a "get out of jail free card,"

as long as they hadn't seen the admission letter, their hearts would always be in their throats.

Lin Que swallowed the soft pork liver, took a tissue to wipe his mouth, and looked at his parents with a smile.

"Dad, Mom, don't worry."

He pointed to his head.

"The books are all stored in here."

"If I go to school now, I won't be able to listen to what the teachers are saying anyway; it would just disrupt my train of thought."

"It's better to find a quiet place to polish the last bit of inspiration for the finals."

As soon as Lin Jianguo heard the word "inspiration," he immediately went quiet.

In his eyes, his son's brain was now a national-level protected relic, not something he should meddle with.

"Fine, fine, fine. Then you polish it, polish it well!"

Lin Jianguo untied his apron.

"What do you want for lunch? Dad will go buy some... deep-sea fish oil too, to nourish your brain."

"Anything is fine."

Lin Que changed his clothes, picked up the schoolbag that actually contained a laptop,

and under his parents' proud yet worried gazes, he pushed open the door and left... On the way to SOHO Future City, there weren't many people.

Lin Que found a corner to sit in, and the phone in his pocket vibrated.

Opening WeChat, Fugitive Beethoven had sent a picture.

The background of the photo was the backstage of the Vienna Golden Hall, dim yet sophisticated.

Ye Xi was wearing a black backless gown, sitting in front of a Steinway grand piano.

She tilted her head slightly, her swan-like neck long and graceful.

The lines of her profile were as cold and elegant as a finely carved jade statue.

That innate sense of nobility and detachment could almost freeze someone through the screen.

This was the genius piano girl in the eyes of the world, a rising star about to take the global stage.

Immediately after, a voice message popped up, breaking this cold elegance.

"I'm exhausted! This dress for the rehearsal is so tight I can't breathe, and I have to keep up appearances and fake a smile. Does my fake smile look standard to you?"

Her voice was soft and sweet, with a hint of coquettish complaining, making her seem like a completely different person from the cold goddess in the photo.

Lin Que looked at the text on the screen, his fingertips tapping twice on the edge of the phone, a mischievous look creeping into his eyes.

[Mu Xia]: I don't know if your fake smile passes, but the lines of your back are certainly more lethal than your piano music.

The other side was silent for two seconds, then sent a string of angry emojis.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: [Bonk] [Bonk] [Bonk] This young lady is sacrificing herself for art!

[Fugitive Beethoven]: I heard you've joined the privileged class now? How does it feel not having to go to jail in a classroom?

[Mu Xia]: It's alright. Just don't have to smell chalk dust or listen to the homeroom teacher's roaring.

The top of the chat box showed "The other party is typing."

After a while, a line of text popped up.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: Lin Que, you trick tears onto paper, and I trick applause on stage. I'm tired of the view from halfway up the mountain.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: That highest position—remember to save a seat for me.

These lines popped up, carrying a young girl's unique charm and ambition, piercing through the screen and accurately tickling Lin Que's heart.

The highest position.

This was probably between two people who, at this age, bore talent and pressure unimaginable to ordinary people,

the most arrogant and tacit secret signal.

[Mu Xia]: Don't worry, your seat isn't just at the highest point, it's a VIP seat... Arriving at the studio, he drew the curtains, and the world instantly became quiet.

Lin Que turned on his computer and logged into his email.

An email from Xinchao Magazine Agency Editor-in-Chief Wang Dean was already sitting in his inbox, the subject line in bold red font:

[Teacher Jian Shen! The fifth edition illustrations for the little prince, please take a look!]

Ever since Lin Que sent over the manuscript for the little prince, Wang De'an had been acting as if he'd been injected with stimulants.

To match this "fairy tale for adults,"

he spared no expense to hire the top oil painting master team in the country, vowing to create a work of art.

Lin Que clicked on the attachment.

The first image was Planet B612.

The image was extremely exquisite, with lighting and shadows rendered like a Hollywood sci-fi blockbuster.

The texture of the craters on the planet's surface was clearly visible, and the rose was painted so vividly that the dewdrops on every petal had a crystal-clear quality.

The second one was the pilot's crash landing in the desert.

Yellow sand filled the sky, the metal wreckage of the plane glinted coldly, the composition was grand, and the technique was impeccable.

If placed in an art exhibition, this would definitely be a masterpiece.

Staring at those illustrations that were as exquisite as photographs,

Lin Que's fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, the rhythm getting faster and faster.

It was too full.

The images were stuffed with technique and perspective, leaving no room for imagination.

He didn't hesitate and clicked reply directly, typing two words:

[Sorry, rejected.]

Less than ten seconds after the email was sent, the phone on the desk exploded with activity.

On the other end of the line, Wang De'an's voice carried an irrepressible anxiety and confusion:

"Teacher Jian Shen, this is already the fifth version of the proposal from the art academy professors. If it's a matter of detail, we can change it, but a direct rejection... isn't that too harsh?"

Even over the phone, Lin Que could imagine Wang De'an scratching his head and questioning his life.

"Editor-in-Chief Wang."

Lin Que leaned back in his chair and lowered his voice.

"It's not that they're poorly painted; it's that they're painted too well."

"Huh?"

Wang De'an was bewildered.

"Too well... is also bad?"

"the little prince doesn't need a display of skill. It doesn't need to tell the reader that this is a rose or this is a planet."

Lin Que casually picked up the graphics tablet by the desk.

"Imagination needs white space. When you paint everything so realistically, there's no place for the readers' dreams."

"Then... then what do you mean?"

"Give me two minutes."

Lin Que hung up the phone.

He pulled out the stylus and created a new blank canvas.

He didn't use any complex brushes, choosing only the simplest black lines.

Relying on the memory of the original work in his mind, his wrist moved lightly.

A few crooked lines appeared on the screen.

A brown, hat-like object.

Save, send... Xinchao Magazine Agency.

Wang De'an stared at the image he had just received on the screen, his eyes nearly popping out.

What's this?

Isn't this just a hat?

The lines were even a bit shaky, looking like a casual doodle by a kindergartner.

This was the "white space" Teacher Jian Shen mentioned? This was way too white!

He tremblingly typed a reply:

[Teacher, did you... draw a hat?]

A few seconds later, a reply popped up on the screen.

[Jian Shen: Editor-in-Chief Wang, you see, you've become a boring adult too.]

Looking at this line, Wang De'an's heart suddenly skipped a beat.

Immediately after, a second image was sent over.

It was the same outline, but this time it was a cross-section view.

Inside the object that originally looked like a hat, an elephant that had been swallowed was drawn.

Below it was a line of text:

[This is not a hat; this is a boa constrictor digesting an elephant.]

Boom—

Wang De'an stared at the screen, the fingers holding the mouse suddenly freezing.

He looked at the two comparison images and the sentence "You've become a boring adult too,"

and a strong electric current surged up his spine straight to the crown of his head.

He remembered the first chapter of the manuscript.

He remembered the child who took the "boa constrictor swallowing an elephant" drawing and asked adults if they were afraid,

only to be told by the adults that there was nothing scary about a hat.

So that's how it is... So that's how it is!

His first reaction just now was actually identical to the adults being satirized in the book!

Looking only at appearances and conventional concepts, but losing the ability to see the essence through the surface.

If the illustrations used those exquisite oil paintings, it would be stifling the readers' imagination,

turning this book into a vulgar picture album.

Only these naive, even somewhat clumsy lines were worthy of the little prince's pure heart.

Wang De'an took off his glasses and rubbed his stinging nose hard.

This Teacher Jian Shen was not just writing a book; he was teaching this group of worldly people how to become children again.

[Wang De'an: Teacher, I understand. All the previous illustrations are scrapped.

We will use this style. Because this is what the little prince is.]

...SOHO Studio.

Lin Que looked at Wang De'an's reply and closed his graphics tablet with satisfaction.

The matter of the little prince was settled.

Next, it was time for another major event.

He turned around; against a black background, a deep blue cursor was blinking.

That was the battlefield belonging to the Dream Weaver.

Since this summer was destined to be sweltering, let this fire burn even brighter.

soul ferry had been serialized until now, covering humanity, greed, life, and death.

Readers trembled in fear and reflected in tears.

But it wasn't enough.

It still lacked a true climax that ran through the entire story.

It still lacked the ferryman who always wore a black trench coat, drove a big Jeep, and seemed cynical but actually carried a thousand years of loneliness:

Zhao Li.

His story.

Lin Que leaned back, not in a hurry to tap the keyboard.

The room was very quiet, so quiet that the faint hum of the computer's fan could be heard.

His gaze pierced through the monitor,

as if seeing the heavy snow from a thousand years ago, seeing the zither named "zao yue,"

and the man who turned himself into a lonely ghost just to keep a pair of eyes.

This time, it had nothing to do with horror, only fate.

That Zhao Li, who was always joking around and acting out of line, should finally take off his mask.

The sound of keyboard typing echoed in the quiet room like a dense drumbeat.

On the screen, four characters slowly emerged, carrying an aura of tragic beauty and determination:

[peerless elegance]

...["Do you want to become a Buddha, or a demon?"]

["I don't want to become a Buddha, nor a demon."]

["Then what do you want?"]

["I want... to live well!"]

When Lin Que typed these lines of dialogue, the sunlight outside the window happened to pierce through the clouds and shine on his face.

But in the depths of his eyes was an unfathomable desolation.

"Get your tissues ready."

Lin Que whispered to himself.

"This cut will hurt a lot."

Click, publish.

[Final Chapter: peerless elegance]

...