183: Only by standing at the highest point can a voice travel further.

Beijing, Fragrant Hills Villa.

The cigar in Director Director Guo Changhe's hand had already burned down to his fingers, but he was completely oblivious.

The tablet screen was frozen on the illustration of "Wuming playing the zither in the snow."

He stared intently at that piercing red and white on the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing with difficulty.

Previously, when he watched soul ferry, he focused on the horror of the story and the analysis of human nature.

But after finishing this chapter, "peerless elegance," what he saw was top-tier Eastern aesthetics!

Red kasayas, white snow, an ancient zither, and a mournful ghost messenger.

This clash of colors, this cycle of fate!

He wasn't just seeing a story; he was seeing cinematic language.

That extreme red and white, that compassion born amidst slaughter—it was Eastern aesthetics practically made for the big screen.

"How is this just a web novel..."

Director Guo Changhe muttered to himself, his fingers framing a shot in the air.

"It's crushing Buddha-nature and ghostly aura into pieces and feeding them to the audience."

He didn't hesitate any longer and directly pressed the number saved as "Copyright Department"... Meanwhile, Jiangcheng SOHO Future City.

After hanging up the phone with Ye Xi, Lin Que didn't leave immediately.

His fingertips tapped lightly on the desk, his gaze falling back onto the computer screen in front of him.

The email icon was bouncing in the bottom right corner.

The sender was still Wang De'an.

Less than two hours had passed since the previous email with the sketch of "the hat swallowing an elephant."

This helmsman of Xinchao Publishing House had clearly pushed the art team to their limits, or perhaps... he too had found a long-lost excitement in this gamble regarding "childlike innocence."

Lin Que clicked on the email.

There were no lengthy pleasantries; three new drafts lay quietly in the attachment.

The first one was that famous "box."

There were no fine textures or flashy lighting effects in the image.

Only a few black lines outlining a rectangular box.

Even the three air holes on the box were drawn a bit crookedly, exuding a sense of clumsy innocence.

But next to the box was a line of small, handwritten pencil words:

[The sheep you want is inside.]

The second one was the sunset on Planet B612.

The originally grand cosmic background had been completely wiped away, leaving only a tiny chair,

and a lonely silhouette drawn with simple lines.

He faced a sun represented only by a pale yellow circle.

Negative space.

Vast amounts of negative space.

That sense of loneliness didn't need to be filled with deep black.

With just this large expanse of blankness, the reader's heart would automatically fill it in.

The third one was that fox.

It didn't have fluffy fur or a cunning gaze; it just sat there like a symbol waiting to be tamed.

Looking at these three images, the corners of Lin Que's mouth, which had been tense all night, finally relaxed.

That's it.

This was the feeling he wanted.

In this world of barren entertainment, where people were used to filling their brains with high-definition special effects and precise logic,

these "crude" lines were instead the most extravagant luxury.

It handed the right of interpretation back to the reader.

Lin Que's fingers tapped lightly on the keyboard as he replied with four words:

[Hard work. Finalized.]

Less than ten seconds after the message was sent, Wang De'an's call came through.

This time, the Editor-in-Chief's voice lacked the previous anxiety and doubt.

It was replaced by an excitement that was almost trembling.

"Teacher Jian Shen, we finally did it!"

In the background, the sounds of others in the office cheering could be heard:

"I just spoke on the phone with that old professor from the Academy of Fine Arts. After seeing these images, the old man was silent for five minutes before finally saying 'returning to simplicity.'

He said he's painted oil paintings his whole life, but in the end, he almost forgot how to paint like a child."

Lin Que toyed with the marker in his hand, looking at the complex neon lights outside the window, and said softly:

"Editor-in-Chief Wang, only the world is complex. In a child's eyes, things often consist of only a few lines."

"The Great Way is simple. I completely understand that now!"

Wang De'an's tone was hurried:

"Since it's finalized, I'll arrange the layout immediately.

I've already notified the printing factory; they'll be working around the clock. Also..."

The sound of rustling paper came from the other end of the phone.

"Regarding promotion, I plan to release the preview across all platforms at eight tomorrow morning."

Wang De'an paused, his tone becoming extremely aggressive.

"No synopsis, no book reviews. Just the comparison image of the boa constrictor swallowing the elephant and the hat.

I've even thought of the copy; we'll use that line from your book."

"'Only children know what they are looking for.'"

Lin Que raised an eyebrow.

It had to be said, Wang De'an was a top-tier businessman.

He understood too well how to grasp the pain points of modern readers.

In this society where everyone was anxious and pretending to be mature,

this sentence was a sugar-coated bullet that could hit the dead child in every adult's heart with one shot.

He hung up the phone.

Lin Que replied:

[Jian Shen: Awaiting the good news on the publication. This time, we aren't selling books; we're selling 'dreams.']

Lin Que closed his laptop.

There was a soft "click."

The screen went dark, the faint blue light disappeared, and the room was once again enveloped by the dim yellow light of the floor lamp.

Lin Que stretched, his spine letting out a series of crisp cracks.

soul ferry was finished, and the publication of the little prince was on the right track.

As the "Hell Dream Weaver" and "Jian Shen," he had already turned in the most perfect answer sheet for this stage.

Next... Lin Que stood up and walked to the calendar on the wall.

It was an old-fashioned wall calendar left by the previous tenant of the SOHO Studio, the paper slightly yellowed.

On the June page, the dates of the last week were heavily circled with a red marker.

Beside them, five words were written so forcefully they seemed to penetrate the paper:

[Fu Zhi Yao Competition · Beijing].

That was Lin Que's battlefield.

It was also the necessary path for him to reach the country's top academic institution and gain a greater voice.

"Time is running out."

Lin Que muttered softly to himself.

Although he had the experience of two lifetimes,

and that vast library in his mind, he was facing the country's top geniuses this time.

That "Qinglan Project" and the direct admission spots for the Qingbei School of Literature,

were like carrots hanging over everyone's heads, enough to make these favored children of heaven fight tooth and nail.

Lin Que turned his swivel chair to face the wooden bookshelf in the corner.

Several shelves had large empty spaces, with only two books standing lonely on the bottom shelf.

In the dim yellow glow of the floor lamp, they looked a bit thin.

On the far left was the hardcover edition of The Miracles of the Namiya General Store.

The milk box on the cover shimmered with a warm luster under the light.

Beside it was the ferryman, which had just hit the market and was selling out across the web.

On the black cover, the ferryman punted a boat, moving lonely across the wasteland.

Lin Que reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing over the spines.

The touch was cold, yet incredibly heavy.

In less than a year.

He had gone from an obscure high school student to the behind-the-scenes hand stirring the literary world.

He brought Keigo Higashino's warmth to this indifferent city, spread Claire McFall's redemption to lost readers,

and used the Dream Weaver's pen to nail those horrifying fables about human nature, greed, and life and death into people's minds.

Looking at the young reflection in the glass, Lin Que felt a bit dazed.

In this world of only physical laws and precise gears,

he had to carefully guard that faint spark to prevent it from going out, while also finding a way to let it grow into a prairie fire.

He looked at the huge gaps on the bookshelf.

Compared to the library in his mind, filled with the crystallized wisdom of thousands of years of human history,

these two books were practically nothing.

Those brilliant names, those words that could make one's soul tremble,

still lay quietly in the depths of his memory, waiting to be awakened.

"A long way to go."

Lin Que withdrew his hand, the sentimentality in his eyes fading.

Take one bite at a time, walk one step at a time.

For now, he had to win this battle in Beijing beautifully.

Only by standing at the highest point can your voice travel further...