200: A warning of Sanity plummeting

The taxi came to a slow stop at the entrance of the Xidan Books Building.

Lin Que scanned the QR code to pay and got out, met with a wave of sweltering heat and noise.

As the capital's largest cultural landmark,

it continuously took in and released men and women hungry for spiritual sustenance.

Pushing open the heavy glass doors, the air conditioning, mixed with the unique scent of paper and ink,

instantly dispersed the smell of roast duck smoke clinging to him.

Lin Que wasn't in a hurry to squeeze inside.

With one hand in his pocket, he stood before the massive navigation map at the entrance, but his gaze drifted past the crowd to the most prominent golden display stand on the first floor.

There, stood three mountains.

Three mountains made of stacked books.

There were no flashy celebrity cutouts, only a backdrop of the deep starry sky,

with several large, gold-stamped characters dominantly capturing everyone's attention—

[Moyun Award Annual Rising Star—Jian Shen's Anthology]

The Miracles of the Namiya General Store, the ferryman, the little prince.

The three small mountains were surrounded by readers.

In the long queue at the checkout counter, almost everyone held at least one book with the name "Jian Shen" printed on it.

Standing on the periphery of the crowd, Lin Que watched this scene, and a small flame in his heart flickered uncontrollably.

This secret thrill of "everyone is reading my books, yet no one knows the author is right here" was even more intense than turning in an exam paper early.

He purposefully moved closer to the little prince section.

As he had expected, this book, which seemed like a fairy tale, hadn't been stuffed into the children's section,

but was placed on the prominent adult bestseller literary shelf.

Most of those flipping through the pages were adults in suits, their faces etched with exhaustion.

"This book is divine, truly divine."

A couple nearby was discussing it in low voices.

The girl stroked the cover of the hardcover edition of the little prince, her voice a bit thick with emotion:

"This one... yesterday on the subway, when I got to the part with the little fox, I cried so hard my makeup got ruined."

The boy beside her didn't say anything, but silently took another copy of the ferryman from the shelf and put it in the shopping basket, then gently rubbed the girl's head:

"Alright, you're an adult and you're still crying. Since you like this author, let's buy his whole set and you can read them slowly at home."

Listening to them, Lin Que pulled down the brim of his hat and turned toward the elevator.

In this world of highly advanced technology but increasingly desertified emotions, the "healing genre" was indeed a dimensional strike.

As long as people still have hearts, they need comfort.

Having seen enough of the excitement, Lin Que didn't linger on the first floor.

He pushed through the crowds and took the escalator up to the second floor.

That was the battlefield of his other persona.

The corner of the second floor: the "Suspense/Horror/Supernatural" section.

Compared to the popularity downstairs, this place could be described as deserted.

A thin layer of dust had accumulated on the shelves, and the cool white lights hit the spines of those gaudy, poorly designed books, giving off an indescribable sense of desolation.

Lin Que randomly pulled out a book with a skull on the cover.

The title was quite intimidating: High-Energy Physics Ghost Stories.

He flipped through a couple of pages and closed it.

It was all popular science reading that used supernatural names to explain physical magnetic fields.

He tried another: Records of Quantum Ghosts.

The ending was either the protagonist having schizophrenia or accidentally eating hallucinogenic mushrooms.

"Boring, so boring."

At the other end of the shelf, two boys were grumbling as they shoved books back.

"What kind of crap is this!"

The boy with the earring rolled his eyes.

"Magnetic fields this, brainwaves that. I came here for a thrill, not for a physics class! I'm all ready for it and this is what you show me?"

His companion also had a look of constipation on his face:

"There's no choice. Books nowadays are all like this. Anything slightly related to ghosts or gods gets attacked as feudal superstition. Who dares to write it? Just make do with it."

"Even a real psychopathic killer would be fine, but these are all so upright and moral, I feel like I'm about to convert to Buddhism."

Lin Que leaned against the backlit part of the bookshelf, his fingers unconsciously rubbing his chin.

Listening to their complaints, the map of fear in his mind was rapidly expanding.

This was the market.

A massive, thirsty, gaping hole in the market.

Just as the two were about to leave, a boy wearing a backpack and drenched in sweat suddenly rushed into this quiet area.

He had clearly run all the way up, and before he could even catch his breath,

he grabbed a clerk who was tidying the shelves and asked:

"Hello! Do you have any books by 'Hell Dream Weaver'?"

soul ferry or the human world is like a prison, either one! I want to buy the physical books for my collection!"

The clerk looked blank, checked the terminal, and shook his head:

"Who? What Maker? Never heard of them, I can't find this person in the system.

We only have works by certified authors here."

"How could you not have them!"

The backpack boy looked disappointed and said indignantly.

"A bookstore this big doesn't even have the hottest books out right now. You're so out of touch!"

The two college students who were about to leave paused. The earring guy leaned in curiously:

"Hey man, what 'Maker' did you say? Are the books that good?"

"Good? You guys don't even know the Dream Weaver?"

The backpack boy seemed to have found a kindred spirit and gestured excitedly.

"A masterpiece? It's a psychological trauma!"

The backpack boy seemed to recall some terrifying image and shuddered.

"Take my advice, stop flipping through these science books.

Go search for 'Hell Dream Weaver'. Last night I read one chapter of the human world is like a prison, and I literally held my pee all night because I didn't dare get out of bed. That stuff... it's wicked."

"Is it really that crazy?"

The earring guy voiced his skepticism, but his body was honest as he immediately pulled out his phone.

"Trust me! Go read the first chapter of the human world is like a prison. If you don't piss yourself, come back and hit me!"

Seeing the two college students standing frozen in place with their phones, as if pulled by a magnet,

Lin Que pulled his hat lower, hiding the smile he couldn't quite contain.

In the world of physical publishing, "Jian Shen" was already a regional lord.

But in this wasteland called horror, the journey of "Hell Dream Weaver" had only just begun.

Web novels were still in a stage of wild growth; perhaps it was time to bring out the heavier hitters.

Like... that unspeakable horror, the call from the deep sea.

Let this world that worshipped absolute rationality feel what it's like for their "sanity to drop."

In a great mood, Lin Que hummed an unknown tune,

crossed the walkway, and arrived at the relatively quiet social sciences section.

There were few people here, so quiet you could hear the sound of pages turning.

The air was filled with the scent of old paper.

In front of a shelf of books about Hegel, Lin Que stopped.

An elderly man was standing there.

He wore a faded grey Mao suit, and his silver hair was combed meticulously.

His back was ramrod straight; even while reading, he carried an air of military discipline that seemed etched into his bones.

Interestingly,

this old man, who looked like he should be studying military theory or Marxist-Leninist philosophy, was actually holding an illustrated version of the little prince.

He was reading very intently, his brow slightly furrowed.

Lin Que intended to walk around him, but the old man seemed to sense his gaze and slowly looked up.

Their eyes met.

They were eyes that had seen everything, with a sharp edge hidden within the cloudiness.

The two looked at each other for a second.

The old man didn't get angry at being disturbed; instead, he raised the book in his hand, pointed at the famous illustration on the cover, and suddenly asked:

"Young man, excuse me.

In your view, is this a hat, or a snake that has swallowed an elephant?"

This was a classic test.

It was also the dividing line in the book between "adults" and "children."

Lin Que stopped, not answering immediately.

He took two steps closer, standing at a distance that was neither too far nor too close—showing respect while maintaining a safe distance.

"That depends on who is looking at it."

Lin Que's voice was calm, neither humble nor arrogant.

The old man raised an eyebrow, signaling for him to continue.

"If it's an adult, they see a hat. Because they only look at the outline, only at the function. A hat is for wearing; that is common sense, and also the rule."

Lin Que looked into the old man's eyes, slowing his speech:

"But if it's a child, or someone who still has a child living in their heart, they see a snake."

"Because they look at the essence, the imagination—the world hidden beneath the surface that adults ignore."

At this point, Lin Que paused:

"Probably because..."

Lin Que looked at the lonely little figure on the cover, his tone steady.

"Only when one grows up do they understand that fairy tales aren't just for putting children to sleep; they are also for dulling the pain. Dulling the pain for those adults who have forgotten they were once children."

The sound of pages turning stopped.

The old man closed the picture book, his previously sharp gaze lingering on Lin Que's face for a moment,

before it softened.

"What a phrase, 'forgotten they were once children'."

The old man closed the book, his rough fingertips gently stroking the cover as he sighed:

"Young people nowadays are in too much of a hurry; not many can settle their hearts to understand this layer of meaning. Most people just treat it as a picture book for children."

He seemed to remember something, and a rare trace of warmth appeared on his stern face:

"My granddaughter also likes this book. She told me this book has a synesthesia with her art. It seems this 'Jian Shen' is indeed a remarkable person."

"Art is inherently interconnected."

Lin Que followed the conversation, his expression natural.

A sharp light flashed in the old man's eyes, and his gaze toward Lin Que became even softer, even carrying a hint of appreciation for his talent:

"Young man, are you also in the field of literature?"

"Just an enthusiast, I suppose."

Lin Que smiled modestly, not saying much more.

The two did not exchange names.

They were like two planets occasionally meeting in the vast sea of books; after exchanging a bit of light, they each continued on their established orbits.

The old man stood up with the book.

His movements were crisp and efficient, and his back as he turned toward the checkout counter was as straight as a pine, exuding the composure and majesty of someone long accustomed to a high position.

Lin Que watched him leave, lost in thought.

This old gentleman had an extraordinary temperament; he was by no means an ordinary elder.

To still maintain a keen perception of fairy tales at this age, and to raise a granddaughter who understood art... the waters of the capital were indeed unfathomable.

He glanced out the window; the city lights were beginning to flicker on.

Lin Que stretched and accurately tossed the empty can in his hand into the trash bin.

"Clang."

It was the echo of a victor.

Time to head back...