205: Does it need to be reviewed again?

Zhou Wenyuan ignored the explosive clamor erupting around him.

His gaze passed over Professor Yan's trembling shoulders, locking onto the inconspicuous serial number in the bottom right corner of the screen like a pair of precision radar beams—0816.

The moment he saw those digits, Zhou Wenyuan felt his heart, which had been suspended mid-air,

Finally land back in his chest with a heavy thud.

There was no shock.

Instead, there was a sense of relief from an expected outcome, mixed with the satisfaction of knowing he had been right.

If humans had graded this first, this sci-fi piece—saturated with the smell of machine oil and possessing a certain raw, gritty texture—

Would likely have been tossed into the scrap pile by these old scholars who were used to scar literature and rural narratives.

They would have dismissed it on the grounds of lacking literary beauty or being too unconventional.

However,

Machines do not understand aesthetics.

Machines have no prejudice.

A machine only looks at the skeletal structure, the logic, and whether the world described can truly function on its own within those words.

And this was precisely the most terrifying aspect of that "monster," Lin Que.

Zhou Wenyuan unclenched his hands behind his back; his palms were slick with cold sweat, yet his expression remained composed.

If an article that hid a sociological scalpel within the laws of physics couldn't even get an SSS, then this machine, dubbed the "Skynet of the Literary World," really deserved to be smashed.

"Nonsense!"

A sharp shout interrupted Zhou Wenyuan's thoughts.

The speaker was Old Zhang from the School of Liberal Arts at Renmin University, a titan in the field who had spent his life researching Dream of the Red Chamber.

His face was currently ashen as he tapped the table with the arm of his glasses.

"Do you all understand the concept of an SSS-rank?"

Old Zhang's face turned beet red.

"I participated in setting the thresholds for this system! SSS is reserved for works capable of entering the halls of world literature!"

"It's meant for things that will leave a mark on the long river of history!"

"A high schooler? A seventeen or eighteen-year-old kid?"

"Writing a world-class masterpiece? This is the height of absurdity!"

Several Old Professors nearby chimed in in agreement.

"Indeed, this is far too outrageous."

"The code must be garbled; perhaps it's mistaking typos for metaphors?"

"Check it quickly! Make sure it's not a virus!"

The waves of doubt grew louder and louder.

In their understanding, geniuses were common, but freaks of nature were not.

Faced with a score that shattered the cognitive ceiling, their first reaction was that the system must be broken.

Zhou Wenyuan didn't argue; he simply tilted his head slightly and gave the technical director a look.

The technical director was already drenched in sweat.

The moment the alarm had sounded, he had rushed to the backend terminal with three core engineers.

The sound of typing was as dense as a rainstorm, and code cascaded down the screens like a waterfall.

One minute.

To everyone in the grading hall, this minute felt as long as a century.

Finally, the technical director stopped.

He swallowed hard and stood up by gripping the edge of the table. His face was pale, but his eyes held a ghost-stricken mix of confusion and shock.

"Chairman Zhou, the backend data verification is complete."

His voice was a bit hoarse as it echoed through the hall.

"Software and hardware self-checks are all green. The algorithmic logic... has no deviations. This is not a malfunction."

The hall fell silent instantly, leaving only the hum of the server fans.

Old Zhang's hand froze in mid-air, the arm of his glasses nearly poking his nose.

"Not broken? Then this score..."

The technical director brought up a radar chart and projected it onto the large screen.

It was a polygon that was almost completely filled.

"The system's judgment criteria are as follows:"

The director pointed at the data bars that were hitting the ceiling, his voice trembling.

"World-building architectural completeness: 99.8%. Logical closed-loop rate: 100%. Sociological metaphor depth: SS-rank. Innovation: SSS-rank..."

Silence.

Old Zhang, who had just been shouting about 'absurdity,'

Opened his mouth, but ultimately said nothing, slumping back into his chair.

Professor Yan, who was at the center of the storm, no longer had his usual aura as the 'Iron-Faced King of Hell.'

He pushed up the glasses that had slipped to the tip of his nose. In those eyes, usually so accustomed to nitpicking,

There was now only a near-blank daze.

He turned to look at Zhou Wenyuan, his voice dry.

"Chairman Zhou, according to the protocol, any manuscript above A+ rank must enter the re-evaluation pool, but given this situation..."

This rank had never appeared before; it wasn't even in the protocol!

Should they just enshrine it? Or what?

Zhou Wenyuan was in no rush to answer.

He raised his wrist to glance at his old Shanghai mechanical watch: seven twenty-five.

By the rules, this group of Old Professors who had been toiling all afternoon should have sealed the papers and gone to rest long ago.

Zhou Wenyuan looked around.

He saw the reluctance in Old Zhang's eyes, the shock and suspicion in Professor Yan's,

And the burning fire of curiosity in the eyes of the scholars, professors, and young teaching assistants in the corners.

"Everyone."

Zhou Wenyuan's voice wasn't loud, but it steadily commanded the room.

"According to the rules, we should seal the papers now, rest, and discuss this tomorrow."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the screen still glowing with the blood-red "SSS," a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"But, after locking such a monster in the server overnight, I have to ask: who would be able to sleep tonight?"

No one spoke.

But their eyes betrayed them.

People in literature have an innate greed for a good story.

It's like a gourmet smelling the aroma of a peerless delicacy.

If you put the lid on and tell him to eat tomorrow, it would be more painful than killing him.

Zhou Wenyuan nodded, wasting no more words.

He turned and gave a sharp, decisive wave to the technical staff who were already on standby.

"Share Professor Yan's screen permissions."

"Activate collective reading mode for the entire hall."

"Yes, sir!"

The technical staff hit the enter key after a flurry of operations.

Hum—

The massive LED main screen at the front of the hall flickered. Immediately after, the individual screens in front of all the professors switched in sync.

The various cluttered documents vanished instantly.

In their place was a single, pristine white document interface.

In the center of the screen, four black characters in Song typeface slowly emerged like four solid nails—

folding beijing

A faint ripple of commotion rose in the hall.

"Folding?" Old Zhang frowned, leaning closer to the screen.

"This title... why does it feel like it's about handicrafts? Or is it about architectural structures?"

"The prompt was 'Wall'," another professor said, looking puzzled.

"If this is about the art of paper folding, then it's miles off-topic. No matter how good the writing is, the concept would be skewed, wouldn't it?"

"Or perhaps it's about the twists and turns of old Beijing's hutongs?"

No one thought of science fiction.

After all, in their fixed impression, entries for a serious literature competition were always heavy, desolate, and even carried a bit of an earthy scent.

Only Zhou Wenyuan stood in the aisle with his arms crossed, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

The reading began.

At first, there were still the noises of paper flipping and water being sipped in the hall.

But as the text on the screen began to scroll, as the man named "Old Knife" woke up in a trash heap,

And as the sour, rotten smell of swill seemed to permeate through the words, the noise vanished.

[This is the Third Space.]

[Twenty million people are crammed into eight hours of the deep night.]

Seeing this, many professors' brows furrowed.

This setting was too cold and hard, too direct; it completely lacked the reserved, hazy beauty of traditional literature.

Time ticked by, second by second.

The grading hall was terrifyingly quiet, with only dozens of pairs of eyes moving along with the text on the screen.

Finally.

The story reached its conclusion.

There was no resistance, no uprising, none of the typical web-novel style of overthrowing everything.

Old Knife, covered in injuries and carrying the money he had traded his life for, returned to his coffin-like capsule room.

He smoothed out the bills.

That was his daughter's ticket to kindergarten.

Beyond that, nothing had changed.

The world would still fold, and he would still have to make a living in the midnight trash heaps.

On the screen, the final line froze in place:

[Old Knife glanced at the electronic clock on the wall. It was six o'clock.]

[Time to go to work.]

The document ended.

The light from the screen reflected on every face.

Professor Yan slumped in his chair, gasping for air as if he had just finished a marathon.

The young technical director's eyes were already red, and he was biting his lip hard.

There was no applause.

There was no discussion.

Only a long, heavy silence, as if the very air itself had been folded.

This silence was the highest tribute to a piece of writing.

Because it was too heavy.

So heavy that it crashed into their hearts without even making an echo.

Zhou Wenyuan stood in the center of the hall, looking at this group of stunned titans.

He knew it was a sure thing now.

Not only was the SSS certain, but along with it, the upcoming "Qinglan Project,"

And even the future direction of the entire Chinese literary world, had been forcefully pivoted at this moment by this story, folding beijing.

Zhou Wenyuan cleared his throat, his voice sounding exceptionally clear in the dead-silent hall.

"Everyone."

He pointed at the last line on the screen, his gaze burning as he scanned the room.

"Does this work still need a re-evaluation?"

...