208: A novice can kill a master with a flurry of punches

The air in the room froze for two seconds.

Lin Que was taken aback, but the sleepy, innocent look on his face didn't falter for a second.

He didn't rush to explain, but instead slowly turned sideways,

leaving a crack in the door and gesturing toward the laptop on the desk, its screen still glowing.

The screen was playing a black-and-white documentary, but the audio output source showed it was being processed through an 'EQ Equalizer.'

At the same time, a narration drifted from the computer speakers:

“Evening drums and morning bells; the memories of this city are hidden within the crevices of these mottled bricks and stones...”

Processed with low-frequency gain software, the voice had become deep, resonant, and desolate.

This was originally an old CCTV documentary, but to cover his tracks, Lin Que had just now

deliberately adjusted the vocal parameters to perfectly match the narrator's voice. At first listen, it was almost impossible to tell the difference.

“Teacher Shen, are you talking about this?”

Lin Que rubbed his temples, his voice carrying a hint of helplessness and exhaustion:

“I just finished writing that piece about 'walls,' and the creative energy hasn't dissipated yet.

I wanted to find a film about the old architecture of the Capital to find some resonance and, at the same time, ease myself out of the writing mindset.

That was just the narration. This narrator really has a good voice;

it sounds just like a real person speaking, very authoritative.”

Shen Qingqiu's suspicious gaze swept past Lin Que's shoulder and landed on the computer screen.

It was indeed the old CCTV documentary, 'Memories of the Capital.'

She tilted her head to listen; the narrator's voice was indeed deep and powerful,

echoing in the empty room. If one didn't listen closely through the door, it really did sound like an elder was speaking.

“So you were just watching a film.”

Most of the wariness in Shen Qingqiu's eyes vanished, and her tense shoulders relaxed.

She walked into the room carrying the bag and placed the heavy haul of fruit on the coffee table:

“You child, you just think too much. The exam is over, why are you still looking for resonance?

Even a brain made of iron couldn't withstand this kind of strain.”

“I'm used to it; it's called mental inertia.”

Lin Que followed her lead, walking to the desk to close the laptop,

smoothly cutting off the audio software interface he hadn't had time to close yet.

“Alright.”

Shen Qingqiu pointed at the fruit.

“The principal specifically called earlier to arrange this.

He said he saw the news and was afraid your twenty-eight hours of high-intensity mental labor would ruin your health,

so he asked me to buy some fresh fruit to replenish your vitamins.

Especially these blueberries; they're good for the eyes.”

Speaking of this, Shen Qingqiu sighed, looking at her star pupil with soft eyes:

“Although there are rumors flying around outside saying you forfeited or had a breakdown, your teacher believes in you.

Since you're out, don't think so much. Eat some fruit, wash up, and get some sleep to regain your energy.”

“I understand, Teacher. You should rest early too.”

Lin Que nodded obediently.

After seeing Shen Qingqiu out, the door locked with a 'click.'

Lin Que felt as if his bones had been removed, leaning against the door panel and letting out a long sigh of relief.

He raised a hand to wipe his forehead; though there was no sweat, his back felt a bit chilled.

That was close.

He had almost 'self-destructed' in front of his own homeroom teacher.

If Shen Qingqiu knew that the literary titan 'Jian Shen'—whom she held in such high esteem and whose works she repeatedly analyzed in class—

was this very student who dozed off under her nose every day,

this master teacher's worldview would probably shatter into QR codes on the spot.

“Looks like I'll have to weld the door shut when doing this kind of work in the future.”

Lin Que grabbed a blueberry and tossed it into his mouth, the sweet and sour juice bursting in his mouth... The next day, afternoon.

The sun in the Capital was still scorching.

In a deep, quiet alleyway within the core district of the Capital, a place of tranquility amidst the bustle.

There was no roar of heavy traffic here,

only the intermittent chirping of cicadas in the old locust trees.

Two heavy vermilion gates were tightly shut, and the pair of white marble lions at the entrance had developed a smooth patina from years of touch.

This was the Xu family's ancestral home. In the land-scarce Capital,

this three-courtyard siheyuan symbolized not just wealth, but an unshakeable cultural status.

Inside the study of the main house, sandalwood incense curled in the air.

An elderly man dressed in a grey cotton-linen Tang suit stood before a wide Huanghuali painting desk.

His hair and beard were completely white, but he was full of vigor. His wrist suspended in the air, the tip of his brush moved across the Xuan paper with vigorous strength.

Every character that fell seemed to carry the sound of metal striking stone.

He was Xu Zhengqing.

A titan of the literary world and the current pillar of the Capital School of Literature.

Beside the desk, a youth with rolled-up sleeves was elegantly grinding ink.

Xu Changge had changed out of the Tang suit he wore at the exam site and was now wearing a well-tailored white shirt.

His expression was focused, his breathing long and steady,

as if the act of grinding ink itself was a form of cultivation.

“Phew—”

Xu Zhengqing lifted his brush and let out a long breath.

The characters on the Xuan paper were so powerful they seemed to penetrate the page.

He took the hot towel handed over by his grandson to wipe his hands, his eyes clear as he looked at Xu Changge:

“Jing'er, the Fuzhiyao finals just ended. Why aren't you resting at home instead of coming here to grind ink for me?”

This was Xu Changge's courtesy name—Jingwen.

Xu Changge bowed slightly and placed the ink stick back into the brocade box, his movements fluid:

“Grandfather, the examination hall is like a battlefield. After leaving the field, one's heart is inevitably a bit restless.

Coming here to smell the fragrance of ink is the only way my heart can find peace.”

“Oh? Restless?”

Xu Zhengqing walked over to an armchair and sat down, picking up a teacup and brushing away the floating leaves.

“Is it because of the prompt this time, or that boy from Su Province?”

Xu Changge's movements paused slightly before he returned to normal.

“I can't hide anything from Grandfather,”

Xu Changge said frankly.

“During this final, I reviewed my own 'soul of the ancient wall.'

Thirty-five thousand words, tracing the rise and fall of ancient city walls to the mental barriers of modern people. The structure is complete, and I believe I've reached the depths of the theme.

In terms of weight and heritage, I am confident I won't lose to anyone.”

At this point, he paused,

the image of the lazy, casual youth he had seen sitting in the corner of the auditorium flashing through his mind.

“That one named Lin Que is indeed brimming with talent.

I've seen his previous works from Su Province; they are the handiwork of a genius.

But his methods... are too wild.”

Xu Changge frowned slightly, his tone carrying a hint of pity as well as the pride of a noble scion:

“Long-form structure emphasizes subtle clues and long-term foreshadowing.

I heard he only used 28 hours to submit his paper and leave.

Grandfather, no matter how much of a genius one is,

it's impossible to construct a grand worldview with seamless precision in such a short time.”

“So in my view, he was too eager for success, which instead made his work inferior.

In terms of short-form explosive power, I might not match his whimsical ideas.

But in terms of the rigor and depth of a long-form piece, I have a ninety percent chance of winning this battle.”

Xu Zhengqing listened to his grandson's analysis without immediate comment.

He stood up, placed his hands behind his back, and walked to the window,

watching the old locust tree in the courtyard rustling in the wind.

After a long while, the old man slowly spoke.

“Jingwen, confidence is a good thing; it is the backbone of our Xu family.

But...”

Xu Zhengqing turned around, a sharp light flashing in his cloudy eyes—the clarity of one who had seen everything:

“The world is changing.

Sometimes, flailing fists can not only kill an old master, but also smash the old rules to smithereens.”

Xu Changge was stunned:

“Grandfather, you mean...”

“That child dared to submit in 28 hours; there are only two possibilities.”

Xu Zhengqing held up two fingers.

“Either he is arrogant and ignorant of the world's depths,

or... he is confident to the extreme, his talent overflowing to the point

where he doesn't need to laboriously polish every word like we do.”

“If it is the latter...”

Xu Zhengqing's voice dropped, stopping short of saying the word 'crushed.'

Xu Changge's hand hung in the air.

Just as he was about to speak, the landline in the inner room, which rarely rang, suddenly began to chime.

Xu Zhengqing's eyebrows shot up.

Only a very few people knew this number.

He walked over and picked up the phone, his tone steady:

“This is Xu Zhengqing.”

Zhou Wenyuan's voice came through the receiver.

Xu Zhengqing's brow gradually furrowed, his tone tinged with doubt:

“Wenyuan, shouldn't you be in Yuyuan Tower right now, watching over those old scholars as they grade?

How do you have time to call me?”

On the other end of the line, Zhou Wenyuan's voice carried an indescribable complexity,

and even a hint of irrepressible urgency.

“Elder Xu.”

“The grading is nearly finished, but now... I'm afraid we need you to come here personally.”

...