209: Deserved

The Centennial Conference Hall of Qingbei University.

Outside, the sky had turned completely dark, but inside the hall, it was brightly lit.

Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the summer night's heat,

but inside this meeting room large enough to hold a hundred people, the air pressure was so low it felt stifling.

The air was thick with the scent of strong, stale tea,

emanating from dozens of purple clay teapots where tea leaves had been steeped over and over until only a bitter aroma remained.

At the end of the long table sat a middle-aged man in a white shirt.

He didn't speak, simply flipping through the data reports in his hand, occasionally taking a sip from his teacup.

Yet this slight movement made the Chairmen of the Writers Associations from across the country and the dozens of literature professors present hold their breath.

Xue Hongchuan, Chairman of the Chinese Writers Association.

This man, who at thirty won the Kunpeng Literature Award with "Wilderness Lights,"

is a legendary figure who set the record for the youngest Chairman of the Writers Association in the history of the Chinese literary world.

And this influential figure, who usually only appears at national-level cultural strategy meetings,

was currently sitting at the final judging site of the "Fu Zhi Yao" competition.

This meant that this competition was no longer a simple student essay contest,

but had ascended to the level of a national strategic talent reserve.

"Chairman Zhou, tell us the results."

Xue Hongchuan said as he put down the reports, his voice carrying the penetrating power of one long accustomed to a high position.

Zhou Wenyuan stood up.

Although he had pulled two consecutive all-nighters and his eyes were bloodshot, his mind was currently in a state of calm following extreme excitement.

He pressed the laser pointer, and the bar charts on the large screen instantly shifted.

"In this final round, there were a total of nine hundred and fifty-nine valid papers."

"After an initial screening by the Huayue system and two rounds of cross-review by the expert panel, eighty-seven works were rated Grade A, and thirty-nine were rated Grade A+."

Zhou Wenyuan's voice echoed through the hall.

"As for the S-grade, representing stunning quality, besides Xu Changge from the Beijing division, three more dark horses emerged, bringing the total to four papers."

A low collective gasp rose from the audience.

In previous "Fu Zhi Yao" competitions, having a single S-grade was considered a banner year.

This year's data suggested a slaughter akin to a twilight of the gods.

"But..."

Zhou Wenyuan's tone shifted as the laser pointer's dot moved to the very top of the pyramid.

Hanging there alone was a glaring grade—[SSS].

The corresponding work's title: "folding beijing."

The rise and fall of breaths in the meeting room seemed to have been hit by a pause button.

"Regarding this piece, the final judging panel's opinions are severely divided."

Zhou Wenyuan didn't hide it, putting the conflict directly on the table.

"The system gave it a perfect score, but some professors believe the final rating of this article is still open to debate."

"I oppose giving it an SSS."

The speaker was Professor Zhang from the School of Liberal Arts at Renmin University; he placed his glasses on the table.

"The essence of literature is the study of humanity; it should guide people toward goodness! What is 'folding beijing' about? Class solidification? Physical isolation?"

"I admit the writing is good and the structure is flawless, but the ideology it conveys is too cold!"

Professor Zhang pointed at the screen.

"Therefore, I suggest downgrading it to S!"

"Agreed."

"I also find it somewhat inappropriate. Downgrading it to S still allows it to compete for the championship."

Several conservative Old Professors nodded in agreement.

In their eyes, a good article should be as gentle as jade,

not this kind of sci-fi prophecy filled with the smell of engine oil and a sense of despair.

Gu Changfeng sat in the corner, his hand gripping his purple clay teapot so tightly it was almost sweating.

He wanted to slam the table and curse them out, but in front of Xue Hongchuan, he had to force himself to endure.

Both sides were at a stalemate.

Just then, the two heavy, carved wooden doors of the meeting room were slowly pushed open from the outside.

"Creak—"

Everyone instantly turned their heads.

An elderly man dressed in a grey cotton and linen Tang suit walked in, supported by a staff member.

His hair was completely white, and his face was covered in deep wrinkles, but his eyes were startlingly clear.

Xu Zhengqing.

A living fossil of the literary world, the stabilizing force of the beijing school of literature.

"The old leader is here!"

Xue Hongchuan was the first to stand up, quickly moving to greet him.

Immediately after, the room full of professors and doctoral supervisors stood up in unison as if a switch had been flipped, their faces filled with respect.

"Sit, everyone sit."

Xu Zhengqing waved his hand, his voice resonant.

"I'm just a retired old man. I heard there was a huge row over a few articles, so I came to join the fun."

Xue Hongchuan helped Xu Zhengqing sit in the seat next to the head of the table and quietly summarized the current controversy.

After listening, Xu Zhengqing didn't rush to state his position.

His gaze swept over the crowd and landed on the large screen displaying [SSS],

then he looked at the slightly awkward list of S-grade works next to it—Xu Changge's name was prominently displayed.

The atmosphere became extremely subtle.

Everyone knew that Xu Changge was Xu Zhengqing's biological grandson.

If "folding beijing" took the SSS, then Xu Changge would have to settle for second place.

This was like trampling the face of the Beijing literary circle into the ground.

"Hmm, bring me that troublesome article to look at,"

Xu Zhengqing said, ignoring the S-grade and other lists, and held out his hand.

Zhou Wenyuan steadied his slightly stiff wrists, pulled the already printed copy of "folding beijing" from his folder, and handed it over with both hands.

Xu Zhengqing fished his reading glasses out of his breast pocket, put them on, and began to read by the light.

The meeting room was so quiet that only the sound of pages turning could be heard.

"Shh— shh—"

Gu Changfeng stared intently at the old man's face.

He saw the old man's brow furrow deeper and deeper; he had been flipping through quickly at first, but by the middle section, his speed slowed down significantly.

When he reached the part where Old Knife crawled through the trash chute like a maggot to save money,

Xu Zhengqing's fingers gripping the paper trembled violently.

Professor Zhang and several conservatives exchanged glances, a hint of joy flashing in their eyes.

It seemed there was hope.

Such a gritty, un-aesthetic description must have offended this titan who valued elegance and correctness.

Xu Zhengqing had spent his life writing about romance and national sentiment; how could he stand such a thing?

Time passed minute by minute.

A full twenty minutes later.

Xu Zhengqing finally reached the last page.

He looked at the line "Time to go to work," and his gaze froze for a long time.

Then, he took off his glasses and closed the manuscript.

"Sigh—"

A long sigh escaped from the old man's chest, heavy as if a stone were pressing down on it.

This single sigh made Gu Changfeng's heart go completely cold.

It was over.

Even Elder Xu was sighing; it seemed the SSS wouldn't be saved.

Professor Zhang straightened his back even more.

This was not just a debate over aesthetics, but a struggle for discourse power between the Beijing and Shanghai Schools, between tradition and the avant-garde.

"Old leader, what do you think...?"

Xue Hongchuan asked at the appropriate moment.

Xu Zhengqing closed his eyes, his fingers lightly stroking the stack of printed paper on the table, as if feeling the temperature of the words.

After a long while, he opened his eyes.

In those cloudy old eyes, there was actually a glimmer of something called "shock."

"Jingwen, that boy... I heard him talking about his article before I left the house."

Xu Zhengqing's voice was flat, revealing no emotion.

"He wrote about history, about heritage, citing classics and using the past to comment on the present, bringing even the old city walls to life. It's the kind of thing we old fogies love to read."

Professor Zhang nodded repeatedly.

"Yes, yes, this young man has already developed the style of a master at such a young age. It truly is..."

"But..."

Xu Zhengqing suddenly raised his voice, cutting off Professor Zhang's flattery.

"Jingwen wrote about the past, about old dreams, about the little bit of moss growing on the city walls!"

Xu Zhengqing suddenly grabbed "folding beijing" from the table and brandished it forcefully.

"But this piece writes about the future! About the walls in people's hearts! It tears open the scars we dare not look at and are unwilling to see, and shows them to everyone!"

Total silence.

Gu Changfeng's previously lowered gaze instantly snapped up.

Xu Zhengqing looked around the room, his eyes like torches:

"We think it's cold and harsh because we've stayed in the greenhouse for too long!

Just now, I was also thinking: if literature only exists to paint a facade of peace and prosperity, then what do we, the people who wield the pen, even exist for?"

He placed the manuscript gently on the table.

"Jingwen, that boy... it's no disgrace for him to lose."

There wasn't a trace of resentment in Xu Zhengqing's voice; instead, it carried a sense of relief and openness at seeing the surging waves of the next generation.

"In the face of such a concept, let alone him,"

"even if I were fifty years younger, I wouldn't dare say I could write such a structure."

"Huayue's highest score."

Xu Zhengqing looked at Xue Hongchuan, speaking each word with finality.

"It is well-deserved."

...