216: Cultural Special Forces

Ding Huaijin slowly walked onto the stage.

He leaned forward with both hands on the edge of the podium, scanning the youthful faces in the audience.

He didn't rush to speak, first pushing aside the thick stack of speech notes, which even had a red-headed official document tucked inside.

The whispers that had been coming from the front row instantly vanished.

“Originally, I prepared a three-thousand-word speech.”

Ding Huaijin's voice was steady and powerful; without needing to raise it, it carried an inherent, irresistible authority.

“It was full of beautiful phrases like 'gentle spring breeze' and 'pillars of society.'”

“But just now, after listening to that recording of Teacher Jian Shen, I felt that this speech... was useless.”

He raised a finger and pointed to the speakers overhead.

“Jian Shen said that one must maintain 'untimely' observations.”

“Those words hit the nail on the head.”

Ding Huaijin's eyes were burning bright.

“For the past ten years, the Huaxia literary world has been too quiet—as quiet as a climate-controlled greenhouse.”

“We don't lack greenhouse flowers, nor do we lack nightingales singing praises. What do we lack?”

He suddenly slammed the table.

“We lack blades!”

“We lack the kind of sharp knives that make people wake up from the pain!”

Below the stage, Lin Que was nonchalantly unwrapping his fourth peppermint.

Hearing this, his movements paused slightly, and his brow twitched.

The persona he had donned for the sake of 'passing the fire'—

had actually become the blade this big shot was using to overhaul the literary world.

Lin Que tossed the candy into his mouth, his tongue pressing against the hint of coolness.

He realized that whether it was the Dream Weaver in the dark of night or Jian Shen, who gave guidance away from the spotlight, they were no longer simple porters of words.

They were becoming symbols, even reshaping the cultural aesthetics and value orientations of this world.

The gears had begun to turn.

On stage, Ding Huaijin shifted the topic, his tone becoming even more solemn.

“Therefore, by joint resolution of multiple ministries, the 'Qinglan Project' being promoted this time will be fully upgraded.”

On the large screen, the original blue background instantly transformed into a deep starry map, with countless points of light converging into the shape of a sharp sword.

“It is no longer a simple literary summer camp, let alone a formality for you to polish your resumes.”

Ding Huaijin's voice echoed through the auditorium, every word carrying immense weight:

“It will be a Cultural Special Forces unit forged with the full strength of the nation!”

“Those selected will directly interface with national-level publishing resources, green channels for film and television adaptations, and even... directly participate in future cultural export strategies!”

“We want to drive the stories of Huaxia into the map of the world like nails!”

“Boom—”

As these words landed, the previously heavy air in the audience seemed to be ignited.

Wildfire flared up in countless eyes simultaneously, and the sound of heavy breathing rose and fell.

Cultural Special Forces?

Future export strategies?

This was an entry ticket to the pinnacle of power and prestige!

Even the always calm Xu Changge now had a fire burning in the depths of his eyes.

For children of prominent families, money and power were but passing clouds; only an opportunity like this, to leave a name in history, was a fatal temptation.

“Now, I will read the names for ranks 11 through 30.”

Ding Huaijin took a half-step back, handing the stage over to the big screen.

The stirring sound of war drums suddenly rang out, each beat feeling like it was striking people's hearts.

The list began to scroll.

“30th place, Xiang Province Normal University Affiliated High School, Liu Yunfei.”

“29th place...”

The appearance of every name was accompanied by suppressed gasps or applause from the back rows.

Sixth row.

Chen Jiahao was completely slumped in his chair.

His originally round and jovial face was now pale as paper. His eyes stared blankly at the screen, and his lips trembled as if he were reciting an incantation.

“Not there... still not there...”

As the rankings climbed higher, the light in Chen Jiahao's eyes faded bit by bit.

“15th place...”

“12th place...”

Until the name for 11th place was frozen on the screen, and it still wasn't 'Chen Jiahao'.

“It's over.”

Chen Jiahao's body went limp, completely losing all support.

He covered his face with his hands, his voice carrying a sob as he muttered in despair:

“Gone, it's really gone this time.”

A student next to him, seeing the fat guy looking like he'd lost a parent, thought he was upset about failing to make the list and couldn't help but pat his shoulder:

“Brother, look on the bright side.”

“Making it to the finals already makes you a top student in the whole province. Even if you didn't make the Qinglan Project,”

“you'll still dominate the College Entrance Examination when you go back. There's no need to cry like this.”

“You don't understand...”

Chen Jiahao looked up, his small eyes filled with a grief-stricken indignation as if life were no longer worth living.

“I made a pledge to my dad.”

“If I didn't get a spot in the Qinglan Project this time, I'd have to agree to the family's arrangements,”

“to go to the US to study that damn Business Administration, and then come back after graduation to take over the family business.”

He clutched his hair, wailing in pain:

“Just the thought of having to manage thousands of employees in the future and looking at those dense financial reports... that kind of life is basically a prison sentence!”

“I just want to write articles! I just want to be a happy man of letters!”

“...”

“...”

“...”

The guy next to him had his hand frozen in mid-air, the sympathy he'd been brewing getting stuck in his throat, unable to go up or down.

So, he had wasted his emotions—

comforting a 'poor soul' who would be forced to go back and inherit a multi-billion dollar family fortune if he didn't work hard?

The guy took a deep breath and silently withdrew his hand,

even rubbing it on his pants as if he had just touched something unclean.

“Get lost.”

He squeezed out the words through his teeth, sincere and forceful.

On stage, the award ceremony was underway.

Ding Huaijin personally presented the certificates and invitations to the twenty selected candidates.

Those young men and women all had flushed faces as they accepted the heavy honor with trembling hands.

Chen Jiahao watched this scene, tears welling in his eyes.

“My literary dream...”

He sniffled, his voice choking up.

The award ceremony ended, and the twenty winners left the stage.

The lights dimmed once more, leaving only a single spotlight shining lonely in the center of the stage.

The atmosphere in the entire hall instantly tightened to the extreme.

The real highlight was coming.

The top ten.

It meant guaranteed admission to the School of Liberal Arts at Qingbei University. It meant getting a VIP gold card to the top of the ivory tower ahead of time in this era of academic hyper-competition.

The host walked back onto the stage, the envelope in his hand replaced with a brilliant gold one.

He took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the faces in the audience, which were distorted with longing. His voice was low and magnetic.

“Next, we will reveal the strongest ten of this 'Fu Zhi Yao Competition' competition.”

“They are the survivors of this competition, and I believe they are also the sword-bearers of the future literary world.”

“First, the tenth place.”

The host opened the envelope, his movements so slow it made one want to rush up and help him tear it.

Chen Jiahao had completely given up. He leaned against the back of his chair with his eyes closed,

even starting to plan his miserable life after going to the US—

luxury cars, yachts, boring business parties... so miserable, truly too miserable.

“He is from Guangdong Province, Yuezhou International School—”

The host's voice echoed in the auditorium.

Chen Jiahao snapped his eyes open, his body jerking violently.

Guangdong Province?

Yuezhou International School?

That was his school!

But... it was impossible!

His piece, 'the madhouse within the high walls,' though he thought it was decent,

in a high-level battle like this, he would have been lucky to make the top fifty. How could he possibly make the top ten?

Hallucination. It was definitely a hallucination.

Chen Jiahao gripped the armrests tightly, his knuckles turning white, not daring to breathe.

The host looked at the card in his hand, his eyebrows arching as if he had seen something interesting.

He didn't read the name directly, but first shouted with a smile in non-standard Cantonese:

“Cen-Ga-Hou!”

Immediately following that, the Mandarin landed:

“Chen Jiahao!”

...