222: Dream Weaver Online

2:30 AM, Jiangcheng Wenshu Airport.

Compared to the perpetually boiling heat of the capital, Jiangcheng's night breeze carried a moist coolness,

brushing against the face with a refreshing sensation that washed away the dust.

Lin Que and Shen Qingqiu walked out of the arrivals exit, no longer surrounded by flashing lights and microphones, only sparse travelers and distant flickering neon lights.

This immense sense of contrast instead made him feel a long-lost sense of reality and peace.

At the exit, Lin Jianguo had already been waiting for a long time.

Comrade Old Lin was draped in an ill-fitting gray coat, pacing back and forth in the night breeze.

Seeing his son and Shen Qingqiu emerge, Lin Jianguo extinguished the half-smoked cigarette on top of a trash can, rubbed his wind-chilled face, and strode forward to meet them.

He first stared at Lin Que for two seconds, as if checking if he was missing any limbs, then the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes instantly smoothed out.

"Teacher Shen! You've had a long journey, must be exhausted! Oh, at this late hour..."

As he spoke, he opened the trunk, ready to take Shen Qingqiu's luggage.

"Uncle Lin, Lin Que did very well this time! It's late, you two should head back soon."

Lin's father was taken aback:

"Teacher Shen, it's so late, let me give you a ride home on the way..."

Shen Qingqiu gently blocked Lin Jianguo's outstretched hand and smiled:

"Mr. Lin, you're being too polite. I haven't been home for days either, and my cat is waiting to be fed. No need to take a detour."

She casually hailed an empty taxi, and just before getting in, she glanced back at Lin Que:

"Go home and get some proper rest. Don't push yourself just because you're young."

After saying this, Shen Qingqiu didn't exchange any more pleasantries. The car door closed, and the taillights merged into the night.

Watching the taxi's taillights fade into the distance, Lin Jianguo helped his son stuff the luggage into the trunk while sighing:

"Teacher Shen is a considerate person, a good teacher.

Accompanying you through all your battles, not expecting anything in return.

Son, one must never forget their roots. No matter how high you soar in the future, remember this teacher's kindness for a lifetime."

Lin Que sat in the passenger seat, watching his father's graying temples in the rearview mirror, and nodded solemnly:

"I remember, Dad."

The car smoothly drove into the underground garage of Xisheng Mansion.

As soon as he opened the door with his fingerprint, the living room light flicked on with a snap.

His mother, Wang Xiulian, hadn't slept but "sprang" up from the sofa.

She was still in her home clothes, her eyes red, clearly having cried from excitement while watching the livestream and stubbornly staying up until now.

"My son is back!"

Wang Xiulian rushed forward in three quick steps, not bothering to speak to her husband,

and immediately snatched the heavy backpack from Lin Que's shoulder.

At that moment,

Lin Que felt his shoulders lighten.

Outside, he was a genius under the spotlight, but here, he was just the son of the Lin family.

On the dining table, the already-prepared braised pork ribs and winter melon shrimp soup were still steaming.

Wang Xiulian chattered, "Oh my, you look even thinner than on TV,"

while deftly piling meat into Lin Que's bowl until it resembled a small mountain.

Lin Jianguo, meanwhile, was nearby, repeatedly examining the official document and crystal trophy.

"Look at this material, this seal!"

He carefully placed the trophy in the center of the dining table and declared resolutely:

"Tomorrow, I'll order the most expensive rosewood display cabinet and place it in the most prominent spot in the living room!"

A sip of the familiar winter melon shrimp soup went down, warmth sliding down the esophagus into the stomach, filling that inexplicable emptiness.

After the late-night snack and calming the excited elderly couple, Lin Que didn't rest at home.

He went alone to the studio located in SOHO Future City.

Pushing open the door, he was no longer greeted by the aroma of food,

only the monotonous blinking of server indicator lights on the cold, hard server racks.

He locked the door behind him, drew the heavy blackout curtains, completely shutting out the last traces of Jiangcheng's light outside the window.

In the darkness, the warmth and weariness in Lin Que's eyes slowly faded.

He turned on the computer, ignoring the overwhelming news and advertisements online, and directly opened the encrypted email.

An email from Wang De'an of Xinchao Publishing House lay quietly at the top of the inbox, sent six hours ago.

The email content was concise but carried immense weight.

"Teacher Jian Shen, good news."

"The first round of international copyright applications for 'the ferryman' is complete. Top publishing houses from sixteen countries have officially signed exclusive distribution contracts."

Reading this, Lin Que was filled with thoughts.

This meant that the name "Jian Shen" was about to officially cross borders.

Continuing down, there was a photo.

The photo background was an old-fashioned study in the capital, where Elder Yang, with silver hair and reading glasses, was proofreading amidst mountains of dictionaries and manuscripts.

The email also mentioned that Elder Yang had brought his four most accomplished disciples, forming a translation dream team.

To meet the global simultaneous release before summer, they had been pulling all-nighters for half a month and were nearing completion.

Wang De'an conveyed Elder Yang's exact words in the email:

"This book carries great love. Paving the way for such a work is a blessing in my old age. If there are more masterpieces to come, this old man is willing to continue wielding the pen."

Regarding fees, Wang De'an only mentioned lightly at the end:

The publishing house had already paid Elder Yang's team the industry's highest honorarium in your name,

and donated a batch of books to the library in Elder Yang's hometown in your personal name.

Looking at the screen, Lin Que felt a surge of warmth.

In this cultural desert, such pure appreciation of talent and selfless mutual aid were more precious than money.

He didn't reply with polite refusals, just typed "Hard work, thank you" and clicked send.

After handling "Jian Shen's" affairs, Lin Que closed the email page.

He stood up, walked to the small fridge in the studio, and pulled out a glass bottle of chilled cola.

"Pop—"

The metal cap was pried open, white bubbles rushing out eagerly.

The cold liquid slid down his throat, carbon dioxide exploding in his mouth, bringing a sharp, refreshing sting.

That gentleness belonging to Jian Shen was completely exhaled with this breath.

Lin Que's gaze abruptly changed.

He sat back at the computer and skillfully opened the long-unused, bright-red "Hongguo Novel Website" author backend.

As soon as he logged in, the private message icon in the lower right corner began flashing frantically, the number instantly hitting 999+.

The private message inbox was already overflowing.

Since the completion of 'soul ferry' and the release of that vague new book preview,

readers had fallen into extreme anticipation and anxiety.

"Dream Weaver old scoundrel! Even donkeys don't rest this long!!!"

"Great Master Dream Weaver, I'm a ten-year fan. Can you give me your address? I want to send you some local specialties."

"Wah wah, day N without Dream Weaver updates, missing him, missing him..."

"Everyone rise! Burn incense and perform rituals! Summon the old scoundrel's soul to return!"

They craved new thrills, the ultimate experience of trembling under the covers in the dead of night.

Looking at these urging or teasing comments, Lin Que's mouth gradually curved into a grin.

His finger hovered over the bright-red "Create New Work" button in the backend.

"Jian Shen" is resting. Dream Weaver should clock in for work.

The mouse clicked, a crisp micro-switch sound echoing in the silent studio.

A brand-new blank page popped up.

Lin Que's fingers landed steadily on the keyboard, typing the four words enough to shatter this materialist worldview.

Title: 'cthulhu mythos'

...