243: Chapter 243 The Show Begins – Bonus Chapter of "I Can't See You"

Beijing time, July 7th, 10:00 PM.

The servers of major domestic social platforms were enduring the impact of a peak traffic flood.

That "check-in photo" where the face wasn't visible had been given the green light all night, traveling from the desk of the Jiang City Writers Association all the way to the official media's promotion center.

In just two hours, whether it was social software or news clients,

the splash screens were all replaced by that cool-toned photograph.

The photo had been blurred, hiding specific street signs and house numbers,

leaving only that towering and oppressive Gothic St. Stephens Cathedral.

The caption consisted of only seven short and powerful words:

【Though millions may oppose me, I shall go.】

As soon as this post was released, the trending search list crashed immediately.

The comment section instantly spiraled out of control.

The official's tragic copy was like a drop of water in a hot pan, turning that casually taken tourist photo

into a sense of tragic heroism akin to "the wind sighs and the Yi River is cold."

“I'm in tears, guys! Is this the integrity of a man of letters?

Carrying a bag alone to that place full of prejudice, just so Huaxia's stories can have a place!”

“I'm crying. That sense of loneliness is overflowing from the screen!”

“Surrounded by German he can't understand and cold white faces,”

“Teacher Jian Shen stands alone under the cathedral; his figure is so small, yet so firm.”

“He's charging for us! That's the heartland of Western culture; it feels suffocating just thinking about it.”

“Hang in there, Jian Shen! No matter if foreigners read it or not, we support you to the end!”

Background data from major book e-commerce platforms began to jump frantically.

Those casual fans who were still hesitating were accurately broken down by this “tragic hero” narrative,

and even though the ferryman had been on sale domestically for several months, it still couldn't stop a new wave of orders at this moment.

People weren't just buying a book;

they were backing that “lonely brave one” far away in a foreign land... Vienna.

Local time 4:00 PM, the sun was just right, and the breeze was mild.

Lin Que, the “tragic hero” whom hundreds of millions of domestic netizens were feeling sorry for to the point of tears,

was currently slumped on a bench in Stephansplatz without any regard for his image.

He wore a pair of large black sunglasses he had just bought from a street stall,

holding a melting pistachio-flavored ice cream in his hand, with a circle of fat pigeons surrounding his feet.

“Coo, coo—”

A bold pigeon hopped onto his shoe, tilting its head to stare at the dripping cream.

“This stuff is sickly sweet; you can't eat it.”

Lin Que gave a light kick to drive away the greedy fellow,

and took a lick of the ice cream.

Where was the tragedy or loneliness?

Lin Que took out his phone and scrolled through the domestic comment sections.

“Although everyone's understanding is a bit off...”

Lin Que crunched the last bite of the wafer, the sweet frosting melting on the tip of his tongue.

His fingertips swiped across those comments on the screen, written in words of blood,

Lin Que crunched the last bite of the wafer, the sweet frosting melting on the tip of his tongue.

This generation of netizens' ability to imagine things is such a waste of talent if they don't write novels.

The feeling of being forcibly placed on an altar to be worshipped

wasn't bad; it certainly saved a lot of promotional effort.

While scrolling through the comments, a familiar local accent drifted into his ears with the wind.

“It's right here! Look at the angle; it's exactly the same as the photo posted by the official media!”

A girl pointed not far away and shouted.

“Oh my god, Teacher Jian Shen really has been here!”

Her companion looked on with admiration.

“I just saw on Microblogging platform that he might have gone to negotiate with local publishers. They say he held his own against a crowd of scholars, and the scene was extremely intense.”

“It's not easy. Let's buy a few more copies later to support Teacher Jian Shen...”

Lin Que silently lowered his hat brim, shrinking his entire face into the collar of his hoodie,

while quietly stuffing the atmosphere-ruining ice cream paper holder into his pocket.

Just like that, like a random passerby, he sat on the bench,

listening to others praise his alias to his face while imagining a non-existent epic negotiation.

After the group of international students walked away, Lin Que stood up and patted the dust off his butt.

“Time to get down to business.”

He wandered back to “The Silent Mozart” bookstore.

As soon as he entered, he saw the owner, Hans, with a dark face, directing the staff to move books.

“Be careful! Don't bend the corners!”

Hans held a stack of orders, his brow furrowed into a deep frown.

“Damn it, are these Eastern students crazy?”

“People were calling to pre-order before it was even released, and some even asked if they could pay extra to buy the display samples.”

The pile of the ferryman that had originally been left to gather dust in the corner

was now being reluctantly moved to a small shelf next to the checkout counter.

Although the position still wasn't prominent, at least one didn't have to squat on the floor to find them.

“Boss, this book seems to have good momentum.”

The clerk said while arranging the books.

“Just a carnival for the nouveau riche!” Hans gritted his teeth.

“For those damn Euros, I have to let this trash pollute my counter.”

“Once the hype dies down, I'll personally throw them into the shredder.”

Lin Que stood behind the bookshelf, watching this scene through a gap, smiling without a word.

This is the power of capital.

In this world, no one will turn their back on money, not even a self-proclaimed noble Vienna bookseller.

Just then, Hans seemed to want to find a book to prop up the wobbling display stand.

He casually pulled out the thick Critique of Reason.

A neatly folded flyer slipped out lightly.

It was left by Lin Que yesterday.

Hans froze for a moment, then bent down to pick it up.

Turning it over, that line of elegant Gothic German caught his eye.

【Souls have no borders, but discrimination does.】

Hans gripped the paper tightly, his eyelid twitching uncontrollably as he looked at the flyer.

“Hans? You don't look so good.”

A regular customer nearby pushed his glasses, looking a bit surprised at the usually graceful shop owner.

He subconsciously turned the paper face down in his palm, not even looking up immediately,

using the action of adjusting his cuffs to hide the momentary disturbance in his breathing.

“It's nothing, just a misprinted flyer.”

Hans's voice betrayed no emotion, only his fingers gripping the order form tightened unconsciously.

In the corner, Lin Que almost laughed out loud. It seemed that this nail had been driven in quite deep.

Lin Que strolled out of the bookstore and found a nearby cafe to sit down.

At that moment, WeChat vibrated.

【Fugitive Beethoven】: [Image]

The photo was of the rehearsal scene at the Golden Hall. Under the magnificent dome, the empty red seats appeared exceptionally cold and oppressive.

【Fugitive Beethoven】: The premiere is tomorrow. When I was sound-checking just now, I felt like the air here was cold.

Lin Que, what if the people in the audience tomorrow don't understand my Eastern interpretation? What if they think I'm just playing randomly?

Through the screen, one could feel Ye Xi's tension, like a string about to snap.

Lin Que suppressed his smile and typed a reply.

【Mu Xia】: Don't panic.

【Mu Xia】: Rest easy. Music and tears—these foreigners don't need a translation to understand them.

Just as after tonight, this arrogant city will remember a ship from the East,

after tomorrow, it will also remember a pianist from the East.

Putting down his phone, Lin Que looked out the window.

The sky in Vienna gradually darkened, and the streetlights lit up one by one.

There were only five minutes left until midnight in China, which was the moment the ferryman would be released globally.

Back in China, Wang De'an was staring at the countdown on the screen, his palms sweating with nervousness,

the entire publishing house building was brightly lit, and everyone was waiting for that moment of judgment.

Across the global internet, tens of millions of readers were waiting on the homepages of major reading platforms, their fingers hovering over the refresh key, waiting for the channel to open.

And the instigator at the center of the storm was standing on a street corner in a foreign land,

looking at that inconspicuous deep blue new book in the window.

On the phone screen, the jumping numbers were getting closer bit by bit.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

The heavy tolling of the hour came from St. Stephens Cathedral in the distance, startling the last few white pigeons in the square.

Lin Que looked up, his gaze fixed on the smooth glass of the display window.

The glass reflected the brilliant night view of Vienna, as well as his eyes hidden under the hood.

The show begins...