291: Chapter 291 "Snow Plum"

Early the next morning.

Yuezhou, Mid-Levels Villa District.

Inside the Chen family's luxury mansion, the lights in the second-floor study had been on all night.

Chen Jiahao sat slumped in a leather swivel chair, the mahogany desk in front of him completely submerged under a pile of thick philosophy tomes.

Existence, nothingness—these obscure theories had ground his brain cells to dust.

Two massive dark circles hung on his round face, looking as if they had been drawn on with ink.

“The essence of 'Dasein' lies in its existence... existence precedes essence...”

Chen Jiahao bit the end of his pen, his eyebrows twisted into knots, his thumb rubbing back and forth on the page.

He had read it three times; he recognized every word, but when put together, it was like a heavenly script.

Of the six cans of Red Bull on the table, four were empty.

He grabbed the fifth can, took a huge gulp, and then lowered his head to underline the book again.

He had already switched between three colors of highlighters; the entire page was painted like a palette.

“Fine, I'll use this passage.”

Chen Jiahao finally managed to scrape an argument he could barely understand out of Sartre's tongue-twisters.

He rubbed his hands, opened the forum, and spent twenty minutes squeezing out a three-hundred-word rebuttal.

He double-checked it twice to ensure there were no typos, took a deep breath, and clicked send.

“This should do it this time.”

Chen Jiahao leaned back against the chair, staring at the screen for a reply.

He waited for four minutes.

The other side replied.

The northernmost tip of Huaxia, Mo City.

Dilapidated curtains blocked out the early morning light completely.

Dan Yi was wrapped in a faded old coat, curled up in a chair.

In front of him was only an old laptop with a yellowed screen; there wasn't even a glass of water on the table.

He glanced at Chen Jiahao's cobbled-together existentialist rebuttal, the corners of his mouth showing almost no movement.

His fingers landed on the keyboard, not fast, but exceptionally steady.

【Floor 14012 · The Drowned on Land】: “You quote Sartre saying 'existence precedes essence' to prove that people can define themselves through choice. But you forget that Sartre himself also said, 'Hell is other people.'

When all your choices must pass through the judgment of others, when your very existence is judged to be an error, what do you use to define yourself? You don't even have the right to define.

Sun Shaoping can choose to leave the Loess Plateau, but can he choose not to be the son of a farmer?

Your hymn sings of the freedom of choice, but the true cage is never iron bars; it's the label welded onto you the moment you were born.”

Sent.

Yuezhou.

Chen Jiahao stared at the screen, and after reading the reply, he felt as if all the air had been sucked out of him.

The Sartre he spent three hours digesting was slapped back at him using Sartre's own words.

“This... this is not playing by the rules!”

Chen Jiahao grabbed his phone, his fingers trembling as he opened WeChat.

【Chen Jiahao】: Master Que!!! SOS!!!

【Chen Jiahao】: Is that 'Drowned' person a philosophy grad student?! I bring out Sartre, he hits me with Sartre! I bring out Heidegger, he buries me with Heidegger!

【Chen Jiahao】: I have six philosophy books spread out on my desk right now, my brain hurts, save me!

The message was sent, but no reply came immediately.

Chen Jiahao irritably tossed his phone onto the pile of books, shoved his hands into his hair, and let out a pained wail.

At the same time, Jiang City, Xisheng Mansion.

In the living room, the television news was reporting on the progress of a local infrastructure project.

Lin Que sat on the sofa, holding a bowl of millet porridge that Wang Xiulian had just brought over.

But Lin Jianguo, sitting next to him, wasn't watching TV at all.

Old Lin's eyes were glued to his phone screen, his thumb swiping up rapidly,

Occasionally letting out a "tsk tsk" or suddenly slapping his thigh, muttering "well said."

Wang Xiulian brought out a plate of fried eggs from the kitchen, glanced at her husband, and slapped her chopsticks on the table.

“Lin Jianguo.”

“Hmm?” Lin Jianguo didn't even look up.

“You're almost fifty, why are you acting like an internet-addicted teenager, clutching that damn phone every day? The porridge is getting cold, can't you even have breakfast in peace?”

“You don't understand!” Lin Jianguo finally looked up, sounding perfectly justified.

“The flame war online is intense right now. Jian Shen's fans are going head-to-head with that Abyss Sect group, fighting tooth and nail.

Even though I can't help much anymore, I have to keep an eye on the battlefield at all times. This is called supervising the front from the rear!”

“Supervising.” Wang Xiulian rolled her eyes and turned to Lin Que.

“Little Que, don't you go learning from your father. He's been obsessed these past few days. Yesterday at three in the morning, he got up to use the bathroom and was scrolling on his phone, almost stepping right into the toilet.”

Lin Que picked up a piece of fried egg and said with a smile:

“Don't worry, Mom, I don't look at those things. But you should keep an eye on Dad, don't let him actually fall into the toilet, or we'll have to fish him out.”

“Go on, go on!” Lin Jianguo grumbled, but his fingers had already returned to the screen.

Just then, Lin Que felt the phone in his pocket vibrate a few times.

He looked down; it was a string of desperate messages from Chen Jiahao.

After reading those three tearful pleas for help, Lin Que's lips twitched, and he shook his head silently.

It was plain to see that this silly boy was being pushed to take the postgraduate entrance exam.

After breakfast.

Lin Que went out, braving the late August Jiang City heat that hadn't yet dissipated, and walked into SOHO Future City.

In the elevator, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment.

Arguments online were one thing, but he knew in his heart—

The heat was just right.

It was time to wrap it up.

Pushing open the studio door, the cold air from the air conditioner hit his face, giving him a jolt.

He walked to the computer, sat down, and turned on the screen.

First, he opened his encrypted email.

A new email was sitting in the inbox, sender: Wang De'an.

Timestamp: 7:42 AM this morning.

He got up even earlier than Lin Que.

Lin Que clicked it open.

The body wasn't long, but over a dozen screenshots were attached below.

Wang De'an's wording still had that steady tone, but the urgency hidden between the lines couldn't be concealed.

“Teacher Jian Shen, the controversy between the two factions online has seriously deviated from the scope of literary discussion. Below are some excerpts from this morning for your review.”

Lin Que clicked through them one by one.

The first—a certain Big V's Microblogging platform, pointing at the opposing camp and calling them "spiritual opium poisoners."

The second—a Tieba screenshot, the screen full of unsightly curses, every nasty word imaginable being thrown around.

The third, the fourth—people were starting to dig up real identity information: addresses, schools, photos, glaringly posted in the threads.

The fifth.

The sixth.

The further he scrolled, the filthier the words became, and the more underhanded the tactics.

Some were already posting things like "let's settle this in person."

Lin Que's expression sank bit by bit.

The last page was something Wang De'an wrote himself.

“Teacher Jian Shen, this is no longer a literary debate. The core arguments on both sides have long been covered by emotion; rational discussion has turned into personal attacks, and has even begun to involve offline threats.”

“The publishing house can issue a statement calling for calm, but frankly, its effect would be limited. The only person who can truly turn the tide is you.”

“May I ask, what are your instructions?”

Lin Que released the mouse.

His body slowly leaned back against the chair.

The studio was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning vent.

The bit of lightness on his face from earlier when he was laughing at Chen Jiahao was completely gone.

Literature can be contested, viewpoints can be argued.

But once the line is crossed into personal attacks, privacy leaks, and offline threats...

Then it's no longer a "clash of ideals."

It's thugs using literature as a fig leaf.

Whether these people call themselves "Abyss Believers" or "Backbone of the Soil."

They don't understand why those words were written at all.

Since this fire had burned out of control.

Then he, the one who lit the fire, would extinguish it with his own hands.

Lin Que sat up straight, his hands resting on the keyboard.

A poem surfaced in his mind.

A very, very old poem.

The plum's proud spirit, the snow's pure cold.

Each has its strengths, each has its weaknesses.

Neither needs to step on the other to stand tall.

Just like today's situation.

He began to type.

The reply was very short, just three sentences.

【Jian Shen】: “President Wang, thank you for your hard work regarding the online turmoil.”

【Jian Shen】: “I happen to have an old poem on hand; let's use it to cool everyone's tempers.”

【Jian Shen】: “Please post it on my behalf. Also, mention @Hong Guo Net and Teacher Dream Weaver while you're at it, as a bit of exchange between men of letters.”

Exactly ten o'clock in the morning.

Xinchao Publishing House's official Microblogging platform posted new content right on time.

No long-winded statement.

No self-righteous response.

Not a single word regarding this controversy.

The body of the post contained only a poem.

The accompanying image was clean.

A pure white background, with black Song font arranged vertically in the center:

snow plum vie for spring, neither will yield,

Poets lay down their brushes, weary of judging their field.

The plum must concede to the snow three parts of its white,

But the snow loses to the plum a stretch of fragrance bright.

—Jian Shen

At the very end of the post.

Two blue @ symbols hung quietly.

@Hong Guo Net

@Hell Dream Weaver

...