296: Chapter 296 looks a bit...familiar—Bonus Chapter of <The New Type of Salted Fish>

Beijing, the Xu Family.

The mahogany bookshelves in the study reached from the floor to the ceiling, packed with thread-bound books and rare photocopied editions that emitted the fragrance of aged ink.

Xu Zhengqing sat in a grand armchair with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose; the tablet in front of him was frozen on the page showing the long comparison image.

The old man had looked at it over a dozen times.

First, he looked at Jian Shen's "snow plum."

Then he looked at the Dream Weaver's reply poem. Afterward, he compared the two poems line by line.

Xu Changge stood by the desk, holding a cup of Longjing tea he had brewed for his grandfather; the steam from the cup had already dissipated, but he hadn't noticed.

"Grandfather?"

Xu Zhengqing took off his glasses and set them on the desk.

The old man closed his eyes, pinching the space between his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger, remaining silent for a full half-minute.

Then he spoke; his voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.

"The meter is seamless, yet the artistic conceptions are distinct branches of their own."

Xu Zhengqing opened his eyes, shifting his gaze from the tablet screen to the old locust tree in the courtyard outside the window.

"To think such skill could be found in the writing of an online novelist."

Xu Changge's fingers unconsciously tightened around the warm porcelain cup.

His foundation in classical literature had been laid since he was four years old, when his grandfather forced him to sit at the desk and fed him poems one by one.

After thirteen years of accumulation, his sensitivity to meter, antithesis, and classical allusions was no less than that of any professional scholar.

Because of this, the impact of the Dream Weaver's poem on him was exceptionally intense.

"The wind carves cold bones, not seeking warmth."

Xu Changge chewed over these seven words in his mind; the more he pondered, the more bitter they felt.

This line was the Dream Weaver's manifesto regarding his own creative path.

I endure the cold not to get closer to warmth, but because the cold itself is my choice.

Xu Changge asked himself.

He couldn't write with such power.

It wasn't a lack of skill, but a lack of the right state of mind.

He curled his lips in self-mockery; he had been raised in the warm pavilions of an influential family since childhood.

No matter how much he tried to feign aloofness in his poems, he couldn't wash away that air of wealth and status.

But between the Dream Weaver's lines, there were knives truly forged in ice and snow.

"Changge," Xu Zhengqing suddenly called out to him.

Xu Changge snapped back to reality and placed the cold tea on the table. "Grandfather."

The old man withdrew his gaze from the window and let it fall on his grandson's face.

"Who do you think this Dream Weaver is?"

Xu Changge lowered his eyes and thought seriously.

"Someone who can master both extreme horror narratives and strict heptasyllabic quatrains must be proficient in at least two completely different literary language systems."

He paused, his wording becoming more cautious.

"This person... has a very deep foundation; they are definitely not self-taught."

Xu Zhengqing nodded.

The old man's fingers tapped lightly on the table twice, and his gaze became distant, carrying a reflection that transcended simple literary judgment.

"Jian Shen, Dream Weaver," Xu Zhengqing said slowly.

"These two emerged almost at the same time; one illuminates the earth, while the other tears open the abyss."

He looked at his grandson.

"Don't you think this era is too fortunate?"

Xu Changge didn't answer immediately.

His grandfather's words were like a stone thrown into deep water, the ripples expanding outward in his mind circle by circle.

Something brushed lightly against the depths of his consciousness.

It was a vague, indescribable intuition.

Xu Changge frowned slightly, trying to grasp that thought.

But it was too fast.

He shook his head, pulling his attention back to reality.

"Grandfather, you're right.

Being able to read the works of both these people at once is indeed a stroke of luck for the readers."

Xu Zhengqing looked at his grandson's expression, his lips curling slightly, and said no more.

...

Jiang City, SOHO Future City, Studio.

Lin Que leaned back in his chair, an ice-cold Coke in his left hand and his right hand resting on the mouse.

Two screens, two data curves.

On the left, the backend for "Jian Shen" on the New Tide APP. The subscription growth rate continued to climb, and the comment section was filled with "Teacher Jian Shen's vision is forever god-tier."

On the right, the backend for "Hell Dream Weaver" on Hong Guo Net. The daily active user data for "the colour out of space" had not only fully regained lost ground but also set a new record.

Watching tens of millions of people across the internet first argue heatedly because of the poem he wrote with his left hand and the reply he wrote with his right,

and then finally make peace, the curve of Lin Que's lips widened further and further.

Sniping himself across the air.

@-ing himself.

Praising himself.

And then, in passing, ending an internet flame war that had lasted three days and nights.

This feeling...

But that smile only lasted three seconds.

A scene suddenly flashed through his mind.

What if...

What if his secret identity was exposed one day?

Someone would dig up these two poems.

Then they'd find out it was the same person, with the left hand sending an @ and the right hand clicking accept.

Writing "The plum must yield to snow three points of whiteness" with the left hand to praise himself.

Replying "The flower's fragrance comes from its lonely coldness" with the right hand to praise himself again.

Lin Que imagined that scene and couldn't help but burst out laughing.

But on second thought, so what if his identity was revealed one day?

Writing "The plum must yield to snow three points of whiteness" with the left hand and replying "The flower's fragrance comes from its lonely coldness" with the right—

this kind of self-promotion was something others couldn't even emulate if they wanted to.

Whatever. If it really gets exposed, at worst, I'll just let these two groups of fans who just reconciled have their worldviews shattered once more.

He leisurely picked up the Coke and took a gulp, the icy carbonated bubbles exploding in his mouth,

swallowing that bit of insignificant worry completely back into his stomach.

Just then, his phone screen lit up.

Ye Xi's messages popped in like a rapid-fire barrage.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "!!!"

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "Master Lin, did you see!!! The Dream Weaver replied with a poem!!!"

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "An acrostic poem! each holding their own grace!!! Heavens, this is just too amazing!!!"

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "[Screaming][Screaming][Screaming]"

Four consecutive messages, starting with at least three exclamation marks, each more excited than the last.

Lin Que stared at the string of exclamation marks and screaming emojis on the screen, and the laughter he had just managed to suppress surfaced again.

He was just about to type a reply when a fifth message popped up.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "It's just that..."

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "I just read the two poems side-by-side again."

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "Something is very strange."

Lin Que's fingers paused above the screen.

[Fugitive Beethoven]: "I can't say exactly what it is..."

Even though the meter is superb, looking at the rhythm, I can't help but feel that between the lines,

it's a bit... familiar."

...