308: Chapter 308 The Epic Hedging Plan

The faint glow of the screen hit Lin Que's face, the line between light and shadow cutting exactly across the corner of his eye.

"Too cruel."

He rolled those four words in his mouth twice, the curve of his lips pulling upward bit by bit.

An image automatically formed in his mind.

Next Saturday, on the eve of the press conference, Teacher Jian Shen would wave his hand grandly:

"I cannot release my book on the same day as that seventeen-year-old kid! I'm afraid I'll crush him to death! Push it back! Push everything back!"

Then Student Lin Que, on the other end, holding a signing pen, would face an empty bookstore and weep with emotion:

"Thank you, Senior Jian Shen, for showing mercy. This junior is moved to tears of gratitude!"

Making way for himself.

The left hand making way for the right hand? Such a vulgar, self-deprecating script would never happen.

Lin Que pushed the cola bottle aside and placed both hands on the keyboard.

There was not the slightest hesitation.

His fingertips fell rapidly, the keyboard clattering into a continuous rhythm.

The email began with only two words.

"No need."

The period was struck with crisp decisiveness.

He continued writing.

"President Wang, I appreciate your concern and kindness. However, the matter of a delay is open to debate."

"The cultural market is not a greenhouse, and the passing of the literary torch is by no means accomplished through charity and concessions."

"I have read the works of that youth named Lin Que in Fu Zhi Yao Competition."

When Lin Que typed this line, his fingers paused for half a second.

Evaluating himself—he had done this more than once, but every time it felt indescribably subtle.

His fingers continued to dance.

"There is real substance in his writing; it's not molded from clay, it's forged from iron."

"If such a young man cannot even handle this small wave, then I'm afraid his grip on the pen is not yet steady enough."

At this point, the look in Lin Que's eyes changed.

The following paragraph was the true trump card of this email.

"President Wang, have you thought about what 'making way' itself signifies?"

"It signifies that I am looking down from a height, thinking he is too weak and fragile, so I am showing mercy by clearing a space for him."

"This isn't called respect; it is condescending pity."

"For a writer, being pitied is more humiliating than being defeated."

The sound of the keyboard skipped a beat.

Then it resumed, even faster.

"True literary integrity is standing tall in a storm, not holding umbrellas for each other on a sunny day."

New Tide not backing down is the greatest respect for the authorities and that youth.

Let him see the real market; let him face the harshest realities of this land."

"If he can endure it, it shows he is worthy of this honor. If he cannot, then let him return to be tempered further.

This is far more valuable than letting him win a hollow victory in a greenhouse."

"President Wang, what do you think?"

At the end of the email, Lin Que's fingers hovered for two seconds.

They descended.

"I hope we can use the grandest of stages to measure the backbone of the future of the Chinese Literary World."

The final period was typed.

He decisively clicked send.

The email jumped into the sent list, and the interface refreshed.

Lin Que leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers twice on the armrest.

He was as clear-headed as a mirror.

The persona of 'Jian Shen' was already standing in the clouds.

Reputation, traffic, and influence—these three pillars were welded shut; no one could shake them.

But what about the original self, 'Lin Que'?

What were his current labels?

"Fu Zhi Yao Competition National Champion," "Genius Youth," "Key Cultivation Subject of the Writers Association."

They sounded nice.

But that was all.

How long is the shelf life in the public eye for a high schooler who won first place in an essay competition?

Three months? Half a year?

Once the next champion emerged, the previous name would be automatically overwritten.

He needed a landmark event.

An event significant enough to be recorded, so that in ten or twenty years, when anyone mentioned the name 'Lin Que,' an image would automatically pop into their minds.

What kind of event?

If Jian Shen withdrew, Lin Que's debut book signing would land safely and smoothly amidst calm waters.

The media headlines would be nothing more than 'Fu Zhi Yao Competition Champion's New Book Debuts, Atmosphere at the Scene is Enthusiastic.'

Enthusiastic.

What a mediocre adjective.

But what if Jian Shen didn't withdraw?

When a seventeen-year-old youth and the greatest titan of the contemporary literary world collide head-on on the same day and at the same time.

This image itself was a bomb.

Regardless of the outcome, the name 'Lin Que' would be welded into the public memory by this epic hedging event.

Selling poorly? 'A newborn calf unafraid of the tiger'—tragic and heroic.

Selling well? 'The youth slays the dragon'—a myth.

And both sides were his own people.

So there was no real losing.

He didn't need a safe debut.

He needed a storm.

Only those who stand firm in a storm are worthy of having their names remembered by everyone.

And the switch for this storm was currently held in his own left hand. He only needed to ensure his left hand didn't let go, and his right hand could take flight with the help of this hurricane.

*Sizzle—*

The notification sound for the encrypted email rang.

Lin Que glanced at the timestamp. It was less than two minutes since he sent the email.

He clicked it open.

Wang De'an's reply was only two lines.

There was no long-winded talk, no analysis of pros and cons; even the punctuation carried an uncontrollable tremor.

"Teacher Jian Shen! Your words have made this humble Wang feel utterly ashamed! I have learned much!"

"Next Saturday, New Tide will certainly offer the highest specification of baptism for this literary grand event and for those youths!"

Lin Que stared at that exclamation mark for two seconds.

He could almost see Wang De'an's current appearance.

Sitting in the President's office of the New Tide Building, the screen's light illuminating a flushed face,

His right hand clenched into a fist, slamming heavily onto the desk, his eyes churning with the heat of a publisher's literary faith.

This old-school publisher had his final mental defense pierced by Jian Shen's almost harsh integrity.

A famous and successful great writer not only didn't worry about a newcomer diverting his market, but instead requested a head-on confrontation with full firepower.

The purpose was not to win, but to "not insult the opponent."

Lin Que picked up the bottle of ice-cold cola on the table and opened the cap with an automatic opener.

With a "hiss," the carbonated bubbles exploded in the quiet studio, crisp and flamboyant.

He tilted his head back and took a large gulp, the icy liquid sliding down his throat.

The layer of solemnity he had held while writing the email faded away completely.

The expression revealed carried a few hints of a craftiness that only he understood.

The left hand had just finished writing "not making way for you is the greatest respect for you."

The right hand would enjoy all the dividends brought by this "respect" next Saturday.

No matter how you calculated it, this deal was not a loss.

Lin Que put the cola bottle back on the table and was about to close the email interface and unplug the encrypted USB key to put it away.

The phone screen lit up.

A special contact name jumped onto the caller ID.

"Empress Dowager."

Lin Que glanced at the wall clock in the studio.

1:17 PM.

He only then realized that from the time he left school until now, he hadn't eaten lunch.

His movements suddenly accelerated.

The USB key was pulled out and stuffed into the deepest part of the drawer.

The encrypted email was closed, browsing history cleared, and cache emptied with one click.

All traces were wiped clean within three seconds.

His right hand simultaneously picked up the phone while his left hand naturally grabbed the keys on the table as he walked out.

Wang Xiulian's voice came through the receiver; it wasn't loud, but every word carried a thousand pounds of weight.

"Little Que, are you still in the studio? Did you forget something?"

Lin Que's neck instinctively shrank, his tone completing a seamless switch within 0.3 seconds,

From the literary titan who was just pointing the way and refusing to make way for himself, back into an honest high school student in front of his mom.

"Mom, I'm coming back right now, right now. Save the food for me; I'll be home in five minutes."

The call ended.

Lin Que locked the studio door and stood in the hallway, dazed for a second.

Just a moment ago, he was using the identity of 'Jian Shen' to refuse to make way for 'Lin Que,' his words carrying immense weight and a crushing perspective.

In the blink of an eye, he had to obediently make way for the Empress Dowager and run home for lunch.

The food chain,

Sure enough, it was more rigid than the literary world's structure.

...