395: Chapter 395 Mysterious Grandmaster-Level Mentor - Bonus Chapter Sponsored by <Qing Yuan Yuan Yuan>

Su Mubai's question echoed in the lecture hall,

and then the entire space fell into a deathly silence.

Everyone present could feel the weight of this question.

Su Mubai wasn't asking about the prototype for a fictional character;

he was asking how a seventeen-year-old boy could write about a life with sixty years of weight.

Lin Que stood where he was, remaining silent for a long time.

Fragments of memories from his past life flashed silently through his mind:

His mother on the glass factory assembly line, her eyesight failing day by day under the glare of intense lights,

his father's ashen face after a night shift at the chemical plant, and the medical report circled in red ink.

His fingers, hanging at his sides, curled slightly before he sealed those images away again.

Lin Que was silent for a few breaths.

Only Xu Changge beside him saw his right knuckles press lightly against the edge of the desk.

Then, Lin Que looked up.

"Elder Su, this father doesn't refer to any specific person."

His voice was soft, but in the stiflingly quiet classroom, every word was delivered clearly.

"When I was young, I went back to the countryside with my family a few times and stayed with relatives for a while."

"The village wasn't big, with about thirty households. Most of them relied on farming, building walls, and odd jobs, enduring the year bit by bit."

"There was an old man in the yard next door who had been a bricklayer his whole life."

"His back was bent; it hadn't been straight since I could remember."

"I was small then and thought that old people's backs were supposed to be bent. Only later did I learn it was from decades of carrying cement bricks."

"A herniated disc. The village clinic couldn't treat it, and he didn't have the money to go to the hospital in the county seat."

Lin Que paused for a beat.

"The father I wrote about has the shadows of these people in him."

"He isn't any one specific person."

"He is a way of life."

"A way of life where the body is used as a tool until the very end, yet even crying out in pain is considered a waste of energy."

Lin Que's gaze shifted from Su Mubai and swept across the room.

"If you ask me who that father is, I can only say he is every person squatting on a doorstep with their head buried in their knees."

He finished speaking.

Su Mubai sat in the main judge's seat, one hand resting on the handle of his cane and the other pressing down on the manuscript on his knee.

The old man nodded, remaining silent for a long time.

After a long, dead silence, Su Mubai slowly raised his red sandalwood cane and looked at Dai Shengzong and Professor Liu Zuoqing beside him.

"The youth are to be feared."

When those words came from the old man's mouth, his voice was heavier than when he had critiqued any previous manuscript.

"This old man has been in this industry for sixty years."

"I've seen those with great talent, those who are crazily diligent, and those who have honed their skills to the absolute limit."

Su Mubai tapped the manuscript with his withered fingers.

"But at the age of seventeen, to see those squatting in the mud so clearly and write about them so accurately—in my memory, there is only one."

The old man didn't say who that person was.

He paused, his gaze falling on Lin Que's face as if he were identifying some extremely distant shadow.

"Sit down."

Lin Que bowed slightly and sat back in his chair.

Beside him, Xu Changge turned his head and glanced at him.

Lin Que's profile was as calm as it had been when he was standing; his breathing was steady, and even the way he sat down carried a sort of casual relaxation.

But Xu Changge noticed a very subtle change.

Lin Que's right hand was on the desk, the tip of his index finger pressing down, the edge of his fingernail showing a thin layer of white.

That was the color that only appeared with forceful pressure.

Xu Changge withdrew his gaze and didn't look further.

Su Mubai put down the manuscript and leaned back in his chair.

Professor Liu Zuoqing walked from the side of the podium to the center, taking charge of the situation.

"Next is the free Q&A session. If you have any confusion regarding creation, you can raise it now."

Zhang Yiyu was the first to raise his hand.

"Professor Liu, 'the steps' doesn't use any sensationalist rhetoric throughout, but reading it hurts more than articles filled with adjectives."

"How do you grasp the measure of this sense of restraint in actual creation?"

"To what extent is it considered restraint, and to what extent is it considered bland?"

Professor Liu nodded.

"Good question. Many people understand restraint as writing less; that is the most common misconception. The essence of restraint is precision."

He walked to the projection screen and pointed to the text still displayed there.

"Look at this sentence: 'His feet were lifted very high, as if he were stepping over a threshold.' There isn't a single redundant word, yet it accurately conveys a message:"

"The father's legs could no longer be lifted easily; he had to use all his strength to step onto that step."

"What if it were written in a bland way?"

"'The father struggled a bit when going up the steps.'"

"The meaning is there, but the reader sees nothing. What if it were written in a sensationalist way?"

"'The father tremblingly lifted those legs weathered by time; every step was like resisting the heavy pressure of fate.'"

"The reader sees it, but what they see is you performing."

Yuan Ningning was rapidly taking notes in the second row.

Her ballpoint pen flew across the paper, as if she wanted to carve every single word into her notebook.

"So there is only one dividing line:"

"Can the details you provide generate an image in the reader's mind?"

"If they can, that's enough. If they can't, it's bland."

"If they can and you keep adding things, it's sensationalism."

A boy from Sichuan Province in the fourth row immediately raised his hand:

"Professor Liu, how do I distinguish between compassion and condescending sympathy?"

"There is only one standard for distinction."

Professor Liu's tone became extremely solemn.

"Do the characters you write about ever think of wanting your sympathy while they are enduring suffering?"

The boy from Sichuan Province was stunned.

"That intern eating a cold bun—as she crouched in the stairwell swallowing that mouthful of cabbage filling with congealed oil, she was thinking about when the next emergency would arrive."

"She didn't look up at the sky, she didn't ask the heavens why, and she didn't need anyone to feel sorry for her."

"As long as you write about her truthfully, the reader will naturally feel sad. That is called compassion."

"But if you cry for her, what the reader sees is you standing on high, scattering tears downward. That is called charity."

Questions came one after another.

Wei Yiming asked about the boundaries of using dialects in narrative, and Tang He asked how to avoid a sense of superficiality in urban themes.

In the shadows of the corner, Dan Yi remained huddled in his seat.

His hat brim was pulled low; he had almost no presence throughout the entire class.

But when the Q&A was about to end, a sentence squeezed out of his throat, his voice so low it was as if he were talking to himself.

"If the author themselves is an outsider, how can they write with the warmth of an insider?"

This question made Professor Liu pause for two seconds.

"Go and stay in that environment. Even if it's just for one day. One day is enough for you to smell the scent of that place."

"Scent is the hardest of all senses to fake."

"Once you've smelled it, the things you write will carry the smell of the earth."

"If you haven't smelled it, no matter how good the structure of your writing is, it's like looking at other people's lives through glass."

Dan Yi shrank back into the shadows and didn't ask further.

But those grayish-blue eyes under the hat brim brightened a bit more than before.

The Q&A session lasted for nearly forty minutes.

Zhang Yiyu's notebook was turned to the seventh page, every page densely packed with writing; the intensity of his recording had left deep indentations on the paper.

Professor Liu glanced at the wall clock; it was 3:40 PM.

"Alright." He tapped the edge of the podium.

"Today's class is almost over."

No one in the audience moved.

Professor Liu's gaze swept across the thirty drained faces, his tone softening slightly.

"Go back and organize all your realizations from today."

"I will give you a three-day buffer period to digest everything properly."

"Three days from now at exactly 8:00 AM, return to this classroom on time."

Someone in the back row asked softly:

"Professor Liu, what class will we have in three days?"

Professor Liu closed the folder in his hand and set it on the podium.

"You will naturally find out in three days."

His tone carried a heavy significance.

"At that time, an elderly gentleman will come to personally inspect your mettle."

His name, you all should have heard of it."

As the words fell, the atmosphere in the classroom changed instantly.

People who could be introduced by Professor Liu Zuoqing in such a tone could be counted on one hand in the entire Chinese Literary World.

Professor Liu didn't give any answer.

He closed his folder and followed Elder Su and Dai Shengzong toward the side door.

As he passed the first row, his footsteps paused imperceptibly.

He turned his head and glanced at the middle position of the first row.

That look lasted for a very short time, so short that most people didn't notice.

...