493: Chapter 493 Loneliness is not an exhibition hall

The comments on the screen unfurled line by line, like a dull blade, slowly grinding against the most respectable layer of Xu Changge's exterior.

Xu Changge sat there, his back straight as a rod, but his knuckles slowly tightened on his knees.

Chen Jiahao still held that ghost-struck expression from a moment ago, looking from the screen to Xu Changge and back again.

He leaned in closer, eyes wide as saucers, counting the characters on the screen.

Halfway through, he gasped sharply, his voice cracking:

"Five hundred and forty-seven characters... Master Que, Jian Shen wrote over five hundred characters for Brother Xu! It's even longer than yours!"

Lin Que nodded, signaling him to keep reading.

Xu Changge didn't say anything either.

His entire attention was pinned to those few lines on the screen.

["Patch Algorithm."]

The opening was steady, even carrying a hint of appreciation.

[The setting is rigorous, the deduction calm. The operating logic of this "Patch Society" you've constructed is almost entirely self-consistent. The prose is clean, without a single redundancy. From a technical standpoint, this is the most complete piece among the thirty manuscripts.]

Xu Changge's fingertips curled against his knees.

He knew he had polished this manuscript for a long time; every word had been hammered out, every turn calculated.

What he expected was affirmation, an insider's recognition of his rigor.

He had even rehearsed in his mind how he would steadily receive that evaluation if this rigor were truly seen by Jian Shen.

The next paragraph took a sharp turn.

[But your problem lies precisely in this cleanliness.]

Xu Changge's breath hitched for a split second.

[You are too concerned with being respectable.]

[It's not just the respectability of your prose, but the respectability of your characters' circumstances. The struggles you arrange for them are still "respectable" struggles.]

[They choose the optimal solution when programs malfunction, and file rational appeals when resources are withheld. You don't dare let them truly go mad.]

[You don't dare let the old worker cast aside his repair calculations, smash the iron lock of the ration station with a wrench, just to drag that half-crate of withheld fuel back to a freezing hallway. You don't dare let the mother abandon her appeal form in the system backend, rush into the Allocation Committee to overturn every file cabinet, even if what she mutters while being dragged away is still that her child cannot keep coughing tonight.]

[You lock them in a meticulously designed cage, making them cling to the respectability you've pre-set for them even in desperate straits.]

Xu Changge's fists were clenched tight on his knees.

He could feel the blood rushing to his head, a buzzing sound in his ears.

The characters he wrote, those struggling to survive at the bottom, suddenly became like specimens in a glass case under Jian Shen's pen.

Precise, clear, and devoid of life.

The comments continued, every word striking his heart.

[Good literature requires the courage to tear apart respectability.]

[Respectability is the cloak of civilization, but it is also a shackle. When a person is pushed to the brink, the first thing they tear off is often that cloak. Your writing doesn't dare to tear. You make everyone wear tattered but still proper clothes, engaging in a civilized struggle within the abyss.]

[Before you write next time, learn first to tear a hole in your respectability from between the lines. Let those characters leak out a bit of something "unseemly" through that tear. Even if it's crying until they are a snotty, teary mess, even if it's cursing in the crudest way, even if it's performing the most inappropriate actions.]

[That is what a truly living person is.]

...In the Dean's office, Dai Shengzong stared at the full screen of comments, silent for a long time.

The water in his teacup had long since gone cold, but he didn't notice.

Su Mubai leaned back in his chair, the hint of a smile in his eyes fading away bit by bit.

"Tear apart respectability..." He repeated the phrase in a low voice, his eyes bright.

"Elder Xu, this grandson of yours has been raised too well. So well that he's forgotten that roughness still exists in the human world."

Xu Zhengqing didn't respond. He remained seated there, his hands, which had been turning the walnuts, coming to a stop.

The light from the screen reflected on his face, flickering on and off.

He remembered when Changge was young, the rice paper for practicing calligraphy had to be snow-white and smooth, not a single ink spot allowed.

He remembered once saying with satisfaction to outsiders: "This child is steady."

Steady. Respectable. Proper. In the dictionary of the Xu Family elders, these words were terms of praise.

Yet, they had become the most fatal gap in Xu Changge's writing.

Xu Zhengqing's Adam's apple bobbed. He suddenly realized that he might never have truly asked Changge: When you wrote those people, did you feel their pain?

Do you dare let them fall into chaos? Or is it that they are all just living respectably, suffering respectably, and perishing respectably?

Su Mubai remained silent for a moment, only then gently setting down his teacup. The cup met the table with a soft click.

"This Jian Shen," Su Mubai's voice was gentle, but his eyes were as sharp as a freshly honed blade. "He understands aristocratic families. He knows what children raised by such families fear most in their bones."

"They fear losing control most of all. They fear being unrespectable. They fear being called 'unpresentable'."

"So this blade of his doesn't strike at Changge's technique; it strikes at Changge's 'upbringing.' He is forcing Changge to personally tear away that layer of respectability to see if there is any truth underneath."

"And literature only ever recognizes the latter."

Dai Shengzong slowly let out a breath, picked up his cold tea, and took a sip; the bitter taste spread at the root of his tongue.

"Jian Shen's understanding of Xu Changge is perhaps deeper than those of us who watched him grow up. He knows where his ceiling is, and he knows what he needs most."

"He needs someone to tear open that shell for him."

Elder Cui Wen chimed in in a gruff voice, finally closing the pocket watch in his hand, the cover making a soft "click."

"This kid needs to be dragged down from the clouds, to get mud on his soles, dust on his cuffs; only when his clothes are dirty will his writing have the scent of a living person."

They continued watching the screen. In the dormitory, the atmosphere solidified.

Xu Changge stared at the screen without moving, for a full three minutes. In those three minutes, no one spoke in the room.

Chen Jiahao wanted to speak several times, but seeing Xu Changge's profile, he swallowed his words back down.

Danyi Lopivich leaned against the window with his arms crossed, his gaze fixed outside, but his peripheral vision remained on the screen.

Xu Changge's eyes were very bright. Those eyes, usually so gentle and upright, now looked like they had been fiercely wiped by something, shining with a disheveled intensity.

In that brightness, there was shock, there was unwillingness, there was the dishevelment of having his trump card seen through, and there was a kind of clarity that he could finally no longer bypass himself.

He slowly, deeply exhaled. The breath was long and heavy, as if he wanted to exhale something that had been pressed in his chest for many years.

He raised his hand and pressed it gently against his chest. Through the shirt fabric, he could feel his heart beating violently beneath his palm.

"He wrote correctly." Xu Changge's voice was a bit hoarse, but steady.

Chen Jiahao was stunned: "What?"

"Jian Shen wrote correctly." Xu Changge repeated, turning his head to look at Chen Jiahao and Danyi Lopivich.

His eyes were very clear, clear enough to see that the mist that had always shrouded them, called "aristocratic respectability," was being burned and evaporated by something hotter.

"I wrote too cleanly." "It's just like an operating table."

"Everyone was laid out, dissected, and stitched up by me, but they didn't truly feel any pain."

He looked down at his hands. These hands had written neat policy papers, but had never held a searing hot iron pipe, had never smashed anything open in desperation.

"I made them reasonable, made them logical, made them struggle respectably." Xu Changge's voice carried a hint of self-deprecation, a hint of bitterness.

"But I didn't dare let them, like a person who truly couldn't go on living, shout, curse, or simply lie on the ground and refuse to get up."

"Because I'm afraid." He said it very softly. "Afraid of writing something unrespectable. Afraid of the characters losing control. Afraid of... appearing rough."

His last sentence was almost inaudible. But Chen Jiahao and Danyi Lopivich heard it clearly.

The room was silent for a few seconds. Chen Jiahao suddenly slapped his thigh, his voice exploding in the quiet room:

"Damn! Brother Xu, what you just said... I suddenly feel like that 'skeleton' piece of mine that had six thousand words deleted doesn't seem so embarrassing anymore! At least my people live in a mess, and when they hurt, it's truly heart-wrenching!"

Xu Changge was stunned for a moment by his crude metaphor, then, the corners of his lips curled up ever so slightly.

The smile was very faint, like the first fine crack in an ice sheet. "Yeah." He nodded. "Yours, at least, has a sense of warmth."

He looked back at the screen, his gaze sweeping over the line "tear a hole in your respectability from between the lines," then landing on the last line of the comments.

[Xu Changge, your ceiling is not in technique, but in breaking the situation. Do you dare to smash that shell and see it clearly for yourself?]

He didn't speak again. But the hand he had placed on his chest slowly clenched into a fist, then slowly relaxed.

After relaxing it, he picked up the pen on the table and drew a heavy line on the blank page of his open notebook. The line was drawn very deep, almost tearing through the paper.

The list on the screen scrolled up slightly after "Patch Algorithm." A third name popped out.

[Work Title: "Heating in Mo City"] [Author: Danyi Lopivich]

In that instant, except for Danyi Lopivich, the gazes of the other three people in the dormitory were simultaneously pinned to that name.

Danyi Lopivich's arms, which had been crossed over his chest, slowly dropped. He took a step forward, very close, almost pressing against the screen.

The light from the screen hit his face, illuminating his slightly trembling eyelashes.

His breathing became heavier bit by bit, his chest rising and falling slowly, but his fingertips couldn't suppress a slight tremor.

He stared intently at the title, "Heating in Mo City." This was the name he had given that manuscript, about the heating system in Mo City, about algorithms, about the border, about how he, a mixed-race person, became an "abnormal sample" within the system.

He dissected himself, using the calmest tone to hide his wounds in code, in data, in the judgments that failed time and again during cold wave warnings.

He hid all his grievances, accusations, and confusion behind those cold terms and precise numbers.

He thought he had hidden them well. Now, Jian Shen's gaze was piercing through the screen, landing straight on those things he thought he had hidden away.

He clicked the "View Comments" button. The page refreshed. The comments expanded.

Unlike the first two pieces, Jian Shen skipped even the buffer this time, starting right at Danyi Lopivich's most vulnerable spot.

[Your coldness is written to the bone, but the underlying tone is full of grievances.]

[You write about the system's misjudgments and injustices with extreme restraint, so restrained that the depths of the wounds are still waiting for a belated response. But, the purpose of literature does not stop there.]

[Do not treat loneliness as an exhibition hall for others to visit and shed tears over.]

[Loneliness is your coordinate. It measures the distance between you and the world. You stand on the boundary, which is precisely the most acute position for observing the world.]

[You need to stand at this coordinate to see things others cannot see. To write about how people like you struggle in such a system, how to define yourself in the cracks.]

[Burn fuel into the skeleton of your writing to drive the plot and shape humanity. Loneliness once hurt you, but it also gave you eyes that see cracks earlier than others. Use them well. Do not let the coordinate that fate left you end up trapping you.]