494: Chapter 494 We've Chosen the Right Path

School of Liberal Arts Dean's Office.

Dai Shengzong held his teacup, his gaze fixed on the screen.

"Jian Shen, oh Jian Shen, this stroke is too deep."

Elder Cui Wen slapped his thigh, his voice echoing in the office.

"He's dug out the root cause of these young men's maladies. This isn't critiquing an article; it's critiquing their very lives."

Professor Liu Zuoqing stroked his chin and nodded repeatedly.

"He didn't advise this child to forget his loneliness but instead let him stand within that loneliness to view the world. Being able to turn a wound into a coordinate is a masterful stroke."

Dai Shengzong set down his teacup, the tea leaving a faint ring on the cup's side.

"To be able to weave together borders, algorithms, and alien identities, and to see through to the grievances in this child's foundation at a glance—Jian Shen's eyes are truly sharp."

Su Mubai looked at the screen, a light in his eyes.

"Literature doesn't fear pain; it fears treating pain as an exhibit. This critique is enough to benefit these young people for a lifetime."

Xu Zhengqing toyed with the walnuts in his hand, the two walnuts colliding with a crisp sound, smiling faintly.

Elder Cui Wen stood up, walked to the screen, and pointed at those few lines of text.

"With these few slashes, no one can think about faking it with talent anymore.

These kids have been coddled by applause in their respective schools for too long; they're most prone to taking pretty sentences for the real thing.

Today, they've run into such a blade—painful as it is, it's worth it."

"Pay attention to his word choice. For Lin Que, he used 'watching a fire from the other shore' because Lin Que's technique is too polished, making him prone to floating.

For that kid from the Xu Family, he used 'tearing apart the facade' because he carries too much baggage.

When it came to this mixed-blood kid named Dan Yi, he instead sheathed his blade and talked about 'coordinate systems.'

Teaching according to aptitude, prescribing the right medicine for the illness. If a young teacher doesn't have enough life experience, it's hard to land the blade with such precision."

Dai Shengzong sighed.

"Indeed. If we were to critique these thirty manuscripts ourselves, at most we'd pick at the structure and writing style.

Who could be like him, bypassing the superficial rhetoric and structure to press directly on the spot the author is least willing to admit?"

Professor Liu Zuoqing sat back down in his chair.

"I'm becoming more and more curious about what kind of person this Jian Shen really is.

To be able to write something as profound as 'ordinary world' and also be so well-versed in various cutting-edge sci-fi settings—this span is truly astonishing."

Xu Zhengqing picked up his teacup and blew away the foam.

"Don't rush. There are still twenty-something manuscripts left. Let's watch slowly."

Perspective shifts back to the dormitory.

Dan Yi sat by the window, the light from the screen reflecting on his face.

The dormitory was very quiet, with the sound of breathing rising and falling.

Dan Yi stood up slowly.

He placed his phone on the chair, took a half-step back, and bowed respectfully toward the glowing screen.

Lin Que leaned against the headboard, taking in this scene.

Dan Yi's spine was very straight, and the arc of his bow was extremely deep.

There were no extra words, only the respect within his actions.

He knew that Dan Yi had truly taken it to heart.

Dan Yi straightened up, picked up his phone, and turned to look at Lin Que and Xu Changge.

"I'm going out for a walk."

His voice had a bit more vitality than usual, and less of that cold, standoffish rigidity.

"Go ahead." Xu Changge nodded.

"It's windy outside, put on an extra layer."

Dan Yi grabbed the coat draped over the back of his chair and pushed the door open to leave.

The sound of his receding footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Chen Jiahao was hopping around next to them.

The list continued to refresh, and the next author's name popped up.

[Work Title: 'Food Stall']

[Author: Chen Jiahao]

Chen Jiahao jumped up on the spot, his voice loud enough to almost blow the roof off the dormitory.

"Wow, it's my turn!"

He let out a howl and looked down, tapping his phone furiously.

Lin Que looked at Chen Jiahao's pathetic display and secretly tutted.

Chen Jiahao's article had indeed made Lin Que pause for a few extra glances at the time.

Chen Jiahao's title was 'Food Stall.'

It told the story of an old man hiding in the slums cooking beef chow fun in the age of highly advanced cybernetics.

The old man insisted on using real fire and an iron wok, refusing to use a holographic flavor synthesizer.

Compared to Xu Changge's facade and Dan Yi's coldness, the writing of this rich kid Chen Jiahao unexpectedly lacked that sense of detachment.

This kid was usually loud and boisterous, driving sports cars and wearing designer brands, but what he wrote didn't put on airs; instead, it carried a steaming, worldly atmosphere.

The manuscript described the creaking sound of the old man's low-quality prosthetic arm when he tossed the wok.

It described the bitterness of lower-class laborers who, to save money, mixed nutrient solution into cheap beer to drink.

It was still a bit raw when it came to truly being "grounded," with some imagined coarseness in the details, but that wild, unbridled imagination filled the whole story to the brim.

After the previous critiques, Chen Jiahao had learned his lesson.

He started trying to crouch down and touch the dust he usually couldn't reach.

In terms of letting go, he was better than Xu Changge.

Xu Changge leaned over, and Lin Que also raised his eyes to scan Chen Jiahao's phone.

There was no long, rambling discourse, nor the bone-deep, visceral ruthlessness of the previous pieces.

All in all, there were only four sentences.

[Your imagination is wild enough, and the worldly atmosphere is thick enough.]

[Being able to cast your gaze toward the iron wok in the slums—this posture of leveling with them is very rare.]

[The details still have some naive rawness; when you go down to collect material, stand in the vegetable market more and smell the real cooking fumes.]

[You're on the right path. Don't change it; keep treading along this road, and there's grand scenery ahead.]

Chen Jiahao stared at the screen, his eyes fixed.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Xu Changge turned his head to look at him, pulled a tissue from the table, and handed it over.

Chen Jiahao raised his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, and moisture swirled in them.

He took the tissue, wiped his face messily, and sniffled.

"Brother Xu, Master Que."

Chen Jiahao's voice trembled, filled with a heavy nasal tone.

"Jian Shen said my path is the right one."

He clutched the tissue ball, his fingers tense.

"You guys might not understand."

Chen Jiahao slid down to the floor, leaning against the bed frame, and looked up at the ceiling.

"My family does business. My old man always says that writing articles is something sour scholars do, that it can't put food on the table, let alone manage a company of thousands of people."

"Ever since I was little, whenever I wanted to write something, I had to do it secretly. In my first year of high school, I wrote a sci-fi novel and submitted it to a magazine, but it was rejected. My old man saw it, tore up the manuscript, and said I was neglecting my proper work, that my head was full of useless fantasies."

Chen Jiahao buried his head in his knees, his voice muffled.

"I was in my first year of high school then, and I had saved up half a month's allowance to buy a pile of sci-fi magazines, hiding them under my bed. Every night after they went to sleep, I would read under the covers with a flashlight."

Chen Jiahao's voice echoed in the dormitory.

"That day, I received my first rejection letter. The letter said my world-building was too whimsical and lacked realistic logic. I hadn't even had time to be sad before the old man pushed the door open."

"He tore that letter and my manuscript to shreds right in front of me. Paper scraps were thrown on the floor, and he pointed at my nose and scolded me, saying if I ever touched these useless things again, he'd cut off my living expenses."

"I didn't dare talk back at the time. I squatted on the floor and picked up those shredded pieces of paper one by one. I spent the whole night piecing them together."

Xu Changge listened, his gaze falling on the nib of the pen on his desk.

He had been burdened with high expectations from his family since childhood; every word he wrote was cheered for, and he had never experienced the taste of being completely denied.

He looked at Chen Jiahao, this usually carefree rich kid; the stubbornness hidden in his heart was no less than anyone else's.

Lin Que changed his posture, resting his chin on one hand.

"When you wrote 'Food Stall,' about the old man insisting on using real fire to cook beef chow fun, there was probably a reflection of yourself in it too."

Chen Jiahao was stunned for a moment, then turned to look at Lin Que.

"That old man refused to use the holographic flavor synthesizer and insisted on using an iron wok. Isn't that a portrait of you refusing to take over the family business and insisting on pursuing this path of literature?"

Lin Que pierced through that layer of window paper.

"Jian Shen saw it. He said your imagination is wild enough and the worldly atmosphere is thick enough. This worldly atmosphere is the stubbornness of you not being willing to be arranged."

Chen Jiahao listened blankly, and his tears flowed even more fiercely.

He wiped his face hard and stood up.

"Master Que, stop talking. If you keep going, I'm going to kowtow to you."

Lin Que waved his hand.

"Save it. Senior told you to go stand in the vegetable market more and smell the real cooking fumes. When you go down to collect material, don't just watch the excitement; stick your hands into the swill bucket and give it a try."

"I will!" Chen Jiahao replied loudly, his voice making the window glass buzz.

"Forget the swill bucket, even if you ask me to slaughter a pig, I'll do it!"

Xu Changge chuckled.

"Slaughtering a pig won't be necessary. Go out and walk around more, see how those people who are truly scraping a living in the mud go about their days. Your 'Food Stall' is missing that greasy, grime-soaked feeling that's truly permeated by cooking fumes."

Chen Jiahao nodded vigorously.

He picked up his phone, took a screenshot of those four lines of critique, and set it as his phone wallpaper.

"I'm going to print these words out and stick them on my headboard."

Chen Jiahao vowed.

"When I win a literature award, I'm going to engrave these four sentences on the trophy and personally place it on my old man's desk."

Lin Que watched his high-spirited appearance and said nothing.

The shells that these young geniuses had grown from applause were being knocked open bit by bit, revealing the bones inside that could truly grow.

After the excitement, Chen Jiahao looked down at his own clean sweatshirt and suddenly couldn't sit still.

"What are you doing?" Xu Changge asked.

"No, I have to change my clothes."

Chen Jiahao grabbed his phone and rushed toward the door in a flurry.

"I'm going back to the dorm to find the cheapest old T-shirt I have."

"I'm going to the cafeteria kitchen to take a look. Jian Shen told me to smell the cooking fumes, so I'm going now."

"The cafeteria kitchen doesn't let outsiders in at this hour."

Lin Que reminded him.

"Then I'll go to the snack street outside the school."

Chen Jiahao hurried out.

"Tonight, I'm going to stand in front of the fried noodle stall for three hours; nobody stop me!"

The door was pulled shut by him, and his footsteps quickly disappeared at the end of the hallway.

Only Lin Que and Xu Changge remained in the dormitory.

Xu Changge looked at the closed door, shook his head, picked up the teacup on the table, and went to the water dispenser to get a cup of hot water.

"He's always so impulsive."

Xu Changge walked back with the cup and sat down in his chair.

Lin Que didn't respond.

Xu Changge took a sip of water, his gaze falling on his own computer screen.

It was still on the critique page for 'Patch Algorithm.'

"Lin Que."

Xu Changge spoke suddenly.

Lin Que withdrew his gaze from the door.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think I can tear through that facade?"

Xu Changge's voice was very light, filled with a rare uncertainty.

Lin Que looked at him.

"Aren't you already starting to tear it?"

Xu Changge followed Lin Que's gaze and saw the deep mark he had just heavily scratched on his notebook.

The paper was torn, and the desk underneath was exposed.

That was the first time he hadn't controlled his strength while writing.

Xu Changge was silent for a moment, then placed the cup on the table.

"This time, I'm going to go out and walk around too."

Xu Changge looked at the scratch.

"Go to those places I've never been to before, and never would have gone to."