529: Chapter 529 The Latecomer

In the southeast of the capital, there was a high-end teahouse named "Yinlu."

Inside, the scent of sandalwood suppressed the aroma of tea, and the sound of the guqin was so low it seemed to be deliberately masking their conversation.

At the end of the long table, the purple clay teapot had been steeping for a long time, but no one reached out to pour a second cup of tea.

Outside the window was the bustling street scene of the capital, but inside, all the clamor was shut out, exuding a sense of detachment from the world.

More than a dozen young writers from the capital and surrounding cities sat around a long rosewood tea table.

They were all contestants for the Kunpeng Youth Literature Award.

Before this, some had published novels, some had made a name for themselves through journals, and others had just established a foothold with a bestseller.

Today's gathering was originally intended for exchanging recent creative insights, but as soon as the topic was broached, it inevitably slid toward the "Qinglan Project" that had recently ignited the literary world.

"I really don't understand the Writers Association's operation this time."

A young writer in a casual suit set down his teacup, his tone tinged with bitterness.

"A bunch of kids who haven't even turned 18 yet, and in a strict sense don't even count as university students, are being air-dropped straight into the Kunpeng Award.

What does that make us, who have been grinding in the literary world for seven or eight years?"

Someone nearby immediately chimed in:

"Exactly. That Lin Que, writing 'folding beijing' certainly had some novelty, but at the end of the day, it's just a clever setting.

If we're really comparing writing ability or the depth of reality, what does he have that can compare to ours?

That Third Space setting—if you think about it just a little, the flow of time doesn't add up at all."

"The Qinglan Project's collective submission this time is clearly meant to use us veteran contestants as stepping stones for those students.

I heard that the Qingbei School of Literature even put out word saying this batch of students could win the grand prize; it's simply arrogant."

Jeers and mockery rose one after another.

Whenever someone mentioned the reputation of 'folding beijing,' someone at the tea table would always lower their head to stir the tea foam, and then steer the conversation toward "resource tilting" and "academic god-making."

They needed to use disparagement to maintain their own pathetic sense of literary superiority.

Chu Pengshu, sitting at the head of the tea table, had not spoken.

He was wearing a stiff gray shirt, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop.

As the leading figure in youth literary criticism, he was known as the "Text Anatomist," with a cold and rigorous personality, and he never participated in such emotional complaining.

When he looked at works, he only looked at logic and structure; any emotional incitement was just waste paper in his eyes.

An older writer, who was barely eligible for the youth award, looked at Chu Pengshu and spoke tactfully:

"Pengshu, I read that long article you published on Wenyuan Pavilion dissecting 'folding beijing.'

The analysis was very thorough, but...

It was a bit sharp for a newcomer who has just started university.

After all, he's only seventeen; it would be better to leave him some face."

The discussions in the teahouse gradually ceased, and everyone's eyes converged on Chu Pengshu.

Chu Pengshu picked up the Ru ware teacup in front of him, blew gently on the steam, and his lips curled into a cold, hard arc.

"Is it harsh?"

His voice was not loud, but it carried an irrefutable certainty.

"I have never targeted any specific student; I target the text itself.

'folding beijing' has logical gaps in its setting, and I point them out out of respect for literature.

Literature can have emotion, but if the structure collapses, even the most passionate emotion can only be buried in the ruins."

He set down the teacup and his gaze swept over everyone present.

"Next, I will read and dissect every single publicly released work from the Qinglan Project one by one."

He specifically emphasized the word "every single."

"I will observe them with my most rigorous perspective.

This is not called suppression; it is helping newcomers improve.

If they can't even listen to a few home truths, they don't deserve to stand at the Kunpeng Award judging table."

These words directly left that writer speechless.

The atmosphere in the teahouse immediately became extremely oppressive.

No one dared to touch Chu Pengshu's impeccable "academic logic," they could only lower their heads and drink tea to hide the embarrassment in their eyes.

Chu Pengshu's writing was too sharp; no one wanted to be the subject of his next dissection article.

Accompanied by the sound of the heavy wooden door being pushed open, a slightly chilly autumn breeze rolled into the room.

The previous winner of the Kunpeng Youth Literature Award, Shen Jiangping, stepped into the teahouse.

He was wearing a well-tailored beige trench coat, a gentle smile on his face, instantly attracting everyone's attention.

"Isn't that a bit high-sounding?"

Shen Jiangping said as he naturally walked over to the empty seat opposite Chu Pengshu and sat down.

Everyone greeted him one after another, and the originally oppressive atmosphere eased slightly.

Shen Jiangping was extremely well-liked in the youth literary circles; he was always humble, polite, and refined, and was considered by many to be a leader of the youth literary scene.

Shen Jiangping took the hot tea handed to him by the waiter, his gaze turning to Chu Pengshu's face, his tone carrying the tolerance of a senior:

"Just now outside the door, I vaguely heard Pengshu discussing literary standards.

Actually, I think literature needs different voices.

It's normal for young people's works to have flaws. As seniors, if we have more tolerance and less harshness, the literary world can truly flourish."

These words were ostensibly meant to smooth things over, but in reality, they were a precise jab at Chu Pengshu's theory of a "harsh ruler."

Two days ago, Shen Jiangping had just published a long article on Wenyuan Pavilion, elevating 'folding beijing' to a very high position, and also pushing Chu Pengshu's dissection article into the target position of the conservative faction.

The two had already secretly competed online, and now that they met in person, the smell of gunpowder could not be hidden at all.

The cold sneer on Chu Pengshu's face receded slightly, and his eyes became sharp.

"Tolerance does not mean indulgence, Jiangping."

Chu Pengshu looked directly at him, his tone steady but every word stinging.

"I also read your long article from the day before yesterday.

Elevating a work with obvious flaws in its setting to a redemption masterpiece that would make literary titans ashamed—at that height, I'm afraid even Lin Que himself would find it too windy if he stood there."

The air in the teahouse seemed to freeze.

The few young writers around them even lightened their breathing, their eyes scanning back and forth between the two.

The gentle smile on Shen Jiangping's face did not diminish in the slightest; he gently rotated the teacup in his hand:

"Pengshu, that's a bit hurtful.

My appreciation for the avant-garde nature of 'folding beijing' is out of encouragement for literary innovation.

It's you, on the other hand, staring at a high school student's work and nitpicking word for word; it inevitably makes people wonder, are you angry because the Qinglan Project stole the spotlight from the Kunpeng Award?"

"Whether I'm angry or not, the text speaks for itself."

Chu Pengshu did not back down.

"Your article is full of emotional incitement, framing normal literary criticism as a siege by conservative forces.

You are not praising a newcomer; you are killing with praise.

You are putting a seventeen-year-old child on the fire to roast, making him a target for the entire youth literary world."

Chu Pengshu paused.

"Is this what you call tolerance?"

A hint of gloom appeared in the depths of Shen Jiangping's eyes, but it was quickly covered by a smile:

"Pengshu, you're too sensitive.

If readers are willing to believe in a work, they naturally have their own reasons.

'folding beijing' is able to be spread by word of mouth because it hits the pain points of the era.

Readers don't like to read your dry logical deductions; that is also a fact."

"Readers can be carried away by emotion, but the texts on the judging table cannot rely on emotion to survive."

Chu Pengshu's voice turned cold.

"You are using traffic and emotion to influence literary judging standards; that is the greatest blasphemy against the Kunpeng Award."

Not a single dirty word was used between the two, yet it was like blades clashing.

Shen Jiangping tried to suppress the other with market and innovation, while Chu Pengshu held fast to the bottom line of text and logic, implying the other had sinister intentions.

The atmosphere of the entire teahouse was pushed to freezing point.

The young writers present were all silent as cicadas in winter; no one dared to step forward to dissuade them.

Everyone present knew, either of these two names, if pulled out, could weigh down half the tea table.

Whoever interrupted now might be hung on the homepage of Wenyuan Pavilion tomorrow.

Just as the gunpowder smell was about to explode completely, the heavy wooden door of the teahouse was pushed open again.

As soon as the door opened, several people at the tea table had already stood up, even Chu Pengshu and Shen Jiangping, who were just at an impasse, simultaneously stopped talking.

He was wearing a deep blue high-fashion suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt open, exuding a sense of careless relaxation.

He did not walk fast, even carrying a hint of looseness.

But as soon as he entered, the waiter immediately cleared away the cold tea and brewed a fresh pot, and several writers present subconsciously flipped their phone screens over.

"Sorry, everyone."

He smiled.

"Traffic jam on the outer ring road; I'm late."