545: Chapter 545 (Readers please click in)

Seven o'clock in the morning.

The countdown to the Kunpeng Award public open day had four hours and fifty-five minutes remaining.

The sky over the capital had just brightened, but the literary circles had already been arguing for several whole nights.

Gu Changfeng sat in the Writers Association guest hotel, his phone screen paused on the pre-launch page for the Kunpeng Youth Award.

In the top right corner of the page, the countdown ticked down second by second.

Several public opinion reports were spread out on the table.

Twelve literary forums of all sizes across the country.

At the same time, "rational discussion" posts began to appear.

The titles were phrased in several different ways, but the meaning all pointed to one place.

The Qinglan Student had shallow foundations.

Those posts didn't contain insults or profanity.

They were polite, restrained, and even very professional.

But Gu Changfeng could tell.

This was the most insidious part.

It wasn't in a hurry to knock people down; it just slowly drove nails into the public's minds first.

By the time the works were open, before readers even turned the first page, they would already have a thought pressed down in their hearts—

"These kids probably aren't up to it."

Gu Changfeng took off his reading glasses and rubbed his brow.

He remembered the literary congress ten years ago.

Back then, President Zhao's father, Elder Zhao, was still standing on stage, and he had said one thing.

"Literature will sooner or later have to walk among the readers."

Many people in the audience were silent back then.

Who are the readers?

What is the market?

No one could clearly say.

Ten years later, the market finally sat at the table.

But were those who sat down real readers, or were they accounts pulled by strings?

Gu Changfeng put his glasses back on and clicked on the official Kunpeng Award announcement.

His gaze fell on that line of text.

"Market data and reader popularity weighting account for thirty percent of the total score."

For this rule, Huanyu Publishing Group provided the resources, and the Writers Association set the regulations.

In the end, the ones pushed to the forefront were the young people who had just returned from the Gobi Desert, urban villages, farmers' markets, and old factory districts.

He got up and walked to the window, pulling back half of the curtain.

There was an old locust tree downstairs from the hotel.

As the late autumn wind blew, yellow leaves fell rustling to the ground.

What to do?

In this battle, no one could replace those kids.

The Writers Association could watch the rules.

The school could protect the bottom line.

But the only things that could truly tear through prejudice were the words they wrote themselves.

At the same time.

In the Chairman of the Writers Association's office.

Xue Hongchuan also hadn't slept soundly all night.

There were three cigarette butts pressed in the ashtray.

This was not his habit.

He rarely smoked on weekdays, but he made an exception today.

Spread out on the desk was Chu Pengshu's five-thousand-word long review.

"The Presence of Experience and the Ethical Dilemma of Underclass Narratives."

The title was extremely academic.

The body text was also tightly sealed.

Xue Hongchuan read it three times.

The first time, he frowned.

The second time, he sneered.

The third time, he turned the article over on the table and lit a cigarette.

This article by Chu Pengshu had a very steady knife technique.

It first set out a ruler.

True underclass writing requires long-term immersion.

It requires reverence.

It requires the creator to establish a sufficiently deep connection with the subjects being written about.

This statement was correct in itself.

But when placed at this point in time, the flavor changed.

The works hadn't opened yet, and the readers hadn't turned the pages.

This ruler was already nailed to the wall.

Whoever stood in front of it would be three points shorter.

Xue Hongchuan looked at the article, his eyes darkening.

He wasn't afraid of criticism.

Literary awards could tolerate criticism.

What he feared was pre-reading judgment.

The work hadn't been opened yet, but prejudice had already taken a seat on the judging panel.

Xue Hongchuan clicked on the Kunpeng Award popularity ranking.

Shen Jiangping's red line was still hanging at the top of the list.

The comment section was still refreshing.

"Support Teacher Shen."

"Youth literature needs market testing."

"Reject guaranteed-admission style geniuses."

Rows of talking points were neatly, glaringly uniform.

Xue Hongchuan stared at it for a long time.

Then, he opened the forum and saw a screenshot inside a post.

It was three sentences that Dream Weaver left at the end of a chapter of ghost blows out the light last night.

"A good story doesn't fear being slow; what it fears is you not having the patience to turn to the page where it shines."

"Don't be angry for others; don't make conclusions for others."

"Read it yourself, judge it yourself."

Xue Hongchuan read it twice.

The corners of his mouth finally twitched.

This Dream Weaver was quite interesting.

He understood readers, and he also understood that when a fire starts, you must first get people to open the book.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Opposite the Writers Association building was a row of old residential buildings.

The windows of a few households had lights on.

Someone was preparing breakfast.

A very ordinary morning.

But today, the brand of the Kunpeng Award was about to be pushed in front of the entire market.

When Xue Hongchuan was young, he had also walked out of various literary awards.

So he knew better than anyone.

A trophy could lift up an author.

It could also crush an author.

The experience from the study and the experience from the mud were never the same weight.

The former could practice technique.

The latter could press out the bones.

He admired those young people who dared to plunge into the mud.

But admiration was admiration, and rules were rules.

The Kunpeng Award had been established for decades.

It could reform.

It could welcome the market.

It could let readers come in.

But it could not be ruined in the hands of capital.

Xue Hongchuan returned to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the extension.

"Xiao Zhang."

The assistant's voice quickly came from the other end of the phone:

"Chairman Xue."

"Help me check the real-time follow-up reading data for Dream Weaver's ghost blows out the light on Hong Guo Net."

Xue Hongchuan's voice was very steady.

"Effective reading, dwell time, and comment activity—organize them all into a table and send it to me."

The assistant immediately replied:

"Okay, Chairman Xue."

After a pause, the assistant added:

"Also, regarding the Qingbei School of Literature, Professor Liu Zuoqing called half an hour ago to ask if you would be coming to the school today to attend the open day."

Xue Hongchuan glanced at the popularity ranking on the screen.

Shen Jiangping's red line was still rising.

He spoke indifferently.

"I won't go."

"Let them fight it out themselves."

The call ended.

The office became quiet again.

Xue Hongchuan's gaze lingered on Shen Jiangping's red line for a few seconds.

Fake popularity could float on the list.

Real reading would remain in the backend.

Let it rise.

The higher it rises, the harder it will fall.

...

Qingbei School of Literature.

Dean's office.

Professor Liu Zuoqing had been pacing back and forth for over twenty minutes.

Dai Shengzong sat behind the tea table, still slowly washing the cups.

Hot water poured over the white porcelain cup walls, and steam rose bit by bit.

Professor Liu Zuoqing finally stopped pacing.

"Dean Dai, aren't you worried at all?"

His voice held suppressed anger.

"It's almost impossible to suppress online."

"Forcing growth, tourist-style field trips, too shallow foundations... these words are all being plastered onto Qinglan."

"Once the public open day starts, if they really get boxed in by Chu Pengshu's set of presets, our kids will..."

Dai Shengzong raised his eyes.

"Will what?"

Professor Liu Zuoqing paused.

Dai Shengzong pushed the teacup to the opposite side.

"Will they be boxed in by a set of presets that scores the work before it's even opened?"

Professor Liu Zuoqing's throat moved, and he sat down.

The tea soup was golden.

The steam was abundant.

Dai Shengzong said, "Drink tea first."

Professor Liu Zuoqing picked up the cup and took a sip.

It was very hot.

But he didn't put it down.

Dai Shengzong looked at him and spoke slowly.

"Professor Liu, you've been writing books for so many years, you should know better than anyone."

"Whether an article can stand on its own never depends on conclusions written in advance by others."

Professor Liu Zuoqing was silent.

Dai Shengzong continued, "That article by Chu Pengshu is written beautifully."

"The framework is solid, the logic is complete, it cites classics, and every word seems to stand on high ground."

"But it has a fatal problem."

Professor Liu Zuoqing looked up.

Dai Shengzong said word by word, "It hasn't even read the work yet."

The office was quiet for a moment.

Dai Shengzong put down the teacup.

"All judgments are based on the same premise."

"A month of field trips is necessarily shallow."

"Young authors necessarily lack reverence."

"Qinglan Student necessarily lack substance."

His eyes were calm.

"Assumptions can only set the topic; they cannot grade the paper."

Professor Liu Zuoqing held the teacup, his fingertips tightening slightly.

"But public opinion has already formed a preset."

"Many readers already have a judgment in their hearts before they even click into the work's page."

"If they feel it's a little dull or a little slow, they will close the page."

"Then they will turn back and curse, 'Just as expected, they're no good.'"

Dai Shengzong looked at him.

"And then what?"

Professor Liu Zuoqing's voice was lower.

"Then those thirty points of popularity score will be completely gone."

"The Zhao family's setup, Chu Pengshu's article, Shen Jiangping's popularity list—three prongs attacking at once."

"Our kids won't even have the chance to be truly seen before they are buried underneath."

Dai Shengzong didn't speak immediately.

Tea poured into the cup, a very light sound.

After a moment, he asked, "What do you think these thirty Qinglan Student really gained after going out for this month?"

Professor Liu Zuoqing was stunned.

Dai Shengzong's voice slowed down.

"This month was a remedial lesson for them."

"Remedying life. Remedying reality. Remedying the world outside of text."

Professor Liu Zuoqing's brows moved slightly.

Dai Shengzong continued:

"This lesson cannot be given by the study, nor by theory."

"Only after they went there in person are they qualified to hand in this paper."

Professor Liu Zuoqing opened his mouth but didn't say anything.

Dai Shengzong picked up the teacup and took a sip.

"They have already finished this lesson."

"Now, it's time to hand in the paper."

Outside the office, the morning light had already spread over the window lattice.

Dai Shengzong turned his head to look.

"Chu Pengshu's presets can only stop those in a hurry to make conclusions."

"They cannot stop those who truly turn the page."

His voice was very light, but it was very steady.

"When readers turn to the last page, a scale will naturally drop in their hearts."

"That scale is heavier than the theoretical ruler nailed down in advance."

Professor Liu Zuoqing was silent for a few seconds, then finally spoke.

"But we cannot place all our hope on the readers."

Dai Shengzong turned back.

There was a little light in his eyes.

"What we have always bet on is the work."

He stood up and walked to Professor Liu Zuoqing.

"Professor Liu, go tell those kids one thing."

Professor Liu Zuoqing immediately stood straight.

Dai Shengzong looked at him, every word clear.

"Don't care what wind is blowing outside."

"Let them open their computers, log in to the official Kunpeng Youth Award website, and guard their own work pages."

"And then?"

"Wait."

"Wait for the first stranger to stop before their words."

"Wait for him to turn the first page, the second page, and turn to the end."

"He can curse, he can be silent, he can bookmark, or he can give a score."

"As long as that moment happens, their month-long journey will have truly reached the readers."

Professor Liu Zuoqing looked at Dai Shengzong.

This dean rarely said so much at once.

And even less often used this tone.

But today, every word was like a weight pressed on a scale.

Heavy, steady, and weighty.

Professor Liu Zuoqing nodded, turned, and walked quickly out of the office.

The door closed.

Dai Shengzong sat back down at the tea table and began to brew the second pot of tea.

His movements were still very slow.

Very steady.

In the hallway, Professor Liu Zuoqing had already opened the main Qinglan Project group chat.

His fingers paused above the screen, only for one second.

Then, a message was sent out.

[Everyone, do only one thing before 12 o'clock.]

[Wait for readers.]