569: Chapter 569 Flag or Sacrifice?

Shen Jiangping's hand hovered over the mouse; he did not click into the third post.

He dared not click it.

He could already imagine the scene in the comment section.

Shen Jiangping closed his laptop.

The study plunged into darkness, with only a small patch of cold light remaining from his phone screen.

He sat in the darkness, his breathing heavy.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Three minutes.

Then, he reached out to pick up his phone and found another name in his contacts.

President Zhao.

This was his last lifeline.

When his finger pressed down, Shen Jiangping realized his hand was shaking.

Beep—

When the "beep" sounded for the fourth time, the call connected.

Shen Jiangping sat up abruptly.

"President Zha—"

His voice got stuck.

Because the voice coming from the other end of the phone was not President Zhao.

"Hello, Teacher Shen. I am President Zhao's assistant, Sun Tong."

The female voice was very polite, and her speaking pace was neither fast nor slow.

Shen Jiangping's Adam's apple bobbed.

He opened his mouth, but the latter half of the address seemed to have been pressed back down his throat.

In the past, whenever he called this number, President Zhao would always answer it himself.

Every time, no matter how late it was or what he was busy with, President Zhao would pick up within three rings.

Now, the call had been transferred to an assistant's phone.

"Assistant Sun, please transfer the call to President Zhao. The Kunpeng System has put my work on hold, and I must speak with him now."

Shen Jiangping's voice was tighter than he had imagined.

"President Zhao is currently in a meeting and has instructed that all external calls tonight be registered with me first."

Sun Tong's tone remained polite and thorough.

"If you have anything you need to convey, Teacher Shen, I can pass it on for you."

Shen Jiangping gripped his phone tightly.

"Uh, no need. Please let me know when President Zhao finishes his meeting."

The other end of the line went silent for a second.

"Understood, I will notify you as soon as possible."

Beep—

The call ended.

Shen Jiangping placed the phone on the desk and stared at the screen.

He was waiting.

Ten minutes.

Thirty minutes.

An hour passed.

The phone lay quietly on the desk, the screen dark, without any incoming call notifications.

Shen Jiangping picked up the phone again and dialed President Zhao's number once more.

This time, it rang six times.

"Teacher Shen."

It was still Sun Tong's voice.

"Assistant Sun, is President Zhao..."

"President Zhao's meeting hasn't ended yet."

"It's been an hour."

Shen Jiangping's voice changed.

The end of his tone rose, carrying irrepressible anxiety.

"Assistant Sun, what kind of meeting requires blocking all calls at this time?"

"I'm not quite sure about that."

Sun Tong's tone was as flat as ever.

"President Zhao instructed that all related matters tonight be handled by the group's unified response. Teacher Shen, please keep your phone line open."

"Unified... response?"

Shen Jiangping gripped the phone so hard his knuckles ached.

When was he relegated to the category of "unified response"?

On the night he first signed the contract, President Zhao had poured him a glass of decanted red wine in a private room on the top floor of the World Trade Center, and pushed the contract in front of him, his tone as gentle as if discussing a guaranteed success:

"Jiangping, you have the pen, and I have the channels. You just keep moving forward, and leave the rest to me."

When he won the Kunpeng Youth Award, President Zhao, who was away, spent two and a half hours on the phone congratulating him remotely.

President Zhao's tone was warm, saying, "You are the flag of the youth literary scene."

Now.

His calls were being transferred to an assistant.

"Unified response."

Shen Jiangping repeated these four words in his mouth.

He understood.

President Zhao was not in a meeting at all.

Candidate status suspended, Chu Pengshu withdrawn, the matrix stalled.

The number that used to be picked up within three rings now wouldn't even let him hear a single breath from President Zhao.

He sneered and threw the phone onto the desk.

With great force, the phone case hit the corner of the desk and bounced.

He sat in the darkness, hands supporting his knees, his shoulders slumping.

On the bookshelf in the corner of the study, a row of trophies was displayed.

The gold-plated one in the center was the commemorative trophy for the previous Kunpeng Youth Literature Award.

Two lines of text were engraved at the base of the cup:

The 17th Kunpeng Youth Literature Award · Champion.

Shen Jiangping.

That was three years ago.

Three years ago, he stood on the awards stage, flashlights hitting his face, the audience below giving the most enthusiastic applause from the entire youth literary scene.

Every old gentleman sitting in the judges' seats was nodding, reporters chased after him asking about his next work's plans, and publishing house invitations filled his inbox.

At that time, everyone was saying, "Shen Jiangping is the future of the youth literary scene."

And then?

That feeling was hard to describe.

Although inspiration would still surface, every line that fell onto the screen felt hollow and light.

He would always delete a paragraph, then add another, revising a page until the early hours, leaving only a few painless, insipid sentences.

Readers wanted better, judges wanted deeper, and the market wanted faster.

He was propped up in that position, every step feeling like walking on a suspended tightrope.

That was why he signed with President Zhao.

President Zhao said then:

"Works can continue to be polished, but once you give up your position, it's hard to get it back."

He believed it.

Until last time, when President Zhao pushed a public opinion strategy plan in front of him.

The plan was spread out on the desk, the first page circled "Endorsement by previous champion," the second page marked "Technical questioning," the last page had only six words: Amplify, spread, suppress.

President Zhao said it very lightly:

"You only write literary judgments; you don't need to touch anything else."

Shen Jiangping was silent for a long time then.

Finally, he nodded.

That puff piece was written by him.

When the Program works section was being scolded until the page turned, he stared at the backend for a long time, finally just closing the page without posting a word.

That creative essay exaggerating his field trip experience was also sent out by his own hand.

Every send button was clicked by his own hand.

He knew it in his heart.

He had just been pretending that there was still a way out.

Until today, when Assistant Sun's words, "unified response," tore away the last shred of decency.

Shen Jiangping's right hand reached toward the desk, his fingers touching the wall of the coffee cup, which still had half a cup of cold coffee left.

He gripped the cup and smashed it hard onto the floor.

"Bang—"

The sound of shattering porcelain exploded in the enclosed study.

Cold coffee splashed onto the floor, seeping into the wood grain to form a dark stain.

Shen Jiangping's hand remained in the posture of having smashed it down, his fingers spread open, a thin red mark scratched across his palm, but he didn't even furrow his brow, his gaze nailed firmly to the trophy in the center of the bookshelf.

Three years ago, he stood in the most dazzling position on that stage.

Three years later, he couldn't even cross the threshold of the final judgment.

In three years, applause had turned into gray prompt boxes.

In three years, a flag had turned into a discarded pawn.

Shen Jiangping stood up.

The chair was pushed back half a meter, hitting the bookcase behind him.

His footsteps stepped over broken porcelain, a creaking sound, his shoe sole crushing a larger piece of porcelain.

He walked to the bookshelf and took down the gold-plated trophy in the center.

The metal base was ice-cold, the weight heavy.

"You go ahead and charge; I'll handle what's behind."

President Zhao's words still echoed in his ears.

Shen Jiangping gripped the trophy, the veins on the back of his hand bulging.

He turned his head to look at the door.

No.

It cannot just end like this.

He had done so many things for President Zhao, charging to the front to take arrows, bearing the firepower of public opinion, and betting his own reputation.

Now President Zhao wouldn't take a single call and wanted to cast him aside?

Shen Jiangping did not put the trophy back.

He found an old paper bag and stuffed the gold-plated trophy inside, the metal base hitting the bottom of the bag with a dull thud.

He grabbed the car keys from the entryway cabinet and pulled his coat from the coat rack with his other hand.

Opening the door, the hallway light shone in, illuminating his face.

Dark circles under his eyes, lips tightened, the whole person seemed to have been drained of all gentleness overnight.

He strode toward the elevator.

His leather shoes stepped on the carpet, the sound fast and deep.

The elevator door opened.

He pressed the button for the underground garage.

The metal button emitted a crisp sound as he pressed it.

A few minutes later, the cold wind of the garage hit his face.

Shen Jiangping opened the car door and threw the paper bag onto the passenger seat.

The gold-plated trophy bumped inside the bag.

He sat in the driver's seat and started the car.

The center console screen lit up.

In the navigation bar, he skillfully clicked the first frequently visited address.

Huanyu Publishing Group.

The route popped up.

Estimated 37 minutes.

Shen Jiangping stared at the destination, only a ball of irrepressible red remaining in his eyes.

He spoke in a low voice, his voice raspy as if polished by sandpaper.

"President Zhao."

"I want to hear you say it yourself."

The headlights lit up.

The black sedan drove out of the basement and rushed into the late-night traffic of the capital.