593: Chapter 593 The Student Who Sees Deeper

The door to the defense hall closed behind Lin Que.

The authors who had finished their defenses earlier had gathered in the corridor from the lounge, their expressions varied.

Some looked composed, while others were pale, with beads of sweat still drying on their foreheads.

Cheng Xiangbei nodded at Lin Que across the crowd, then walked toward the lounge alone.

The red light that had lit up in the first round still weighed on his heart; for now, he just wanted to be quiet for a while.

It was not a pleasant feeling to have the red light turn on after being grilled for thirty seconds in the first round; he was in no mood for small talk.

But two other people walked straight toward Lin Que.

A young man wearing a grey cotton jacket approached first, followed by a female author wearing semi-rimless glasses.

She was clutching her defense materials, the edges of her folder already crumpled from being squeezed.

The two arrived in front of Lin Que and stopped almost simultaneously.

The man spoke first.

"Student Lin Que, I am Fang Mian. A contracted author with New Tide."

He extended his hand, his tone carrying an undisguised sense of respect.

"I've been looking for a chance to meet you, and I've finally run into you today."

The female author next to him nodded along.

"My name is Zhou Rui, also from New Tide."

Lin Que shook hands with them.

"During the public reading stage, I read your works. Being able to stand in this corridor today already speaks to your substance."

Fang Mian shook his head, his smile somewhat embarrassed.

"To be honest, half a year ago, I was still stuck in a bottleneck. If it weren't for Jian Shen's training workshop, I wouldn't have even dared to submit."

When this was said, the people nearby quieted down for a beat. Chen Jiahao's ears perked up.

Zhou Rui followed up.

"What Fang Mian said is true. After listening to the first of Jian Shen's seven lessons, I completely scrapped the piece I was writing and started over."

Zhou Rui hugged her folder a bit tighter; when speaking about scrapping her old draft, there was no regret visible on her face.

"After finishing the first lesson, I immediately deleted the two thousand words of commentary at the beginning. Before, I was always afraid the readers wouldn't understand, dying to express all the characters' grievances for them. That night, I realized it was me standing in front of the characters."

Fang Mian turned to Lin Que, his posture very humble.

"Lin Que, there have always been rumors that you are in contact with Jian Shen. If you happen to be able to pass a message on later, could you say something for us?"

There was a serious light in his eyes.

"Just say that the students from the first New Tide training workshop stood on the defense stage of the Kunpeng Top Ten today. We didn't embarrass him."

The corridor went quiet for a moment.

Lin Que looked at Fang Mian and Zhou Rui's faces.

There was no fanatical fervor in their expressions, only a heartfelt gratitude toward a guide after having gone through long periods of tempering.

That gratitude was heavy. So heavy that Lin Que's chest tightened slightly.

He nodded.

"Alright, if there's a chance, I will definitely pass it on for you."

Fang Mian and Zhou Rui exhaled in relief simultaneously, thanked him repeatedly, and retreated back into the crowd.

Chen Jiahao leaned into Lin Que's ear, lowering his voice.

"As expected of Jian Shen, he even has two students among the Kunpeng Top Ten?"

He seemed to remember something. "Oh, wait." He raised his arm and gave Lin Que a light nudge. "It's three."

Lin Que glanced at him. Chen Jiahao pursed his lips, swallowing the follow-up question that had been on the tip of his tongue.

Lin Que's gaze crossed the crowd and landed at the end of the corridor. In that instant, his thoughts returned to half a year ago.

Wang De'an's email arrived at two in the morning. The subject line had only one line of text: "Teacher Jian Shen, progress on the literature workshop preparations."

The email content was very short. The first "Social Literature Training Workshop" prepared by Xinchao Publishing House was about to launch, and the students had already been recruited in full.

Wang De'an had found three senior editors to draft the syllabus separately, revising it seven times, and every version had been rejected by himself.

[Teacher Jian Shen, according to the plan we previously agreed upon, the selection of the first batch of students, the anonymous assignment system, and the editorial review group are all in place.]

[The seven core lessons are to be determined by you personally; the editorial team is only responsible for execution.]

[Now all preparations are complete, just waiting for your curriculum.]

After reading the email, Lin Que sat in his studio and thought for a long time.

In his past life, during his four years of university, he had systematically studied literary theory, narrative structure, and creative psychology. But those theories from the classroom didn't match up in many places when brought to this world.

The literary world here had not gone through the baptism of trauma literature and avant-garde literature. The authors here didn't actually lack technique; what they lacked was the questioning of the "essence of writing."

He spent three days building the framework for the seven lessons, and then spent seven consecutive nights revising them section by section. Each audio lesson was accompanied by observation tasks, editing exercises, and requirements for tracing the origins of source material.

In the early morning when he pressed the send button, the studio window wasn't closed tightly, and the night breeze blew up a corner of the manuscript on his desk.

Wang De'an called twenty minutes after receiving the document. His voice was hoarse. "Teacher Jian Shen."

"These things... I've been in the publishing industry for twenty years, and I've never seen such a creative theoretical system."

"These seven lessons will force authors to first examine their own perspectives. Editors can teach structure, but what you teach is where one should stand before putting pen to paper. As long as they truly listen, the voices they eventually write with should all be distinct."

"This isn't teaching people how to write; this is redefining what 'good writing' looks like."

Lin Que only replied with one sentence at the time. "Then put it to use."

...Thoughts returned. The crowd in the corridor was still talking in low voices.

Lin Que's gaze passed through several groups of people chatting and laughing, landing on a figure standing alone ten meters away. Sun Qiming.

He was leaning against the windowsill at the end of the corridor, holding nothing in his hands. The old, washed-out jacket he wore looked exceptionally plain among the crowd.

He didn't take the initiative to come over. Nor did he talk to other authors. He just stood there quietly, his gaze looking out the window.

Lin Que stepped forward and walked toward him. Chen Jiahao opened his mouth, wanting to follow, but was stopped by Xu Changge reaching out.

Lin Que walked up to Sun Qiming. Sun Qiming turned his head, and upon seeing it was Lin Que, he was taken aback for a moment.

Lin Que didn't engage in small talk. He extended his right hand. "Sun Qiming," Lin Que said. "That long post you made during the public reading stage."

Sun Qiming looked at his extended hand. "Many people chose to remain silent when the internet trolls were at their fiercest, but you did the opposite."

Lin Que's tone was very flat. "You wrote that post for everyone who was still seriously reading the main text."

Sun Qiming stared at Lin Que for two seconds. Then he extended his hand and shook it firmly.

During the handshake, Lin Que touched a thin layer of calluses on the side of his right middle finger. That was the mark left by years of holding a pen.

"Lin Que." Sun Qiming's voice was lighter than expected, but every word was pressed down firmly. "I only recognize the text."

"That post was something I, as a reader, was supposed to do." He paused. Lin Que's fingers tightened slightly.

Sun Qiming continued. "The 'I' in 'qin opera' who is always blocked outside the door follows the same line as the observation position taught in the first lesson. Your connection with Jian Shen must be deeper than what the outside world guesses."

After saying this, he didn't press for an answer. Some things do not need to be spelled out between fellow travelers.

Lin Que let go of his hand. "I also read your 'pottery kiln'," Lin Que said. "The part where the kiln keeper pushes the door open to check the thermometer every day is written very steadily."

Sun Qiming nodded. "That was taught to me in Jian Shen's first lesson. Retreat to the corner, retreat until you become a chair. You do not exist; you are only responsible for remembering."

When this sentence was spoken by Sun Qiming, Lin Que had a very strange feeling. Those were words he had written himself.

Half a year ago, when recording into the microphone, he wasn't sure if these things could truly help anyone.

At this moment, the person standing in front of him, with three years of days and nights in a rented room, a stack of manuscripts revised to the fourth draft, and a long post issued under the pressure of the entire internet, gave him the answer.

"How was the defense?" Lin Que asked. "The thermometer, the kiln ash, and the action of pushing the door were all verified. The rest is left to the judges," Sun Qiming said.

His tone was very calm, but there was something steady supporting it underneath. Lin Que smiled slightly. "That's good."

At the front of the corridor, the Writers Association staff were guiding the ten candidates to the lounge. At the same time, the glass door at the end of the corridor leading to the hall slowly opened. The light from outside flooded in.