62: The truly wise hide in the city, the lesser wise hide in the house.

The night in Jinling felt a bit heavier than in Jiangcheng.

Inside the standard hotel room,

the atmosphere was a bit strange.

Two single beds, separated by a nightstand.

On the left, Zhao Zichen sat upright,

the well-worn collection of ancient prose spread open on his lap,

muttering to himself at a speed that sounded like he was chanting the Golden Hoop Spell.

On the right, Lin Que lay sprawled on the bed in a 'big' character shape,

his phone held aloft, its screen light illuminating his bored face.

"I say, Old Zhao."

Lin Que rolled over, unable to endure this human white noise any longer.

"If you keep reciting, I'll be transcended.

Tomorrow's exam is composition, not dictation. Is memorizing this stuff even useful?"

Zhao Zichen pushed up the glasses on his nose, not lifting his head:

"This is a sense of language.

Teacher Shen said we need to engrave the rhythm of ancient prose into our bones. You wouldn't understand."

"Alright, alright, I don't understand."

Lin Que sprang up from the bed and grabbed his laptop from his backpack.

"I'm going to the balcony for some fresh air; you can continue your ritual."

Pulling open the sliding door of the French window,

the evening breeze, mixed with the humidity of the lake, rushed in.

Lin Que sat on the small rattan chair on the balcony, placing the laptop on his knees.

The screen lit up, skillfully switching to an encrypted web interface.

It was the backend of the Jieyou Cup final monitoring system, sent by the Provincial Writers Association's technical department.

As Jian Shen, he should currently be sitting in his study,

brewing a cup of clear tea, waiting to review tomorrow's examination hall.

But as Lin Que, he could only huddle on the hotel balcony,

using the scavenged WiFi to play the role of the enigmatic chief examiner behind the scenes.

In the chat window, Gu Changfeng's avatar was lit up.

[Teacher Jian Shen, the monitoring system has been debugged.

The final will start promptly at 9 AM tomorrow,

at which time the footage from twenty-three examination halls and three thousand five hundred candidates across the province will be transmitted in real-time.

You just need to log in to your account to switch perspectives freely.]

Lin Que's fingers flew across the keyboard, typing a line.

[Received. Thank you for your hard work.]

The other side replied almost instantly.

[Chairman Gu: Jian Shen, still not resting?

Regarding tomorrow's topic, the expert group finally settled on 'Waiting.' What do you think?]

Waiting?

Lin Que raised an eyebrow.

This topic was quite conventional,

allowing for both the absurdity of Waiting for Godot and the warmth of waiting for flowers to bloom,

very much in line with the worry solver's tone.

[Jian Shen: A good topic. Waiting is the norm of life, and also another name for hope.]

[Chairman Gu: Haha, I knew you'd like it.

By the way, I'll be in the monitoring room during tomorrow's exam.

If I see any interesting talents, shall we discuss them at any time?]

Lin Que's fingers paused.

Discuss at any time? That wouldn't do.

Tomorrow at 9 AM, he would be sitting in the examination hall writing furiously; how would he have time to switch accounts and reply to messages?

What if Gu Changfeng sent a message like, "Don't you think that sleeping kid looks like an idiot?"

He couldn't exactly reply, "That's me," could he?

Hmm, he had to shut down that idea.

[Jian Shen: Chairman, I have a habit.

When observing, I prefer quiet and do not wish to be distracted.

The birth of writing is sacred, and watching these children through a screen is also a kind of fate.

If I were to type and chat while they are thinking, it would be somewhat disrespectful.]

[Jian Shen: Tomorrow at 9 AM, I will be online on time, observing in silence.

After the exam, once the grading team has selected the excellent works, it won't be too late for us to talk.]

With this move of playing the 'aloof and dedicated' card, Gu Changfeng on the other side indeed fell silent for a moment.

[Chairman Gu: You make a good point. I was presumptuous.

Then, as you wish, silent observation, not disturbing the literary mind.]

Done.

Lin Que closed his laptop and let out a long sigh.

As long as he kept his account online in the background tomorrow, even if he was actually sleeping in the examination hall,

Gu Changfeng would think that 'Teacher Jian Shen' was profoundly observing all beings from the other side of the screen.

The so-called 'great hermit hides in the city',

was probably this feeling.

"Lin Que?"

The sound of the sliding door behind him came.

Zhao Zichen poked out half his body, still holding that book, looking a bit awkward.

"What? Finished memorizing?"

Lin Que didn't turn around, casually stuffing the laptop into his backpack.

"No..."

Zhao Zichen hesitated, then walked to the balcony railing, looking at the distant lights.

"That... I still want to thank you."

"Thank me for what?"

Lin Que pulled a mint from his pocket and popped it into his mouth.

"I already said I can't stand those pretentious guys; it has nothing to do with you. Don't flatter yourself."

Zhao Zichen was choked for a moment but didn't get angry.

He turned his head, seriously studying Lin Que under the dim light of the balcony.

"Actually, I've always wondered."

Zhao Zichen pushed up his glasses.

"You're usually so sloppy, even copying Wu Di's homework,

why... why can you write such articles?"

"What kind?"

"Like 'firefly,' and this time's 'reply letter.'"

Zhao Zichen's voice lowered.

"I've read them many times. That struggle in despair, that... feeling of tearing your heart open for others to see, I can't do it.

I only know how to quote, how to pile on, how to... imitate."

Lin Que chewed the candy in his mouth, a cool sensation spreading through his oral cavity.

"Old Zhao, do you know what your biggest problem is?"

"What?"

"What you write is too clean."

Lin Que pointed to the bustling street below.

"You're like a chef with OCD,

insisting on washing a mud-covered radish until it's like white jade before putting it in the pot, and as a result, it loses all radish flavor.

Literature isn't jewelry in a luxury display case;

it's that fish-slaughtering knife in the wet market, still covered in fish scales.

You always think about carving flowers, about plating,

but what readers want to taste is that bloody freshness."

Zhao Zichen was stunned, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the book.

"Of course, I'm not saying your memorization is useless."

Lin Que stood up, dusting off his backside.

"At least when you argue, you can quote classics to insult people, making you seem more cultured.

Go to bed early; time waits for no one. Don't end up unable to write a single fart."

With that, he went back into the room with his laptop.

Zhao Zichen stood on the balcony, letting the night wind mess up his hair.

He watched Lin Que disappear behind the door,

then looked down at the collection of ancient prose in his hand, now creased with fingerprints.

"Fish-slaughtering knife..."

"Bloody freshness..."

"Time waits for no one..."

Lin Que's words struck his rigid way of thinking, one after another.

He suddenly remembered the simulated essay he had just scrapped,

full of flowery rhetoric and neat parallelisms,

looking like a jade artifact, cold and devoid of warmth.

Even he felt it was hollow after reading it,

it wasn't what he wanted to express, but what he 'should' express.

He had always thought that literature was a high mountain, requiring step-by-step climbing.

It was a temple, requiring utmost reverence.

But Lin Que told him that literature was a wet market.

It was that knife covered in fish scales, that most primal freshness.

"Time waits for no one..."

Zhao Zichen murmured to himself,

this time, he was no longer savoring the ancient charm of these four words,

but a burning, anxious sense of urgency.

He suddenly turned around and rushed back into the room, not looking at the collection of ancient prose,

but instead pulling out a brand new sheet of manuscript paper from his backpack and spreading it on the table.

He gripped his pen tightly, its tip hovering over the paper, trembling slightly.

He didn't know what he would write next—perhaps a pile of garbage.

But he knew that this time, he didn't want to wash that 'white jade radish' anymore...