71: All beings suffer, except for carbohydrates.

The Confucius Temple in Jinling.

Though called a temple, it’s actually more like a pedestrian street thoroughly marinated in commercialism.

The crowds were surging, shoulder to shoulder.

The air was a mix of the savory aroma of duck blood vermicelli soup and the scorched smell of stinky tofu.

The midday sun spilled onto the turbid water of the Qinhuai River, reflecting a greasy golden sheen.

“Boss, four bowls of duck blood vermicelli soup!”

“Coming right up! You want chili oil?”

The boss asked, speaking in a pure Jinling accent.

“Yes! And we want the full set for the vermicelli soup! Duck liver, duck intestines, and duck gizzards!”

Shen Qingqiu stood in front of the window of an old establishment,

grandly waving her mobile payment code.

“Teacher, maybe go easy on the chili oil.”

Zhao Zichen adjusted his glasses, watching the bright red soup base on the next table, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

“Why go easy on the spice? When you're out having fun, you should go all out!”

Shen Qingqiu was in an unreasonably good mood, turning to look at the human coat rack behind her.

“Lin Que, do you want to add a duck leg?”

Lin Que was holding two boxes of osmanthus cake, three bags of salted duck,

and a pile of Rain Flower Stone souvenirs that Zhang Ya had just bought.

He struggled to show half his face through the gaps in the shopping bags, sighing weakly.

“Teacher, skip the duck leg.

If you really pity me, could you let me find a stool to sit on for a bit?

Even squatting on the curb would be fine.”

“You're so young, why are you so weak?”

Shen Qingqiu gave him a disdainful look, but still took the bowl with the most ingredients from the window and handed it to him.

“Eat up and replenish yourself. We still need to go to the Jiangnan Examination Hall later,

That's where ancient scholars took the imperial exam to become the top scholar. You should all go absorb some good fortune, especially Zhao Zichen!”

Zhao Zichen nodded.

Zhang Ya held her soup bowl, her eyes curved into crescents as she laughed:

“Lin Que, you should be content.

Teacher Shen is usually stingy... cough,

she's usually so frugal, but today she's really splurging.”

“Alright, eat your duck blood.”

Shen Qingqiu glared at her, then picked up a bowl for herself,

and started eating by the roadside without any regard for her image.

In this moment, there was no 'Ice Teacher,' no first-prize winner;

only four tourists being jostled back and forth in a crowded scenic spot.

After eating their fill,

the group continued to weave through this massive maze.

Shen Qingqiu enthusiastically explained the legends of the Eight Beauties of Qinhuai to them.

Zhao Zichen occasionally chimed in, reciting a few lines from The Peach Blossom Fan, drawing curious glances from passersby.

Lin Que lagged behind, strolling leisurely.

He wasn't very interested in these so-called cultural landscapes.

In his view,

this overly commercialized ancient street was like an old woman wearing heavy makeup,

desperately trying to prove she was still young, but unable to hide the decay in her bones.

When they passed a secluded alley behind the Dacheng Hall,

the noise of the crowds faded slightly.

This area was right next to the back entrance of the Jinling Grand Theater, featuring red walls and dark tiles.

A few old plane trees cast dappled shadows.

Lin Que was about to find a trash can to throw away his empty water bottle,

when his gaze unintentionally swept over a stone lion statue in the corner.

Behind the stone lion, a white mass was squatting.

Taking two steps closer, Lin Que raised an eyebrow.

A huge white lace skirt, like melted cream, piled up on the dirty bluestone slab,

but the upper body was wrapped in a black men's windbreaker.

The girl was squatting on the ground without any concern for her appearance,

holding a paper bag, her cheeks stuffed full.

She was eating quickly and intently,

completely unaware that someone had approached.

Until Lin Que walked up to the trash can and threw the bottle in with a “clang.”

The girl suddenly looked up, startled.

Their eyes met.

Lin Que raised an eyebrow.

She was quite delicate-looking, with big eyes, a melon seed face, and skin so pale it reflected light.

The only thing was that her mouth was smeared with a ring of red sweet and spicy sauce,

and she was clutching a half-eaten plum blossom cake.

“Ahem.”

Out of politeness, Lin Que averted his gaze.

She was probably a student here for an art exam.

There are many art schools in Jinling,

and every year around this time, there are always unlucky kids forced by their families to practice vocal music, instruments, or dance.

This girl was probably starving,

which is why she was hiding here in her performance outfit, secretly eating street food.

“Slow down, no one's fighting you for it.”

Lin Que said casually,

then pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket and offered one to her.

“Wipe your mouth, it's covered in sauce.”

The girl froze for a moment.

She didn't take the tissue,

but instead widened her eyes, staring intently at Lin Que's face.

Her look was very strange.

It wasn't like she was looking at a passerby; it was more like she was observing some rare animal.

Surprise, astonishment,

then quickly shifting to a sense of realization and... faint excitement?

Did she recognize him?

Lin Que muttered inwardly.

Although he had just won an award,

he wasn't famous enough for every foodie he bumped into on the street to be a fan, right?

The girl quickly stuffed the remaining plum blossom cake into her mouth,

mumbling something indistinctly,

which sounded like the words “evil ghost.”

Before Lin Que could hear clearly,

a sudden rush of high-heeled footsteps and shouts came from the alley entrance.

“Xiao Xi! Xiao Xi! Where are you? Check-in is in ten minutes!”

The girl trembled all over.

“Mmm! Mmm! Coming!”

She struggled to swallow the plum blossom cake in her mouth,

snatched the tissue from Lin Que's hand, wiped her mouth haphazardly, and pushed herself up to stand.

In that instant,

Lin Que realized that beneath the layers of luxurious skirt, she wasn't wearing glass slippers, but a pair of filthy canvas shoes.

She winked at Lin Que and made a “shush” gesture.

She lifted her complex skirt and agilely vaulted over a low wall beside them,

disappearing toward the back door of the Grand Theater.

Her movements were smooth and practiced; she was clearly a repeat offender.

“Lin Que! What are you doing? Don't fall behind!”

Teacher Shen's shout came from a distance.

“Coming.”

Lin Que withdrew his gaze and caught up with the group.

As they passed the main entrance of the Grand Theater, he saw a large poster standing outside.

[The “Spring of Su Province” Youth Piano Competition]

On the poster,

young men and women in formal wear sat before pianos,

their expressions solemn and their postures elegant.

Lin Que looked back at the empty corner of the wall and shook his head.

So-called art, so-called refinement.

Peel away that layer of glittering facade, and what lies beneath,

is nothing more than the seven emotions and six desires of mortals and the craving for carbohydrates.

On stage, she is a princess performing Chopin's Nocturnes;

off stage, she is still a foodie hiding in a corner secretly eating plum blossom cake.

This world is quite absurd, and quite interesting.

“Let's go, to the Examination Hall.”

...They kept playing until nearly ten o'clock at night,

before Shen Qingqiu reluctantly let the students go.

Lin Que half-suspected that she was the one who wanted to keep playing and just dragged them along.

Back at the hotel,

Lin Que felt like his legs weren't his own anymore.

Just as he finished showering and collapsed onto the bed, Zhao Zichen on the next bed sat up again.

The straight-A student had taken off his glasses, his eyes slightly unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling.

“Lin Que.”

“Here we go again!”

Lin Que knew what he wanted to say as soon as he heard him, and quickly turned off the light.

“Today at the Confucius Temple, I thought about it the whole way.”

Zhao Zichen was completely unaffected by the lack of light, his voice just sounded muffled.

“You said literature is a scalpel, meant to cut open abscesses.

But the education I received since childhood taught me that writing must convey moral principles and be gentle and sincere.

Although I won the first prize today, I know better than anyone that I only got it through luck.

If I had written it myself... I would probably still write about flowers blooming and falling.”

He turned to look at Lin Que:

“How do you do it? That... ruthlessness of dissecting the human heart.”

Lin Que rolled over, opening his eyes to look at Zhao Zichen.

Although this kid was stubborn, he wasn't malicious, and he genuinely wanted to learn.

In his previous life, he was an experienced man of twenty-seven who had worked in the arts for so many years.

Educating a minor now was child's play.

“Lao Zhao, have you ever seen a pig slaughtered?”

“Huh?”

Zhao Zichen was stunned.

“The pig is held down on the cutting board, the knife is plunged in,

blood sprays out, and it's still howling.

The sound is awful, and the scene is disgusting.”

Lin Que's voice was calm.

“But that is real death.

The flowers blooming and falling you write about are like pork belly sliced and arranged neatly in the supermarket—

clean and pretty, but devoid of vitality.”

“If you want to write something ruthless, you have to stare at that knife, stare at that bloody hole.”

Lin Que turned on the lamp and pointed to his eyes.

“Stop staring at textbooks, look at people more often.

Look at the middle-aged women arguing over fifty cents in the wet market,

look at the men who can't cry in the hospital corridor.

Suffering is universal. Only carbohydrates and reality allow people to survive.”

Zhao Zichen opened his mouth, unable to speak for a long time.

“Go to sleep.”

Lin Que pulled the blanket over his head.

“We have to catch a train tomorrow. Thinking too much makes you go bald!”

Lin Que turned off the light once more, and the room grew quiet.

After a long time,

Zhao Zichen softly said:

“Thank you.”

Lin Que didn't respond, his breathing becoming steady and deep.

After Zhao Zichen's breathing became even,

Lin Que silently slipped out from under the covers and reached for the laptop on the bedside table.

The screen flickered on, and he skillfully accessed the Hong Guo Net author backend.

The statistics were glowing deep red.

The comment section for the Ghost Doctor chapter had exploded, with the comment count reaching a new high.

[I suggest thoroughly investigating the author's background; that hand-cutting technique is too practiced to be fake!]

[Dream Weaver, you B... baby, the part where the Ghost Doctor cuts himself made me sick, but why was it so satisfying?!]

[Strongly recommend reading this while eating! It's so appetizing! I ate three bowls of rice during the wrist-cutting scene. I'm full, I'm full!]

[Is Dream Weaver asleep? Get up! This cliffhanger is making me suffer more than the Ghost Doctor sawing himself!]

[Does Yang Jian have a blessed mouth? If my logic is closed-loop enough, even ghosts have to stab themselves?]

[A doctor cannot heal himself! Is this the charm of rule-based killing?]

[Agreed, floor above. It's much better than mindless power clashes where the enemy turns to dust with a shout. Intelligence in horror is true horror.]

[Speaking of which, what is the “boring competition” in the preview?

I heard there's a writing competition going on in Su Province recently. Is Yang Jian taking the ghost bus to participate in the writing competition? Hahahaha!]

...Lin Que's lips curled up slightly as he read the “writing competition” comment.

The readers were sharp, but he was an even more malicious author.

The competition in reality was indeed boring, full of false pleasantries and tiresome formality.

Since that was the case,

then let Yang Jian tear this boredom to shreds for him within the book.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he typed:

The Boring Competition

...