94: Wildfire

The conference hall at Zijin Mountain Villa was vast, with a soaring domed ceiling.

The red carpet swallowed all sound of footsteps, while the air was filled with a faint scent of sandalwood and an indescribable smell of old paper.

The podium was surrounded by flowers, and in the very center sat Chairman Gu, the Chairman of the Writers Association, with the province's most renowned literary veterans lined up on either side.

In the first row of the guest seating, in the most prominent spot, sat two chairs.

Empty chairs.

The nameplate on the left read 'Jian Shen', and the one on the right read 'Hell Dream Weaver'.

These two empty chairs were like black holes, swallowing most of the attention in the hall.

Reporters aimed their cameras at them from time to time, their flashes making the empty chair backs look ghastly pale.

Lin Que sat in the corner of the third row, wearing a 'Student Representative' badge around his neck.

He held a bottle of mineral water, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and let his gaze drift aimlessly around the venue.

Zhao Zichen sat beside him, back straight, notebook open, and fountain pen uncapped—looking every bit as though he were ready to record imperial edicts.

"Smell that," Zhao Zichen whispered, his tone bordering on reverent. "The air is filled with the scent of ink and the collision of ideas."

Lin Que lazily lifted his eyelids. "No, that's the smell of dust mites from an uncleaned central AC system—oh, and mixed with the carbon dioxide of over two hundred people."

Zhao Zichen choked on his words, rolled his eyes at him, and turned away, ignoring him.

Ten o'clock sharp.

Fang Zhenyun, acting as the representative of the organizers and the host, walked onto the podium.

He was wearing a dark gray zhongshan suit today, his hair combed meticulously, and he let his gaze linger on the two empty chairs for a full three seconds.

Those three seconds were laden with meaning.

"Fellow colleagues, members of the media, good morning."

Fang Zhenyun's voice echoed through the hall via the microphone, steady and resonant.

"Today, we have gathered here to discuss the future of literature and the fusion of the 'new' and the 'old'."

He paused, stepped down from the podium, walked straight to the two empty chairs, and reached out to rest his hands on the backs of them.

"But before we begin, I must express a hint of regret."

The hall went quiet; even the sound of camera shutters ceased.

"We sincerely invited two of the most popular emerging writers on the internet today—Mr. Jian Shen and Mr. Hell Dream Weaver."

Fang Zhenyun sighed, wearing an expression of deep distress.

"Regrettably, they were unable to attend due to personal reasons."

He emphasized the words 'personal reasons'.

A wave of whispering broke out in the audience.

Several old-school critics lowered their voices, whispering to each other with undisguised superiority.

"They are from unconventional backgrounds, after all; they lack the most basic sense of awe for the literary world."

"I read a few chapters of that 'the human world is like a prison'; the writing is crude, relying on gore and violence to grab attention. It is ultimately just cheap tricks, unworthy of serious literary circles. They didn't come because they were afraid of embarrassing themselves in front of everyone, no doubt."

"Chairman Gu was too generous to them. These traffic-driven writers—once the hype dies down, who will even remember them?"

Fang Zhenyun was very satisfied with this effect.

He raised his hand, pressing his palm downward to signal for silence.

"Of course, we must be understanding."

Fang Zhenyun smiled, his tone as tolerant as an elder's.

"Internet literature is, after all, a nascent medium. Authors are used to hiding behind screens, unaccustomed to facing the public and unaccustomed to this kind of serious academic discussion. It is understandable."

This sounded like an excuse, but it was actually a knife to the heart.

It effectively branded both of them with labels of 'stage fright', 'unprofessionalism', and 'unworthiness of serious literary circles'.

"However," Fang Zhenyun shifted his tone, his gaze suddenly turning to the corner of the third row.

"Fortunately, we still have true stars of the future. Let us welcome the winning student representatives of this year's 'Jieyou Cup'."

The spotlight instantly swung toward them.

A row of students stood up in unison.

Zhao Zichen even gave a standard bow.

Only Lin Que stood up slowly, wearing that signature, harmless smile, nodded casually, and quickly sat back down.

Fang Zhenyun glanced at Lin Que's lazy demeanor.

A high school student who only knew how to write so-called 'inspired' essays, and two internet writers who didn't dare to show their faces.

Today's trap was set.

"Since the two special guests have not come, let us leave more time for the seniors present."

Fang Zhenyun walked back to the podium and opened his speech notes. "But I still hope our emerging writers can understand one truth—literature requires awe, and it requires exchange in the sunlight, not working behind closed doors in dark corners."

The audience erupted in applause.

In the front row, Wang De'an slammed his teacup down, creating a dull thud.

Beside him, Hong Hu stared fixedly at her phone, her fingertips pressing so hard that the screen emitted a faint creaking sound.

"This old fox, he's too treacherous!" Hong Hu cursed under her breath.

Lin Que sat in the back, watching Fang Zhenyun's commanding posture, and screwed the cap back onto his water bottle.

He took his phone out of his pocket and sent a WeChat message to Hong Hu.

【Hell Dream Weaver: You can start now.】

Hong Hu, in the front row, jolted.

She took a deep breath, like a soldier about to head into battle, and stood up abruptly.

Her chair scraped against the floor with a harsh screech, interrupting Fang Zhenyun's speech.

The whole hall was stunned.

All eyes were focused on the young girl in a hoodie and jeans, who looked completely out of place.

Fang Zhenyun frowned. "And you are?"

"Hong Hu, Editor-in-Chief of Hongguo Reading Network."

Hong Hu held up the black box in her hand. Her voice was clear and steady, each word striking through the silence of the hall. "Editor-in-Chief Fang, although Dream Weaver is not here in person, he asked me to bring a message for everyone present."

Fang Zhenyun adjusted his glasses. "Oh? Mr. Dream Weaver has something to say?"

He made a 'please' gesture, his tone laced with mockery. "Since he couldn't come, listening to his voice will have to do. I hope it's not just some excuse."

A staff member took the black box and pressed the play button.

The fluctuating lines of audio appeared in the center of the big screen.

The entire conference hall fell into a brief, dead silence; everyone pricked up their ears, wanting to hear what excuse this 'madman' who wrote 'the human world is like a prison' would use to explain his absence.

Was it an apology? An excuse? Or a trembling expression of gratitude?

"Bzz—" A sound of static crackled.

A voice, processed through a voice changer, slightly raspy and metallic, suddenly exploded beneath the dome.

"Good morning, teachers, all of you sitting in the light."

There were no pleasantries, no polite formalities. The voice carried a tone of casual indifference.

Fang Zhenyun's brow furrowed slightly. This opening was not right.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang said that literature needs to be exchanged in the sunlight." The voice let out a laugh—short and cold.

"But does literature cease to exist in places where the sunlight cannot reach?"

"You sit in magnificent halls, drinking tea that costs thousands per jin, discussing how to use flowery language to praise the light and whitewash the peace. You call this awe."

The audio waves fluctuated violently, and the voice suddenly rose in volume.

"But outside the world of peace and prosperity you write about, there are people chewing on moldy bread in unfinished buildings, people kneeling until their knees shatter in front of ICU doors for medical fees, and people weeping silently at their reflections in the windows of the last subway train."

"Their despair, their fear, their struggle."

"Can your sunlight reach them?"

The hall erupted in an uproar.

"Click! Click!" The reporters were the fastest to react, their flashes going wild as they aimed at the livid Fang Zhenyun and the stunned literary veterans on the podium.

"Absurd!" An old professor with bronze-rimmed glasses slammed his hand on the table. "This is an academic discussion! Not a street brawl! This is a desecration of literature!"

"This is pure sophistry! Grandstanding!"

In the corner, Zhao Zichen's fingers, holding his fountain pen, froze in mid-air, his face full of shock.

He had always believed in the nobility and elegance of literature; when had he ever heard such rebellious remarks? This was no longer literature; this was a declaration of war!

And in the very center of the podium, Chairman Gu, who had been resting with his eyes closed, slowly opened them.

He was not angry; instead, in those eyes that had seen everything, a flicker of... amusement appeared.

Fang Zhenyun's expression was grim, and he was about to signal the staff to cut the audio.

But the voice didn't give him the chance, speeding up.

"Why didn't I come?"

"Because I was afraid."

"I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself from laughing out loud."

"You treat literature as an entry ticket to a vanity fair, as a tool for mutual flattery. But in my eyes, literature is a scalpel—it is to lance the abscess, to place the bloody reality on the table."

"Instead of discussing the new and the old, why not discuss the true and the false?"

"'I will not become a Buddha until hell is empty'? No, hell cannot be empty. Because wherever there is human heart, there is hell."

The voice suddenly dropped, carrying a chilling sense of oppression.

"Everyone, don't just stare at the clouds in the sky. Look down, look at the mud beneath your feet. That is where all living beings are."

"Finally, a word for Editor-in-Chief Fang: True emerging writers are not mascots you invite to stand on your stage. We are wildfire. Once the wind blows, we will burn across everything..."