95: On the high platform, it is difficult to know the water temperature

The audio stopped abruptly.

The waves on the screen flattened into a straight line.

The conference hall was deathly silent.

This silence was different from the quietness Fang Zhenyun had created earlier.

Before, it was polite listening; now, it was the dazed state of having been slapped hard in the face.

Too arrogant!

Too wild!

This isn't a speech, this is practically crashing the venue!

Lin Que, sitting in the corner, unscrewed his mineral water bottle with an expressionless face and took another sip.

This recording was something he had deliberately run to the bathroom to record.

It looked like the effect was quite good.

"This... this is inciting opposition!"

An old professor in the front row, wearing bronze-colored glasses, pointed at the darkened screen, his hands trembling with rage.

"What does he think literature is? A manifesto for street politics?

He is negating all the efforts our generations have made to build a literary temple!

Outrageous! Simply utterly outrageous!"

Fang Zhenyun took a deep breath, forcing down the anger in his heart.

He hadn't expected this Dream Weaver to be such a madman who played by no rules.

Although these words were unpleasant, one had to admit they were extremely inflammatory.

If he didn't quickly regain control of the situation, today's forum would become a joke.

"It seems Mr. Dream Weaver has a deep misunderstanding of our traditional literary circles."

Fang Zhenyun picked up the microphone again, a stiff smile hanging on his face.

"Young people, being a bit extreme is understandable.

Mistaking ignorance for personality and rudeness for sincerity is also a common ailment of online literature at present."

He quickly steered the topic in another direction, attempting to counterattack using the argument of character.

"By comparison, I am more looking forward to the attitude of the other guest."

Fang Zhenyun looked toward the other empty chair.

"I have read the works of Jian Shen.

The writing indeed has a power to soothe the heart, which is very rare.

It's just that this soothing is ultimately a personal consolation,

like a bowl of sweet soup on a snowy night; it's warm, yes, but it cannot change the snowstorm filling the sky.

I just feel a bit of regret,

that if this talent could be invested in a grander narrative of the era, perhaps it could go further.

As for Mr. Dream Weaver... I hope his absence,

is not because he is indulging in the darkness he built himself, forgetting how to walk toward the sunlight."

A provocation.

He was forcing Jian Shen to take a stand.

If Jian Shen did the same thing, it would confirm the conclusion that all online writers are "mad dogs."

If Jian Shen backed down, it would prove that traditional literature still held the power of discourse.

Just at this moment.

In the third row, the man who had been silent the whole time stood up.

Wang De'an.

He was wearing an old, washed-out suit,

and in his hands, he held no recording equipment, but instead solemnly clutched an envelope.

A kraft paper envelope, with four characters written on it in calligraphy brush:

【For the attention of Mr. Fang】

The handwriting was in the Slender Gold style, iron strokes and silver hooks, exuding an air of refined scholarly elegance.

That was something he had practiced to perfection in his past life as a screenwriter, to deal with various demanding situations,

a decent hand of writing he had forced himself to master.

He hadn't expected that in this life, it would actually come in handy.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang."

Wang De'an's voice was exceptionally steady.

"Teacher Jian Shen entrusted me to bring a letter to you."

Fang Zhenyun looked at the envelope, his eyelid twitching.

The two characters "Mr. Fang" used ancient etiquette.

It neither lost courtesy nor lacked a sense of detachment, suggesting a level gaze, or even a condescending one.

"Read it."

Fang Zhenyun spat out the word.

Wang De'an nodded, opened the envelope, and took out a sheet of rice paper from inside.

He unfolded the letter paper, his movements as gentle as if he were unfolding a fragile piece of art.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang, honored seniors:"

Wang De'an began to read aloud. His voice was not as sharp as in the recording,

but warm and mellow, like a cup of brewed aged tea.

"Seeing these words is like seeing my face."

"I heard that today's forum is filled with distinguished guests and excellent friends.

I should have attended to pay my respects, but I am tied up with worldly affairs, and by nature, I am lazy, fearing I might disturb your elegant gathering."

The opening few sentences were a mix of classical and vernacular, humble and appropriate.

The old writers who had been fuming with rage at the "Dream Weaver" earlier softened their expressions slightly.

This is more like it.

This is what a scholar should look like.

But the next sentence changed the wind direction.

"Mr. Fang says that literature must be in the sunlight. These are excellent words."

"However, the sun is fierce; it can illuminate all things, but it can also burn one's eyes."

"The Dream Weaver speaks of hell because he sees the pain. I write about the ferryman because I want to heal the pain."

"Pain and medicine are inherently one."

Wang De'an read to this point, paused, and looked up at Fang Zhenyun on the podium.

"The sea of literature is vast and boundless. There are raging waves, and there are also deep, still waters.

Some people build high platforms on the shore, while others act as the ferryman in the water."

"High on the platform, the view is wide, but it is hard to know the temperature of the water."

"In the ferry boat, though amidst wind and waves, one can save whoever one can."

"New and old do not depend on whether it is published on paper or online,

but on whether one can still hear the cries from afar, and whether one can still hold the hand of the drowning."

"My absence today is not out of arrogance."

"I just feel that rather than arguing in the conference hall about who is the mainstream, it is better to write one more line of text in the study."

"After all, the readers are waiting."

"Those who ferry others must first ferry themselves. I wish Mr. Fang and all of you can also find your own ferryman."

"Respectfully, Jian Shen."

Wang De'an finished reading and gently closed the letter.

The venue fell into silence once again.

But this time, the silence was completely different from before.

If the Dream Weaver's recording was a heavy hammer,

then this letter from Jian Shen was like a spring rain,

silently seeping into the hard concrete ground.

Not a single dirty word.

Not a single malicious remark.

But every word and sentence was responding to Fang Zhenyun's arrogance.

You say we are in dark corners? I say you are on a high platform, unaware of the temperature.

You say we have no reverence? I say the readers are our reverence.

One hard, one soft.

These two absent speeches miraculously formed a perfect closed loop,

completely dissolving Fang Zhenyun's "traditional vs. online" binary opposition theory into nothingness.

On the podium, Chairman Gu Changfeng took off his glasses,

wiped them gently, and then put them back on.

He looked at that empty seat, a flash of appreciation in his eyes.

"What a 'High on the platform, hard to know the water's temperature'."

Gu Changfeng suddenly spoke, breaking the silence.

He turned to look at the somewhat pale-faced Fang Zhenyun and said calmly:

"Zhenyun, you must keep this letter well."

Fang Zhenyun froze in place, clutching the microphone tightly.

He had meticulously set up the stage, lit the spotlights,

only to find that the two protagonists he invited didn't perform according to his script at all;

separated by thousands of miles, they sang in harmony and stole all the light from the stage.

Not only did he fail to humiliate them, but he instead became the stepping stone for them,

being stepped on to achieve their hard-and-soft elegance.

The most infuriating thing was that he couldn't even lash out.

They were perfectly courteous, their reasoning watertight;

if he continued to pester them, he would truly become that person on the high platform who didn't know the water's temperature.

"Good... good."

Fang Zhenyun gritted his teeth and squeezed out a smile that was uglier than crying.

"Mr. Jian Shen... is truly a great talent. I will definitely... treasure this letter."

Offstage, Lin Que sat in the corner, watching this scene.

He screwed the cap back on his mineral water bottle and clapped his hands twice, gently and silently.

Beside him, Zhao Zichen was stunned, not even noticing that his pen had fallen to the floor.

"Lin Que..."

Zhao Zichen's voice was a bit airy,

and he instinctively glanced at the speech he had prepared in his notebook about "the legitimacy of literature and the spirit of the times."

Suddenly, he felt that those neat characters were incredibly ironic.

"I always thought literature should be uplifting...

but why does that Dream Weaver's heresy sound... sound so piercing to the heart?

And that Jian Shen, he didn't even refute anything, yet Editor-in-Chief Fang has already..."

He couldn't continue.

For the first time, he felt his unshakable belief in "orthodoxy" waver.

"Piercing?"

Lin Que picked up Zhao Zichen's pen and stuffed it back into his hand.

"Maybe."

He leaned back in his chair, looking at those two empty chairs.

A family, shouldn't they be so neat and tidy, coordinating with each other like this?

"Next..."

The microphone Fang Zhenyun was clutching tightly in his hand felt a bit slippery.

He felt countless gazes piercing him like needles—mockery, amusement, disdain.

No, he couldn't lose the venue like this!

His gaze swept quickly through the venue,

passing over the whispering guest tables, passing over Wang De'an and Hong Hu.

Finally, it locked firmly onto that group of young student representatives in the third row.

Yes, the students!

Jian Shen and the Dream Weaver were wild cards outside his control,

but these students, these good sprouts selected through official competitions,

they were the "future" that could be molded and defined!

Fang Zhenyun cleared his throat, forcing an authoritative smile back onto his face:

"The cross-space dialogue between the two online writers just now certainly let us see the... personality of the new generation of creators.

But true literature is not just about destruction; it requires inheritance and construction even more.

Compared to these internet-famous writers who have not yet been tested by time,

I still favor the future stars we have selected through layers of screening!

Next, I invite the children who won the first prize in this Jieyou Cup to come on stage,

and talk about their views on cutting-edge literature!"