96: Old ginger is spicier.

The air in the venue was somewhat stagnant.

The two slaps, one hard and one soft, that had just occurred made Fang Zhenyun's face burn.

As a row of students took the stage one after another.

Fang Zhenyun adjusted the microphone, and the corners of his mouth, which had been tight just a moment ago, once again wore a gentle smile, as if all the previous unpleasantness had merely been an illusion.

"The internet is an amplifier of emotions, making our author friends a bit... agitated."

Fang Zhenyun smiled and swept his gaze across the audience.

"But that's okay; literature itself is inclusive.

Now, let us listen to the voices of the future.

What literature looks like in the eyes of these young people who have stood out after layers of selection through the formal and serious 'Jieyou Cup'."

He deliberately emphasized the words "formal" and "serious."

The microphone was passed to the girl on the far left of the front row.

She was the first prize winner from Su Province Experimental Middle School, wearing a ponytail and glasses, looking very quiet.

She stood up, her hands trembling, clearly frightened by the tense, sword-drawing atmosphere from just a moment ago.

"Hello, teachers..."

The girl's voice was very small.

"I think... Teacher Jian Shen's 'the ferryman' is very moving.

But I also have some thoughts on what he said about it being hard to know the water temperature from high up on a platform.

Sometimes when we write essays, we really do it just to cater to the prompt, and we don't dare to write the truth..."

Fang Zhenyun did not interrupt her, but interjected at the right moment when she paused to catch her breath:

"This student speaks very sincerely.

Catering to the prompt is actually a form of training in rules.

It's like building a house; without a blueprint, just building haphazardly based on feeling, that's an illegal structure.

You think 'the ferryman' is moving because it ultimately leads to love and hope; that is the blueprint of literature, isn't it?"

The girl was stunned for a moment and nodded subconsciously:

"Yes... yes."

"That's right."

Fang Zhenyun nodded with satisfaction.

"Confusion is normal, but one cannot treat confusion as a direction. Next."

The microphone was passed on.

The next few students were mostly standard 'good students.'

Although they were shocked by the wild recording just now, under Fang Zhenyun's powerful control and guidance, their speeches became well-behaved.

Occasionally, a boy would summon the courage to mention:

"Actually, I think what the Dream Weaver said also makes sense; there really is a lot of injustice in reality..."

Fang Zhenyun immediately smiled and took over the conversation:

"Of course there is injustice in reality, but tearing open wounds for people to see is what news is for.

The task of literature is to bandage the wound, or even grow a flower from it.

Young people are hot-blooded and easily mistake anger for profundity; when you reach my age, you will understand that peace is the greatest strength."

The boy opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to refute, but seeing the scrutinizing gazes fixed on him from all around, he finally sat down with a flushed face.

The smile at the corners of Fang Zhenyun's mouth deepened.

That was right.

This was the rhythm he was familiar with.

Those wild internet writers were like wild horses, difficult to tame.

But these students were canaries raised in the cage of exam-oriented education.

As long as they were guided slightly and given a little hint of authority, they would obediently sing beautiful tunes.

The face he had lost was being picked up bit by bit.

"Very good, it seems our younger generation still has a correct sense of the big picture."

Fang Zhenyun's gaze shifted:

"Let's invite the next student, Zhao Zichen from Jiangcheng No. 1 High School."

Zhao Zichen took the microphone.

He was wearing a dark gray wool coat today with a white shirt underneath, looking a bit mature for his age.

He wasn't awkward like the other students; instead, he calmly buttoned his suit jacket and took the microphone.

Fang Zhenyun's eyes held anticipation.

He had read Zhao Zichen's contest essay; it was full of quotes and flowery language, a typical academic talent.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang, seniors."

Zhao Zichen's voice was clear:

"Actually, I very much agree with Teacher Fang's point of view just now.

Literature indeed needs a threshold and also rules.

If anyone could just come up and write whatever they wanted, the halls of literature would indeed become a vegetable market.

Classic traditional literature emphasizes structure and literature conveys the Way; this is our foundation."

Fang Zhenyun nodded slightly, the smile on his lips spreading.

That was right; this was the insight a good student should have.

"But..."

Zhao Zichen's tone shifted; he pushed up his glasses and looked at the two empty seats.

"Regarding the argument in the recording just now, I have a somewhat immature opinion.

Whether it is the confusion of 'not knowing the water temperature' from Teacher Jian Shen, or the... almost roaring anger of the Dream Weaver, I think their original intention is actually not bad.

It's like people locked in a dark room for a long time; some might cry, others might smash the door.

Although their posture is not elegant, and even a bit extreme, their core desire to go out and seek the light is upward."

The smile on Fang Zhenyun's face stiffened for a moment, then quickly faded, replaced by a sternness that carried a sense of oppression.

He did not wait for Zhao Zichen to finish and interrupted directly:

"This student, your metaphor is interesting, but the logic is flawed.

Is smashing the door to get out, or to vent anger? There is an essential difference between the two.

If you tear down the house just to vent emotions, that is not seeking light; that is creating ruins.

The upward movement we advocate is constructive, not destructive."

Zhao Zichen was stunned for a moment, clearly not expecting Fang Zhenyun to react so quickly, but he still tried to argue:

"But Teacher Fang, if the door is locked, how can we get out without destroying it? Sometimes, gentle language cannot pierce through reality..."

"This is the misconception of you young people."

Fang Zhenyun chuckled, his eyes holding a condescending pity:

"When a doctor treats an illness, they use a scalpel to excise it precisely, not a hatchet to hack away randomly.

Your so-called piercing often only causes a larger wound and leads to infection.

Literature is medicine to heal the soul, not a hallucinogenic poison, nor a stimulant that makes people manic.

You mistake destruction for a breakthrough and rudeness for strength; this is a directional error."

Zhao Zichen opened his mouth, his grip on the microphone tightening.

Facing this old veteran of the literary world and his airtight Tai Chi—which seemed full of philosophy but was actually just shifting concepts—the theories he had learned from books seemed pale and weak.

The surrounding air seemed to become heavy with Fang Zhenyun's words, making him feel a bit suffocated.

In the end, Zhao Zichen's eyes dimmed, and he said in a low voice:

"Thank you, Teacher Fang, I have been instructed."

Then he sat back down, looking slightly disheveled.

Fang Zhenyun watched the defeated Zhao Zichen, the smile reappearing at the corners of his mouth, even deeper than before.

That was right.

Whether they were talented troublemakers or thoughtful top students, in front of the discourse system he had constructed, they were all just immature children.

Ginger, still the older, the spicier.

He felt he had completely controlled the scene.

The gloom brought by the recording just now was swept away.

By refuting Zhao Zichen, he had once again proven to the entire audience the unshakeable nature of "authority."

Now, as long as he pulled out the last first prize winner to say a few words, to make the final conclusion, today's forum would be complete.

Even if this child had said something shocking at the press conference, he was a high school student after all; as long as he personally stepped in to "guide" him, today's victory would completely belong to 'October'.

Fang Zhenyun was in a great mood and looked toward the corner.

That boy wearing a school uniform, who had been keeping his head down and playing with a mineral water bottle cap.

"Finally, let us invite the first prize winner of the first Jieyou Cup, also from Jiangcheng No. 1 High School—Student Lin Que."

The spotlight hit the corner with a snap.

Lin Que seemed to be startled, almost dropping the mineral water bottle in his hand.

He stood up slowly, tugged at his somewhat wrinkled school uniform collar, and wore that standard, humble smile belonging to a good student on his face.

Zhao Zichen was sitting beside him with his head down, glancing at Lin Que out of the corner of his eye.

Although he had stepped on the Dream Weaver on stage just now, he knew in his heart that it was merely the instinct of literary people to belittle each other.

Regarding his deskmate Lin Que, he was actually unsure.

This guy usually looked like a slacker, but he could always cause some trouble at critical moments.

Lin Que took the microphone handed to him by the staff and tested the sound:

"Hello? Hello? Can I speak now?"

A burst of good-natured laughter sounded from the audience.

A few old writers shook their heads; this child looked like he hadn't seen much of the world, probably scared silly by such a big scene.

The smile on Fang Zhenyun's face became even kinder:

"Student Lin Que, don't be nervous.

Just treat this place like a classroom at your school; everyone here is your teacher.

Regarding the argument just now, especially the extreme remarks of the Dream Weaver, what is your opinion? Speak boldly; it doesn't matter if you are wrong, we will help you correct it."

This was bare-faced inducement.

He was hinting to Lin Que: The Dream Weaver is extreme, is wrong, and you need us to "correct" you.

Lin Que blinked, looking sincere:

"Teacher Fang, actually... I think you are absolutely right!"