97: One lit the fire, one rowed the boat, and one caused a scene.

"Oh? Elaborate on that." Fang Zhenyun's eyes lit up.

"The student just now said literature is a blueprint, and you said literature is about planting flowers. I even took notes in my little notebook." Lin Que pointed to his empty pockets, acting very serious.

"I feel that when we students write, we really can't be too... too that way."

"Too what way?" Fang Zhenyun coaxed.

"Too real." Lin Que sighed, looking annoyed.

"For example, my award-winning essay—looking back now, the scope was too small and full of negative energy. I shouldn't have written about death and despair. I should have focused on the deep bond between doctors and patients, on the miracles of life fighting against illness. It would be best to add some poetic imagination, like all the patients holding hands, singing loudly in the sunlight, praising rebirth."

Someone in the audience frowned. Fang Zhenyun's brow twitched violently.

"Student Lin." Fang Zhenyun interrupted him with a dark face, his eyes full of warning.

"Literature needs imagination, but not gibberish. This kind of illogical exaggeration is a desecration..."

"How is it gibberish?" Lin Que didn't give him a chance to finish, looking shocked, as if to say, 'Why don't you believe me?'

"Teacher Fang, isn't this what you taught us? To bandage the wound and plant flowers! I thought about it, and isn't the best way just to make sure no one sees the wound?"

Zhao Zichen looked up sharply, staring at Lin Que in horror. *Brother, isn't your sarcasm a bit too obvious?*

But Lin Que didn't give him a chance to ask back, and continued: "And that Dream Weaver, talking about how hell won't be empty. I think he's just mentally dark. The world is so beautiful, where is there any hell? We just need to close our eyes, plug our ears, not look at those unfinished buildings, not listen to those cries, and wouldn't this world be a paradise?"

A commotion began in the venue. The old writers who had been nodding just moments ago now looked at each other. Was this kid agreeing, or was he insulting them?

Fang Zhenyun's fingers on the microphone paused slightly. The curve of his mouth still maintained that habitual kindness, but a flash of doubt crossed his eyes.

He instinctively looked at Lin Que, trying to find the panic of a "slip of the tongue" on that young face, but only saw a calm sense of mockery.

The smile finally collapsed on his face, as if pulled down by gravity.

"Um... Student Lin." Fang Zhenyun tried to interrupt. "That kind of statement is extreme. We aren't trying to deceive ourselves..."

"How is it deceiving ourselves? This is artistic processing in literature!"

He took a step forward and stood in the center of the spotlight. That timid posture suddenly disappeared.

He was still wearing that somewhat tacky school uniform, but his back was straight as a rod. The laziness in his eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a heart-palpitating sharpness.

"So I am especially grateful to Teacher Fang." Lin Que held the microphone and bowed deeply to Fang Zhenyun. This bow was standard, and it was sarcastic.

"It was you who made me understand that so-called avant-garde literature isn't about writing new things, but learning to use a new posture to whitewash those old festering sores."

"You want us to be flowers in a greenhouse, singing pretty songs. You want literature to be a beautiful fig leaf, covering all the suffering, and then telling everyone: Look, how beautiful!"

The whole venue was dead silent. Even more silent than when the recording was played just now.

Fang Zhenyun's face turned liver-colored instantly. He stood up abruptly, his chair making a harsh screeching sound: "You... what kind of attitude is this! This is a literature forum, not a place for you to run wild!"

"I'm not running wild." Lin Que straightened up, a smile on his face. "I'm just putting your teachings into practice."

He pointed to Zhao Zichen, then to the few students who had spoken earlier. "We are students. We haven't learned how to tell lies so beautifully, with such 'aesthetic restraint.' We only see what's in front of us. People starving to death, people dying of illness, people struggling in despair. You want us to write these as deep bonds between doctors and patients, as miracles of life?"

Lin Que shook his head, his voice as light as a sigh, yet it slammed into everyone's heart through the speakers. "I'm sorry, Teacher Fang. I can't learn this kind of avant-garde. I don't think this is called literature; this is called fraud!"

Fang Zhenyun's face was so gloomy it could drip water. He took a deep breath, as if suppressing great anger, and raised the microphone again. His voice carried a chilling "concern." "It seems Student Lin is a bit emotional today, and his thinking has reached a dead end."

"We cannot put too much pressure on him just because of one award-winning essay. To protect our young genius, let's end the speeches for today. Staff, please take Student Lin to the lounge to calm down."

Several security guards maintaining order heard the call and walked over hesitantly.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang, are you in a rush already?" Lin Que wasn't panicked; he didn't even move a step. He kept one hand in his pocket, holding the microphone with the other, his eyes showing a devil-may-care attitude.

"Didn't you just say that literature is inclusive? What's wrong? Can you only include those who praise you, but not those who tell the truth?"

He turned around to face the audience. The reporters, the writers, the students with stunned faces. "Everyone, actually, this forum today is quite interesting."

Lin Que's tone was like chatting with an old friend. "The Dream Weaver didn't come, but he sent a fire. Jian Shen didn't come, but he sent a boat. One wants to burn away hypocrisy, the other wants to ferry people across the river. And what about Editor-in-Chief Fang?"

He glanced back at the livid Fang Zhenyun. "Editor-in-Chief Fang wants to lock us all in cages, then give us candy, telling us: Be good, as long as you sing praises, you will have a future."

"Student Zhao Zichen said the Dream Weaver's writing is like a butcher." Lin Que looked at Zhao Zichen, who had a complex expression beside him, and smiled. "Actually, there's nothing wrong with being a butcher. At least when a butcher kills a pig, it's real knives and guns, it's red blade in, white blade out. It's far better than some people who hold embroidery needles to embroider on festering sores and still think they are artists."

Zhao Zichen's face flushed red and then turned pale. He wanted to refute, but he found that the theories he was so proud of seemed so pale in the face of Lin Que's nearly savage logic.

Under Fang Zhenyun's signal, staff members rushed to the backstage power source. The electrical current made a harsh buzzing sound, as if it would fall into silence the next second.

But Lin Que didn't stop. He didn't even look at the person rushing to the power source. Instead, he put down the microphone and shouted at the audience with his natural voice: "If I'm not allowed to use the microphone, then I'll use my throat to shout!"

Just then, a woman's hand pressed down on the staff member who was about to pull the power switch. The staff member turned around and saw Jiang Min, the secretary to the Chairman of the Writers Association.

Jiang Min shook her head and turned to look at Chairman Gu on the stage. Chairman Gu Changfeng, the Chairman of the Writers Association who had been sitting in the middle like a Buddha without speaking, had turned around at some point. He didn't do anything; he just tapped the table lightly.

"Let him finish." Gu Changfeng's voice was not loud, but it clearly spread throughout the venue through the speakers that hadn't been cut off yet. "If a forum hosted by the Writers Association has to cut off a child's microphone, then it's truly hopeless."

Fang Zhenyun opened his mouth, and the scolding that had reached his lips was swallowed back. He could get angry at Lin Que, or even ban those online writers, but he absolutely dared not offend Gu Changfeng.

Lin Que glanced at the old man and nodded slightly in greeting. Subsequently, he put one hand in his pocket and raised the microphone again. "Actually, I only came here today to say one thing."

Lin Que took a deep breath, restraining all his mockery. His gaze became incredibly clear, as if piercing through the roof, looking toward a more distant place.

"Just now, Teacher Fang kept asking us to admit our mistakes and move closer to the mainstream. But I want to ask, what is the mainstream?"

"Is it sitting in high halls, detached from the realities of life? Or hiding in an ivory tower, groaning without an illness?"

"Neither." Lin Que's voice was not high, but every word carried the weight of a thousand pounds. "The true mainstream is people. Real, living people who feel pain, who cry, who bleed."

"In 'The Emperor's New Clothes,' the child who told the truth had his mouth covered by the adults. But I think, if that child grew up and became a writer, he would still choose to tell the truth."

"Because even if the Emperor puts on the most magnificent silk, not wearing clothes is still not wearing clothes."

"This world is sick, we have to admit it. Only after admitting it can we cure it."

"If you think that writing about this sickness is extreme, is dark, is not elegant enough." Lin Que smiled. He took off the "Student Representative" badge that had been hanging around his neck from the beginning and placed it gently on the podium. "Then I don't want this first prize winner."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over those two empty chairs, his voice carrying a hint of a smile. "One who dares to light a fire in the darkness, one who dares to pole a boat through the wind and waves—their postures might not be pretty, but they are honest enough. And as for me, rather than being an elegant mute, I would rather be a..."

He withdrew his gaze, looking directly into all the stunned eyes in the audience. "Honest madman!"

After speaking, he gently placed the microphone next to the badge, making a "thud" sound. Then, under the near-suffocating gaze of the whole venue, he turned around, hands in his pockets, and walked off the stage with big strides. No looking back. No lingering. Until his figure disappeared at the door of the conference hall, the whole place remained dead silent.

Fang Zhenyun slumped in his chair, his face ashen. He knew that today's "recruitment play" had completely flopped.

In the corner, Wang De'an watched that retreating figure, his eyes slightly red. He picked up his teacup and, as if offering a toast, raised it from afar. "What a great, honest madman!"