In the early morning in Nanjing, the fog had not yet dissipated.

In the editor-in-chief's office of the October magazine, the floor lamp stayed on all night.

Assistant Xiao Chen was carrying two steaming hot xiaolongbao (soup dumplings) and soy milk.

I gently pushed open the heavy wooden door to the editor-in-chief's office.

The blinds were tightly closed, and several beams of light cut diagonally across the floor, illuminating the dust floating in the air.

The room was filled with the pungent smell of smoke.

"Editor-in-Chief? Professor Fang?"

Xiao Chen called out tentatively.

No one answered.

He looked in the dim light.

The large, genuine leather office chair had its back to the door and faced the huge floor-to-ceiling window.

One hand hung limply at the side of the armrest.

There was even a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers.

The cigarette ash fell on the expensive carpet, piling up in a small heap.

Xiao Chen's heart skipped a beat.

Editor-in-Chief Fang is usually very particular about his appearance and has a fastidious nature; this kind of loss of composure is simply unprecedented.

"Teacher Fang, I bought breakfast. There's another one this morning..."

As Xiao Chen spoke, he walked around the desk to wake him up.

However, as the office chair slowly turned around,

He was so startled he almost threw the soy milk in his hand away.

Fang Zhenyun turned his chair around.

His eyes were bloodshot and his eye bags were swollen; he looked ten years older overnight.

His chin was covered in stiff, bluish stubble.

He just stared at a point in the void with his eyes wide open.

His eyes lacked their usual sharpness; instead, they were empty.

"Little Chen."

Fang Zhenyun spoke up.

His voice was hoarse, like two rough pieces of sandpaper rubbing together.

"Do you think I'm... really getting old?"

Xiao Chen stood there, stunned, and even forgot to put down his breakfast.

He worked for Fang Zhenyun for five years.

I've seen this person navigate social situations with ease at the dinner table, and I've seen him act decisively and efficiently during peer review meetings.

I've even seen him angrily smash a glass and curse at people.

But he had never seen Fang Zhenyun like this before.

No anger, no irritability,

It was as calm as a stagnant pool, yet it sent chills down one's spine.

"Teacher Fang... what are you saying?"

You are in the prime of your life, and under your leadership, our magazine…

Xiao Chen stammered, trying to say something polite.

"Alright."

Fang Zhenyun waved his hand, his movements slow and weary.

He slowly stood up, supporting himself on the handrail, because he had been sitting all night.

My legs were already numb, and my body swayed suddenly.

Xiao Chen rushed to help, but Fang Zhenyun pushed him away.

He staggered to the French windows.

Looking down at this ancient capital of six dynasties that is awakening.

"I thought about it all night last night."

Fang Zhenyun's palm was pressed against the cold glass.

The words of that Jian Shen, that dream weaver, and that high school student,

It sizzled in his mind, burning him all night.

"We are like wildfire; if the wind blows, we will burn over here."

"It's hard to know the water temperature on a high platform."

"The true path is forged by walking, not by begging."

"Oh!"

Fang Zhenyun looked out the window at the endless stream of cars and gave a self-deprecating laugh.

“Xiao Chen, I used to think of myself as the gatekeeper.”

Fang Zhenyun gave a self-deprecating twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"I have to keep all the dirty and messy stuff out and only let the gold in."

It turned out that what they had been protecting was...

It might just be a castle in the air that no one cares about.

Yesterday's scenes flashed through his mind again.

After the forum ended in chaos, the provincial writers' association immediately convened an internal closed-door meeting.

The atmosphere in the meeting room was so oppressive it was suffocating.

Fang Zhenyun had prepared a whole lot to say,

They want to characterize this accident as "the ignorance and arrogance of young people".

They even considered using their connections to put pressure on Lin Que's school.

However, everything changed when Chairman Gu Changfeng walked into the conference room.

The old man was still holding the name tag that Lin Que had thrown away.

There was no anger on his face, but rather an unprecedented sense of relief.

"Zhenyun."

Gu Changfeng gently placed the name tag on the table, in front of Fang Zhenyun's seat.

"Do you think this kid is trying to cause trouble?"

"Isn't that right, Mr. Gu? This kind of disorganization and lack of discipline..."

"No."

Gu Changfeng interrupted him, his gaze sharp.

"He's telling us that this stagnant pool needs to be revitalized."

Vice Chairman Liang Wenyu also sighed and took over the conversation:

"Zhenyun, you and I both came from that era of burning passion."

Back then, literature was a clarion call, a javelin.

When did we start only daring to use it to decorate our storefronts?

Gu Changfeng picked up the name tag and gently stroked it:

"This kid threw away the honor because he felt it was too hot to handle and didn't deserve it."

He wasn't insulting the Writers' Association; he was reminding us.

Don't forget where we writers are rooted.

"From a high vantage point, it's hard to know the water temperature... This line was written by Jian Shen, and it's also meant for us."

Gu Changfeng's gaze swept over everyone present.

"The dream weaver's wildfire, the profound spring breeze, the thunderclap in the forest."

These three may seem different, but they actually share the same origin.