The conference hall at Zijin Villa is very large, with a high domed ceiling.

The red carpet absorbed all the footsteps.

The air was filled with a faint scent of sandalwood and an indescribable smell of old paper.

The stage was surrounded by flowers, and in the very center sat Gu Changfeng, the chairman of the China Writers Association.

The two sides were lined up one after another, all of whom were well-known literary figures in the province.

In the first row of the guest seating area, in the most prominent central position, there were two chairs.

Empty chairs.

The nameplate on the left reads "Insightful," and the nameplate on the right reads "Dream Weaver of Hell."

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

Reporters' cameras and microphones were constantly pointed at that spot, the flashes illuminating the empty chair back in a stark white light.

Lin Que sat in the corner of the third row, wearing a name tag that read "Student Representative" around his neck.

He was holding a bottle of mineral water in his hand.

I unscrewed it, took a sip, and

His gaze wandered aimlessly around the venue.

Zhao Zichen sat next to him, his back ramrod straight.

The notebook was open, the pen cap removed, as if it were ready to record imperial edicts at any moment.

"Smell it."

Zhao Zichen lowered his voice, his tone almost pious.

"The air is filled with the scent of ink and the aroma of colliding ideas."

Lin Que lazily lifted his eyelids:

"No, that's the smell of dust mites from the central air conditioning system that wasn't cleaned properly, oh, and it's mixed with the carbon dioxide from more than two hundred people."

Zhao Zichen choked for a moment, rolled her eyes at him, and turned her head away, ignoring him.

10 o'clock sharp.

Fang Zhenyun, as the representative of the organizer and the host, stepped onto the stage.

He was wearing a dark gray Zhongshan suit today, his hair was neatly combed, and he lingered on those two empty chairs for a full three seconds.

Those three seconds were very meaningful.

"Good morning, colleagues and friends from the media."

Fang Zhenyun's voice, steady and deep, resonated throughout the venue through the microphone.

"Today, we gather 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 hold onto the back of the chairs.

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

The entire room fell silent; even the sound of camera shutters stopped.

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

Fang Zhenyun sighed, a look of deep sorrow on his face.

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

He emphasized the phrase "personal reasons".

A murmur arose from the audience.

Several old-school critics lowered their voices and whispered among themselves, their tone revealing an undisguised sense of superiority.

"After all, he came from a self-taught background and lacked the most basic respect for the literary world."

"I read a few chapters of that novel, 'Human World is Like Hell,' and the writing is crude; it relies on gore and violence to grab attention."

Ultimately, these are merely clever tricks and gimmicks, unfit for refined tastes.

"I didn't come because I was afraid of embarrassing myself in front of everyone."

"Chairman Gu is giving them too much credit. These kinds of popular writers will be forgotten once their popularity fades."

Fang Zhenyun was very satisfied with the result.

He raised his hand, pressed his palm down, and gestured for everyone to be quiet.

"Of course, we need to understand."

Fang Zhenyun smiled, his tone as tolerant as that of an elder.

"Online literature is, after all, a relatively new phenomenon."

Authors are used to hiding behind the screen and are not good at facing the public.

It's understandable that I'm not used to this kind of serious academic discussion.

These words sound like they're trying to defuse the situation, but they're actually a dig at his heart.

They were immediately labeled as "stage fright," "unprofessional," and "unfit for formal occasions."

“However,” Fang Zhenyun changed the subject, his gaze suddenly turning to the corner of the third row.

"Fortunately, we still have real future stars."

Let's welcome the student representatives who won the "Relief Cup" award.

The spotlight shone on them instantly.

A row of students stood up in an instant.

Zhao Zichen also gave a proper bow.

Lin Que, however, slowly stood up, a signature harmless smile on his face, nodded casually, and then quickly sat down.

Fang Zhenyun glanced at Lin Que's lazy appearance.

A high school student who can only write so-called "spirited" essays, and two online writers who dare not show their faces.

The situation is stable today.

“Since our two special guests are not here, let’s give more time to the senior writers present.” Fang Zhenyun walked back to the podium and opened his speech. “But I still hope that our emerging writers can understand one thing—literature needs reverence, and it needs to be exchanged in the sunlight, rather than being created behind closed doors in dark corners.”

The audience erupted in applause.

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

Red Fox next to him stared intently at his phone, his fingertips pressing so hard that the screen made a slight "crunching" sound.

"That old fox is too cunning!" the red fox muttered under his breath.

Lin Que sat in the back, watching Fang Zhenyun's commanding manner, and screwed on the cap of his mineral water bottle.

He took out his phone from his pocket and sent a WeChat message to Red Fox.

[The Hellish Dream Weaver: We may begin.]

The red fox in the front row suddenly jolted.

She took a deep breath and stood up abruptly, like a warrior about to go to battle.

The chair scraped across the floor with a harsh "screech," interrupting Fang Zhenyun's speech.