The entire audience was stunned.

All eyes were on the young girl, dressed in a hoodie and jeans, who stood out from her surroundings.

Fang Zhenyun frowned: "And who is this?"

"Red Fox, editor-in-chief of Red Fruit Reading Network."

The red fox raised the black box in its hand.

The voice was clear and steady, each word striking the silence of the room:

"Editor-in-Chief Fang, although the dream weaver has not yet arrived..."

But he asked me to pass on a message to everyone present.

Fang Zhenyun adjusted his glasses.

"Oh? Does the Dream Weaver have something to say?"

He made a "please" gesture, his tone slightly teasing.

"Since the person can't come, it's good to hear their voice. Hopefully, this isn't just an excuse."

The staff member took the black box and pressed the play button on it.

A series of fluctuating lines representing audio ripples appeared in the center of the large screen.

A brief silence fell over the entire conference hall; everyone pricked up their ears.

I want to hear what reason this "madman" who wrote "Human World is Like a Prison" would give for his absence.

Is it an apology? An excuse? Or a heartfelt thank you?

"Sizzle—"

The sound of electricity rang out.

A voice, processed with a voice changer and carrying a slightly hoarse and metallic quality, suddenly exploded under the dome.

"Good morning, teachers sitting in the light."

There were no small talk, no formalities.

There was a nonchalant indifference in his voice.

Fang Zhenyun frowned slightly.

This opening line is off.

"As Editor-in-Chief Fang once said, literature needs to be discussed in the sunlight."

The voice chuckled briefly and coldly.

"But does literature not exist where the sun doesn't shine?"

"You are sitting in a magnificent, golden hall,"

Sipping tea that costs thousands of yuan per kilogram, they discussed how to use flowery language to praise the light and whitewash the peace.

You call this reverence.

The audio ripples jumped violently, and the sound suddenly rose in pitch.

"But outside the world of song and dance you depict in your writings..."

Some people are eating moldy bread in unfinished buildings, while others are kneeling and breaking their knees in front of ICUs to pay for medical bills.

Someone was silently weeping as they looked at their reflection in the train window on the last subway train.

"Their despair, their fear, their struggle."

"Can your sunshine reach you?"

The room erupted in uproar.

"Snap! Snap!"

The reporters reacted the fastest.

The flashbulbs went wild, aimed at Fang Zhenyun, whose face was ashen, and at the literary luminaries on the podium who looked utterly bewildered.

"Nonsense!"

An old professor wearing bronze-colored glasses slammed his hand on the table.

"This is an academic discussion! Not a street brawl! This is a desecration of literature!"

"This is utterly sophistry! A cheap trick to attract attention!"

In the corner,

Zhao Zichen's fingers, which were holding the pen, froze in mid-air, his face filled with shock.

He had always believed in the nobility and elegance of literature, and had never heard such unorthodox remarks.

This is no longer literature, this is a declaration of war!

And in the very center of the rostrum

Gu Changfeng, the chairman of the Writers Association, who had been resting with his eyes closed, slowly opened them.

He showed no anger; in those eyes that had seen it all,

Instead, an interesting light flashed by...

Fang Zhenyun's face darkened, and he was about to signal the staff to cut off the audio.

But the voice didn't give him a chance, and its pace quickened.

Why shouldn't I come?

"Because I'm afraid."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to help but laugh out loud."

"You treat literature as an entry ticket to the arena of fame and fortune, and as a tool for mutual flattery."

In my eyes, literature is a scalpel.

It's like popping a boil, like laying the bloody reality on the table.

Instead of discussing the new and the old, you should discuss the true and the false.

"I will not become a Buddha until hell is empty."

No, hell can never be empty.

Because wherever there are people, there is hell.

The voice suddenly lowered, carrying a chilling sense of oppression.

"Everyone, stop staring at the clouds in the sky."

Look down at the mud beneath your feet.

Only there do living beings reside.

Finally, I'd like to offer a piece of advice to Editor-in-Chief Fang: True new talents are not the mascots you invite to endorse you.

We are wildfire.

When the wind blows,

It will burn over here..."

...