The audio abruptly stopped.

The ripples on the screen eventually converged into a straight line.

The conference room was deathly silent.

This silence was different from the quiet that Fang Zhenyun had created earlier.

Just now I was listening politely, now I'm stunned after being slapped hard across the face.

That's insane!

That's too wild!

This isn't a speech, this is practically a challenge!

Sitting in the corner, Lin Que expressionlessly unscrewed the mineral water bottle and took another sip.

He deliberately went to the bathroom to record this.

It looks like it's working well.

"This...this is inciting conflict!"

An elderly professor in the front row, wearing bronze glasses, was so angry that his hand was trembling as he pointed at the blacked-out screen.

"What does he take literature for? A manifesto for street politics?"

He is negating all the efforts that generations of us have made to build a literary temple!

Arrogant! Utterly arrogant!

Fang Zhenyun took a deep breath and suppressed his anger.

He never expected that this dream architect would be such an unconventional and eccentric madman.

These words, though harsh, were undeniably highly inflammatory.

If we don't quickly regain our composure, today's forum will become a laughing stock.

"It seems that Mr. Dream Weaver has a deep misunderstanding of our traditional literary circles."

Fang Zhenyun picked up the microphone again, a stiff smile on his face.

"Young people are bound to be a little extreme, it's understandable."

Mistaking ignorance for individuality and rudeness for sincerity is a common problem in online literature today.

He quickly steered the conversation in another direction, attempting to counter with arguments about personal qualities.

"In comparison, I'm more looking forward to the other guest's opinion."

Fang Zhenyun looked at the other empty chair.

"I have read all of Mr. Jian Shen's works."

Words do indeed have a comforting power, which is rare.

However, this comfort is ultimately a personal solace.

Like a bowl of sweet soup on a snowy night, it may be warming, but it can't change the snowstorm.

I just feel a little regretful.

If this talent could be channeled into a grander historical narrative, perhaps it could go even further.

As for the dream weaver... I hope he's absent.

It's not because we're wallowing in the darkness we've created, forgetting how to walk towards the sunlight.

Provocation tactic.

He was forced to express his opinion in a deep conversation.

If Jian Shen were to pull a similar stunt, it would confirm the conclusion that all online writers are "mad dogs."

If one yields to the powerful, it proves that traditional literature still holds the power of discourse.

Just then.

In the third row, the man who had been silent all along stood up.

Wang De'an.

He was wearing a faded old suit.

He wasn't holding any recording equipment; instead, he was solemnly holding an envelope.

The envelope was made of kraft paper, with four characters written on it in calligraphy:

[To Mr. Fang]

His handwriting is slender and elegant, with strong and sharp strokes, exuding a refined and scholarly air.

That was from his past life as a screenwriter, designed to handle various demanding situations.

He developed his decent handwriting through sheer hard work.

Unexpectedly, it came in handy in this life.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang."

Wang De'an's voice was unusually calm.

"Professor Jian Shen asked me to bring you a letter."

Fang Zhenyun looked at the envelope, and his eyelids twitched.

The name "Fang Jun" is used according to ancient etiquette.

It is both polite and conveys a sense of detachment, as if looking at someone at eye level or even looking down on them.

"read."

Fang Zhenyun uttered a single word.

Wang De'an nodded, opened the envelope, and took out a sheet of Xuan paper.

He unfolded the letter with the gentleness of unfolding a fragile work of art.

"Editor-in-Chief Fang, and all senior colleagues:"

Wang De'an began to read aloud. His voice wasn't as shrill as in the recording.

Instead, it is mellow and rich, like a cup of aged tea that has been brewed.

"Seeing the words is like seeing the person."

"I heard that today's forum is packed with distinguished guests and friends."

I should have gone to bother you, but I am tied up with worldly affairs and am by nature lazy, so I fear I might spoil your enjoyment.

The opening lines, a mix of classical and vernacular Chinese, are humble and appropriate.

The old writers, who had just been so angry with the "dream weaver" that they were practically fuming, softened their expressions slightly.

That's more like it.

This is what a scholar should be like.

But in the next sentence, the wind shifted.

"Fang Junyan said that literature needs to be exposed to the light of day. This is a very good point."

"However, the sun is intense; it can illuminate everything, but it can also burn your eyes."

"The dream weaver speaks of hell because he has seen pain. I write about the ferryman because I want to heal pain."

"Pain and medicine are inherently one."

Wang De'an paused at this point, then looked up at Fang Zhenyun on the podium.

"The sea of ​​literature is vast and boundless. It has raging waves, as well as deep, still waters."

Some people built high platforms on the shore, while others ferryed people across the water.