She swallowed the plum blossom cake in her mouth with difficulty.
He grabbed the tissue from Lin Que's hand, wiped his mouth haphazardly, and then pushed himself up to stand up.
In that instant,
Lin Que then realized that beneath the layers of gorgeous skirt, he wasn't wearing crystal shoes, but a pair of blackened canvas shoes.
She winked at Lin Que and made a "shh" gesture.
She lifted her elaborate skirt and nimbly vaulted over a low wall beside her.
They disappeared in the direction of the back door of the Grand Theater.
His movements were fluid and effortless; he was clearly a repeat offender.
"Lin Que! What are you doing? You've fallen behind!"
Shen Qingqiu's shouts came from afar.
"They're here."
Lin Que withdrew his gaze and followed the group.
As I passed by the main entrance of the Grand Theatre, I saw a huge poster standing at the entrance.
[Jiangsu Spring Youth Piano Competition]
On the poster,
Young men and women dressed in formal attire sat gracefully at the piano.
His expression was solemn, and his posture was elegant.
Lin Que glanced back at the empty corner and shook his head.
So-called art, so-called elegance.
Peel back that glittering golden exterior, and what lies beneath...
It's nothing more than the seven emotions and six desires of mortals and their craving for carbohydrates.
On stage is the princess playing Chopin's Nocturne.
The audience was still filled with foodies hiding in the corner, secretly eating plum blossom cakes.
This world is quite absurd, but also quite interesting.
"Let's go to the examination hall."
...
They played until almost 10 p.m.
Shen Qingqiu reluctantly let the group of students go.
Lin Que once suspected that she only dragged them along because she wanted to have fun.
Back at the hotel,
Lin Que felt like his legs didn't even belong to him anymore.
Just as he finished showering and collapsed on the bed, Zhao Zichen in the next bed sat up again.
The top student took off his glasses, his gaze unfocused, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Lin Que".
"here we go again!"
Lin Que knew what he wanted to say as soon as he heard his words, and quickly turned off the light.
"I was thinking about this all the way to Confucius Temple today."
Zhao Zichen was completely unaffected by the lighting, though his voice sounded somewhat muffled.
You said literature is a scalpel, used to cut open boils.
But the education I received from childhood taught me that writing should convey moral principles and be gentle and kind.
Although I won first prize today, I know better than anyone that I only won it because I was lucky.
If I were to write it myself...
I'll probably still write about flowers blooming and fading.
He turned to look at Lin Que:
"How did you do that? That kind of... ruthless determination to dissect people's hearts."
Lin Que turned over, opened his eyes, and looked at Zhao Zichen.
Although this child is stubborn, he has a good heart and genuinely wants to learn.
In my previous life, I was already a 27-year-old who had been through it all, and I had been involved in the arts for so many years.
Nowadays, educating a minor is a matter of wielding a whip.
"Old Zhao, have you ever seen a pig being slaughtered?"
"ah?"
Zhao Zichen was stunned.
"The pig was pinned to the chopping board, and a knife was stabbed in."
Blood spurted out, but it was still howling.
The sound was awful, and the scene was disgusting.
Lin Que's voice was calm.
"But that was real death."
The blooming and withering of flowers you described are like sliced and plated pork belly in a supermarket.
Clean and beautiful, but lifeless.
"If you want to write something ruthless, you have to stare at that knife, stare at that bloody hole."
Lin Que turned on the light and pointed to his eyes.
"Don't just stare at the textbook, look at people more."
Look at those middle-aged women arguing over five cents at the market.
Look at those men who can't cry out in the hospital corridors.
All beings suffer; only carbohydrates and reality can sustain life.
Zhao Zichen opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything for a long time.
"Go to sleep."
Lin Que pulled the blanket over his head.
"I have to catch a train tomorrow. Thinking too much will make me go bald!"
Lin Que turned off the lights again, and the room became quiet.
After a long time,
Zhao Zichen then said softly:
"Thank you."
Lin Que ignored him, his breathing becoming long and even.
When even breathing sounds came from Zhao Zichen's side...
Lin Que quietly crawled out of bed and reached for the laptop on the bedside table.
The screen glowed faintly as I skillfully accessed the author backend on Hongguo.com.
The data is incredibly hot.
The comment section for the chapter of "The Ghost Doctor" has exploded, with the number of comments reaching a new high.
[A thorough investigation into the author's background is recommended; this editing is so skillful it doesn't seem like acting!]
[Dream Weaver, you bastard... Baby, I was sick of watching the scene where the Ghost Doctor cuts himself, but why did it feel so good?!]
[I highly recommend watching this while eating, it's so good with rice! I ate three bowls of rice right after the wrist-cutting scene, I'm so full!]
[Is the Dream Weaver asleep? Get up! This chapter is driving me crazy, it's more painful than the Ghost Doctor sawing himself!]
Is Yang Jian's mouth blessed? As long as my logic is logically sound enough, even ghosts would have to stab themselves?
[A doctor can't heal himself! Is this the allure of rules-based killing?]
[Upstairs +1. This is far better than those mindless energy blasts where the enemy turns to dust with a single roar. The real terror comes from those with real intelligence.]
What exactly is this "boring match" mentioned in the trailer?
I heard Jiangsu Province is holding a writing competition recently. Did Yang Jian take a ghost bus to participate in the writing competition? Hahahaha!
...
Lin Que looked at the comment on the "essay contest" and a slight smile appeared on his lips.
The reader is perceptive, but he is a worse author.
The real-life competitions were indeed boring, filled with insincere small talk and tedious formalities.
Since that's the case,
Let Yang Jian tear this boring situation to shreds for him in the book.
His ten fingers hovered over the keyboard, and he typed:
A Boring Game
...
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