"Editor-in-Chief Fang, you're in such a hurry already?"
Lin Que was not alarmed, and didn't even move his feet.
He had one hand in his pocket and the other holding a microphone.
His eyes revealed a reckless and unruly spirit.
"Didn't you just say that literature is inclusive?"
What, you only tolerate those who praise you, but not those who speak the truth?
He turned around and faced the audience.
Those journalists, those writers, those students with bewildered expressions.
"Everyone, today's forum is actually quite interesting."
Lin Que spoke as if he were chatting with an old friend.
"The dream weaver didn't come, but he sent a fire."
Jian Shen didn't come, but he sent a boat as a gift.
One wanted to burn away hypocrisy, and the other wanted to ferry people across the river.
And what about Editor-in-Chief Fang?
He glanced back at Fang Zhenyun, whose face was ashen.
"Editor-in-Chief Fang wants to lock us all in a cage, then give us candy and tell us:"
"Good boy, as long as you sing praises, you'll have a bright future."
"Zhao Zichen said that the dream weaver's words are like those of a butcher."
Lin Que glanced at Zhao Zichen, whose face was full of complicated emotions, and smiled.
"Actually, being a butcher isn't so bad."
At least when a butcher is slaughtering a pig, it's real knives and guns, a red knife going in and a white knife coming out.
That's much better than some people who take a needle and thread and embroider on a boil, thinking they're artists.
Zhao Zichen's face flushed red and then turned pale.
He wanted to refute it, but found that his own theories, which he was so proud of,
Lin Que's almost barbaric logic seems so pale in comparison.
At Fang Zhenyun's signal, the staff rushed towards the backstage power supply.
The electrical hum produced a sharp, crackling sound.
It seemed that silence would fall at any moment.
But Lin Que did not stop.
He didn't even look at the person rushing towards the power source.
Instead, he simply put down the microphone.
He roared at the audience in his original voice:
"If they won't let me use a microphone, then I'll shout with my voice!"
Just then, a girl's hand pressed down on the staff member who was about to pull the power switch.
The staff member turned around and saw Jiang Min, the secretary of the Writers Association chairman.
Jiang Min shook her head and turned to look at Chairman Gu on the stage.
Gu Changfeng, the chairman of the Writers' Association, sat silently in the center like a Buddha, without saying a word.
He had turned around without anyone noticing, and without doing anything, he simply tapped the table lightly.
"Let him finish speaking."
Gu Changfeng's voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly throughout the venue through the still-on audio system.
"If a forum organized by the Writers' Association has to cut off even a child's microphone, then it's truly hopeless."
Fang Zhenyun opened his mouth, but swallowed back the curse that was about to come out.
He could lash out at Lin Que, and even blacklist those online writers.
But he absolutely dared not offend Gu Changfeng.
Lin Que glanced at the old man and nodded slightly in greeting.
Then, he put one hand in his pocket and raised the microphone again.
"Actually, I came here today only to say one thing."
Lin Que took a deep breath and suppressed all his teasing.
His gaze became incredibly clear, as if piercing through the roof and looking into the distance.
"Just now, Teacher Fang kept telling us to admit our mistakes and to align ourselves with the mainstream."
But I want to ask, what is mainstream?
"Is it sitting high in a hall, detached from worldly affairs?"
Or will you hide in your ivory tower, wallowing in self-pity?
"Neither."
Lin Que's voice was not loud, but every word carried immense weight.
"The real mainstream is people."
They are living, breathing people who feel pain, cry, and bleed.
In "The Emperor's New Clothes," the child who spoke the truth had his mouth covered by the adults.
But I think if that child grows up and becomes a writer, he will still choose to tell the truth.
"Because even if the emperor wears the most gorgeous silk, if he is not wearing clothes, he is still not wearing clothes."
"The world is sick, and we have to admit it."
Only by acknowledging it can it be treated.
"If you think that writing about this disease is extreme, dark, or not elegant enough."
Lin Que smiled.
He took off the "student representative" badge that he had been wearing around his neck from the beginning and gently placed it on the podium.
"Then I don't need this grand prize."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the two empty chairs, a hint of amusement in his voice.
One dares to light a fire in the darkness, the other dares to row a boat through stormy seas.
They may not be the most elegant, but they are honest enough.
And I, rather than being an elegant mute, would rather be…
He withdrew his gaze and looked directly into the astonished eyes of the audience.
"An honest madman!"
After speaking, he gently placed the microphone next to his name tag.
It made a muffled "thump" sound.
Then, under the almost suffocating gaze of the entire audience,
He turned around, put his hands in his pockets, and strode off the stage.
There was no turning back.
There was no lingering attachment.
Even after his figure disappeared through the entrance of the conference hall, the entire room remained deathly silent.
Fang Zhenyun slumped into a chair, his face ashen.
He knew that today's "co-optation drama" had completely failed.
In the corner,
Wang De'an looked at that figure from behind, his eyes slightly red.
He picked up his teacup and raised it in the distance, as if offering a toast.
"What a fine honest madman!"
...
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