Chen Jingzhi slammed his hand on the table, splashing water from the teacup all over the floor.
"That would be a disgrace to holding 'Fuzhiyao'! It would also be a tragedy for us literary people!"
The entire room fell silent.
Zhou Yu looked at Dean Chen, who was usually gentle and refined, now acting like a lion protecting its cubs.
My heart was filled with excitement.
This is the true spirit of a scholar!
"I propose it."
Chen Jingzhi took a deep breath, calmed himself, and said firmly:
"This essay, 'Fan Jin's Success in the Imperial Examination,' is listed as 'outstanding.'"
Preferred?!
The moment those two words were uttered, everyone present changed their expressions drastically.
The highest grade of "Fuzhiyao" is the "Preferred Grade".
It not only means a perfect score, but it also means that this article will be the winning hand.
It bypasses all review processes and is sent directly to the highest level of authority.
Even after the competition ends, they can still obtain top-tier resources such as direct publication.
"Dean Chen..."
A junior assistant spoke up timidly.
"The number of top-ranked spots is limited, and they are usually determined after the provincial-level competition."
If we use them up in the preliminary round, we won't have enough spots later..."
"The quotas are fixed, but people are flexible!"
Chen Jingzhi waved his hand, interrupting directly:
"The best selections are meant for geniuses!"
Now that the prize is right in front of us, who would we give the spot to, treating it like a treasure?
What do you think?
Chen Jingzhi looked at everyone with a sharp gaze.
"agree!"
"No objections!"
"Give it! You must give it!"
The professors all nodded in agreement; at this point, anyone who objected would be going against literature.
Faced with absolute power, all concerns are worthless.
Chen Jingzhi sat back down at the computer, took out a small notebook he always carried with him from his pocket,
I carefully wrote down the anonymous code representing the candidate on the screen.
"Go contact the organizing committee."
Chen Jingzhi gave the order without turning his head:
"The moment the lockdown is lifted, get me the name of this examinee immediately!"
I want to see just who this person is, to see through human nature so clearly at such a young age, and to be so adept at satire.
After all this was processed, the system proceeded normally to the review stage.
Chen Jingzhi then randomly clicked on a few more high-scoring essays that had originally passed the initial review.
Previously, I thought the articles were quite good, with their ornate language and sincere emotions.
Compared to the story of Fan Jin passing the imperial examination, this is utterly bland.
"It's unbearable to watch, it's really unbearable to watch."
Chen Jingzhi took off his glasses and rubbed his temples:
"It's like getting used to the numbing spiciness and aroma of Sichuan cuisine, and then you're asked to drink chicken soup – it's just bland and tasteless."
...
Beijing, the Writers Association compound.
The sparse sunlight of early spring falls on the red brick wall, giving it a sense of vitality.
Zhou Wenyuan had just finished a meeting and dragged his tired body back to his office.
A notification suddenly popped up in the lower right corner of the computer screen.
An urgent email from the marking team of Fudan University in Shanghai.
"Preferred option?"
Zhou Wenyuan raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised:
"Was one given in the preliminary round?"
Is Old Chen drunk or has he been traumatized?
He opened the attachment with some doubt.
Ten minutes later.
Zhou Wenyuan leaned back in his chair, remaining motionless for a long time.
The blue light from the computer screen reflected on his face, in those eyes that had seen countless people and witnessed the rise and fall of the literary world.
"What a Fan Jin... what a butcher Hu..."
Zhou Wenyuan murmured to himself, his voice filled with undisguised amazement.
He stood up and walked to the window.
I watched the withered yellow leaves swirling in the wind outside the window.
The writing style, the structure,
This ruthless spirit—the desire to dissect the world for others to see, the ruthlessness to peel back people's masks amidst laughter and scorn...
It's all too familiar.
It's so familiar it sends chills down your spine.
He suddenly remembered something.
I quickly went to my seat and flipped through the exam room and marking team's schedule.
When he saw that the marking team from Fudan University was assigned to Jiangcheng, he smiled knowingly.
"It really was that kid!"
Zhou Wenyuan shook his head helplessly, but the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up, his eyes full of laughter:
"When asked to write about happy occasions, he turned it into 'The Unofficial History of the Bureaucracy'."
This is going to cause chaos! What a troublesome little devil!
He took out his phone and skillfully dialed a number.
The phone was answered after ringing twice.
"Hey, Brother Wenyuan?"
Gu Changfeng sounded to be in a good mood.
There seemed to be the soft, guttural sounds of Peking Opera in the background, as if someone was humming a little tune.
"Old Gu, stop listening to the opera."
Zhou Wenyuan looked out the window at the capital city, his tone complex yet tinged with a hint of mockery:
"You told me before that kid was a self-taught amateur?"
"What? Did he get into trouble?"
The little tune on the other end of the phone stopped abruptly, and Gu Changfeng's voice tightened:
Zhou Wenyuan smiled.
His hearty laughter made the microphone vibrate loudly.
"You've caused trouble?"
"It's more than just causing trouble!"
...
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