The bell for morning self-study.
They practically dragged Jiangcheng No.1 Middle School out of the morning mist.
The air in Class 3 of Grade 11 had a sticky feel to it.
It was like sleepy eye discharge, stuck in everyone's throat.
Lin Que nestled in the last row, the black ballpoint pen between his fingers leaving a trail of afterimages.
"Click".
The front door was pushed open.
Shen Qingqiu walked onto the podium carrying a stack of documents.
She didn't rush to speak.
First, he scanned the classroom with those eyes that always held a hint of scrutiny.
"Stop, everyone."
The soft, rhythmic reading aloud seemed to be choked, instantly cut off.
Shen Qingqiu slammed the document onto the podium, and a small cloud of chalk dust rose up.
"The preliminary results of the 'Fu Zhi Yao' essay contest are out."
The classroom was eerily quiet.
All that could be heard was the faint crackling sound of Wu Di sneaking a bite of instant noodles in the back row.
Wu Di froze, silently smacking the crumbs of noodles in his mouth.
His Adam's apple twitched slightly, but he dared not make the slightest sound.
"For this call for submissions, the entire school submitted more than 500 articles."
Shen Qingqiu held up five fingers, her tone flat.
"One hundred and thirty-seven people passed the preliminary selection."
A collective gasp of astonishment rippled through the crowd below.
The cutoff is 500 to 130, which eliminates more than half of them.
This is just the preliminary selection, not even the initial round.
"Seven people from our class signed up, and three of them were approved in the end."
Shen Qingqiu pulled out three sheets of printing paper.
"Zhang Ya, Li Bowen, and... Lin Que."
Zhang Ya lay on the table, and Li Bowen pushed up his thick glasses, which were as thick as the bottom of a beer bottle.
Lin Que maintained the posture of supporting his face with one hand.
"Don't be discouraged if you didn't pass, and don't be complacent if you did."
Shen Qingqiu took out the first piece of paper and waved it in the air.
"Zhang Ya, your article is ornate, but a bit verbose. Although it passed, you must pay attention to simplifying it next time."
Zhang Ya blushed slightly, bit her lip, and nodded.
"Li Bowen, your argument is very rigorous and the logical loop is well done, but it lacks persuasiveness."
Words are not math problems; you don't need to derive every step perfectly.
Li Bowen paused for a moment, then thoughtfully took notes.
"Lin Que..."
When she said the name, Shen Qingqiu's voice clearly paused for a second.
A brief vacuum formed in the classroom.
Then came a soft rustling sound of fabric rubbing against the chair back.
Dozens of gazes, like iron filings attracted by a magnet, slowly converged on the corner of the back row by the window.
Everyone remembers,
That essay was a "weather forecast" that Lin Que wrote in just forty minutes.
Shen Qingqiu picked up the top sheet of paper, which was Lin Que's "Listening to Snow".
"Overall, there are no major problems."
Its theme, entry point, and writing style are all outstanding among this batch of manuscripts.
At this point, Shen Qingqiu suddenly changed the subject.
"But there is one minor drawback."
Lin Que raised an eyebrow and finally turned his gaze away from the window.
The review panel's comments were: "The writing is skillful and insightful, and it is thought-provoking."
But as a high school student, there is an almost cruel calmness in your writing.
You're not writing about snow, you're writing about some kind of...judgment.
"In other words..."
Shen Qingqiu paused, her tone becoming complicated.
"unreasonable."
The classroom fell silent as those four words were spoken.
Lin Que did not refute, but simply fiddled with the pen cap.
Maybe.
Having experienced true hell, looking at the snow on earth again...
It is indeed difficult to write about the joy of "a timely snow promises a bumper harvest" anymore.
"I'll read a passage, and you can all listen."
Shen Qingqiu didn't say anything more, her gaze fixed on the paper.
She read very slowly, as if she were reading a heavy judgment.
"The snow in Jiangnan is dead rain. It's a wound that hasn't had time to heal..."
The voice carried a chill that seemed to seep into your bones.
Even if only a section in the middle is captured,
That oppressive, heavy feeling also came with her voice.
They gradually calmed down the restlessness in the classroom.
When the last word was written, Shen Qingqiu put down the manuscript.
Five or six seconds passed.
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