“I’ve seen many essay competitions, each with its own purpose, noisy and bustling, a lively spectacle in the literary world. Hosting an essay competition and having people participate, what a wonderful thing! When no one holds competitions, or when they do and no one responds, that’s the real tragedy of an era. It would mean literature is truly dead, that no one cares anymore, like a couple in a bad relationship who suddenly stop arguing, leaving only cold silence in the house. Their marriage would be dead in all but name. So, I love these essay competitions. Their existence shows me that so many young people still care about literature, a field I’ve devoted most of my life to. I have no reason to dislike it.”
“Someone holds a competition, and you lot still complain. Go on, complain some more, drive the organisers away until there’s no competition left, and you literary critics will starve.”
Old Fu didn’t curse anyone in his article. Some things don’t need to be said so directly; critics who write reviews would surely understand.
This way of delivering a slap is far more effective than swearing.
Some people’s heads are probably buzzing from Old Fu’s verbal thrashing.
And that’s not all.
It’s just the beginning.
“At first, Editor-in-Chief Zou from Rongcheng Literature Publishing House approached me, inviting me to be a judge for the essay competition. Since Editor Zou is young and promising, I’ll take the liberty of calling her ‘Little Zou’. She told me about the scale of the competition, and I wasn’t keen to agree. Not because I’m acting high and mighty, looking down on the event, but because Little Zou made it so grand, with magazines, publishers, and even film companies involved. I feared my old age and waning energy might let her down.”
Old Fu said he wasn’t acting superior, and Wen Ying nearly burst out laughing.
When others say this, it’s a veiled jab, but coming from Old Fu… well, it’s still a jab, yet somehow impossible to dislike.
Beyond humour, the sincerity and simplicity in Old Fu’s writing were truly moving.
A literary giant like him had transcended the need for ornate language. His plain, conversational words felt like an elder speaking earnestly to readers, not preaching from on high.
Piling on jargon that confuses laypeople doesn’t show Old Fu’s calibre. Language was created for communication, and writing is its elevation, meant not just for exchange but for recording and sharing.
Recording what?
Recording what’s seen, heard, and thought.
Recording to share with others.
Published articles are for readers. If readers can’t understand, what’s the point?
Wen Ying kept reading. Old Fu’s account of how Zou Weijun convinced him made her pause.
“Seeing my hesitation, Little Zou asked if I’d like to read a book. I asked what book, and she said it was a young person’s work… After I finished it, Little Zou told me the competition’s goal was to discover more young, talented writers. I thought, ‘I’m done for.’ Little Zou had set a trap for this old man, hitting my weak spot. My friends know I have plenty of flaws, one being my love for mentoring. When I see a young, talented writer, I can’t walk away. So, I had to eat my words and tell Little Zou I actually wanted to be a judge, thanking her for overlooking my flip-flopping and accepting this old scoundrel again!”
Simple readers would chuckle here.
Old Fu, a scoundrel? More like an old kid.
Less simple readers, like those critics, would feel exactly as Old Fu described: Done for!
They didn’t know Editor-in-Chief Zou of Rongcheng Literature Publishing House.
But guessing who the young writer was? Easy. Rongcheng had recently promoted only one bestselling novel, *Teen Idol*, so the talented young writer in Old Fu’s words could only be ‘Upstream Fish’!
This was bad news. Should they keep reading?
Scared as they were, most clung to a sliver of hope, thinking maybe Old Fu wasn’t talking about *Teen Idol* or Upstream Fish.
The odds were one in ten thousand… but no choice. Even knowing Old Fu meant Wen Ying, they had to finish the article to see what he said.
Only Wen Ying, reading this, was stunned, her heart pounding.
Auntie Zou recommended her book to Old Fu?
Auntie Zou was too kind.
And not only did she recommend it, Old Fu read it and praised her talent.
Wen Ying’s expression was dreamy.
Xie Qian, beside her, could hardly bear to watch.
—A hamster that can take hits and pressure but floats to the sky with a bit of praise!
Still, Xie Qian felt helpless after reading this.
When he read *Teen Idol* to Old Fu, he sensed the old man was setting a trap. His judgment was spot on.
Old Fu had already read *Teen Idol* and made him read it again.
Xie Qian was now certain that even if he hadn’t visited Old Fu, this article, *Why I’m Judging the Essay Competition*, would still have been published. It might even have been finished before their meeting.
But knowing this, Xie Qian had no regrets about seeing Old Fu.
Whether Old Fu wrote or published the article was his freedom.
And Xie Qian’s choice to visit, to read *Teen Idol* to him, was his freedom, something he was willing to do for the hamster.
Wen Ying kept reading. After the humour, Old Fu dropped the hammer!
His tone didn’t grow fierce, but thunder rumbled between the lines, each word a hammer, each sentence a spike.
“When I accepted Little Zou’s invitation to judge the competition, I didn’t expect so much criticism. An old man’s reactions are slow, and by the time I noticed, newspapers were flooded with boycott and critique articles. I heard there’s online chatter too, but I don’t bother with that. Young netizens lack experience and are easily swayed. I focus on the critiques in print media. Don’t misunderstand, I haven’t read every one. I don’t have the time. I’ve been re-reading the novel Little Zou recommended. Smart folks have likely guessed which one—”
“It’s *Teen Idol*!”
Li Mengjiao, who had joined them, holding a newspaper, blurted out excitedly.
Her outburst silenced the class.
Wen Ying looked up to see classmates gathered in twos and threes, reading newspapers.
The papers were bought by the class monitor, including the one Wen Ying and Xie Qian were reading.
When Wen Ying was caught in the media storm, Class 16 couldn’t help much. They didn’t offer empty words but supported her quietly in their own ways.
Love reading or not, they bought *Teen Idol*.
Join the competition or not, *Spark* cost just a few bucks, a fair deal.
They secretly registered accounts on Rongshu to defend Wen Ying.
They took over her cleaning duties.
These days, Wen Ying’s treatment rivalled Xie Qian’s. She found breakfasts in her desk every morning.
On campus, strangers would stop her, say “Keep going!” and dash off.
She even found torn newspapers in the bin, articles criticising her shredded by some hot-tempered classmate.
When Old Fu’s article hit the stands, Class 16 was thrilled.
After days of holding back, a literary titan like Old Fu was speaking up for Wen Ying. How could they not be excited?
Study hall turned into newspaper-reading time.
After Li Mengjiao’s outburst, the class fell quiet, then someone suggested, “Reading alone’s no fun. Old Fu’s article needs to be read aloud, like a war proclamation, with power!”
“Yeah, who’ll read it?”
“Monitor, can you read it?”
The monitor frowned. “What’re you looking at me for? I bought the papers, and now I’ve got to read to you?”
Swish, swish, swish.
All eyes turned to Wen Ying.
She shook her head. “Don’t ask me to read. I can’t. Reading Old Fu’s words aloud feels like boasting about myself!”
Li Mengjiao jumped in. “I’ll read! I’ll read! Starting from ‘smart folks have guessed which one,’ I’ll take it from there.”
She wasn’t fazed by stage performances, so reading to the class was nothing.
Wen Ying was shy about self-praise, but Li Mengjiao wasn’t.
Old Fu said Wen Ying was young and talented, a fact Li Mengjiao had long accepted!
Not a literary type, Li Mengjiao was Wen Ying’s diehard fan, eager to seize any chance to hype her up.
Old Fu’s words drew the fire to himself.
The critics hadn’t attacked him directly; they didn’t even know he was a judge. But Old Fu was sly with his framing.
“You criticise the competition and the judges. I’m a judge, so you’re criticising me too!”
Li Mengjiao, a professional singer with strong breath control, read Old Fu’s article with passion:
“*Teen Idol* is an excellent work. Talent is intangible, invisible, but it’s either there or it’s not. You can’t fake it. If someone says ‘Upstream Fish’ isn’t qualified to judge the competition, I’d take it as jealousy. When some of these critics were her age, they hadn’t even stepped into literature’s doorway, so of course they weren’t invited to judge! Literature doesn’t care about age or credentials. Works are what matter most. If anyone’s still unconvinced, I suggest they write a book and compare sales with *Teen Idol*. If you win, I’ll apologise, admit you’re qualified to criticise her, and let you take my judge’s seat.”
