Chapter Ninety: Xiao Wang, Do You Know Literature? (Second Update, Please Subscribe)

Hizhang and Zhaoshu, two towering figures from the nation’s top universities and conservatories, had always been on excellent terms.

But at that moment, a faint rift had begun to show.

Zhaoshu stared at Hizhang, anger flickering in his eyes. “Old He, now you’re really talking nonsense. How could Wang Mo possibly know anything about literature?”

Hizhang said, “You don’t believe me?”

Zhaoshu replied, “What do you think?”

Hizhang said, “I think you do.”

Zhaoshu snorted. “Sorry, you’re wrong.”

At that moment, everything about Hizhang irritated Zhaoshu.

Such a fine seedling as Wang Mo—if you refused to let him continue his studies at the conservatory and keep developing his potential, that was nothing less than a waste of his talent and gift.

For Zhaoshu believed that, if properly nurtured, Wang Mo would very likely become an internationally renowned pianist. And perhaps, some day in the future, with a flash of inspiration, he might even compose a great piano piece recognized around the world, becoming the first Chinese pianist to reach true international stature. It was not impossible.

What glory that would be.

Just thinking about it made Zhaoshu tremble with excitement.

Yet Hizhang, in order to stop Wang Mo from going to the conservatory, had blurted out that Wang Mo understood literature. Nonsense, wasn’t it?

Hizhang gave a cold snort, about to say something.

But in the end he held back. Zhaoshu already knew too much; he could not be told any more secrets.

For now, the fact that Wang Mo understood literature was known only to a tiny handful of people, himself and Tang Xuanyuan among them.

The more people who knew, the worse it would be.

But Zhaoshu kept harping on it, so Hizhang could only say, “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you; this involves a secret. Let me ask you—can you keep a secret?”

Zhaoshu lifted his chin. “Of course I can!”

Hizhang smiled mysteriously. “I can too.”

Zhaoshu: “…”

He took a deep breath and restrained the urge to beat Hizhang into a pig-headed mess, then turned to Wang Mo. “Young Wang, let me ask you this: do you understand literature?”

Wang Mo gave an honest, bashful smile. “A little.”

Zhaoshu burst into laughter. “Old He, did you hear that? Young Wang says he only understands a little. Don’t tell me you don’t even know what that means.”

Hizhang gave a cold laugh. “Young Wang, then let me ask you as well: do you understand piano?”

Wang Mo smiled shyly. “A little.”

Zhaoshu: “…”

He felt a great, ancient power surging within him, as though he might crush the old man and the young man before him into dust.

What sort of people were these?

Hizhang patted Zhaoshu on the shoulder and said with a grin, “Old Zhao, as I said just now, Young Wang has some secrets about him. Knowing too much won’t do you any good. But I’m really not lying—he truly has extraordinary talent in literature. How about this: later, don’t go to that music event. Come with me to the literary exchange. I’ll let Young Wang show a little of what he can do. What do you say?”

Zhaoshu blinked, then nodded in agreement.

This literary exchange, organized by students from the top universities, gathered the finest literary talents from several elite schools. If Wang Mo could rise above all of them there, then his depth in literature would indeed be beyond doubt.

Wang Mo, hearing this, was dumbfounded. “Professor He, that won’t do…”

Brother!

My literary talent is limited to the hundred modern poems given by the system, all right?

Who knows what subject those students are going to discuss in the literary exchange?

European and American literature?

Classical literature?

Modernism?

Postmodernism?

Romantic style?

If I rashly step forward, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’ll be humiliated.

Hizhang thought Wang Mo was simply too proud to show off, and smiled. “Just think of it as playing with the children.”

Wang Mo felt like crying but had no words. He himself was a child.

Hizhang went on, “At first I only wanted you to come and experience the atmosphere here at the top university. But to satisfy Old Zhao, you might as well reveal a little. If you’re worried about your identity, you can remain anonymous later. In any case, literary exchanges like this are often anonymous, so there’s no need to worry about people looking down on one another because of differences in literary ability.”

“Then... all right.”

Wang Mo could only nod.

At the same time, he thought to himself, I still have one silver chest and one bronze chest unused.

If something uncontrollable really happens later, I’ll just open a chest.

Thinking of that, he finally felt steadier.

...

That day’s campus event at the top university produced a piano genius.

In this age of information, news of Wang Mo’s piano performance spread quickly.

However, almost no clear video footage emerged; there were only a few clips in which no one could be seen, only the sound of the piano could be heard.

That was because very few people were in the classroom when Wang Mo played.

Later, when others entered, they were first too stunned by his performance to remember to film; second, they were deterred by the authority of Hizhang and Zhaoshu and did not dare film.

And yet even these sound-only clips shocked countless students who understood music.

“He played so well.”

“That level is insanely good.”

“I heard the pianist is a total handsome guy, and very young too. It practically fulfills every fantasy I’ve ever had about a piano prince.”

“Does a piano prince really exist in this world?”

“Urgently requesting all information on the piano prince. Reward offered!”

“...”

At that moment, in the lecture hall for the literary exchange.

Many of the participating students were somewhat depressed.

It was clearly a literary exchange, so who would have thought that all the attention would be stolen by some unfamiliar piano prince?

Even now, many people were still coming to the campus just to catch a glimpse of the “piano prince” in person.

The once-hot literary exchange had been eclipsed.

Still, the exchange had to go on.

And then, more than ten minutes after the event began, the classroom suddenly grew noisy, and everyone looked toward the door almost in unison.

Outside the door, Hizhang, Zhaoshu, and Wang Mo had returned.

But this time, nearly every gaze fell on Wang Mo.

“It’s him.”

“He’s back!”

“The piano prince.”

“My God, he really is handsome.”

Hizhang coughed lightly, and the noisy classroom fell silent once more.

Only then did he smile and say, “Carry on with your activity. We’ll just listen here. Especially in front of Professor Zhao, don’t embarrass yourselves as students of literature.”

Hearing that, the students were forced to become serious.

Even Wang Mo sat up straight and listened carefully.

After listening for a while, Wang Mo nodded inwardly. As expected of an event at a top institution, every student spoke with confidence and vigor, their content rich and varied, thought-provoking.

The theme of this exchange was: our generation.

Once literature is tied to a generation, matters become complicated.

Some said: our generation is living in comfort, so many choose to coast through life.

Some said: our generation lives in an era of great change, and this is precisely the best time to strive.

Some said: our generation’s thinking is decaying and regressing, and the situation is serious.

Some said: our generation dares to say no to tradition, and is therefore a generation full of vitality.

There were all kinds of opinions.

Each had its own reason.

Since this was a literary exchange, the host finally said, “The beauty of literature lies in the fact that we can use words to record our thoughts, to let ourselves read them aloud, to let others observe them, and to let future generations experience them. What kind of responsibility and burden does our generation bear? Hope? Despair? Decay or prosperity? Progress or regression? Whatever content or emotion you wish to express, you may present it through words.

“Today, the form of expression we’ll use is: poetry.

“Each student participating in the exchange may write a short poem to record your reflections.

“Classical poetry is fine.

“Modern poetry is fine too.

“Of course, as usual, we will still use the anonymous method. After writing your verses on slips of paper, place them all in a box. Then I will recite each person’s work.

“In the end, the top three poems with the most votes will be chosen, and those three may then come on stage to reveal their identities.”

Literature comes first? No. Warlike prowess? No. There is no first in literature, no second in combat.

This kind of anonymous exchange, with the top three selected without names attached, had always been very popular.

If what you wrote this time did not turn out well, no one would laugh at you. That way, there was no psychological burden.

But if your writing won a large number of votes, you could enjoy everyone’s applause and admiration.

Hearing the rules, Wang Mo nodded inwardly.

And especially upon hearing that this exchange would be in the form of poetry, his heart gave a sudden leap.

It seemed he would not need to open a chest after all.

Very soon, a female student handed each participant a sheet of paper and a pen, except for Hizhang and Zhaoshu.

After the slips were distributed, the host announced in a loud voice, “You may begin creating freely. Time limit: twenty minutes.”

In the lecture hall, more than thirty students participating in the literary exchange all lowered their heads and pondered with pens in hand.

Hizhang and Zhaoshu deliberately sat several seats away so as not to put pressure on Wang Mo.

As for Wang Mo, he had fallen into distress.

He rubbed his forehead, his eyes full of conflict.

Students.

Our generation.

Emotions, future, ideals.

With these keywords combined, a poem almost instantly flashed through his mind.

But he hesitated.

“Do I really want to take out this poem?”

The reason was simple: this poem was far too influential. Wang Mo felt that using it in a mere literary exchange was a bit like firing a cannon at a mosquito.

But aside from this poem, he could not think of any that was better.

“Forget it. This one it is!”

After agonizing for several minutes, Wang Mo stopped hesitating. He spread the paper open and swiftly wrote down several lines.

Done.

Not far away, although Hizhang and Zhaoshu had sat apart, their attention had remained fixed on Wang Mo.

Especially Zhaoshu. Seeing Wang Mo begin to write, he could no longer suppress his curiosity and stretched his neck to look, muttering inwardly, “I still don’t buy it. Does Young Wang really understand literature?”

As he muttered, his eyes just happened to land on the words Wang Mo had written.

In that instant, Zhaoshu’s eyes bulged wide as copper bells.