Chapter Ninety-One: Was There a Hidden Master in the Literary Club, Too?

Zhao Shu swallowed hard, scarcely able to trust his own eyes.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and was about to look again when he noticed that Wang Mo had already put the slip of paper away.

It no longer mattered.

There were only two lines on it; anyone not entirely witless could memorize them at a glance.

“Really...” Zhao Shu shook his head and let out a quiet sigh.

So what He Zhixing had said earlier was true: Wang Mo really did understand literature.

No, not merely understand it. His talent was in no way inferior to his gift for the piano.

Zhao Shu turned to say something to He Zhixing, only to find that He Zhixing’s expression was off too, as though he had been struck dumb.

“Old He? Old He?”

It took several calls before He Zhixing finally came back to himself.

Zhao Shu gave a wry smile. “Old He, I was wrong to misunderstand you just now. I never would have guessed that Xiao Wang had such literary talent as well.”

“Mm.”

He Zhixing nodded absentmindedly.

His heart was anything but calm.

He had invited Wang Mo to take part in the literary exchange mainly so Wang Mo could reveal just a little of his literary ability and shut Zhao Shu’s mouth, while also not exposing Wang Mo’s identity.

But who could have imagined that Wang Mo would casually produce a poem like this?

“Monstrous.”

That was the judgment He Zhixing gave Wang Mo.

What else could he call him but a monster?

He had originally thought that "Facing the Sea, Blooming in Spring" had represented the highest level Wang Mo had reached after years of accumulation, and that to write another poem of the same caliber would take at least two or three years, unless inspiration exploded in a sudden blaze.

After all, a poet might spend an entire lifetime with only one or two works truly worth presenting to the world.

Yet He Zhixing had never dreamed that right here, at this student-level literary exchange, Wang Mo would casually write a second one.

If he had not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it.

...

Twenty minutes later, someone came to collect Wang Mo’s paper and dropped it into a box.

The people around, seeing that Wang Mo had actually joined in and written a poem, looked at him with strange expressions.

“Isn’t he a pianist? Why is he writing poetry too?”

“Who handed him a sheet of paper without looking?”

“Good thing the Piano Prince has such a mild temperament, or he would have lost his temper.”

“Well, it is the spirit of participation.”

“Exactly. He came here with Professor He, didn’t he? Anyone who can walk alongside Professor He must have some real skill.”

“...”

Soon afterward, all the poems were gathered together.

The student serving as host drew one at random from the box and said, “Now let us see what kind of literary surprise everyone can bring us today. Hmm... the first poem is titled ‘Tomorrow.’”

In a rhythmic, rising cadence, she began to read:

“Tomorrow”

“They have money”

“They have power”

“And we”

“Have tomorrow”

This modern poem was simple and easy to understand, yet rich in meaning, and it won a wave of applause as well as twenty votes.

The second poem was also a modern one.

Its title was "The Collapsing World."

The host read:

“The Collapsing World”

“This is a world on the verge of collapse”

“It is filled everywhere with money and desire”

“Behind its glossy surface lies nothing but a stench that turns the stomach”

“This kind of world”

“Unless we wash it clean with blood”

“Will”

“Be doomed to collapse”

After hearing such a poem, even Wang Mo quietly gave a thumbs-up. To be able to write something so dark and decadent was really bold.

Yet when he looked around, he found that no one seemed surprised at all.

Even He Zhixing’s eyes remained as calm as a still ancient well.

Well.

Perhaps he had overthought it.

Maybe, in the eyes of men of letters, this kind of thinking was nothing unusual.

Come to think of it, that made sense. In his previous life, he had even seen crude, bodily-function poetry.

If that sort of thing could be published, what else could not be written?

Compared with such “bathroom poetry,” the dark, decadent piece before him was hardly worth mentioning.

In the end, that poem received eighteen votes.

Next, the host continued to read poems from the box in the established order.

It had to be said that the students attending this literary exchange were no slouches in literature; one could even call the gathering a hidden crouching tiger, concealed dragon.

By the time more than twenty poems had been read aloud, three of them had already received more than twenty-five votes each.

One of them had even received thirty.

At a symposium with only thirty-five students, getting thirty votes was indeed enough to count as outstanding.

Moreover, the poem "Soil" written by that student had even drawn a look of approval from He Zhixing, clearly because he thought it was quite good.

Many students began whispering to one another.

“That poem is amazing.”

“The artistic conception is profound.”

“Is he the one who’ll take first place today?”

“Who wrote it?”

“Judging by the style, it should be Senior Xiao’s work.”

“I don’t think so. Senior Xiao’s poems are full of grace and lightness, while this one is heavy and weighty. I’d say it came from Senior Wu.”

“Look at the smile on Professor He’s face; that alone tells you how high the level of this poem is.”

Some even ran up to He Zhixing in excitement. “Professor He, do you think this poem can take the crown today?”

“Heh.”

He Zhixing only smiled and gave no answer.

Until...

A few minutes later, the host onstage drew another slip of paper and smiled. “This is the twenty-eighth poem we have read today. I wonder whether this classmate will offer us a different kind of surprise?”

She opened the paper and merely glanced at it before her eyes suddenly sharpened.

She rubbed her eyes and looked again.

Yet she still did not speak.

Seeing the host’s strange reaction, the students below immediately began to talk.

“Xuanxuan, what’s wrong?”

“Hurry up and read it.”

“Is it written so badly that you are embarrassed to read it? Don’t worry, none of them are signed.”

Host Xuanxuan drew a deep breath. “No, it’s just that this poem... is a little special.”

“How special can it be?”

“A strange kind of poem?”

The students laughed.

Xuanxuan did not look at their expressions. She took another breath and then said solemnly, “This poem is called ‘A Generation.’”

“A Generation”

“The night gave me black eyes”

“Yet I use them to seek the light”

Two lines.

And then it ended.

Even as many of the students were still chatting and smiling, the host had already finished her recitation.

Some people’s smiles froze on their faces.

Some looked blank.

Some stood rooted to the spot.

Some swallowed hard, their faces full of shock.

But what they all shared was this: although Xuanxuan had finished reading, many of them could still hear the sound of her voice as clearly as if she were reciting it before them now.

Those two short lines were like a bolt of lightning striking deep into many souls.

It made their spirits tremble.

Even after a long while, everyone still felt their minds humming.

“This poem...”

“My God.”

“How could it be?”

Some poems are difficult to judge at a glance; without someone to interpret them, most people cannot even grasp their meaning.

Some poems look good at first reading, yet have no depth at all.

But the poem they had just heard, "A Generation," was one that only grew richer the more one savored it, and the more one read it, the more it seemed to shake the soul.

A poem like this was beyond the students’ ability to describe in terms of depth or value.

“Who wrote it?”

“I couldn’t write something like this in a lifetime.”

Someone looked to He Zhixing. “Professor He, did you write this?”

In the students’ eyes, a poem of this caliber could only have been written by a master of letters like He Zhixing.

Yet He Zhixing only shook his head with emotion. “Not me. Or rather... even I would find it difficult to write a poem like this.”

Those words stirred even greater waves in the students’ hearts.

Even Professor He could hardly write it?

Then...

Who exactly had written it?

“Not me.”

“Not me.”

“Neither did I.”

“...”

Normally, if one of the students had produced such a poem, he would likely have stepped forward at once to claim it and bask in the admiring looks of others.

But no one came forward now; instead, they all denied it one after another.

Of course.

From the beginning to the end, no one had suspected Wang Mo.

In fact, none of them had even looked in his direction.

Wang Mo smiled and said to He Zhixing, “Old He, shall we go?”

He Zhixing nodded. “All right.”

One of the students stared in astonishment. “Professor He, we still don’t know who wrote that poem?”

He Zhixing shook his head and said gravely, “It no longer matters. Since this student does not wish for others to know his identity, he must have his reasons. Why should we pry into it? It is enough that we know he wrote this ‘A Generation.’ What a poem it is—wakeful enough to startle the deaf, wakeful enough to startle the deaf indeed...”

With that, he left the lecture hall together with Zhao Shu and Wang Mo.

Behind them, the students were all stirred to the core, their expressions complicated.

...

At that very moment, in the group chats and circles of the top universities in the capital, word of the “Piano Prince” at Tsinghua and Peking was still spreading rapidly.

But no one expected that before they had even recovered from that news, another explosive rumor would break out:

[The literature club has produced a hidden genius]

At first, many dismissed it with scorn.

“Hah! Who would believe that?”

“Just when a Piano Prince appears, now there’s a literary genius too?”

“Probably the students at the literary exchange are upset that all the attention went elsewhere, so they’re hyping up a fake story.”

“Too fake. Since when did the literature club sink to this level? Pulling this kind of stunt?”

While everyone was arguing back and forth,

someone suddenly posted "A Generation" into a group chat.

A few minutes later, the chat completely exploded.

Half an hour later, the student chats of several top universities had been thrown into total chaos.

Countless students stared at those simple two lines, stunned beyond words.

It was true.

So the literature club really had produced a genius.

With only one poem, only a dozen or so words, he had conquered countless students.

And yet.

Who was he?

The third update is over. Good night.