A perfect score on the college entrance exam? The Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng has astonis

Chen Mo stood on the podium.

There was no bowing.

I didn't say thank you.

No unnecessary movements were made.

He just stood there, waiting for the applause to slowly subside.

He looked at the students below the stage.

His gaze finally settled on Su Wanci.

She didn't stand up, but she was crying.

Tears silently streamed down my face.

She wiped it with the back of her hand, but it kept flowing out, so she wiped it again.

She looked at him, her lips trembling slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Chen Mo withdrew his gaze and spoke one last sentence into the microphone.

"My speech is over, thank you everyone."

He bowed, turned around, and walked off the podium.

The applause rang out again, louder, longer, and more forceful than before.

Someone shouted, "Mo Shen, sing another song!"

Some people shouted, "Senior Chen Mo is awesome!"

Chen Mo did not turn around.

He walked back to the guest area and sat down next to Su Wanci.

Su Wanci looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed, her nose red-rimmed, and her lips trembling slightly.

"What's wrong?" Chen Mo asked.

"It's nothing." Su Wanci lowered her head and wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand.

"I just think... your poem was really well written."

"It's alright," Chen Mo said.

Su Wanci looked up and glared at him. "Can't you be a little more humble?"

"I'm quite modest," Chen Mo said. "I didn't say 'anyone with hands can do it'."

Su Wanci paused for a second, then smiled.

A gray-haired man next to me stood up from his seat.

He was wearing a dark gray jacket, black-rimmed glasses, and holding a notebook.

He is the head of the Chinese language teaching and research group at Jiangcheng No. 1 Middle School. His surname is Zhao. He taught Chinese for thirty years and was rehired after retirement to teach the senior high school graduating class.

As he stood up, the chair made a slight noise, and the people next to him turned to look at him, but he ignored them.

He just stood there, looking at the empty podium, and remained silent for a long time.

Then he spoke.

His voice wasn't loud, but everyone around him heard it.

"I've taught Chinese for thirty years and read no fewer than ten thousand poems. From the Book of Songs to the Songs of Chu, from Han Dynasty folk songs to Tang and Song Dynasty poems, from Yuan Dynasty drama to Ming and Qing Dynasty poetry, I thought I had read all the good poems. But this poem—I haven't read it before."

He took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with his sleeve, and put them back on.

"The lines 'The lamp burns at midnight, the rooster crows at dawn; this is the time for a man to study' use the simplest language to express the most profound truth."

"It doesn't try to pressure you with grand principles; it moves you with its visuals."

"The lamplight at midnight, the rooster's crow at dawn—once you see it, once you hear it, you understand. This is called 'teaching without words'."

His voice trembled slightly, but he tried to remain steady.

"The lines 'One who does not know the importance of studying hard when one's hair is black will regret it when one's hair is white' are the finishing touch of the entire poem."

"Black hair and white hair, early and late, these two contrasting pairs vividly depict the passage of time and the regrets of life."

"After reading this poem, you won't feel like someone is forcing you to study; you'll feel, 'I don't want to have any regrets.' That's the level of a good poem."

He paused, then lowered his voice.

"I have been teaching for thirty years and I have never encountered a student like this before."

"An eighteen-year-old boy wrote a poem that can be passed down for centuries."

"I don't have much to teach him. All I can say is—Chen Mo, thank you. Thank you for letting me know that there really are geniuses in this world."

After he finished speaking, he sat down.

There was a moment of silence among the people around, and then a sparse round of applause broke out.

It wasn't for Chen Mo who was being cheered for, but for Teacher Zhao.

An old Chinese teacher who had taught for thirty years said in front of hundreds of people, "I have nothing to teach him."

This isn't modesty; it's honesty.

Honesty carries more weight than any praise.

The chat room exploded with comments again.

"Teacher Zhao cried...and I cried too."

"Having taught Chinese for thirty years, to say 'I have never read this poem'—what does that mean? It means that Chen Mo wrote a poem that even his Chinese teacher had never read."

"It's not that I haven't read it, it's that it doesn't exist in any poetry collection. This was written by Chen Mo himself."

"An eighteen-year-old boy wrote a poem that left a veteran Chinese teacher who had taught Chinese for thirty years speechless."

"Now I finally understand why Chen Mo said 'anyone with hands can do it.' Because for him, writing poetry is as natural as breathing."

"No, he wasn't 'all hands and no feet.' He was 'all heart and no feet.' His heart was bigger than all of ours combined."

"Mo Shen, don't go to Peking University to study computer science. Go to the Chinese Literature Department instead. Your not studying Chinese is the greatest loss to Chinese literature."

"Hey upstairs, do you think anyone in the Chinese Literature Department at Peking University could teach him?"

"...You're right. No one can teach him."

The applause in the auditorium finally subsided.

The host walked onto the stage, his voice still trembling.

"Thank you... thank you Chen Mo for your wonderful speech. Chen Mo used a poem to show us what 'encouraging learning' truly means. Let's give him another round of applause!"

Another round of applause rang out.

Chen Mo sat in the audience, neither standing up, nor waving, nor responding in any way.

He just sat there, looking at the stage, his expression calm, as if none of this concerned him.

Su Wanci sat next to him, turning her head to look at his profile.

Chen Mo felt her gaze and turned around. "What's wrong?"

"It's nothing."

Su Wanci shook her head and smiled.

"I just felt that... when you said on stage that I already had my Luoshen, all the girls in the audience were heartbroken."

Chen Mo thought for a moment. "And what about you?"

Su Wanci was stunned for a moment.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She lowered her head, not daring to look him in the eye.

"Am I...am I your goddess Luo?" Her voice was so soft it was like a mosquito's buzz.

Chen Mo did not answer.

He glanced at her, then turned back to continue watching the stage.

The gaze was faint, but Su Wanci sensed it.

She felt the leaf fall on her heart, stirring up ripples in circles.

The mobilization meeting in the auditorium was still ongoing.

A different person was speaking on stage, but the audience wasn't really listening anymore.

Their ears were still lingering on that poem.

Their eyes were still fixed on the boy in the white T-shirt.

They knew that many years later, they might forget today's mobilization meeting and what the vice principal said.

I've forgotten what the grade leader said.

But they will not forget that poem.

"The lamp burns at midnight, the rooster crows at dawn; this is the time for a young man to study. He who does not study diligently in his youth will regret it when he is old."

I will never forget that boy standing on the stage, his expression calm, as if he were talking about something insignificant.

I will never forget what he said—"I already have my goddess Luo."

From today onwards, they are also part of his "encouragement to learn".

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