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

He wasn't refusing; he was always leaving himself an option.

He would tell the Mathematical Sciences Association "I can't join," and the Writers' Association "I'm not interested," but he never completely shut the door on things.

Because he doesn't know what will happen tomorrow, or whether one day in the future he will suddenly feel that joining these organizations is not a bad idea.

"Okay. Think it over. Whenever you've made up your mind, just call me directly. No need to go through a secretary or make an appointment."

"it is good."

The phone hangs up.

Sun Heting looked at the call duration on his phone screen—four minutes and twelve seconds.

He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and suddenly laughed.

He recalled that when he was young, he had also rejected similar things.

An editor from a provincial literary journal called to invite him to be a columnist, but he felt he wasn't qualified and declined.

He was twenty years old then, and Chen Mo was eighteen.

He picked up his phone and sent a message to Secretary-General Zhou: "He refused, but I'll wait for him. There's no rush; he's only eighteen."

Su Wanci was unaware of these things.

She simply sat on a bench by West Lake, leaning on Chen Mo's shoulder, scrolling through her phone.

Every comment in the comment section says she is brave, she is happy, and she must have saved the galaxy in her past life.

She did not reply to any of them.

I just thought about it silently in my heart.

You are right.

"Chen Mo."

"Um."

Who called you just now?

"The president of the Writers' Association."

Su Wanci sat bolt upright and turned to look at him. "The president of the China Writers Association?"

"Um."

"What did he say?"

"Please invite me to join."

"You agreed?"

"No, I said I'd consider it."

Su Wanci stared at him for several seconds, then leaned back in her chair.

"Are you rejecting people every day now? Vice President of the Mathematical Science Association, Provincial Writers Association, President of the China Writers Association. Who will you reject next? The Nobel Prize?"

Chen Mo thought for a moment.

"The Nobel Prize in Literature? I wouldn't refuse it, there's a prize money involved."

"I did not mean that!"

Su Wanci slapped his arm in anger.

"I mean—can't you just say yes to one? Even if it's just to save face for me, your classmate is a member of the Writers' Association, it sounds so good."

Chen Mo glanced at her.

"You want me to join?"

Su Wanci bit her lip.

"I want you to do what you want to do, not for you to do whatever I want you to do."

"Then I would like to refuse."

"Then refuse."

Su Wanci said she did not hesitate.

Chen Mo looked at her.

Sunlight reflected off the lake and fell on her profile; her eyelashes were long and slightly curled.

He smiled but didn't say anything.

The two of them sat on the bench for a while longer.

Watching the tourist boats come and go on the lake.

The sun slowly moved from the east to the west.

The light changed from gold to orange-red, turning the entire West Lake into an oil painting.

"Let's go."

Su Wanci stood up.

"We haven't been to Leifeng Pagoda yet."

Chen Mo stood up and followed beside her.

The two continued walking along the lakeside path, their hands still clasped together.

The sunlight turned from golden to orange-red, painting the entire West Lake like an oil painting.

Meanwhile, in Beijing, two thousand kilometers away, among the professors of the Chinese Department at Peking University...

An earthquake is currently taking place.

The epicenter was a screenshot—the article "On the Love of Lotus" on Su Wanci's Douyin account, along with its accompanying text.

"Chen Mo is so mean. He wrote 'Ten Years of Life and Death, a Vast and Boundless Separation' and made me cry for a long time. Now he's written 'On the Love of Lotus' to cheer me up."

The first person I saw was Wang Weian.

He was in his study grading papers at the time.

A notification popped up on his phone. He opened it and saw that the red pen in his hand had fallen onto the table.

He read the article, which was less than 150 words long, three times.

Then he took off his glasses, wiped the lenses with his sleeve, put them back on, and looked at them twice more.

His fingers tapped unconsciously on the table, once, twice, three times.

There are words in the mouth.

"Rising from the mud yet remaining unstained, washed by clear ripples yet not becoming seductive..."

He stopped reading here, leaned back in his chair, and looked at the light on the ceiling.

He is a professor in the Chinese Department at Peking University, specializing in Tang and Song Dynasty literature, and has devoted his life to the study of classical Chinese.

I believe that my aesthetic threshold for classical prose has been raised to its highest level by masterpieces throughout history.

But at this moment, he felt like someone who had spent his whole life looking up at the mountain from its foot.

Suddenly he saw someone standing on the mountaintop, but he didn't even know where the path leading up the mountain was.

He picked up his phone and typed a message in the professors' group chat.

"Have you all read 'On the Love of Lotus'?"

The group chat was quiet for a moment.

Then a reply popped up, from a professor who studies Ming and Qing literature.

"I've read it. I want to say one thing: in the past thousand years, no one has written about lotus flowers more than this one."

Another one followed closely behind, from a professor who studies ancient prose.

"Did you notice? He didn't use any classical allusions, not a single one. When he wrote about lotus flowers, everyone uses classical allusions like Taihua, Yujing, and Shuizhi, but he didn't."

"He wrote lotus flowers that everyone can see, and words that everyone can understand."

"The more talented someone is, the less they show off their skills, because their talent itself doesn't need any external aids to prove it."

The group chat fell silent again.

The group chat fell silent again.

No one disagreed, because he was right.

Sun Heting, president of the Writers Association, personally called Chen Mo.

Chen Mo said he would "think about it".

Somehow it got out.

Perhaps one of the clerks in the Secretary-General's office let it slip while answering the phone.

Perhaps a reporter who heard the news posted a vague update on their WeChat Moments.

Perhaps no one leaked it at all.

This kind of thing has its own vitality.

Like a seed falling into the soil, it will sprout on its own without needing anyone to water it.

The news began circulating on Weibo around noon.

The original source was an account verified as a "culture blogger".

I posted a Weibo post that consisted of only one sentence.

"Sun Heting personally called Chen Mo to invite him to join the Writers Association, and Chen Mo said he would 'think about it'."

There were no screenshots, no audio recordings, no official documents, nothing at all.

But this statement alone is more powerful than any evidence.

An hour later, "Sun Heting personally invited Chen Mo" became the third most searched topic.

Two hours later.

It became the number one trending topic, followed by the word "hot".

In the comments section, everyone was expressing the same emotion—shock.

"The chairman of the Writers' Association made a phone call personally? This kind of treatment... ordinary people can't even find the Writers' Association's email address."

"Most importantly, Chen Mo didn't agree on the spot. He said he would 'think about it.' Think about it, the chairman of the Writers' Association personally called to invite me. If it were me, I would kneel down on the spot. He said he would think about it."

"He's not putting on airs; he genuinely doesn't care. He once refused the position of vice president of the Mathematical Sciences Association. Would he care about the title of 'national-level writers' association'?"