Chapter 51: The One-Thousand-Yuan Writing Contest Prize Secured

"I also know that everyone's time is precious, but we cannot simply dismiss a work that an author has poured their heart and soul into writing. We bear a responsibility not only to our readers, but even more so to the authors who submit their work to us."

"Clap! Clap! Clap!"

Hearing Wang Weiye's words, Lin Hewei immediately began to applaud.

Even those who despised Wang Weiye gave Lin Hewei, the newly appointed editor-in-chief, some face at this moment.

Only Li Xingguo remained completely still.

His brow was slightly furrowed, clearly showing his displeasure at Wang Weiye's "interruption."

However, as a seasoned senior editor, he tried to maintain his composure, though a trace of impatience inevitably crept into his tone.

"Xiao Wang, if you have something to say, spit it out. Don't waste everyone's time."

Prompted by Lin Hewei's gesture, Wang Weiye continued.

[This piece superficially appears to be about felling trees.

A group of educated youth sent to the mountains and countryside, accepting re-education from poor and lower-middle peasants, shouting slogans of "Building the motherland, defending the motherland."

Their mission was to clear the virgin forests deep within the majestic mountains, cultivate terraced fields, and plant useful saplings.

What was considered "useful"? No one could clearly define it. They simply felt it needed transformation, and that this was a great endeavor.

Looking back at this now, wasn't it putting the cart before the horse?

Back then, were such events rare?

Young people, harboring uncontainable passion, held their little red books high.

Crying out and shouting, they scattered like starlike sparks across the entire nation, and the fire in their hearts eventually swept through the entire wilderness.

And the trees—what wrong had they done?

They had stood atop the mountain peaks for hundreds of years, their massive crowns sheltering all dependent life, sharing rain and dew with the mountains and rivers, breathing alongside the stars. That was all.

The King of Trees never imagined that the knife-sharpening techniques he taught with his own hands would end up being used against that very ancient tree.

The King of Trees said, "This tree must remain. Even if every tree in the world is cut down, one must be left behind as proof, proof of what the heavens once created."

He wanted to stop it, but he could not.

In the presence of zealous fanatics, everything must fall silent.

And so, the tree fell.

The King of Trees fell as well.

Was this just about cutting down a tree?

This was a living, breathing human being—a person with independent thought, clear awareness, and an existence transcending the era—who finally became a sacrificial lamb beneath that blade.

No one realized what the fall of the tree signified; people cheered, finally having cut down that stubborn tree.

Afterward, they felt secret remorse and kept silent, yet lacked the courage to intervene.

This was the brand the era stamped ruthlessly onto every individual.

This was the dream the era bestowed upon humanity.

This was the pain of the era.]

After finishing, Wang Weiye swept his gaze across the editors present in the room.

"Everyone, what I want to say is that *Shanghai Literature* has always been a sanctuary of literature. What we pursue is not merely the beauty of words, but the depth of thought and emotional resonance.

The reason I hold this manuscript in such high regard is not just because of its writing style and plot, but more importantly, because of the profound love for life and deep insight into human nature that it conveys."

He paused, seemingly organizing his thoughts, and then continued.

"Every single person here is a connoisseur of literature, and we all have a responsibility to discover works that can touch people's hearts.

As for me, I only hope that before casting your votes, you can give yourselves a little more time to truly savor the profound meaning behind this manuscript, rather than making a hasty decision."

As Wang Weiye's voice trailed off, a brief silence fell over the conference room.

Then, Lin Hewei broke the stillness: "Very well. Everyone's comments have been wonderful, fully reflecting our understanding and respect for literature. Now, let us proceed to the vote and select the best work in our hearts."

Everyone silently weighed the options in their minds and ultimately made their choices.

"The voting begins with Editor Li's recommendation, *Ship of Time*."

Soon, the voting results were tallied: 3 hands raised in favor.

"*Ship of Time* receives 3 votes. Next is Editor Yang's *Marketplace*."

With Yang Zian's vote added, it only received 2 votes.

Li Xingguo cast a meaningful glance at Yang Zian.

He hadn't expected to be outmaneuvered by her.

Originally, among the nine of them, everyone had their own small faction, which served as a check and balance against Lin Hewei.

Without waiting for the vote on *The King of Trees*, Li Xingguo stood up and left.

"Hmph!"

Watching Li Xingguo leave with two other editors, Lin Hewei smiled, but the meeting had to continue.

Shortly after, Lin Hewei announced: "Rainy Night Swordsman Without an Umbrella's *The King of Trees* is the first-place winner of this national writing competition."

Everyone rose to applaud.

Now, only Yang Zian and Lin Hewei remained in the office.

"I hope Editor-in-Chief Lin will keep the promise you made."

"Your child's schooling is not a problem. As you know, my wife is the vice principal of Datong Middle School."

"Then I thank Editor-in-Chief Lin very much."

...

A persistent drizzle had been falling for days, turning the entire courtyard into a muddy mess, with the air itself saturated with the scent of damp earth.

Lin Junsheng could not afford to care about that. Just as dawn was breaking, he climbed out of bed.

It was the end of the month, and he had to keep his appointment to visit his aunt's place.

If he didn't show up, Liu Siyao would likely tear his world apart the next time she came to his house.

This time, he also had the farm-fresh eggs and produce that Li Aimei had prepared for him to take as gifts.

These were rare and precious goods in the countryside, things city people couldn't easily taste.

Lin Junsheng hurriedly washed up, then went to find Li Yonggang, intending to have him give him a bicycle ride to the neighboring village to catch the long-distance bus.

Li Aimei had already prepared the gifts early in the morning—a bamboo basket filled to the brim with farm eggs and fresh vegetables, radiating deep rustic warmth.

As she handed the bamboo basket to Lin Junsheng, she repeatedly instructed, "Junsheng, be polite when you get to your aunt's house, and don't forget to give her these things. Even though our family doesn't have much money, we mustn't lack in courtesy."

Lin Junsheng took the bamboo basket, nodded, and turned to Li Aimei, saying, "Mom, I know. Don't worry."

Just then, as Lin Junsheng walked toward the courtyard gate carrying the basket, he saw the familiar postman riding his heavy-duty bicycle approach in a rush of dust and rain.

"Lin Junsheng, you have a letter!"

A surge of joy welled up in Lin Junsheng's heart, and he quickly took the letter.

He had been waiting for this day for a long time. Ever since he submitted *The King of Trees* to *Shanghai Literature*, he had constantly anticipated good news.

Lin Junsheng thanked the postman, and as soon as the postman left, he eagerly tore open the envelope.

True to his hopes, the envelope contained a letter and a remittance slip.

Lin Junsheng looked closely, and the figure on the remittance slip made him so excited he almost jumped up—one thousand yuan flat!

"*The King of Trees* won an award!" Lin Junsheng shouted in excitement.

He quickly unfolded the letter. Editor Wang Weiye's handwriting leaped into view, confirming that his *The King of Trees* had won the first prize in the national writing competition held by *Shanghai Literature*.

Not only that, but Lin Junsheng's other work, *To Live*, had also reached Wang Weiye's hands and was currently undergoing the rigorous process of "three editorial reviews, three proofreadings, and one discussion."

If it passed selection, the manuscript fee would follow. Although he wouldn't receive it until the journal's publication in August, the anticipation alone made Lin Junsheng's blood race.

The thought that he would soon be able to pay back the money he owed the villagers filled his heart with joy.

That way, his mother wouldn't have to keep making him eat wild greens all the time.

Eating sweet potatoes with Chinese cabbage had already caused Lin Junsheng to lose all appetite for meals.