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

Chen Mo continued writing.

[A majestic city, shrouded in mist, boasts a constellation of brilliant talents. Its walls and towers stand at the crossroads of the civilized and the barbarian, its guests and hosts representing the finest of the southeast.]

Professor Li from Tsinghua University stood up from his chair at some point.

Take two steps forward.

He stood on the other side of Chen Mo.

He didn't understand classical Chinese very well, but he could understand Lao Fang's expression.

Old Fang's expression.

It reminded him of a word.

--pilgrimage.

Professor Zhang from Peking University also stood up.

She taught for a few years before transferring to the admissions office, but she still retained her basic Chinese skills.

She read each sentence that flowed from Chen Mo's pen, word by word.

With each sentence I read, the question mark in my mind was gradually erased, replaced by an exclamation mark.

The setting sun and a lone wild goose fly together; the autumn waters blend seamlessly with the vast sky.

Teacher Zhang covered her mouth with her hand.

The Chinese Department at Peking University is the best Chinese Department in the country.

She has seen too many excellent words and too many brilliant expressions.

But at the moment.

She looked at these fourteen characters.

Only one thought remained in my mind.

This is not something an eighteen-year-old could write.

No.

Principal Wang stood directly opposite Chen Mo, his hands behind his back, his body slightly leaning forward, like an old tree bent over by the wind.

He doesn't understand classical Chinese very well.

But there are some things you don't need to know.

Just as you don't need to understand music theory to be moved by a song, or you don't need to understand paint to be amazed by a painting.

As he watched the words spring forth from Chen Mo's pen, he had only one feeling in his mind.

these things.

They shouldn't be here.

They should be carved in stone, written on silk, and framed in glass cases in museums, not written on a plain A4 sheet of paper with a black pen.

Old Fang's glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose.

He didn't push it.

He seemed frozen in place, only his eyes moving as he followed Chen Mo's pen strokes word by word.

He taught Chinese for fifteen years.

He thought he had seen everything—good, bad, geniuses, mediocre ones, those in exams, those in competitions.

He thought his threshold had been raised to the highest level.

Nothing could shock him anymore.

But at the moment.

He knew he was wrong.

He had never seen such writing in his entire life.

It's not a question of "good" or "bad".

He suddenly realized that he had wasted fifteen years of teaching Chinese.

He stood on the podium and talked to the students about "parallelism," "antithesis," "allusion," and "artistic conception."

He spoke eloquently and logically, until his mouth was dry from talking.

But now, looking at these sentences...

He felt that what he was saying...

They can't even reach the tip of these sentences.

Su Wanci stood at the very back of the crowd; she did not push forward.

She just stood there.

I watched Chen Mo's back as he bent over and wrote, through the shoulders of several people.

Her mind was foggy.

It wasn't the kind of fog that obscures vision, but a stranger kind that made her feel light and airy.

It's like standing on a very high place looking down, the wind blowing past your ears, and everything under your feet becoming very small, very far away, and very unreal.

She has known Chen Mo for eighteen years.

We grew up together, in the same courtyard, separated by only one wall.

She knew when he lost his baby teeth and what insects he was afraid of.

I know he makes a lot of noise when he eats noodles.

I know he'll lock himself in his room all day and not say a word if he fails an exam.

She thought she understood him.

But at this moment, looking at that figure from behind, she suddenly felt a sense of unfamiliarity.

It's not the kind of unfamiliarity where you "don't know" someone.

Rather, it's the kind of tree you always thought was just an ordinary tree, neither too tall nor too short, neither too thick nor too thin.

Then one day...

The tree suddenly blossomed.

The flowers that bloom are the most beautiful flowers you've ever seen in your life.

You stand under the tree, head tilted back, petals falling on your face, and only one thought in your mind—

Is this really the tree I know?

Though old, one should not lose heart; though poor, one should not abandon lofty ambitions.

Chen Mo paused after writing this sentence.

The pen tip hovered above the paper, the ink drying slightly in the air.

He didn't look up or speak; he simply paused, as if waiting for someone unseen to turn an unseen page of sheet music.

Then he continued writing.

No one moved in the meeting room.

No one sat down, no one drank water, and no one looked at their phone.

A dozen or so people stood there, like a dozen or so trees held firm by the wind, all their branches and leaves pointing in the same direction—the direction of the pen.

When Chen Mo finished writing the last word, he put the pen on the table.

The pen made a very soft sound as it touched the table.

With a "thud," it fell into a deep pool like a small pebble.

Then the meeting room erupted in chaos.

It wasn't that the voices were loud—it was that everyone's voices rang out at the same time, lowered their throats, but couldn't suppress the excitement inside.

"What is this?"

Old Fang was the first to speak, his voice trembling, his finger pointing at the A4 sheets of paper covered with writing, his fingertips shaking.

"What exactly is this? Who wrote it? Where did you see it?"

He asked a series of questions, each one more urgent than the last, but he didn't wait for an answer to any of them—because he already knew the answer himself.

These words were written by Chen Mo.

It was written down stroke by stroke, word by word, right under his nose.

"Teacher Fang,"

Chen Mo straightened up, rubbed his wrist, and spoke in a calm tone as if he were talking about what he ate in the cafeteria that day.

"This is a college entrance examination essay."

Old Fang opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He wanted to say "impossible".

But he knew it was possible.

This is the essay that got a perfect score on the college entrance exam, the essay that got a perfect score in Chinese, and the essay that scored 750 points.

He saw it with his own eyes and touched it with his own hands.

The sheets of paper still bore the marks left by the pen tip, and the ink hadn't completely dried.

He crouched down and brought the papers close to him, like a geologist approaching a newly unearthed fossil.

"This antithesis..."

His fingers traced lines lightly above the paper, as if afraid that they would shatter if touched.

"This allusion...this elaborate imagery...this is not something a high school student could write."

Chen Mo did not answer.

There was a moment of silence in the meeting room, then Principal Wang's voice came from behind, trembling with the excitement of someone who had won the lottery: "Teacher Fang, please move aside."

Principal Wang squeezed to the front, bent down, and held the A4 sheets of paper in his hands as if they were a fragile piece of porcelain.

His hands were trembling, the paper was trembling, and the words on the paper were trembling, turning into a blurry ink stain.

"Chen Mo," his voice was hoarse, as if something was blocking his throat, "could you give me this manuscript?"

Chen Mo glanced at him: "Principal, this was just something I wrote on the spot..."

"I know."

Principal Wang interrupted him, his voice suddenly becoming very serious, so serious that it didn't sound like he was joking, "That's why I want to stay even more."

The only essay in the world to receive a perfect score on the National College Entrance Examination!

And it's an authentic piece!

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