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

Chen Mo's expression remained unchanged.

He looked at the empty table in the pavilion, which was covered with Xuan paper and had writing brush and ink on it.

The production team was clearly well-prepared, knowing that most people would probably not dare to take on this challenge.

But the props were still prepared very well.

"Poetry and prose? Anyone with hands can do that."

Chen Mo said.

His voice wasn't loud, but several people nearby heard it.

The boy with glasses turned around and glanced at him.

His girlfriend also turned around, looked Chen Mo up and down, and slightly pursed her lips, but didn't say anything.

Su Wanci tugged at his sleeve and lowered her voice.

"Don't say this in a place like this... It's already causing a huge uproar online."

Chen Mo did not answer.

He simply looked at the pavilion, at the empty table, and at the unspecified calligraphy brush.

These days.

Is it not even okay to tell the truth?

Just at this time.

A voice, tinged with dissatisfaction, came from the back of the crowd.

"Young people these days really don't know their own limitations."

The crowd automatically parted to make way.

An elderly man with gray hair walked up from behind.

He looked to be around sixty or seventy years old.

He was wearing a gray Zhongshan suit.

Leaning on a bamboo cane.

He was wearing a pair of old-fashioned round-framed glasses.

He walked slowly, but each step was steady.

Like someone who's used to pacing around on the podium.

The female host recognized him, and her eyes lit up.

"Professor Li! What are you doing here?"

Professor Li — Li Zhenguo.

Retired professor from the School of Literature, Provincial Normal University.

Classical literature research expert.

He was indeed just passing by today.

I originally wanted to see the lotus flowers on the Luo River.

I never expected to run into a TV program recording.

He stood at the back of the crowd and listened for a while. When he heard the phrase "anyone with hands can do it," his brows furrowed into deep lines.

"I've come to see the lotus flowers."

Professor Li's voice was not loud.

But it's very clear.

"I never expected to hear such arrogant words."

His gaze swept across the crowd and landed on Chen Mo.

"Is this what you just said?"

He looked Chen Mo up and down, his eyes filled with contempt.

An old scholar's contempt for an ignorant junior.

"Anyone with hands can do it?"

Professor Li repeated the four words, his lips twitching slightly downwards.

"Little friend, do you know how many different metrical patterns there are in classical Chinese poetry?"

Do you know what tonal patterns, parallelism, and rhyme are? Do you know what conditions a qualified quatrain must meet?

"Do you know that even if you knew everything, improvisation is still an extremely difficult thing?"

"Countless great poets throughout history have failed to compose poetry spontaneously. Your statement, 'Anyone can do it,' puts thousands of years of poetic tradition at a disadvantage."

He spoke slowly, but every word he uttered was like a heavy stone, striking out with profound meaning.

The surrounding crowd quieted down.

All eyes shifted from Professor Li to Chen Mo.

How would a boy in a white T-shirt respond when he is publicly reprimanded by an old professor?

Standing next to Chen Mo, Su Wanci sensed the subtle tension in the air.

She wanted to say something for Chen Mo, but when she opened her mouth, she found that she didn't know what to say.

Because of what Professor Li said.

She didn't quite understand prosody, tonal patterns, parallelism, and rhyme.

All she knew was that when Chen Mo said "any hands will do," his expression was as calm as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today."

He wasn't being provocative or showing off; he genuinely felt that way.

Chen Mo looked at Professor Li and remained silent for two seconds.

Then he laughed.

"You're right," he said.

Professor Li was taken aback.

He didn't expect the boy to admit defeat so easily.

"Improvising poetry is indeed very difficult."

Chen Mo continued,

"But you're wrong about one thing."

"What is it?"

"Your statement 'Anyone with hands can do it' is arrogant."

Chen Mo's gaze was calm and resolute.

"But I'm telling the truth."

The surrounding crowd gasped.

Someone was whispering, "This kid's gone mad."

Some people were shaking their heads, while others were recording videos with their phones.

Professor Li's face flushed slightly.

It wasn't out of anger, but out of disbelief.

"good,"

Professor Li's voice carried a hint of coldness.

"Since you say 'anyone with hands can do it,' then go up and write one for me to see. If you do, I'll apologize to you in front of everyone."

"I can't write it..."

He didn't continue.

But everyone knew what the unspoken part of his sentence was.

Chen Mo glanced at him.

Then he walked towards the pavilion.

Su Wanci tried to stop him, but by the time she reached out her hand, he had already taken several steps forward.

She watched his back as he walked through the crowd, onto the wooden walkway, and into the pavilion.

Her heart was beating so fast that she could hear her own blood rushing through her ears.

She remembered two days ago.

On Douyin.

He told the entire internet, "Anyone with hands can do it."

At that time, she thought he was too arrogant, although she didn't say it out loud.

But now, looking at his back, she suddenly felt...

He's not arrogant.

He simply never took the word "difficult" seriously.

Inside the pavilion.

The female host seemed somewhat at a loss.

She knew Professor Li and was aware of his standing in academia.

She didn't recognize the boy who had suddenly walked up to her.

An ordinary passerby, dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, looked no different from any other eighteen or nineteen-year-old boy on the street.

"Excuse me, student—"

She instinctively reached for the microphone to ask for his name.

Chen Mo didn't look at her.

He walked straight to the table.

Pick up the calligraphy brush on the table.

The pen is new.

I haven't even picked up a pen yet.

The brush bristles were stiff and stuck together.

He glanced at it.

lay down.

I took another wolf-hair brush, which had already been soaked, from the brush holder.

The ink has been ground.

The thick black ink gleamed faintly in the inkstone.

He spread out the Xuan paper.

The paper is white.

It was sprinkled with golden shavings.

It shimmered in the afternoon light.

He weighed down the four corners of the paper with a paperweight, picked up his brush, and dipped it in ink.

Then he put pen to paper.

The surrounding crowd was still whispering among themselves.

Some people think the boy is just putting on an act.

Some people think it would be embarrassing for him to go up there.

Professor Li stood at the front of the crowd.

He was leaning on a cane with both hands.

Chin slightly raised

A cold smile played on his lips, as if he were waiting to see a good show.

Chen Mo wrote the first sentence.

He did not write poetry.

He wrote a poem.

"The ancients said that the goddess of this river was named Mi Fei."

The surrounding crowd fell silent.

It wasn't the kind of quiet where "everyone holds their breath."

It is a more fundamental kind of quiet.

It was as if all the sounds had been absorbed by that pen in that instant.

No one speaks.

Because nobody knew what to say.

They didn't recognize most of those words.

They recognized each word individually, but when put together, they formed something they had never seen before.

It was like a door suddenly being opened.

Behind the door was a world they had never been to before.

...

...