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

She continued scrolling down.

Skipping over the exposition in the middle, her gaze fell directly on those two sentences—

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

Chen Fang was stunned.

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the screen, completely still.

"A lonely wild duck..."

She murmured to herself.

"To be able to write such a profound artistic conception."

She's a language arts teacher; she knows why this sentence is good.

"Sunset Glow" and "Lone Wild Goose" are dynamic.

"Autumn waters" and "vast sky" are static.

The words "with" and "together" stitch the dynamic and the static together.

She had taught the concept of "all descriptions of scenery are expressions of emotion" for ten years, but she had never seen anyone write descriptions of scenery to this extent.

This is not a matter of technique.

This is a matter of talent.

No, it's not even a matter of talent—it's...

She didn't know how to describe it.

She only felt a little heat in her eyes.

She took a deep breath, forced herself to calm down, and continued reading.

The mountains and passes are difficult to cross; who will mourn the lost traveler? We meet by chance, strangers in a foreign land.

These words were like a needle, precisely piercing the softest spot in her heart.

She remembered herself when she was eighteen.

Having come from my hometown in Hunan to study at a university in the provincial capital, I stood alone at the train station exit, dragging my suitcase, watching the neon lights and the endless stream of people on the street.

That feeling of loneliness and confusion—that's what it means to be a "lost person" or a "foreigner in a foreign land."

How could this candidate, an eighteen-year-old boy, write such a sentence?

Chen Fang's hand stopped on the mouse.

She did not give a score.

She dared not give a score.

A college entrance examination essay, with a full score of 60 points.

She had been grading papers for six years, and the highest score she ever gave was 58 points—that was already an article that she found absolutely brilliant.

But this piece in front of her... she didn't know how many points to give it.

Fifty-eight?

not enough.

sixty?

Full marks?

She wasn't sure.

Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, hesitant to fall.

"Chen Fang? Chen Fang!"

Sister Liu's voice came from the side, carrying a hint of confusion and worry.

Chen Fang snapped out of her daze and turned to look at Sister Liu.

Her expression was one of shock; her eyes were wide, her lips were slightly parted, and her face held a look that was somewhere between shock and awe.

"What's wrong with you?"

Sister Liu leaned closer and asked, "What kind of essay did you read? Was it really that serious?"

Chen Fang didn't answer. She simply turned her head, continued looking at the screen, and read it again from beginning to end.

She stood up after reading it for the third time.

She pushed the chair back half a meter, and the wheels made a "squeak" sound on the floor.

Holding her phone, she quickly walked out of the marking hall, reached the end of the corridor, and dialed a number.

The phone rang four times before being answered.

"Team leader, where are you?"

"In the office on the third floor. What's wrong?"

The head of the marking team sounded tired.

"Come and take a look."

Chen Fang's voice trembled slightly.

"Here is an essay... I don't know how to grade it."

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

"What kind of essay is this bad? Just give it a grade, that's enough!"

"I can't play."

Chen Fang said, "You'll see when you come and see for yourself."

The head of the marking team is surnamed Sun, Sun Jianguo, 57 years old, a provincial-level special-grade Chinese language teacher who has been teaching Chinese for more than 30 years and marking papers for 20 years.

He's the kind of seasoned veteran who can give a score to an essay in three seconds after glancing at it—what level of essay hasn't he seen?

What kind of writing style hasn't been approved?

He put down the phone and walked from his third-floor office to the second-floor marking hall, which took him two minutes.

He walked into the hall with a hint of impatience on his face.

As the marking process progressed to the later stages, everyone was exhausted, and the worst thing was for someone to make a fuss.

It's just a student's essay, is it really that big of a deal?

He walked up to Chen Fang's workstation, and Chen Fang stepped aside and pointed to the screen.

"This is it."

Sun Jianguo sat down, put on his reading glasses, and glanced at the screen.

At first glance, he thought the paper was okay, the handwriting was neat, but the number of words was too few.

Then he began to read.

[Yuzhang, the old prefecture; Hongdu, the new capital. Its stars align with the constellations of Wing and Chariot; its land borders Heng and Lu.]

"Yes, it's classical Chinese."

He said it expressionlessly.

[The land is rich in natural resources, its dragon light shining upon the ruins of the Ox and the Dipper constellations; its people are outstanding, its spirit is exceptional, as evidenced by Xu Ru's visit to Chen Fan's couch.]

His eyebrows twitched.

[The majestic prefecture stands like a forest amidst a sea of ​​clouds, its talented individuals shining like stars.]

His expression began to change.

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

His eyes widened slightly.

The mountains and passes are difficult to cross; who will mourn those who have lost their way?

We met by chance, both strangers in a foreign land.

His lips trembled slightly.

Then he read the second half.

"Though old, one should not lose the will to persevere; how can one change one's mind even in old age?"

Despite poverty, one should remain steadfast and never abandon one's lofty aspirations.

Sun Jianguo's reading glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose. He didn't push them up, but just stared at the screen from above the lenses, as if trying to etch every word into his eyes.

He studied for thirty years, taught Chinese for thirty years, and graded college entrance examination essays for twenty years.

He thought he had seen it all—good, bad, genius, mediocre, unconventional, and conventional.

But he had never seen such writing before.

This is not a question of "good" or "bad".

This was the first time in his fifty-seven years that he felt he was standing before a true genius.

Not the kind of genius who "has talent" or "will achieve great things in the future".

Rather, it's the kind of genius who, after reading his writing, makes you want to put down the chalk, burn your lesson plans, and never again call yourself a language arts teacher.

He took off his reading glasses, placed them on the table, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Team leader..."

Chen Fang asked cautiously.

"How do you plan to score this?"

Sun Jianguo remained silent for a long time.

"I've been teaching for thirty years,"

His voice was a little hoarse, "I only learned what a genius is today."

He did not give a score.

Chen Fang stood to the side, her lips slightly parted, unsure of what to say.

A bizarre thought suddenly popped into her head—who exactly wrote this article? An eighteen-year-old high school student? How could that be?

How could an eighteen-year-old boy write a line like "The mountain pass is difficult to cross; who will mourn the lost traveler?"

This doesn't sound like a teenager's reflections on life.

"Team leader,"

Chen Fang's voice was very low.

It was as if they were afraid of disturbing the words on the screen.

"Who wrote this? Which school did they go to?"

Sun Jianguo did not answer.

He just stared at the screen.

My fingers tapped lightly on the table.

Just at this time.

Footsteps sounded at the entrance of the marking hall.

The sound of leather shoes stepping on the floor.

The pace was neither too fast nor too slow, conveying a sense of composure.

"What's going on? You two are jumping around like that, you don't act like you're at all composed."

A loud voice came from the doorway.

It carried a hint of teasing and reproach.

Everyone turned their heads at the same time.

The man who walked in was a man in his early fifties.

He was thin and wore a faded gray shirt.

The sleeves were rolled up to the middle of the forearm.

Her hair was gray, but it was neatly combed.

A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose.

The eyes behind the lenses weren't large, but they were surprisingly bright.

...

...