Chapter 0057: Easy, It Hurts

As a good youth of the new era, born under the red flag and raised in the spring breeze, Zhao Fusheng always believed in keeping a low profile. Simply put, unless necessary, he would not easily offend others.

‘Win people over with virtue, make money with harmony’—these eight words were a rule Zhao Fusheng set for himself after careful consideration. In simple terms, he aimed to achieve his goals through peaceful means as much as possible.

As a civilized person, Zhao Fusheng felt he must have sufficient grace.

Things like fighting were what barbarians did. As the saying goes, ‘Those who work with their minds rule; those who work with their strength are ruled.’ As a reborn man, Zhao Fusheng had this confidence.

It was for this reason that even when Li Zhiyuan provoked him, Zhao Fusheng ignored it.

If a brat misbehaves, could an adult really stoop to his level?

Of course, the face that needed slapping would still be slapped, so Zhao Fusheng left behind that pile of words.

And at that moment, the phrases read aloud by Hu Xia were like slap after slap, fiercely striking Li Zhiyuan’s face, leaving him speechless.

Now Li Zhiyuan felt he was the biggest joke.

Just moments ago, he had said Zhao Fusheng was at the end of his creative rope, unable to write poetry. But now, line after line, especially the two short poems, seemed like Zhao Fusheng’s silent mockery of him.

“So, he really wasn’t unable to write, but unwilling to.”

Mu Qingqing’s voice rang out at just the right moment—neither too loud nor too soft—yet it made several people lower their heads.

They were the ones who had just echoed Li Zhiyuan, but now they all fell silent.

“Oh, reading poetry?” At that moment, footsteps sounded from not far away, and a group of middle-aged men approached, led by a man in his early forties.

Seeing them, Gu Xueyi quickly went to greet him: “Dean Zhou, you’re here.”

“Mm, passing by and saw your banner, so I came to take a look. Having a poetry gathering?” Dean Zhou said to Gu Xueyi with a smile.

Gu Xueyi nodded: “We’re about to graduate, so everyone got together as a farewell memento.”

As she spoke, she smiled and said to Dean Zhou, “Dean, why don’t you say a few words to everyone?”

This Dean Zhou was the vice dean of the College of Liberal Arts, a well-known writer and poet in the provincial literary circle. He was said to have deep attainments in modern poetry, a famous talent at Peking University in his day, and now a prominent figure at the school.

“Alright, I’ll say a few words.” Dean Zhou smiled and walked into the pavilion. Clearly, he was familiar with the poetry society students; several juniors and seniors went over to greet him.

“Ah, in the blink of an eye, you’re all about to graduate.” Dean Zhou couldn’t help feeling emotional. Then he saw Mu Qingqing and smiled, “Mu Qingqing, have you written any good poems lately?”

Clearly, the two knew each other.

Mu Qingqing gently shook her head: “No, I haven’t felt inspired lately.”

Dean Zhou chuckled: “No rush. Writing poetry requires inspiration and opportunity. ‘Essays are born of heaven, won by a clever hand,’ after all.”

Then he noticed Hu Xia and a few other girls who had recently joined the poetry society standing not far from Mu Qingqing. He blinked and asked, “These classmates look unfamiliar—new members?”

“Yes, they’re all newcomers to our poetry society.” Mu Qingqing quickly introduced them.

Dean Zhou smiled and walked up to Hu Xia and the others. Just as he was about to offer some encouragement, he caught sight of the cartoon pig head in Hu Xia’s hand and burst out laughing. “Classmate, this is a poetry society, not a cartoon club. What are you doing with a pig head? And there’s writing—what, a doggerel?”

Hu Xia immediately blushed, shaking her head repeatedly in denial: “No, no, you’ve misunderstood.”

Dean Zhou smiled and reached out his hand: “Can I take a look at what’s written?”

Hearing this, Hu Xia was stunned. She initially wanted to refuse, but thinking of Zhao Fusheng being mocked by Li Zhiyuan and her boyfriend’s reproachful look, she gritted her teeth and handed the paper directly to Dean Zhou.

Dean Zhou took the cartoon and looked down.

After that one look, his eyes never left the paper.

After a long while, Dean Zhou looked up at Hu Xia and asked tentatively, “Did you write this?”

“No, no, not me.”

Hu Xia quickly shook her head in denial: “The one who wrote this is a friend of mine.”

“What’s his major?” Dean Zhou pressed on.

“Advertising planning.” Hu Xia answered, a bit puzzled.

“Nonsense! A genius like that should be studying literature, not advertising!” Dean Zhou blurted out, not noticing that the expressions of everyone around had changed.

Li Zhiyuan suddenly felt he was superfluous here.

…

…

Zhao Fusheng and Tan Kaixuan returned to the dormitory. In the evening, Hu Xia called Tan Kaixuan, and the guy actually started dancing in the dorm with his PHS, leaving the others dumbfounded.

“Have you lost your mind?” Wen Yu asked, looking at Tan Kaixuan.

Tan Kaixuan grinned: “What do you know? Let me tell you, Old Zhao made a splash today.”

“What do you mean?”

Wen Yu looked confused, and even Zhao Fusheng himself was a bit puzzled: “What happened?”

“Did you write poetry on that paper?” Tan Kaixuan asked Zhao Fusheng.

Zhao Fusheng was taken aback, then remembered that while listening to those “poets” reciting, he had indeed written some short lines on the paper out of boredom.

“Just some short lines, nothing special.” Zhao Fusheng shook his head, denying Tan Kaixuan’s claim.

“Whether short lines or poetry, your words stunned them all.” Tan Kaixuan flashed a smug smile and said to Zhao Fusheng, “You didn’t see it—Hu Xia said Li Zhiyuan’s face looked like he’d been slapped. If there’d been a crack in the ground, he’d have crawled right in.”

After all, Li Zhiyuan had just boasted that his work was published in the city newspaper and claimed Zhao Fusheng was at the end of his creative rope, unable to write poetry. But what Zhao Fusheng had written on the paper, even someone with slightly less literary taste could tell, was indeed far superior.

More importantly, the appearance of Vice Dean Zhou, whose position in Ninghai University’s literary circle was almost unshakable, sealed the whole matter.

In Vice Dean Zhou’s words, how could a young man capable of writing such lines end up studying advertising design? He should clearly be a free-spirited poet.

To this, Zhao Fusheng expressed that he understood an old literary enthusiast’s love for talent and that for a man of letters like Dean Zhou, poetry was everything they pursued.

But for a mundane person like himself, “I have no desire for a marquisate; money is more precious.”

Zhao Fusheng’s mind was always on making money.

A money-grubber, utterly hopeless.