The next day.
The uproar over the Yanhong Literary Prize had died down. This was how cruel it was at the level of the highest awards. Even if anyone had doubt, even if everyone was protesting for Zhang Ye, the award that was held once every four years was already given. No one could change the results. Those five names would be entered into the annals of the Yanhong Literary Prize, into the annals of the literary world, while Zhang Ye missed his only opportunity to do so. After several years, the majority in the literary field were still not acknowledging Zhang Ye, whom they viewed as someone who had come from an unconventional background.
Everyone thought the issue had blown over.
Everyone thought Zhang Ye had been felled by the thing called "beauty."
In the morning.
At the studio.
Several colleagues arrived at work in a listless mood.
"You're here?"
"Yeah, morning."
"Hai, have you seen Director Zhang's poem?"
