Chapter 105

Cao Sheng's sound of pushing his bicycle into the courtyard drew Huang Qingya's gaze.

Their eyes met through the kitchen window, and they smiled at each other.

Cao Sheng parked the bike, walked into the kitchen, came behind Huang Qingya, wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder, and watched the pig liver sizzling in the pan. "This dish is hard to stir-fry—why did you even think of making it?"

The pig liver was cut unevenly—some pieces too big, some too small, varying in thickness, none sliced into willow-leaf shapes.

It was slightly sticking to the pan.

Huang Qingya kept stirring. "You said last time you liked pig liver! You even said it's good for the eyes. I figured you're staring at the computer all day writing, your eyes must be tired. Today I got here early, saw pig liver at the market, bought some to make it. Didn't expect it'd be this hard."

Cao Sheng smiled.

But besides this dish, the other dishes Huang Qingya made today were fine.

Salted duck pot, with winter bamboo shoots and tofu skins tied in knots, plus sour cabbage at the bottom.

Pork rib and corn soup.

Also stir-fried lettuce with stinky tofu, cola chicken wings, braised hairy tofu.

Except for the cola chicken wings, nearly all were dishes Cao Sheng loved.

Every time Cao Sheng saw cola chicken wings, he couldn't understand why women all seemed to love making it.

His ex-girlfriends, one after another, all loved making it.

He always thought it was dark cuisine.

But he knew: to make a woman happy, no matter if her cooking was down-to-earth or down-to-hell, he had to eat two extra bites to show face.

So that night at dinner, Huang Qingya was very happy.

Cao Sheng was in good spirits too.

Especially when he heard Huang Qingya say Huang Shuren had called the Huizhou Writers Association, demanding they force him to apologize—but the leadership told her to bring more gifts to comfort him—he felt even better.

The leadership had told her to bring Houkui tea; after dinner, she brewed two cups, and the taste was indeed excellent.

Each tea leaf stood upright in the cup, strikingly different from other teas.

After dinner, Huang Qingya volunteered to wash the pots, clean the dishes, mop the floor, and wipe the table.

With an apron tied around her waist, she had the air of a virtuous wife and devoted mother.

So Cao Sheng decided to reward her with hundreds of millions: after she finished cleaning, he pulled her into the bathroom and washed her himself.

When the water in the bathtub stopped sloshing violently, Huang Qingya leaned lazily against Cao Sheng's chest and asked softly: "You've really pissed off those writers and professors this time. Aren't you afraid?"

Cao Sheng: "Afraid of what?"

Huang Qingya: "They have wide connections and high status in the Writers Association. They can rally other writers to smear you. Aren't you even a little afraid?"

Cao Sheng's mind flashed to the Star in his original timeline, smeared by countless celebrities—so intense, people once doubted if there was any room left for him in the entire entertainment circle.

But then what?

The Star never stepped forward to refute anything—just kept making movie after movie.

Every time his films were even slightly decent, box office numbers soared far ahead; even when they weren't good, the box office never tanked badly.

Why was that?

Cao Sheng had an answer in his heart.

So he wasn't the least afraid of those writers and professors teaming up to smear him—as long as his own work remained loved by readers, their criticism wouldn't hurt him a bit; instead, it would make his fans pity him and support him even more.

His fans were his base.

As long as his base held firm, he was an indestructible cockroach.

"What's there to fear? I only fear they can write something more popular than mine—but do they even have that ability?"

Cao Sheng said this.

Huang Qingya fell silent for a moment, then asked softly: "You really think they can't write anything more popular than you?"

Cao Sheng thought of several blockbuster traditional writers from his original timeline.

Like the one who won the Nobel Prize in Literature, and Liu Cixin, who wrote *Three-Body Problem*.

But Huang Shuren, Wang Gongjue, Gongyang Buyu?

He'd never heard of them.

So he said: "There are indeed masters among traditional writers—but true masters won't come out to trample a newcomer like me. Their focus is on their own work—they have no time for these childish games."

…

The next morning.

Many newspapers published Huang Shuren's short essay criticizing Gray Work.

The article attacked Gray Work's writing, character, and scholarship—every angle. Its headline was eye-catching: "Cultural Hustler Gray Work Has Sneaked Into the Literary World!"

In the article, Huang Shuren claimed Gray Work was merely a college dropout who failed the college entrance exam, proving his ignorance. In response to senior writers' kind critiques, he had the audacity to retort, showing zero respect for elders and professors—pure hustler behavior. His writing, he said, had no depth or substance; his language was too blunt, his style too mundane, proving he lacked cultural foundation.

The next day, a video of Gongyang Buyu giving interviews to multiple media outlets appeared on some TV programs.

On camera, the white-haired Gongyang Buyu looked furious.

He denounced Gray Work in harsh, scolding tones.

At his most heated moments, his lips trembled.

"I never called myself a famous writer—it was my peers, readers, and media friends who honored me with that title. I felt unworthy of it. But Gray Work, this greenhorn just entering the literary world, publicly humiliated me in front of so many reporters, saying I didn't deserve the title 'famous writer.' I'm furious! How can today's youth act like this? Isn't your writing meant to be read and critiqued? As your senior, why can't I offer a few comments? I'm an old man—can't I speak the truth anymore? Bitter medicine cures illness, harsh words guide action!"

…

A few days later, a video interview of Professor Wang Gongjue, oxygen tube in his nose, lying in his hospital bed, appeared on some media news.

In the video, Professor Wang Gongjue lay in bed, tears streaming down his face, one hand gripping the female reporter's slender hand, his voice choked as he condemned Gray Work.

"What is my status? I'm a university professor! How can this kid publicly slander me? Where's his conscience? Where's justice? He can slander my scholarship, he can slander my essays—but he directly attacked my character! I'm a teacher who nurtures students—he slandered me for wanting to live with flight attendants! What's his motive? How will female students at school view me now? How will their parents view me? How will my colleagues view me? I'm going to sue him! Yes! I absolutely will sue him! This scumbag—I'll ruin him completely!"

…

A few days ago, the four people Cao Sheng mocked had so far only one who remained silent: Professor Li Mubai.

Netizens online analyzed that it was because Zhongyuan Yidianhui's words criticizing Li Mubai were the mildest.

Previously, after reporters relayed Li Mubai's criticism of him, Cao Sheng quoted only one famous saying: "If the masses like it but he doesn't, who does he think he is?"

Perhaps Li Mubai truly felt he was criticized the least; in any case, he had not made any further public statements for the time being.

But even so, the media remained very excited.

After Huang Shuren, Gongyang Buyu, and Wang Gongjue responded in succession, many reporters came to Huizhou Normal College to find Cao Sheng, hoping to get further responses from him.

This time, however, the school gate was not so easy to enter.

The side door, which seemed never to close, had recently been shut; security personnel were added to the guardhouse, and both students and faculty entering or leaving the campus had to present their student or teacher IDs.

Those without these two documents also needed other forms of proof.

This, of course, posed no challenge to the resourceful reporters.

Reporters constantly found ways to sneak onto campus, but once discovered, they were quickly dragged out; for several days in a row, no reporter actually managed to corner Cao Sheng.

Under instructions from the school leadership, Cao Sheng was unable to leave the campus these past few days and was required to temporarily return to his dormitory.

His roommates, however, warmly welcomed his return.

But Cao Sheng found living there very uncomfortable; how could a dormitory compare to the comfort of the independent courtyard on Binjiang Road?

Moreover, during these few days of living on campus, he could only resume writing his drafts by hand.

This made the anger in his heart surge upward.

The more painful writing by hand was, the greater the anger in his heart became.