"I know that. But... wasn’t it supposed to be a *professional writer* giving guidance? Don’t tell me *you’re* that so-called ‘professional’?"
She eyed me up and down suspiciously, her expression screaming *Yeah, right*.
Truth was, I did make a living at this—but "professional writer" still felt like an overstatement. Teacher Li really knew how to flatter me.
"I pictured some balding scholar in his forties. Wait—you’re a student here, right?"
"Yeah. Second-year high school."
She clicked her tongue. "A whole year younger than me? Can I even trust you?"
*Not trustworthy. Not at all... Just let me go home.*
I wanted to say it. But if I walked out now, Teacher Li would drag me back for night study hall tomorrow for sure.
"Can’t promise much, but I know novels. Hand me what you’ve written. I’ll give feedback."
I held out my hand for her manuscript.
"Out of nowhere? Hold on."
She’d already gathered the scattered pages onto the podium. Now she clutched them to her chest, hesitating.
"Come on—it’s for a contest anyway. What’s the harm in showing me early?"
I reached for it. She slapped my hand hard.
"Ow! What was that for?"
"I haven’t decided if I’ll show you. Do you even *know* how to write?"
"Just treat me like any reader. Stop stalling. Hand it over."
"Fine—but heads-up: this story’s got a massive world. You’ll need to focus to get into it."
"Got it."
"And... it’s super depressing. Don’t come crying to me if you tear up."
"...’’
After endless coaxing, Gong Xinyan finally surrendered the manuscript. I nearly sighed in relief.
*Why does it feel like I’m begging for this? She’s the one who asked for help.* Annoying.
But complaining wouldn’t fix anything. If her draft wasn’t terrible, I’d just give generic praise, nitpick a few typos, and call it a day—
I stared at the title page. Neatly written: *The Elagonda Abyssal Boundary*.
"...’’
*How do I even start criticizing this mess?*
*Stay calm. Titles don’t matter. Maybe the story’s good...*
I turned the page and read carefully, line by line.
Gong Xinyan stood beside me, silent and tense, eyes flickering between hope and dread.
Thirty minutes later, I set down the manuscript. My face probably looked like I was constipated.
*Bad. So bad. If I don’t vent this critique soon, I’ll explode.*
"Well?" she whispered, fists clenched, palms slick with sweat.
"...’’
*Help. How do I gently tell someone their writing’s trash? This paper was worth two bucks before you scribbled on it. Now it’s scrap.*
*What do I do? Urgent.*
"Hah. Speechless? Fake ‘professional,’ huh? Should’ve known—a second-year student." Her voice dripped with scorn when I stayed quiet.
I almost choked on my own restraint. *I was being nice for your sake, you ungrateful—*
*Screw it. Truth time.*
*If you cry, that’s on you.*
I flipped open the manuscript. "Since you insist—I’ll be blunt."
"First: this is a short story, right? But over half of your 10,000 words are worldbuilding. Planning a *Lord of the Rings* sequel?"
"My world’s too big! Readers won’t get it without explanations!"
"Will they even *understand* this jumbled mess? I sure didn’t."
She flinched like I’d struck a nerve. "That’s *your* problem! Anyone who actually tries will get it!"
"I’m speaking for regular readers. Is your story only for geniuses? And worst of all—it’s supposed to be about interdimensional war, but you wrote a romance! What was the point of all that setup?"
"But—"
"Every page drips with fake-deep angst. Your ‘lyrical’ descriptions? Just hollow fluff. You’ve got a disease—pseudo-intellectual disease."
Gong Xinyan’s face flushed crimson. Her whole body trembled.
"It’s not *that* bad! You’re just mad I slapped your hand earlier, aren’t you? You’re doing this on purpose!" Her voice cracked, fading to a whisper. "You *are*, aren’t you...?"
*She’s about to cry. Did I go too far?*
*Hmph. She pinned me to this desk like a warlord seconds ago. Now playing victim? Not falling for it.*
I cut through it. "You know it too. Your story... is really bad."
*Your story is really bad.*
Gong Xinyan froze. Tears welled in her wide eyes. She looked down, lips quivering. "Writing... was my dream..."
Suddenly—
*WHAM!*
Her foot slammed into my stomach.
"I didn’t write this for *you* to like! You don’t understand anything! Waaah—!"
She snatched her manuscript, sobbing as she fled the multimedia classroom.
"Ugh! Dying—dying—*dying*! Why me?!"
I curled up on the floor, clutching my gut.
*That freak has martial arts training, doesn’t she? That spinning kick was textbook-perfect. With skills like that, why write novels? Be a superhero! Open a kung fu school! Star in action movies!*
Her kick hit my stomach dead-on. Nausea surged. I dry-heaved, unable to stand.
*Teacher Li set me up. That kick showed me my parents and Uncle Jian waving from heaven’s gates.*
*Never. Setting. Foot. In this literature club. Again.*
