Chapter 100: The Sage’s Stratagem

Zhuang Buzhou was a veteran writer among the Sword Washing circle, wielding considerable influence. Although the younger writers didn’t entirely agree with his views, none dared to offend this seasoned elder and remained silent.

Yu Zhe’s expression darkened.

He and Zhuang Buzhou had clashed fiercely several times before over novel-writing techniques, their relationship nearly irreconcilable.

Originally, Yu had intended not to invite Zhuang this time, but after some careful consideration, he extended the invitation anyway. After all, there was no fundamental conflict between them; perhaps this could turn rivals into friends.

But who would have expected that Zhuang, having accepted the invitation and enjoyed the free food and drink, would maintain a perpetual scowl? Yu’s anger had long been simmering, but with others present, he restrained himself. However, no one anticipated Zhuang would now publicly insult Zhao Zejun!

The whole table fell silent, except for Linglong, who had just greatly benefited from Zhao Zejun’s insights. She murmured softly, “But Brother Zhuang, I think Brother Zhao makes a lot of sense...”

“Linglong, you’re still young. The world is complicated, filled with deceivers everywhere. How much do you really understand? I’m doing this for your own good!” Zhuang Buzhou cast a knowing glance at Zhao before speaking in a patronizing tone.

“Fuck you, Zhuang Buzhou! Who are you calling a liar?” Yu Zhe snapped, slamming his hand on the table and standing up, his face flushed.

“Whoever admits it, it’s them,” Zhuang shot a sideways glance at Yu, mocking. “Blood Cloud, I’ve long said your mind is full of vulgar violence, just like your novels. See? You’ve been exposed.”

Yu was about to lose his temper when Zhao Zejun patted his shoulder. “Sit down. In a discussion, everyone deserves a chance to speak.”

Then, turning his gaze to Zhuang, he said calmly, “Of course, discussions must be won with reason. Insults and slander are the tools of hooligans. We’re all literate people here; if your own standards are low, don’t drag others down with you.”

The younger writers nodded subtly in agreement. Zhao’s words were neither humble nor arrogant but polite and dignified. No wonder even the arrogant Blood Cloud respected this ‘Old Zhao.’ Compared to this, Zhuang Buzhou, who was several years their senior, seemed narrow-minded.

Zhuang snorted coldly. “Fine. I want to hear your brilliant ideas then.”

Zhao Zejun replied evenly, “Novels must carry thought and literary value. You don’t approve of formulaic writing, right?”

“Of course not. Formulas are assembly-line products without any technical merit. How could they have literary or ideological depth?” Zhuang said.

Zhao nodded. “Then let me ask you and everyone here: you all know the famous French writer Alexandre Dumas, don’t you?”

Suddenly, Yu recalled that Zhao had mentioned Dumas when teaching him novel-writing techniques. How had he forgotten that?

The others, however, didn’t know the story, and certainly didn’t see the connection between Dumas and formulaic web novels.

“A writer who hasn’t read Dumas is as ridiculous as a Confucian disciple who hasn’t heard of Confucius,” Zhuang said, his chin raised.

Dumas was a great French literary master, a treasure of human novels. His masterpieces included *The Count of Monte Cristo* and *The Three Musketeers*. He had even participated in the French Revolution and was interred in the Panthéon after death...

Zhao Zejun’s offhand mention of Dumas prompted Zhuang to recite the great writer’s biography almost by heart, revealing his solid literary knowledge.

Even Zhao nodded discreetly—without preparation, he could hardly recall so many details.

Da Song Fengyun added, “The Panthéon honors those who have made enormous contributions to humanity. The criteria for entry are extremely strict. Even Balzac and Maupassant were never admitted. The French Panthéon, the Italian Pantheon, and the Parthenon in Athens are known as the three great sanctuaries, all reserved for saintly figures!”

Zhuang scoffed as he surveyed the group. “I fail to see what your so-called formulaic writing has to do with the saints enshrined in the Panthéon.”

Zhao didn’t answer directly but continued smoothly, “Let’s analyze Dumas’s masterpiece, *The Count of Monte Cristo*.”

What Yu had once explained was now retold by Zhao with some variation, resonating once more in the private room.

*The Count of Monte Cristo* is a revenge story.

Edmond Dantès, the first mate of the Pharaon, was entrusted by the captain to deliver a letter to the Bonapartists but was betrayed by two despicable men and a judge, imprisoned in a dark dungeon. There, he met the prisoner Abbé Faria, who imparted various knowledge and skills before dying and revealed the secret of a treasure buried on the Isle of Monte Cristo.

After escaping, Dantès found the treasure, became fabulously wealthy, assumed the title Count of Monte Cristo, and meticulously planned his revenge—rewarding friends and punishing enemies.

Zhao was not retelling the plot but analyzing the story’s essence.

A lowly man is framed and falls into hardship; he encounters a white-bearded old man who grants him a “golden finger” (a special ability), which he uses to take revenge on his foes, gain wealth, respect, and social status, even seizing their riches, power, and women...

By the time Zhao finished this perspective, no one needed him to summarize—the whole room understood naturally.

The entire narrative hinges on the “golden finger”—the knowledge and wealth bestowed by the white-bearded old man.

The protagonist’s connections, gratitude, and revenge all depend on this golden finger...

Isn’t *The Count of Monte Cristo*’s writing formula fundamentally built around a golden finger? It is no different from the formulaic plots of web novels!

The complex gazes at Zhuang.

According to his logic, formulas are rubbish, misleading the young and showing no talent.

Then what is the great French master Dumas? An untalented impostor unworthy of writing novels?

What a joke! Anyone who thinks so is truly ignorant!

Zhao said slowly, “It seems that in our honored Elder Zhuang’s eyes, Dumas is garbage; and Elder Zhuang is far superior to Dumas. As for the rest of us, lacking the skill to ‘pose as great writers,’ we must learn from Dumas and write some harems for now.”

Linglong couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. Zhao’s remark was a double entendre, especially the phrase “Elder Zhuang,” which he deliberately intoned as a verb—“posing as a great writer.” It was almost a direct insult aimed at Zhuang.

The others caught the mockery too and stifled their laughter while sneaking glances at Zhuang’s expression.

Zhuang’s face shifted between pale and flushed, but he found no retort. After a long moment, he grumbled angrily, “That’s just sophistry.”

If before Zhuang could still claim seniority and some authority, now that Zhao had shattered his proud literary stature, no one paid him any mind.

All attention turned to Zhao Zejun.

With both hands pressed on the table, leaning forward slightly, he looked at the young writers and spoke slowly: “I believe that as long as it is reasonable, lawful, and does not violate public morals, no one should criticize others’ preferences or claim the right to deny them creative freedom. On the contrary, web novel writers are young dream-chasers who spend countless hours outside their jobs, with no income, pursuing their dreams. Such people deserve great respect.”

“Brother Zhao, I have nothing more to say—this one’s for you!” Suddenly, Cat Who Doesn’t Eat Fish, who wrote mythology stories, stood up, raised his glass, and downed his drink without sparing Zhuang a glance.

His stance was clear.

“Brother Zhao, I toast you too!” The others, fired up, ignored Zhuang’s seniority and marched up one by one to toast Zhao.

Zhao was drinking tea, and after the round, his belly was slightly full. He set down the cup and said, “Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll create a QQ group when I get home. Everyone can join, and if you know any passionate web novel writers, bring them in. We’ll discuss together...”

He glanced at Zhuang and added, “Of course, ours will be a commoners’ discussion group. We won’t invite those great masters who surpass Dumas lest we lower their standards.”

“I definitely want to join. I never pretend to be a great writer!” Yu Zhe chimed in enthusiastically.

At this point, no matter how thick-skinned Zhuang was, he could not stay seated. His face turning ashen, he stood and glared fiercely at Yu. “Blood Cloud, who do you think you are? I came here as a courtesy to you. Fine, I’ll remember this day!”

He left the room awkwardly, slamming the door hard behind him.

“Watch out pretending to be a great writer. This hotel is classy; if you break the door, you won’t be able to pay for it!” Yu added with a smirk.