Each and every word struck like thunder, surged like a tidal wave.
They landed resoundingly in the ears of Tosaki Naohara, the delegation, and every teacher and student present.
At that moment, Jiang Fuyue was like a blinding sun, shining with a radiance so dazzling it hurt to look at—casting unfiltered light on everyone’s worldview and stirring deep waves of patriotism in their hearts.
The R-country representatives wore shocked expressions, but beneath the surface, their eyes brimmed with unease.
They were shocked that a so-called “ordinary” high school girl from China could be so outstanding, capable of standing toe to toe with R-country’s recognized genius youth.
What made them wary was that if even one descendant of China’s vast population could be this exceptional, then what heights would the future of China reach?
“So… the two-point win by the Goddess Yue was calculated?” someone finally grasped it.
“She lost by that margin back then, and now she wins by the same. Clean and poetic.”
“She even let him walk away with dignity. That’s called magnanimity, folks.”
“D*mn—Goddess Yue is too epic. I… I kinda want to cry, what do I do?”
“It’s not the top scorer you fear, it’s the top scorer who can control their score.”
“My knees just gave out—I feel like kneeling on the spot.”
“Look—Tosaki Naohara is cowering, speechless!”
“Hmph! If you really trace it back, Go originated from our country. What’s he even posturing about?”
“Using our stuff to shame us—classic case of eating from the bowl and cursing the cook.”
“We know what they’re like—no surprise there. We’re used to it.”
“He even had the gall to pick up the mic and question Sister Yue? Where does that kind of face come from? Does he even know what dignity or integrity means?”
“Sure enough, when someone loses their shame, they become unbeatable.”
In the rear of the auditorium, near the entrance where no students could see unless they turned around, stood Director Xiong of the junior high division. Perfect for expressing himself freely.
His fists were clenched, teeth gritted. With every sentence Jiang Fuyue uttered, he couldn’t help but cheer internally. A balding man in his forties was now burning with youthful passion.
There was light in his eyes—and love for his country in his heart!
“Well said—!” Suddenly, another shout came from nearby.
Director Xiong turned his head and saw Zhao Tiejun standing not far off, eyes brimming with tears, trembling all over from emotion.
Uh…
Wasn’t he not supposed to come?
“Director Zhao, here—” He walked over and handed him a tissue.
Zhao Tiejun saw it, his tiger-like face instantly tense: “What are you doing? You think I need a napkin? I don’t!”
Welp, awkward. How embarrassing.
Director Xiong quickly changed his tune: “Just to wipe your hands, there’s some chalk dust.”
And sure enough, there was some on the cuffs.
“Cough… Thanks, I didn’t notice earlier.”
Director Xiong waved it off and turned back to the stage. “Listen, isn’t Jiang speaking well?”
“She is indeed…” Zhao Tiejun let out a soft sigh. If you listened closely, you’d hear a wealth of complex emotion in that breath.
Just over half a year ago, in his eyes Jiang Fuyue was a poor student dragging down the whole class—skipping class, sleeping in school, grades a disaster.
Now, she was representing not just the top high school, but all of China. Standing on stage, using her intellect as a weapon and her will as a blade, defending national pride.
“Cough… Director Zhao, so you’re glad you came after all, right?”
“Mm.” Zhao Tiejun nodded. “Such a great role model. She should be onstage, for everyone to learn from.”
“Then… you won’t punish the high schoolers for sneaking out, right?”
Zhao Tiejun’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not! Who allowed them to cut class? This is unacceptable!”
“But didn’t you come too?”
Zhao Tiejun: “?”
***
With the music and chess rounds concluded, the literary round officially began.
As per the agreed rules, both sides would take turns posing questions. The questions must relate to a specific work or book from the other country’s culture. A correct answer equals victory; a wrong one means defeat.
For example: Tosaki Naohara might ask Jiang Fuyue about a certain passage from a Chinese author’s work.
In short, both would be answering questions about their own nation’s culture, posed by the other.
If they answered incorrectly—it would suggest that they knew less about their own culture than a foreigner.
An outright, stinging humiliation!
Judge: “Now, the R-country representative may present their question.”
Clearly prepared, Tosaki Naohara spoke up:
“In Classic of Mountains and Seas, ‘The Classic of Mountains,’ Volume Two, second section, second sentence—what is the second character?”
“Whoa—what kind of question is that?”
“He’s really pulling this stunt?”
“Definitely on purpose.”
“You’d have to memorize the entire Classic of Mountains and Seas to answer that!”
“We’re doomed. Who the heck memorizes the whole thing?! That’s insane!”
“……”
Just as everyone was bewildered and indignant, Jiang Fuyue calmly spoke up.
Her expression was serene. Her voice—unfazed:
“May I ask which edition of the Classic of Mountains and Seas you’re referring to? If it’s a known domestic version, such as Wu Chengzhi’s annotated manuscript from the Qing dynasty, or Guo Pu’s version from the Jin dynasty, then the variations are many. For instance, there’s the Ming dynasty joint printing by Wu Wan in the 13th year of Wanli, or the handwritten edition by Wu Kuan in the first year of Chenghua. But there’s no need to delve into all that.”
“If we go by the commonly recognized structure, the five parts of The Classic of Mountains are: Classic of the Southern Mountains, Western Mountains, Northern Mountains, Eastern Mountains, and Central Mountains. So your so-called Volume Two would correspond to the Classic of the Western Mountains.”
