The storm arrived even faster than Old Zhao had anticipated.

At two in the afternoon, an official WeChat account named "The Literary Monster-Revealing Mirror" published a long article.

The title was very direct—"120,000 Words in Two Days: Did He Really Write It?"

The article wasn't long, only about three thousand words, but every cut went straight for the jugular.

It had three core arguments.

First, Lu Zhixian had no prior record of public literary creation, yet his first attempt was a mature, serious piece of literature of 120,000 words, which defied common sense.

Second, completing 120,000 words in two days meant an average hourly output of over two thousand words. Given the uniform quality of the entire text, this level of efficiency and completion seemed more like the work of a team.

Third, Lu Zhixian had a management team and the capability for capital operations behind him, making him fully equipped to hire a professional ghostwriter and publish under his own name.

The article concluded with: "We do not deny that 'to live' is a great work. But a great work is not necessarily his work."

Once published, this article spread even faster than when "to live" first went online.

The reason was simple.

All previous doubts had been shut down. As for the work's quality, Song Yuanzhi had endorsed it.

As for his eligibility for the award, the official statement had stamped its approval.

With three judges signing jointly and Senior Judge Qin Baichuan's name carrying immense weight, no one could shake it.

But this angle of "ghostwriting" was brand new.

Moreover, it wasn't attacking the work; it was attacking the person.

Admitting the book was good was useless. I'm saying you didn't write it.

The anti-fans reacted as if they had grasped the final lifeline.

Within forty minutes, the hashtag #Lu Zhixian Ghostwriting Doubts# surged to eighth place on the hot search list.

The comment section split into two clearly divided camps.

"To be honest, 120,000 words in two days is indeed ridiculous. For a normal writer, five thousand words a day is already considered high output."

"Please, he was in music before. When did he learn to write novels? You can't just say he was born with it, right?"

"Here we go again. Every time Lu Zhixian does something new, you guys say it's impossible. When 'dispelling sorrow' came out, you said he couldn't do it. When he played the piano, you said he couldn't do it. Now you're saying he can't do it again. Haven't you had enough of being proven wrong?"

"Being proven wrong is one thing, but doubts are another. If he has the ability, let him prove himself. If not, don't blame people for asking."

Old Zhao's call came in.

"Did you see that article?"

"I saw it."

"I'll send a lawyer's letter."

"Send what lawyer's letter?"

"Defamation! Accusing you of ghostwriting without any evidence—if that's not defamation, what is?"

"He used a question in his article: 'Did he really write it?' And his arguments afterward are all 'possibly' and 'seems more like,' without any definitive conclusions."

"If you send a lawyer's letter, they'll just say they were raising reasonable doubts."

Old Zhao choked on his words.

"Then what do you plan to do?"

"No rush. Don't they want to see the process?"

"Then let's show them."

Old Zhao fell silent for three seconds.

"You're going to cause trouble again."

"It's not causing trouble."

"Every time you say it isn't, it always ends up being exactly that."

"At eight tonight, I'll start a livestream."

"A livestream? Livestreaming what?"

"Lay everything out and let them see for themselves. If they still claim it's ghostwritten after that, then there's nothing I can do."

Old Zhao instinctively wanted to stop him, but swallowed his words.

He knew Lu Zhixian too well.

When this man said "let them see," he was never bluffing.

"Fine," Old Zhao resigned himself to his fate. "Do you need me to coordinate with the platform?"

"No need, I'll start it myself."

"Does the livestream room need any setup—"

"No need for setup."

"At least change your clothes."

"The T-shirt I'm wearing is pretty clean."

Old Zhao took a deep breath.

He completely gave up.

At 7:55 PM.

Lu Zhixian's Weibo updated with a new post.

"Livestreaming at eight to talk about 'to live'."

Right at eight o'clock, the livestream room opened.

The camera view was simple to an appalling degree.

Lu Zhixian sat in front of the camera, wearing a gray crewneck T-shirt, his hair not particularly styled.

He nodded at the camera.

"I'm here."

The number of viewers in the livestream room surpassed four hundred thousand in the first thirty seconds.

Bullet comments instantly flooded the screen.

"He's here, he's here!"

"Brother Zhixian! What do you have to say about the ghostwriting allegations?"

"Don't bother explaining, just curse them out!"

"Dressed so casually today..."

He turned his computer screen slightly so the camera could capture the display.

"I understand why people say I used a ghostwriter. After all, writing 120,000 words in two days does sound a bit abnormal."

A wave of "Indeed" and "Modest" swept through the bullet comments.

"So today, no nonsense, let's look at the proof directly."

He opened his computer desktop and clicked into a folder.

The folder was simply named "to live".

...

Then, the bullet comments completely exploded.

"Holy shit, he really wrote it."

"120,000 words in two days. He actually typed it out himself."

"The comment section of that official account's article has been absolutely blasted, hahahaha."

"The Literary Monster-Revealing Mirror might as well rename itself the Literary Clown."

At this point, someone noticed a detail.

The comment section of that article, "120,000 Words in Two Days," was undergoing a drastic shift.

Three of the highly upvoted comments that had been clamoring "ghostwriting confirmed" ten minutes ago had already been deleted by the authors themselves.

No apologies, no statements—they just quietly vanished.

Meanwhile, the official account itself showed no movement.

It neither deleted the article nor responded.

They were probably waiting, waiting for the possibility of the livestream turning into a trainwreck.

But that possibility never came.

After Lu Zhixian finished showing all the records, he picked up his cup, took a sip of water, and glanced at the bullet comments.

Various voices mixed in the bullet comments, but one of them was being repeatedly spammed.

"How do you prove you can keep writing?"

This bullet comment was spammed no less than twenty times.

The tone didn't sound like doubt; it seemed like a genuine question.

Writing one "to live" didn't represent continuous creative ability. If he could only write this one book, then even if the suspicion of "ghostwriting" was cleared, labels like "writer's block" or "stroke of luck" would still be pinned on him.

Lu Zhixian looked at this comment and put down his cup.

He smiled.

"You want to see me write a passage live?"

The bullet comments went wild.

"Write! Write! Write!"

"I could watch this kind of livestream all night!"

"Writing live? Is he for real?"

Without waiting for the comments to quiet down, Lu Zhixian had already created a new document.

A white page, with the cursor blinking.

He looked down, thought for three seconds, and began typing.

With the camera aimed right at the screen, everyone could see characters jumping out one by one from behind the cursor.

No pauses, no backspacing; the sentences seemed to flow directly from his brain to the keyboard.

Five minutes.

A complete passage of text appeared on the screen.

It wasn't long, about six or seven hundred characters.

It was an independent short story fragment, unrelated to "to live," but the writing was clean and the rhythm was crisp. It depicted an old man sitting at the village entrance waiting for someone, from dusk until dark, before finally standing up and walking back.

The bullet comments completely stopped for two seconds.

Then they flooded out like a burst dam.

"Holy crap."

"Five minutes, written right on the spot."

"This writing quality... it's the exact same person as 'to live'."

"Is anyone still saying it's ghostwritten? Anyone want to speak up?"

Lu Zhixian closed the document without saving.

He looked at the camera, his tone very calm.

"Alright, that's about it. If anyone claims ghostwriting in the future, just throw this livestream recording at them."

"I don't really like wasting time on this kind of thing."

He paused.

"It's better to save my time for writing."

At this moment, the number of viewers in the livestream room broke 2.1 million.

At 9:10 PM, Lu Zhixian shut down the livestream.

He leaned back against his chair, stretched, and picked up his phone.

Old Zhao's messages had long since formed a long queue.

The latest one was: "That official account's article was deleted three minutes ago."

Lu Zhixian yawned and replied with an "Oh."

Old Zhao sent another: "Can't you show a bit of a winner's posture?"

"No need."

"You won, you know?"

"I never intended to fight this battle in the first place."

Old Zhao sent three dots and said nothing more.

Lu Zhixian swiped his screen and saw a message from Lin Shiya.

"That passage you wrote live just now."

"Yeah?"

"That old man waiting for someone."

"What about it?"

"He waited until the very end, but no one came."

Lu Zhixian stared at this sentence, momentarily stunned.

She had read into it. He had written that passage off the cuff without thinking too much, but when he wrote about the old man getting up to walk back at the end, he indeed had that image in his mind.

He replied with three words: "You saw it."

Lin Shiya didn't reply further.

Lu Zhixian put his phone down. Just as he was about to wash his cup, his phone buzzed again.

An unfamiliar number.

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up.

"Is this Mr. Lu Zhixian?"

"Speaking."

"Hello, I am a staff member from the Office of the Chinese Literature Award Review Committee. Elder Qin, Qin Baichuan, has entrusted me to contact you. I'd like to ask if you are free tomorrow?"

Lu Zhixian's movements paused.

"Elder Qin... wants to see me?"

"Yes. He said he wants to chat with you in person."

Lu Zhixian stood in the kitchen, still holding the white mug in his hand.

"What time?"

"Ten tomorrow morning. Elder Qin said the location can be chosen to accommodate you."

Lu Zhixian silent for two seconds.

"Sure."

He hung up the phone.

The mug was placed into the sink.

Qin Baichuan.

Seventy-eight years old. Lifetime judge. Winner of the Lifetime Achievement in Literature Award. Hadn't recommended a newcomer in thirteen years.

Now, this elderly man wanted to see him.

Lu Zhixian stared at the faucet for a moment, then suddenly smiled.

Alright.

Let's meet.