Only three people were on the top floor of Meirui Building, and the wind outside the building swept through, making the papers on the desk rustle loudly. Were it not for the paperweights holding them down, the papers might fly outside like snowflakes.
Brother Pao sat carelessly on the desk, holding a smoking pipe, and said rather proudly, "They think they can compete with me in poetry, but not even in ten lifetimes. I don't even need to visit Wenyuan Bookstore to imagine their expressions—they'll be stunned at first, then amazed, and finally, they'll look at the author and rack their brains trying to remember when there was ever a 'Chen Chong' in the Imperial Capital."
