When Zhang Heng opened his eyes, he found himself in a slightly dark alley.
At the end of the road was a small brick building with two stories high on both sides. It looked quite old, and Zhang Heng could barely infer from the building materials and style that it was built after the nineteenth century.
He was not in a hurry to go in. Instead, he looked around and saw the pedestrians hurrying past the alley, the cigarette vendor, and the grocery store across the street. Just when he wanted to continue looking, a sudden clap of thunder came from the sky, indicating that there would be a storm soon.
So Zhang Heng didn't stay in the same place anymore. Finally, he stepped forward and walked towards the brick building.
The small building was much quieter than Zhang Heng imagined. Only orange light shone through the crack of the door, and there was no noise.
Zhang Heng knocked on the door.
After a while, a middle-aged man who looked like a butler poked his head out from the door. "How may I help you?"
"I received an invitation to attend the salon here." Zhang Heng paused. His eyes bypassed the middle-aged butler and landed on the living room behind him. He found that it was empty, and there were no guests.
"Sorry, did I come early?"
"No." The middle-aged butler smiled. "The salon has begun, but it's not here. Can I see your membership token?"
"Membership token?" Zhang Heng frowned slightly. On the way here, he had already checked his pockets. Other than the game items he brought with him, he did not find anything extra. However, Zhang Heng quickly thought of something and took out Conan Doyle's pen.
The middle-aged butler took the pen, put on his glasses, looked at it carefully, and then handed it back to Zhang Heng respectfully with both hands. "Welcome to the home of geniuses. Please follow me."
Zhang Heng followed the middle-aged butler into the house, and then the two walked through the living room and into the yard. The middle-aged butler opened a gloomy cellar that looked like the one used by the murderous villain in a horror movie to imprison the protagonist. After that, he gestured for Zhang Heng to enter.
"Are you serious?" Zhang Heng raised his eyebrows.
"Don't look at me. Bravado and dramatic treatment have always been the favorite of authors." The middle-aged man who looked like a butler shrugged. "To be honest, I don't really understand this kind of bad taste."
Zhang Heng looked at the big iron lock at his feet again. There were some bloodstains on it.
"Don't worry, it's just an ochre pigment."
"Very impressive," Zhang Heng commented.
After saying that, he no longer hesitated and strode in.
It had to be said that although the atmosphere in front of the cellar was very scary, the environment inside was actually not bad. It was just a little damp, but the air was clear. Other than some earthy smell, there was no other smell.
For a tunnel, one could not ask for more.
After walking for about five minutes, the terrain began to rise again. The middle-aged man, who looked like a butler, stopped in front of a set of iron stairs. He handed the oil lamp in his hand to Zhang Heng for safekeeping while he pushed the manhole cover over his head.
At this time, the sky was already raining, and the two returned to the street. As soon as they climbed out, they saw a carriage parked on the side of the road.
The middle-aged man who looked like a butler took the oil lamp back from Zhang Heng. "This is as far as I can go. Martin will send you to the salon."
"Martin? Is this a joke from 'The Adventure of Riding a Goose'? What about you? I haven't asked for your name yet. "
"Consel." The middle-aged man smiled, then bowed again. "I sincerely wish you a flood of ideas every day."
"'Twenty Thousand Miles Under the Sea'. That's very appropriate. Thank you."
After saying goodbye to Consel, Zhang Heng boarded the carriage. When he closed the door, the coachman, Martin, grabbed the reins in his hand.
As soon as Zhang Heng got on the carriage, he smelled the fragrance of jasmine, and he began to feel drowsy. However, this drowsiness was different from when he inhaled a large amount of anesthetic. Zhang Heng knew that he could wake up at any time. This was more like a way to kill time because the journey would be too boring.
So, Zhang Heng relaxed his body, leaned his head against the carriage, and took a short nap.
After an unknown period of time, the carriage stopped again.
This time, it stopped on a lawn. Martin opened the door for Zhang Heng, and a huge mansion appeared in front of Zhang Heng. The mansion was built halfway up the mountain, covering an astonishing area.
Zhang Heng took a quick glance at it, and he saw a garden, a swimming pool, a forest, and even a golf course.
This time, a female housekeeper stood in front of the gate to greet him. However, she was extremely short, only less than four feet tall. She had a petite body, pointed ears, and a pair of big feet. When she walked, she made almost no sound.
A name immediately came to Zhang Heng's mind.
— Hobbit.
This was a fantasy race created by the English writer and poet Tolkien in his "The Lord of the Rings."
"It seems that you have recognized who I am, my most distinguished guest," the female hobbit butler said. "But how should I address you?"
Before Zhang Heng could speak, she immediately added, "You don't have to tell me your real name. Everyone here calls each other by their pen names or the names of the characters in their respective books."
"Zhang Heng."
The female hobbit butler was a little surprised to hear that.
"Actually, I am preparing a novel. This is the name of my new protagonist," Zhang Heng said calmly.
"Then I believe that you will find a lot of inspiration here," the female hobbit said as she opened the door behind her.
This time, Zhang Heng heard a commotion coming from inside before he even entered the door.
"If you ask me, all the popular books are all bullsh * t! Popular authors are the dogs that produce sh * t. The only thing they do is to wag their tails and cater to the public's terrible taste and abnormal appreciation! It is because of their existence that the threshold of this industry has been pulled down infinitely, "a loud male voice said.
"I disagree, Mr. Bastard. The purpose of our writing is not to be the enemy of the public. I don't deny that some outstanding works that were ahead of their time were seriously underestimated, but you can't hate those authors who made money just because you didn't make much money in your lifetime," a strong female voice said.
"Don't doubt me. I am talking about you, Professor Mag. You and the things you have written have proven what I said!"
You've already exceeded your reading limit for today. If you want to read more, please log in.
Login
Select text and click 'Report' to let us know about any bad translation.
