In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 91, Section 90: The Results of Effort

The several worker innovation cases carefully selected and highlighted by Yang Guangming are like gems set in the main trunk, placed in key positions.

They are the most vivid and convincing testament to the saying "practice makes perfect" and "the wisdom of the masses is boundless".

When writing about Old Zhang, he even added a sentence: "Master Zhang often said, 'Whether the boiler burns well or not, you must keep track of the numbers in your mind. Wasting a drop of water or a piece of coal is a crime against the country.'"

The goal is to convey the veteran workers' awareness and sense of responsibility through simple language.

In the dead of night, the vast factory area fell silent, with only faint sounds occasionally drifting from afar.

In the archives room, the fluorescent lights were still humming.

On the table were piles of reference materials and drafts filled with handwriting and logical lines.

Yang Guangming's eyes were bloodshot and covered with spiderweb-like blood vessels, and his eye bags were bluish, but his mind was in a strange state of high excitement and focus, as if all fatigue had been shielded from him.

He completely abandoned all flowery language, empty slogans, and lengthy preambles, focusing all his attention on one point:
Using the most concise, accurate, and powerful language, the article presents the Hongxing Factory's pragmatic explorations, solid achievements, common difficulties encountered, and clear and feasible future direction on the path of technological innovation in a clear, organized, and robust manner.

He meticulously considered every sentence and every word, striving for conciseness, power, and to the point.

The sky outside the window changed from a deep, inky black to a profound navy blue, and then gradually revealed the gray-white of the eastern horizon, like a slowly unfolding ink painting.

The first faint bird call came from afar.

Yang Guangming finally put down the worn-out, Hero brand blue-black fountain pen, leaving a full period on the last page of the manuscript.

He let out a long, deep sigh, as if releasing all the burdens of the night.

He carefully examined the neatly copied manuscript from beginning to end, his eyes sharp as an eagle, to ensure there was no mistake or omission and no blurry handwriting.

Then, as a habit, almost instinctive action ingrained in his bones, he found carbon paper and a few sheets of white paper, and carefully and meticulously left a clear draft—this was the experience he had gained from a profound lesson, a shield to protect himself.

After doing all this, he felt an overwhelming wave of exhaustion wash over him.

He rubbed his throbbing, leaden temples and walked to the enamel sink in the corner, turning on the cold iron faucet.

The sound of rushing water was especially loud in the silence.

He scooped up the icy cold water and splashed it hard on his face, over and over again.

The icy stimulation felt like countless fine needles pricking his skin, instantly dispelling his heavy drowsiness and invigorating him.

He looked up, wiped the water droplets from his face, and gazed at the steamy washroom mirror on the wall. His reflection showed a pale face, dark circles under his eyes, and stubble on his chin, making him appear unusually tired. But his eyes shone with an astonishing brightness, like tempered, cold stars—clear, resolute, and burning with an indomitable fighting spirit.

He turned to look out the window, where a soft, vibrant pale light was beginning to appear on the eastern horizon, heralding the approaching dawn of a new day.

The exhaustion from a night of fierce fighting weighed heavily on my shoulders, but my body was surging with high morale and an unwavering certainty that dawn was about to break and the dust would settle.

He looked at himself in the mirror and nodded silently and firmly.

In the afternoon, near the end of the workday.

Relaxing music began playing over the factory's loudspeaker, signaling the end of the workday. Yang Guangming stood outside the heavy wooden door, painted a deep green, and took a deep breath, as if trying to expel all the stale air, tension, and fatigue from a sleepless night from his lungs.

He held in his hand the speech draft, which he had painstakingly prepared overnight and checked word by word to ensure it was correct. The paper seemed to still retain the faint scent of ink and the warmth of his fingertips.

He raised his hand and, with a clear and rhythmic tapping of his knuckles, knocked on the door that symbolized the core of power.

"Come in." Zhao Guodong's steady and familiar voice came from inside the door, carrying a hint of barely perceptible expectation.

Sunshine Ming pushed open the door and went in.

The office was filled with a faint smell of tobacco and the unique aroma of ink and paper.

Zhao Guodong was looking at a report when he heard the sound. He looked up and his sharp, hawk-like eyes swept over him instantly, carrying a scrutinizing weight, as if trying to pierce through the paper and reach the heart.

"Director Zhao, I have finished writing the first draft of the speech you requested. Please review it."

Yang Guangming stepped forward, stood half a meter in front of the desk, and steadily handed over the manuscript with both hands, his movements respectful yet neither servile nor arrogant.

His voice was hoarse from staying up all night, but it was unusually clear and steady. His eyes were clear and bright, and he met Zhao Guodong's gaze frankly without flinching.

Zhao Guodong took the manuscript; it was a thick stack and quite heavy.

He didn't say much, but gestured with his chin to the hardwood chair opposite the desk: "Sit."

He immediately lowered his head, his gaze like a searchlight fixed on the manuscript in his hand, immersing himself completely in it, as if he had shut out everything from the outside world.

A near-frozen, breathtaking silence fell over the office. Only the rhythmic rustling of papers being turned and the occasional soft sip from Zhao Guodong's enamel mug bearing the word "Award" remained.

Yang Guangming sat quietly in the chair, his back straight as a pine tree, his hands resting flat on his knees.

His heart was like a fully drawn bowstring, taut yet calm.

He could clearly hear the steady, powerful beat of his heart in his chest, thump, thump, each beat striking the slowly flowing scale of time. He focused his gaze on his nose, his breath becoming light and long.

Time flowed by, each second seemingly extra thick and long.

Zhao Guodong observed very carefully, but not very quickly.

His reading bears the marks of reflection:

His brows would sometimes furrow slightly as he pondered, forming a deep "川" (river) character, and fine lines would appear on his forehead.
Sometimes, when reading a certain passage, one's expression suddenly relaxes, and the corners of one's tightly pursed lips may even twitch upwards in a barely perceptible slight arc—a sign of agreement.

Long, slender fingers occasionally brush lightly across the bottom of a sentence, as if savoring the power of the language, or pause briefly beside a key data point, the fingertips unconsciously stroking the paper, as if confirming its authenticity.

Finally, he turned to the last page.

He didn't look up immediately, but gently closed the manuscript with a soft "snap".

He leaned back against the chair, his knuckles tapping unconsciously and rhythmically twice on the stiff manuscript cover: "tap, tap."

(End of this chapter)