In the 90s, you could acquire max-level skills every 14 days.

Zhang Yong could tell that this person suspected he wasn't the author and wanted to verify it on the spot.

He glanced at the panel at the edge of his field of vision.

[Writing Lv.3: Progress 91%]

In just a few hours, it will break 4.

"Okay, I'll change my clothes." Zhang Yong turned around and went into the house.

Li Guilan was standing at the kitchen door looking out, rubbing the dishcloth in her hand again and again.

"Son, is that car downstairs looking for you? Did you get into trouble outside?"

"What trouble could I possibly cause, Mom? That guy at the door works for the magazine." Zhang Yong pulled a clean white shirt out of the closet.

"Someone from the magazine contacted me to discuss something."

"A magazine? We've subscribed to a newspaper?" Li Guilan looked somewhat bewildered.

"No, they said they'd test my writing skills. Hey Mom, could you save some dinner for me tonight?"

Zhang Yong gave a brief explanation, changed his shoes, and Lin Xuechang went downstairs.

The moment he opened the car door and sat in the back seat, the cold air from inside the car hit his face, making him shiver.

These days, cars actually have air conditioning; that's pretty extravagant.

Lin Xuechang sat next to him, his briefcase resting on his lap, and told the driver, "Back to the office."

The car started and drove out of the alley.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, once you arrive at the publishing house, our editor-in-chief will give you a research topic."

"Don't be nervous, you only have two hours to write a short story on the spot."

"The subject matter is open, but it must be—"

Lin Xuechang smiled as he stared into Zhang Yong's eyes, but there was a hint of scrutiny behind his smile.

"It must be related to industry."

Zhang Yong leaned back in his seat silently, nodded, and closed his eyes to feel the speed and trajectory of the bus.

The blue light from the panel flickered behind my eyelids.

[Writing Lv.3: Progress 94%...95%...]

Zhang Yong's lips curved into a smile.

Two hours?

enough.

......

The car was parked in front of a six-story building outside the North Third Ring Road.

A wooden sign hangs at the entrance of the building, with white background and red characters—"October Magazine."

Zhang Yong followed Lin Xuechang up to the second floor.

The walls on both sides of the corridor were painted green, the terrazzo floor was a bit slippery, and black and white photos of Lu Xun and Ba Jin hung on the walls, with a thin layer of dust on the glass of the photo frames.

The two went straight to the conference room, where they found a neatly arranged long table as soon as they opened the door.

The ceiling fan creaked and groaned as it spun, the shadows of its blades sweeping across the tabletop.

Several people were sitting in the room, and the editor-in-chief, Zhou Deqing, had been waiting in the main seat for a long time.

Zhou Deqing was a man in his early sixties with completely white hair and deep wrinkles on his face. His reading glasses perched on his nose made his eyes appear very bright.

Blank sheets of paper had already been laid out on the long table, about twenty sheets in total, with a Hero brand fountain pen placed next to it.

Zhang Yong glanced at it and thought to himself, "Isn't this too hasty? Aren't they going to be polite and start testing right away?"

I really don't trust myself.

Fang Yuan, the female editor in the poetry editing room next door, leaned against the door frame, fanning herself with a palm-leaf fan.

She's been in this line of work for almost ten years, and she could tell at a glance that Zhang Yong was unreliable.

"This kid looks so young. His shoes are covered in dust; he must have just come back from a construction site."

"This has no scholarly air about it, this is really not good."

Fang Yuan muttered to himself.

Liu Jianguo still owed a written self-criticism, so he dared not respond and could only pretend to be dead.

Zhou Deqing remained calm and quietly observed Zhang Yong. He was unfazed by the situation and, after a moment, took the initiative to extend his hand.

"I am Zhou Deqing, the editor-in-chief of October."

Zhang Yong shook hands with the old man opposite him. His knuckles were hard, and one touch was enough to tell that he had developed them through years of writing.

"Editor-in-Chief Zhou, hello, my name is Zhang Yong."

"You're welcome."

Zhou Deqing returned to his seat, picked up his enamel mug, took a sip, and moistened his throat.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, I won't beat around the bush. I've read your manuscript, and it's well-written. However, we have rules for reviewing manuscripts."

"We should keep an eye on the key authors."

"Just write a short passage, as long as it's a complete story. We mainly need to align the writing styles."

Zhang Yong nodded in understanding; the editor-in-chief's words were indeed eloquent.

"No problem, Editor-in-Chief Zhou. Do you have any requirements regarding the topics?"

Zhou Deqing pondered for a moment.

"Let's write about the tech winter of the 90s that you mentioned in your article. Expand on that story and make it a short piece."

Fang Yuan leaned against the doorway and pursed his lips.

"Technology winter? Professor Zhou, that's a really unartistic title."

"As for those industrial-themed works, nine out of ten are written by retired old men, and the remaining one is plagiarized."

Why bother?

Zhou Deqing pretended not to hear, but looked at Zhang Yong in a gentle tone.

"The time is tentatively set at two hours."

"Keep it up, young man. Let's get started."

Zhang Yong nodded, pulled out a chair, sat down, and stroked the Hero fountain pen.

He closed his eyes and felt his skill panel.

[Writing Lv.3: Progress 99%...]

The number jumped.

[Writing Level 4!]

Breakthrough!

The barrier between Zhang Yong and the words disappeared; the words became an extension of his thoughts, and he even felt an urge to write.

Intuition guided his hand; he felt an overwhelming familiarity with the paper and pen before him.

He picked up the pen.

Write directly on the paper.

rustling.

……

"In 1992, on a muddy construction site in Pudong, a technician in overalls squatted on the ground, measuring a guide rail imported from abroad."

"When the scale is pulled to its maximum, the precision is off by two microns."

When Fang Yuan saw the words "silk" on the screen, he nodded slightly.

The two wires are 0.02 millimeters apart. That's what they often say in the workshop. This kid knows his stuff.

Zhang Yong continued writing.

The technician started by discussing the issue with the guide rails, which led to the conclusion that the import of core components was being hindered.

Manufacturers sell parts at high prices; a seal the size of a palm costs much more than the same weight of steel.

In order to keep the production line running, the factory had to borrow foreign currency from the bank to make purchases.

This technician went to Shanghai and the old industrial base in Northeast China, and then traveled all over the third-line factories in Southwest China, searching one by one for workshops that could process high-precision parts.

The workshop in Northeast China was built with Soviet aid in the 1970s. In winter, water freezes instantly. The experienced workers wore cotton gloves, and the technicians' faces turned red from the cold.

The Third Front factories in Southwest China were hidden in mountain valleys. The factory buildings were converted from air-raid shelters, and dirt would fall from above at any time. Young technicians would be hunched over the tables in the canteen drawing blueprints, taking a bite of a steamed bun and making a couple of pencil strokes.

Five minutes passed.

Fang Yuan had somehow moved from the door frame to the table, clutching a palm-leaf fan in his hand, but forgot to wave it.

ten minutes.

Liu Jianguo stood up, walked behind Zhang Yong, and stared at the paper with his slightly nearsighted eyes.

Fifteen minutes.

Everyone in the room stood behind Zhang Yong.

Lin Xuechang and several editors stood on the outer circle, tiptoeing to look inside.

Zhou Deqing was practically lying on the table, his reading glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose.

Zhang Yong was completely unaware.

He continued writing about how technicians visited workshops all over the country, but they could never gather a complete set of parts and could only squat at the factory gate in a daze.

Because the domestic steel could not meet the strength requirements, the blueprints were scrapped one after another. When foreign experts visited the factory, they pointed at the domestically made machine tool and laughed incessantly.

Then, Zhang Yong began writing about the turning point.

A retired lathe operator, 67 years old, got out of his hospital bed and took a bumpy three-day, two-night ride on a green train to find a technician at a factory in the southwest third-tier region.

The veteran lathe operator brought a set of handwritten process notes. He squatted next to the machine tool, pointing to the parameters in the notes with trembling fingers, and read them aloud to the young technician word by word.

When he read out the heat treatment temperature curve, the old man suddenly stopped.

The old man looked at the roaring lathe and wiped his face.

"These are all things my master taught me. My master's master came from Anshan Iron and Steel in 52."

"I'll teach you now. Remember it, and then I'll teach it to your apprentice later."

"Let's not forget."