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

No one spoke in the room.

A layer of fog formed on Fang Yuan's gold-rimmed glasses.

The pen tip continued writing on the paper.

Three years later, the first CNC machine tool with completely independent technology completed its first piece processing in the workshop in that mountain valley.

The old factory director squatted next to the machine tool, holding the shiny part in both hands, too excited to speak.

The workers nearby were initially silent.

Then someone started clapping.

A burst of applause erupted.

The old factory director suddenly raised the part above his head, tilted his neck back, and his face was covered with glistening tears.

"We—don't need to ask anyone for help anymore!"

The article ends with a single sentence.

"We should use technology as our blade to cut through this backward prison. Even though we are trapped, we should still look up at the stars."

Zhang Yong let out a breath and put down his pen.

He straightened the manuscript paper and gently pushed it over.

The ink on the pen barrel stained his knuckles in patches of dark and light.

"Finished writing."

Zhou Deqing took the manuscript paper with both hands.

He adjusted his glasses and began reading from the first word.

No one spoke in the room. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, its blades casting swirling shadows across the manuscript paper. The second hand of the wall clock ticked loudly.

Zhou Deqing turned to the third page.

Turn to page five.

When Fang Yuan read the part where the old lathe operator read his notes, he couldn't help but wipe away the tears behind his glasses.

I read the part where the old factory director held up a part and wailed.

Zhou Deqing took off his glasses, covered his face, and let out a long sigh.

The editorial office remained quiet for a long time.

It grew so long that Liu Jianguo found it hard to breathe.

"Editor-in-chief?" Liu Jianguo asked, his voice weak.

Zhou Deqing suddenly raised his head.

There was no sadness in his eyes, only awe.

"Genius..." Zhou Deqing took off his glasses, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and said in a hoarse voice.

"No, this is more than just genius."

He placed the manuscript on the table and smoothed the surface with his palm.

"This is a talent worthy of a nation."

"Xiao Lin!"

Lin Xuechang stepped forward: "What's up, Editor-in-Chief?"

"This article will be on the front page without a single word needing to be changed."

"Okay! Good!"

Lin Xuechang nodded vigorously, his eyes red-rimmed.

"The payment will be settled today." Zhou Deqing stood up, his chair slid back with a thud. "It'll be paid the front-page standard. No—it'll be paid the feature article standard. One hundred yuan per thousand words."

Liu Jianguo gasped. A newcomer offering this price?!

One hundred yuan for every thousand words. Zhang Yong just wrote nearly five thousand words. Five hundred yuan for one manuscript.

How much does Zhang Defa earn driving a truck in a cotton mill for a year?

"And another thing." Zhou Deqing turned to Zhang Yong, walked up to him, and solemnly extended his hands.

Zhang Yong paused for a moment, then stood up.

Zhou Deqing gripped his hand tightly.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, we would like to sign an exclusive commissioned article agreement with you. From now on, your articles will be given priority to 'October' magazine."

"We will take special care of you."

Zhang Yong felt the warmth of the old man's palm. It was dry, rough, and the knuckles were even harder than his own.

These are hands that have turned pages of manuscripts for decades.

"Okay." Zhang Yong nodded.

Fang Yuan stood to the side, using a palm-leaf fan to cover half of his face.

The eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were red, and the lips were pursed; the disdain from before had completely vanished.

She looked at Zhang Yong's profile, as if she wanted to remember this young man.

Liu Jianguo's face went from white to red, and then from red to purple.

The thought that this author's manuscript was thrown into the wastebasket and almost sold by weight as waste paper makes me want to crawl into a hole.

Zhou Deqing released his grip and turned to look at Liu Jianguo.

Just one glance.

Liu Jianguo immediately followed suit.

"I'll write the self-criticism today!"

"I'll put it on your desk tomorrow..." Liu Jianguo's voice was barely audible.

Zhang Yong capped the pen and put it back on the pen holder.

"Okay, the royalties can be sent to my dad's workplace. Zhang Defa, No. 3 Cotton Mill, Chaoyang District, Beijing."

He thought for a moment, then added another sentence.

"If everyone's done, I'll head back now. I have driving lessons tomorrow."

Zhou Deqing paused for two seconds, then smiled.

His smile stretched from the corners of his mouth all the way to his ears.

All the tension, scrutiny, and tears of the entire day melted away in that moment.

"Why are you leaving! You'll be walking until midnight! I'll take you!"

Zhou Deqing walked around the table, grabbed Zhang Yong's shoulder, and pushed him towards the door.

"How are you going to get back from so far away? Old Lin, you drive!"

Lin Xuechang nodded in agreement and rushed downstairs to start the car.

Zhou Deqing put his arm around Zhang Yong and walked out, pausing briefly as they passed Fang Yuan.

"Xiao Fang."

"Huh?" Fang Yuan came to her senses.

"Didn't you say that nine out of ten were ghostwritten by retired old men?"

Fang Yuan's face flushed red.

Zhou Deqing laughed heartily, put his arm around Zhang Yong, and went out the door.

……

A black Shanghai-brand sedan came to a stop downstairs in the Jinsong residential area.

Zhou Deqing and Lin Xuechang escorted Zhang Yong to the building entrance, and Zhang Yong politely invited them to come up for a meal.

"No, no," Zhou Deqing waved his hand. "We have to go back tonight to typeset and proofread, and ask the printing factory to work overtime. We need to get it published by Saturday."

He patted Zhang Yong on the shoulder.

"Go back and get some rest. Once the magazine is printed, I'll have Kobayashi send you a box of sample copies."

Zhang Yong watched the car leave the alley, his eyes glancing at the dashboard.

[Writing Lv.4: Progress 3%]

The indicator numbers lit up in the night.

He smiled slightly, turned around and went upstairs.

Before I could even take out my keys, the door slammed open.

Zhang Defa, wearing a white vest and with a white bandage wrapped around his waist, was rubbing his back with a smile on his face.

He was clutching a piece of paper in his hand, on which a string of numbers was written.

Li Guilan stood behind Zhang Defa, her apron still on.

"Son!" Zhang Defa shouted loudly, his voice so loud that the whole building could hear it.

"How much do you get paid per article?!"

Zhang Yong was taken aback.

How did you know I went to discuss payment for my writing?

Zhang Defa waved the note in his hand: "The magazine just called the reception office! They said they need you to sign some kind of agreement! They want you to go to the factory's finance department tomorrow to leave your bank account number!"

"My goodness! You can actually make money writing an article?!"

Li Guilan peeked out from behind Zhang Defa, her eyes smiling as she stared at Zhang Yong.

"How much? Tell Mom so she can have a laugh."

Zhang Yong did some mental calculations.

I should have written five thousand words today, one hundred words per thousand.

"Wu Bai".

The living room was quiet for a few seconds.

The note in Zhang Defa's hand fell to the ground.

"Huh? How much...how much?"

"Five hundred yuan. One article."

Zhang Defa felt a little dizzy and quickly grabbed the door frame for support.

He drives a truck at a cotton mill, earning a monthly salary of 300 yuan, plus a long-distance allowance, which brings him to about 350 yuan.

A mischievous child can write an article that's worth two months' salary for me.

"Moreover," Zhang Yong changed his shoes and walked into the living room, "they also want to sign a long-term agreement with me. I'll have to receive at least one article every month from now on."

Zhang Defa was stunned. He sat down on the sofa, holding his wife's hand.

"Gui Lan! Hit me! I'm feeling a little dizzy, am I dreaming?"

Li Guilan chuckled and pinched Zhang Defa twice before looking at her son.

"What are you dreaming about? Our son has made something of himself!"

Zhang Defa stammered for a long time before finally managing to utter a complete sentence.

"Tell your dad the truth! Did you secretly go to university behind my back?!"

"What nonsense are you talking about, Dad! I'm hungry!"

Zhang Yong quickly changed the subject, went to the kitchen, and lifted the pot lid.

The food in the pot was still warm; it was stir-fried shredded potatoes and stir-fried cucumber with eggs.

Li Guilan quickly filled a rice container and let Zhang Yong eat first.

Zhang Yong ate while glancing at the panel at the edge of his field of vision.

[Writing Lv.4: Progress 3%...4%...]

Five hundred yuan.

This money is enough for Zhang Yong to do many things he has planned.

However, there are still some shortcomings.

Zhang Yong picked up a piece of shredded potato with his chopsticks, pondering something else.

When writing short articles for magazines, he discovered that he could come up with plots when describing the interactions between workers, and his writing was also emotional and could move the editor-in-chief.

Having taken many physics and national defense classes in my previous life, I can still talk a bit about certain technical parameters and processes.

However, when it comes to specific figures and the actual cost, it's important to consider the actual figures.

It simply cannot withstand scrutiny from professionals.

If one day in the future I need to put those techniques from the story into practice, or if someone asks me how to do these things, I won't be able to answer them.

But as the saying goes, the more you know, the less you fear.

Zhang Yong swallowed the last mouthful of rice and put down his chopsticks.

I've figured out my next AFK skill.