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

Office of Academic Affairs, Chuiyangliu Middle School.

Zhou Guoqiang sat at his desk, on which sat a freshly brewed cup of jasmine tea.

He held a pager in his hand, and on the table was a document stamped with a red official seal. It was a letter of intent for commendation for outstanding achievements recently issued by the district education bureau.

"Set an example for young people in the new era and carry forward the spirit of not giving up even after failing an exam..."

The bureau specifically requested that Zhang Yong return to his alma mater to give a motivational speech to the entire school and that the materials be submitted to the city.

Zhou Guoqiang's face looked as pale as a pig's liver.

He stared at the telephone on his desk, his finger hovering over the dial pad, but he didn't press it for a long time.

How are we supposed to fight this?!

A few months ago, I gave that kid a thorough dressing down. Yesterday, I shamelessly went to the professor's house, but I couldn't even get a word in edgewise.

I thought I'd let it go, since we'd already graduated. Why did I have to call him and beg him to come back to school to give a report?

If Zhang Yong told him to get lost over the phone, where would he put his face?

Zhou Guoqiang gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and dialed the phone number for the gatehouse of Jinsong Community.

"Beep—beep—beep—"

"Hey? Looking for Zhang Yong from unit 808. Yes... I'm Teacher Zhou from Chuiyangliu Middle School... It's urgent, really urgent!"

Zhou Guoqiang wiped the sweat from his forehead; his heart was pounding.

If this report doesn't go well, he'll be done with being the dean of students for good!

……

Zhang Yong rode all the way to the cotton mill.

As soon as I reached the guardhouse and squeezed the brakes, Old Liu, who was on duty, poked his head out of the window.

Old Liu, who was in his fifties, smiled broadly when he saw Zhang Yong, his face full of wrinkles.

"Hey! Zhang Yong! You're here!"

Old Liu stopped flipping through the register and simply pulled out a magazine from the drawer.

"October".

The cover was curled at the edges, and there was an oily fingerprint in the upper right corner. It was obvious that it had been passed around and seen by several people.

"Zhang... Zhang, the great writer! Could you please sign your name?"

Old Liu, who was over sixty years old, handed over the magazine with both hands, his fingers trembling.

Zhang Defa, who was waiting to the side, almost dropped his jaw.

"Old Liu, what are you up to? He's just a kid—"

"Old Zhang, what do you know!" Old Liu said anxiously, his voice rising eight octaves.

"The article your son wrote, the three old men in our gatehouse passed it around for a week! Old Zheng, who worked at Shougang for twenty years, cried his eyes out after reading it, insisting that your son wrote it about him!"

Zhang Yong paused for a moment, then took the magazine and signed his name on the title page.

He breathed a sigh of relief after finishing writing. His handwriting was much better than before, after all, he was now a Level 4 writer.

But Old Liu blew on the ink stains as if they were precious treasures and carefully stuffed them back into the drawer.

"Thank you! Thank you, Writer Zhang! I'll definitely tell Old Zheng to keep an eye on things when I get back!"

Zhang Defa was left standing to the side, his mouth twitching from ear to ear, but he didn't feel ignored. Instead, he straightened his back and walked in with his head held high.

He took much bigger steps.

……

Once inside the factory area, things started to go wrong.

As Zhang Yong rode his bicycle past the warehouse, two female spinning workers wearing white masks walked towards him.

Upon seeing Zhang Yong, the two paused, exchanged a glance, and then a barely suppressed sound came from behind them.

"It's him! It's him! The one who wrote 'The Ingenuity of Craftsmen in a Great Nation'!"

"So young! More handsome than I expected!"

Zhang Yong kept his head down and pedaled hard, pretending not to hear.

Useless.

After passing the textile workshop, the old craftsman carrying the tool bag also stopped.

A middle-aged man in blue overalls blocked Zhang Yong's car. His hands were covered in oil, and he grinned.

"You're that kid from the Zhang family? The one who wrote about major national projects? I heard that your article fee is equivalent to half a year's salary for us?"

Zhang Yong had no choice but to get out of the car.

"Uncle, not that much, just five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred!" The old master craftsman slapped his thigh. "My goodness! My monthly bonus is only twelve yuan!"

Three or four more people gathered around. A young worker took out a notebook and handed it to them, while another female worker took out a pen from her pocket.

"Dear Writer Zhang, could you please sign your name?"

"I want one too! Sign mine too!"

Zhang Yong signed each name one by one with his pen until his wrist ached.

Zhang Defa stood five meters away, hands on his hips, his pride barely concealed.

But Zhang Yong felt uneasy at all.

The "great writer Zhang" that these people see is all fabricated by the system.

Writing level 4 is just an entry-level skill in the real literary world.

If he were truly removed from the system, he wouldn't even be able to write a decent college entrance exam essay based on his own abilities.

He took a deep breath and pushed the cart toward Old Zhao's tin shed.

I've only taken two steps.

"Comrade Zhang! Wait a minute!"

A young man in his late twenties jogged over, wearing a slightly worn white short-sleeved shirt with a Hero fountain pen clipped to his collar and a Seagull brand camera in his left hand.

The man was fast on his feet and blocked Zhang Yong's path, grabbing the front of the car.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a staff member from the publicity department, you can call me Xiao Shen."

Zhang Yong nodded helplessly and turned to leave again.

Xiao Shen, however, was quite blunt and firmly blocked his way.

"Comrade Zhang! I've heard so much about you!"

As he spoke, he raised his camera, and the flash went off, blinding Zhang Yong with a blinding white light.

"This one's good! Front view! Two more, please!"

Xiao Shen didn't give him any time to react, and kept talking while taking pictures.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, it's like this. Our factory has a task now; the district requires all units to submit materials on advanced deeds."

Our publicity department is planning to write a commendation article for female textile workers, and I've already thought of a title—"Women Are Just as Indispensable as Men, Shining Brightly on the Textile Front Line!"

He gestured with his hand in the air.

"But, the thing I wrote... the boss said we need to find someone with the skills to revise it."

"I immediately thought of you! You're from our cotton mill family and a contributing writer for 'October,' so you're the perfect candidate for this task!"

Zhang Yong looked at Xiao Shen.

"no."

Xiao Shen's smile froze for a moment.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, please reconsider. This is a political task for the factory; the higher-ups are urging us on—"

"That's your political task, not mine," Zhang Yong said calmly. "Your propaganda department should have your own people write the articles."

Xiao Shen's expression changed.

He slung the camera over his shoulder, and his voice wasn't as warm as before.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, I'm here on behalf of the Propaganda Department to invite you."

"You're from a cotton mill family, and now that you're famous, isn't it only natural for you to write an article for the factory?"

Zhang Yong did not respond.

Xiao Shen took half a step forward, stretched his neck, and spoke in a sarcastic tone.

"So you've become arrogant now that you're famous, huh?"

"Don't forget the well-digger when you drink the water; you've forgotten that way way too quickly!"

He turned his head and glanced at the workers surrounding him, then raised his voice again.

"His dad drove a truck at our factory for over ten years, and he got all his food and drink from the factory. Now look what's happened—he can't even help us out with a simple favor!"

"What do you call this? This is called forgetting your roots!"