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

That night.

Zhang Yong pulled the second blank envelope from under the lamp.

It already contained a copy of "The Whisper of the Machine".

He found a new sheet of paper, laid it at the beginning of the manuscript, and picked up his pen.

Write three words in the center of the title page.

Zhang Wengong.

The pen tip paused on the paper for a second.

Culture and craftsmanship – culture carries craftsmanship, and craftsmanship carries the Way.

pretty good.

Zhang Yong attached the letter of recommendation that Fang Qiming had sent through someone that afternoon to the beginning of the manuscript.

The two pages of letter paper featured Zhao Huaijin's neat and elegant handwriting and Fang Qiming's bold and expansive handwriting. Their signatures were placed side by side at the bottom, and the red seal was stamped neatly.

One is an associate professor, the other a lecturer. One specializes in literature, the other in mechanical engineering.

Two people jointly endorsed an 18-year-old adult education student.

This letter of recommendation carries more weight than any self-recommendation letter.

Zhang Yong put the recommendation letter, manuscript, and author biography into an envelope and wrote the following mailing address:

Editorial Department of "Workers' Life Weekly" of Beijing Daily

Recipient: Director Tan Xingguo

He carefully applied paste and sealed the opening.

In fact, before Zhao Huaijin suggested submitting the manuscript to other magazines, he had already decided that if October magazine could not accept his manuscript, he would leave it to Peking University for free.

If I could get published in Kyoto University's internal newspaper, I would definitely be able to get to know the industrial elites on campus through this article.

Perhaps they can form their own industrial group while still in university.

I just didn't expect Zhao Huaijin and Fang Qiming to value me so much, and to recommend me to the hugely circulated "Workers' Life Weekly".

Yeah.

From now on, I will use "Zhang Yong" to write serious literature, targeting intellectuals and cultural elites.

Using "Zhang Wengong" to write popular science articles aimed at workers, farmers, and millions of ordinary people.

One goes up, the other goes down.

The two lines will intersect sooner or later. That's when things will get interesting.

Zhang Yong grinned.

Once the paste dried, I put the envelope under my pillow, turned off the light, and went to sleep.

……

The next morning, Zhang Yong went to the post office and mailed the letter.

Registered mail, arrives in two days.

The sun had already risen when I left the post office.

The sounds of bicycle bells and bus announcements mingled together on the roadside, steam rose from the steamer baskets at the breakfast stalls, and fried dough sticks sizzled in the pans, creating a lively and bustling atmosphere.

Zhang Yong spent 55 cents to buy ten fried dough sticks and a big bag of soy milk, hung them on the handlebars, and rode back to Jinsong.

As soon as I turned into the entrance of the building, I heard footsteps in the hallway.

The door on the fourth floor opened.

Sun Jian's wife was carrying a bucket of trash downstairs, with curling irons on her head. She stopped as soon as she saw Zhang Yong.

She leaned against the stair railing, a smirk playing on her lips, and her voice came out sharp and sarcastic.

"Hey, isn't this Zhang Yong?"

"I heard that *October* magazine didn't want your new article?"

Zhang Yong looked up and glanced at her.

The news in the courtyard is very well-informed.

Seeing that Zhang Yong didn't say anything, Sun Jian's wife raised her voice a little higher.

"That's true. Writing really depends on talent. Not just anyone can write. One piece might be good, but two might not. Don't you agree?"

She tilted her head, and the curling iron wobbled.

"My son Sun Lei is going to report to the teachers' college in the next few days. The professors in the Chinese department said at the mobilization meeting that literary creation requires a solid foundation, which is not something that can be achieved overnight."

"Don't rush, take your time. Write for ten or twenty years, and maybe you'll make it."

She was about to continue rambling on, "Let my Sun Lei help you see where it's not written well," and "It's not shameful to get rejected once."

"Aunt Sun."

Zhang Yong raised the hand holding the fried dough sticks and soy milk, and stepped aside to make way for her.

"Please go ahead. If we chat any longer, these green flies will be all over you."

After saying that, he went upstairs.

Not a single unnecessary word was spoken.

Sun Jian's wife was standing there with the trash can in her hand. Before she could react, a fat green fly flew down from the trash can and landed on the back of her hand, startling her.

The trash can fell to the ground with a thud, scattering dirty vegetable leaves everywhere.

"Oh my god! How are we going to pick this up?!"

Sun Jian's wife's screams echoed down the stairs.

Aunt Liu, who lived on the third floor, watched the whole thing through the crack in the door, then turned and whispered to her husband.

"This young man from the Zhang family has become much more mature. In the past, his mother would have jumped up and down by now."

"They don't argue with her anymore." Old Liu's husband shoveled a mouthful of porridge. "It shows that they've become more educated and have more confidence, so they don't need to argue."

……

The letter was sent on the third day.

In the evening, the streetlights in Jinsong residential area had just been turned on.

Zhang Defa and Li Guilan went out for a walk at the appointed time.

Zhang Yong was reading a book called "Electrical Control of Machine Tools" that Fang Qiming had lent him in his bedroom, and the numbers on the panel were still flashing in the corner of his eye.

[Auto Repair Lv.3: Progress 85% (AFK... running at 30x speed)]

Grandpa Chen's voice came up again from the downstairs gatehouse.

"Zhang Yong! It's a phone call! It's not from the young girl, it's that old man from last time! He says his surname is Zhao! From Peking University! He says he has good news! He wants you to come pick him up right away!"

Zhang Yong went downstairs and picked up the receiver.

"Teacher Zhao."

Zhao Huaijin's voice clearly suppressed a laugh, but he deliberately maintained a composed demeanor.

"Zhang Yong, I have something to tell you."

"Please speak."

"Old Tan called me this afternoon."

Zhao Huaijin paused for a moment.

"He finished reading it."

"How so?"

"His exact words were—'Old Zhao, this is the best piece of science popularization on people's livelihood that we've received since the start of our weekly publication.'"

Zhang Yong tightened his grip on the receiver.

Zhao Huaijin continued, "Old Tan said it would be a pity if this article didn't make the front page; he's already decided that the front page of the next issue will be reserved for your 'Whispers of the Machine.' But—"

Zhang Yong waited.

"But he has one small condition."

"What are the conditions?"

"He wants to meet this 'Zhang Wengong' in person." Zhao Huaijin's tone was slightly helpless. "He said that he could tell from the writings that this person was not simple, but he still wanted to see for himself what kind of person he was."

"He's an old rascal who loves to join in the fun. He also wants to get to know you and invite you to visit their editorial office sometime."

Zhang Yong held the microphone, a smile slowly spreading across his lips.

"Sure, Teacher Zhao, when would be a good time to go?"

"I've set the date, the day after tomorrow at 2 PM. Please write down the address."

"Also, Old Tan is a bit of a jumpy person, so be prepared. He may seem rough around the edges, but he's actually quite sensitive."

"Okay, I'll be careful. Thank you, Teacher Zhao."

Zhang Yong hung up the phone and stood in the reception room for a while.

Grandpa Chen remained in the same position, leaning against the window, watching him expectantly.

"Is this a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Great news!"

Zhang Wengong.

See you the day after tomorrow.