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

"I didn't see it, I can't read."

Old Zhao was still fiddling with his tools, not even looking up.

"I saw it. All six of us in the dorm finished sending it first thing this morning."

"That's right. Old Chen from our workshop got ripped off because of those four key points about changing the oil. The oil in that container was the wrong color, but he didn't take it seriously and lost several tens of dollars."

"Which unit does this cultural worker work for? It's written so clearly, probably the machinery factory."

"You've guessed wrong. It's Zhang Wengong from the Continuing Education College of Beijing University, a proper scholar, as mentioned in the author's introduction."

The group of people chatted away, flipping through the weekly magazine with a loud rustling sound.

Zhang Yong lowered his head, walked straight past the crowd, and squatted down next to the platform to help Old Zhao disassemble the carburetor.

When the oil needle is pushed out, the oil film in the float chamber is thin, the oil passage is half blocked, and the sludge is quite sticky.

Sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the metal sheet and fell on his shoulders.

Lunch break at the cotton mill canteen.

A long line formed in front of the food window.

Zhang Yong and Zhang Defa carried their lunch bowls and found a corner seat to sit down. Behind them, several tables of workers were holding the latest issue of "October" magazine, having just turned to the first page.

One person read two paragraphs and frowned.

"What kind of nonsense is this?"

Another person leaned over to take a look and pursed their lips.

"Let me see... 'The afterglow of the setting sun spills across the eastern land like golden silk'—is this poetry?"

"Last time, the book 'The Spirit of a Great Nation' written by that young man from the Zhang family was so good. The old lathe operator in it was so well-written. Why is it written by someone else this time? It's a returnee named Chen Ping."

"Exactly, Zhang Yong's article was much more interesting. I wonder if that young man will write another one next time."

"So what if you're a returnee? How can you write like this and embarrass yourself in public?"

"Just find a pot and stew yourself, add some salt, and you'll have a perfect pot of turtle soup."

Zhang Defa held the rice bowl, shoveled a mouthful of rice into his mouth, and then slightly raised his eyelids.

He couldn't help but smile, but he forced it back, his face almost contorted in pain.

He lowered his head, forcefully stuffed the last half of the cornbread into his mouth, chewed very slowly, and managed to swallow the laugh.

……

Three days later, Zhao Huaijin arrived by bicycle.

When I arrived, it was evening, and the sun was about to set, casting long shadows on the locust trees along the roadside.

Zhao Huaijin leaned his bicycle against the wall of the apartment building, went upstairs, and knocked on the door.

As soon as Li Guilan opened the door, Zhao Huaijin went straight into Zhang Yong's bedroom.

He sat down, took off his glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and then spoke.

"Old Tan called and asked me to act as a bridge."

Zhang Yong slammed the book face down on the table and turned around.

"The first week's circulation figures are in." Zhao Huaijin paused for a moment, "This issue was reprinted twice, breaking their weekly record for the same period in nearly eight years."

Zhang Yong didn't speak, waiting for him to continue.

"Old Tan's implication is that he also wants you to sign a long-term contribution agreement and receive the highest possible royalties." Zhao Huaijin's expression remained solemn.

"In addition, someone from the Workers' Publishing House also saw it and asked Lao Tan to pass on a message, saying that they are interested in contacting you to publish a book and want to continue this series."

The bedroom was quiet for a few seconds.

Outside, Li Guilan was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, the sound of her knife striking the cutting board echoing in.

Zhao Huaijin suppressed a smile, but insisted on maintaining his composure. He coughed and sighed.

"See? I told you choosing our Chinese Literature Department would have been so great. I'd teach you step by step, but you insisted on going into mechanical engineering. In the end, writing articles is still the most moving thing you can do."

He raised his head, looked at Zhang Yong seriously, and sighed again.

"You are a child who is both intelligent and skilled."

"Surrounding the cities from the countryside—that's a brilliant move!"

Zhang Yong couldn't help but laugh.

"Professor Zhao, if you had known I would turn out this way, would you have firmly refused to let me choose the Mechanical Engineering major?"

Zhao Huaijin paused for two seconds, then waved his hand.

"Sigh, you silly child, I was just saying that; your personal wishes are the most important."

He stood up, dusted off his trousers, took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, and placed it on the table.

"Keep this phone number at Lao Tan's house. He said you're welcome to come and discuss the contract anytime, and he'll treat you to the old Beijing-style fried noodles near his house next time."

Zhang Yong placed the note under the lamp and saw Zhao Huaijin out the door.

In the stairwell, Zhao Huaijin went down two steps, then suddenly turned back.

"Oh, by the way, there's something I need to tell you. Fang Qiming asked me to pass on a message to you."

Zhang Yong waited.

"He said that the lab equipment will arrive next semester, including a new CNC milling machine, and he's saving it for you to start using so you can be the first to get your hands on it."

After a pause, Zhao Huaijin added a sentence, his tone very fair.

"Your acceptance letter should be arriving soon. Don't worry about registering then. Fang Qiming cares about you a lot."

Zhang Yong nodded and watched Zhao Huaijin walk downstairs in her slippers.

......

That night, in the editorial office of October.

Fang Yuan sat by the window, with two magazines on the table: "October" on the left and "Workers' Life Weekly" on the right.

She opened the weekly magazine, pressed her finger on the page, stopped at a certain paragraph, read two lines down, then opened the original issue of "October" and found "The Ingenuity of Great Craftsmen".

I compared the before and after for a while.

Lin Xuechang came in through the door, put down the thermos, and glanced at Fang Yuan.

"What are you looking at?"

Fang Yuan didn't look up.

"Old Lin, don't you think these two articles are written in a similar style?"

Lin Xuechang walked over, bent down, glanced at the two open pages of the two magazines, and said nothing.

Fang Yuan raised her head and met his gaze.

Neither of them spoke again.

After a while, Lin Xuechang straightened up, picked up the copy of "Workers' Life Weekly," and turned to the author's biography section.

Zhang Wengong, Continuing Education College, Beijing University, no further information available.

He put the magazine back down, his gaze lingering on those few lines of text for a long, long time.

......

It's 11:30 p.m.

Only the desk lamp was on in the guard room, and Grandpa Chen was almost dozing off, his head nodding off.

The phone rang.

Grandpa Chen slowly sat up straight and picked up the receiver.

"Hello, this is the gatehouse of Jinsong Residential Area—"

"Excuse me, is it downstairs from Zhang Yong's house?"

"Could you please call him for me?"

It was a male voice, very low, and I couldn't quite make out the location.

Grandpa Chen adjusted his glasses.

"Yes, yes, it's almost midnight. What's wrong? Can't we call tomorrow?"

"...Could you please call him and say that Liu Jianguo from 'October' magazine is looking for him because it's urgent?"

Grandpa Chen paused for a moment, looked up at the stairwell, and saw that the light in apartment 808 was still on; the child hadn't gone to sleep yet.

He walked directly below 808 and knocked on the drainpipe.

A moment later, footsteps came from upstairs. Zhang Yong came downstairs with a coat on and took the receiver.

"Feed?"

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone.

Then the hushed voice spoke.

"Zhang Yong...are you Zhang Wengong?"

......