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

One o'clock in the afternoon.

Zhang Yong rode his motorcycle out of Jinsong, turned north along Guanghua Road, passed through a demolished area of ​​bungalows, and arrived at the old residential building where Liu Jianguo lived in ten minutes.

There's a noodle shop downstairs, a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, with two tin tables set up at the entrance, the lampshades yellowed from the grease and smoke.

Zhang Yong parked his motorcycle next to a utility pole, locked it, and went into the noodle shop.

Liu Jianguo was already sitting in the corner.

Wearing a short-sleeved shirt, a bowl of beef noodles sat in front of him, chopsticks resting on the rim of the bowl, the noodles barely touched.

There was a thin kraft paper envelope pressed tightly against his side.

Zhang Yong sat down and called out to the counter, "Boss, a bowl of vegetarian noodles, please."

"Four cents, five cents for an egg, wanna add one?"

"add."

Zhang Yong turned to look at Liu Jianguo.

Liu Jianguo had dark circles under his eyes, clearly indicating he hadn't slept well.

"Did you get it?"

"Yeah, I spent the whole morning squatting there, waiting for Lin Xuechang and Editor-in-Chief Zhou to go to the third floor for a topic selection meeting, and then I went into his office to copy it."

He lowered his voice.

"He put it on the top shelf of the drawer. There wasn't much content, just two pages. I only copied the important parts."

He tapped the envelope with his finger.

"Some of the nonsense was useless, so I didn't copy it."

Zhang Yong took the envelope and squeezed it.

"Has Lin Xuechang noticed?"

Liu Jianguo shook his head.

"No. He didn't come back until 11 o'clock in the meeting, and I had already returned to the editorial office by then."

Zhang Yong nodded and put the envelope into his canvas bag.

"Editor Liu, thank you for your hard work."

Liu Jianguo picked up the bowl and finally started eating the noodles. The noodles were a bit lumpy, so he stirred them a couple of times and then put them down.

"Zhang Yong, let me tell you something from the bottom of my heart."

"I went to a lot of trouble to help you. Remember me when you become successful in the future."

Zhang Yong was slurping his noodle soup when he heard this. He put down his chopsticks, met Liu Jianguo's gaze, and nodded slightly.

After finishing his meal in a few bites, he fastened the buttons on his canvas bag and stood up.

"I paid for the noodles."

"Why--"

Zhang Yong walked to the counter, took out his money, paid for the two bowls of noodles, and glanced back at Liu Jianguo.

"Editor Liu, go back and do what you were doing. Be careful on the way."

Liu Jianguo opened his mouth, but hesitated to speak.

Zhang Yong had already pushed the door open and left.

……

It takes less than twenty minutes by motorcycle from the noodle shop to the west gate of Kyoto University.

Zhang Yong parked his car next to the bicycle shed outside the school gate.

Motorcycles are not allowed to be parked on the Kyoto University campus. The gatekeeper checked the ID, glanced at the temporary library card of the Continuing Education College, and waved for me to pass.

He walked along the tree-lined path by Weiming Lake, asked for directions, and headed straight for the library.

The building is an old-fashioned Soviet-aided structure with gray brick exterior walls, several cracks in the steps, and most of the paint on the iron railings has peeled off.

Several notices were posted on the bulletin board at the entrance, the latest one being a summary of the Literature Department's welcome forum.

Zhang Yong glanced around, then went straight through the main gate, turned right, went up to the second floor, passed through the humanities reading room, and walked all the way to the innermost part.

Industrial Literature Section.

This area is usually not crowded. The bookshelves are covered in dust. There are two long tables by the window, and the chairs are old-fashioned wooden folding chairs that creak when you sit on them.

Zhang Yong walked among the bookshelves, his goal for coming to the library this time was very clear.

ISO casting steel process standard, degassing section.

In 1990, Kyoto University Library did update its foreign language standard documents a little later than those abroad, but it had most of the core standard documents.

Zhang Yong flipped through two rows of bookshelves and found a collection of ISO files with gray covers on the third row against the wall.

He first pulled out the 1986 edition.

Turn to the section on vacuum degassing casting and find the recommended range for pouring temperature.

1560–1620℃.

This is the data Chen Ping cited. Zhang Yong checked it in his mind.

He then put the 1986 edition back and pulled out the 1989 revised edition from the side.

Same chapter, same entry.

Recommended pouring temperature range: 1550–1640℃.

The upper limit has been increased from 1620 to 1640, and the lower limit has been decreased from 1560 to 1550.

The overall range has been widened.

Zhang Yong stared at the two numbers for a few seconds.

The 1989 revision notes clearly state that "based on feedback from measured data from major global steel foundries over the past three years, the recommended pouring temperature range has been revised to adapt to the actual process requirements under different equipment conditions and alloy systems."

In other words, the new standard in 1989 acknowledged one thing: the old range was too narrow and not close enough to actual production.

Zhang Yong took out a pen and drew a circle in his notebook. He wrote four words next to the circle.

"Three years ago."

He sorted out the logical chain in his mind.

I wrote 1580–1620℃ in "The Ingenuity of a Great Nation". This data comes from a video recorded by a content creator in 2026.

1989年新版ISO的推荐区间是1550–1640℃，1580–1620完全落在新版标準的範围之内。

At the symposium, Chen Ping cited the old version from 1986, which was 1560–1620℃. He pointed out that his data "is clearly inconsistent with international standards."

So here's the question.

Chen Ping either didn't know that the 1989 standards had been updated—which shows that he wasn't a professional and had blind spots in his knowledge.

Either he knew it, but deliberately used the old version to create the illusion that "Zhang Yong wrote it wrong"—which shows that he was dishonest.

Either way, it's fatal.

Zhang Yong closed his notebook, put the pen back in, and let out a long sigh.

enough.

That's enough.

He placed the two books back on the shelf side by side and stood up to stretch his neck.

Sunlight streamed in through the cracks in the window, falling on the yellowed cover of the standard document, with dust swirling in the beams of light.

Zhang Yong was about to leave when he suddenly stopped.

A very subtle feeling.

Someone is watching him.

Zhang Yong turned his head to the side, his gaze passing through the gaps between the bookshelves.

Three meters away, separated by a row of book spines, stood a person flipping through an English journal.

He was 26 or 27 years old, not short, and had an upright posture.

My hair was styled with hairspray and parted to the side, reflecting a layer of shine under the fluorescent light.

A pair of gold-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, with very thin lenses.

He was looking at Zhang Yong.

The gaze was direct, carrying a scrutinizing quality, and even a hint of curiosity.

At that moment, a smell wafted through the air.

Zhang Yong frowned.

perfume.

These days, men in Beijing typically smell of only two things when they go out in the summer—sweat and cigarette smoke. Those who are a little more particular might apply some skin cream or something similar.

Who wears perfume?

Unless this person has been living abroad for a long time and developed a habit.

For example—returnees from overseas.

Zhang Yong made the decision in just half a second.

He didn't move or speak. He just stood by the bookshelf, facing the person opposite him across a row of yellowed books, silently gazing at them.

The other party spoke first.

The sound wasn't loud, but it was clearly audible in the quiet document area.

"You're Zhang Yong?"

The man closed the English journal he was holding, tucked it under his arm, and walked around the bookshelf.

The leather shoes landed lightly on the terrazzo floor.

He walked to a spot two steps away from Zhang Yong and stopped.

"I am Chen Ping."

......