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

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

"My name is Chen Ping. I just returned to China and am currently in the graduate school."

His outstretched hand gesture was natural, as if he were used to being greeted and shake hands.

Zhang Yong did not reach out.

He simply raised his head, his gaze lingering on Chen Ping's face for a second. It was a pale face, as if it lacked sunlight, devoid of any color.

He calmly replied, "I know you. I read the front page of 'October'."

Chen Ping paused in mid-air for a moment, then withdrew his hand and placed it on the English journal under his arm, a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Likewise." He chuckled, his voice low, "Your 'The Ingenuity of a Great Nation'—it's written with great passion as well."

The emphasis is placed on the word "passion".

Zhang Yong understood.

Passion is one thing, but other things are another.

He replied somewhat awkwardly and politely, "You flatter me, Chen."

Chen Ping nodded, not in a hurry to leave.

His gaze shifted from Zhang Yong's face to his faded old T-shirt and canvas bag, and finally settled on the notebook in Zhang Yong's hand.

Which major did you choose at the Continuing Education College?

Mechanical Engineering and Automation.

Chen Ping's eyebrows twitched.

"I thought you would major in Chinese literature."

Zhang Yong replied quickly: "Literature is a hobby, mechanical engineering is my livelihood."

He spoke these words very quickly, without pausing, as if he had thought them out long ago.

Chen Ping paused for two seconds before speaking—

"Interesting, young people these days are really interesting."

He took half a step forward.

The scent of perfume wafted over, seemingly out of place amidst the smells of old paper and dust.

"Comrade Zhang Yong," Chen Ping's tone changed slightly, becoming more casual, "I heard that you not only write novels, but also contribute technical popular science articles to the *Workers' Life Weekly*?"

Zhang Yong narrowed his eyes slightly.

There is no public connection between Zhang Wengong and Zhang Yong. Tan Xingguo is suppressing information, and Zhao Huaijin and Fang Qiming won't speak out easily. Editor-in-Chief Zhou...

He countered, "Who told you that?"

Chen Ping smiled and said casually, "I naturally have my own methods."

He paused for a moment, then said, "Of course, I wasn't particularly interested in you at first, but I have a wide network of connections, and people always seem to pass information to me."

The subtext can be summed up in one sentence: You can't hide anything from me.

Zhang Yong did not ask who his connections were.

He simply nodded and said, "I see. I hope you're receiving accurate information."

Chen Ping switched the English journal in his hand to the other, turned to the side, glanced at the bookshelf, and then looked back.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, let me be frank with you." He spoke calmly, as if it were a normal academic discussion.

"There are a few instances in your article where the data sources are not up to standard. It's not that the content itself is wrong, but rather that the citation system is problematic. Many people who write technical articles in China have this common problem, so it's not surprising."

After a moment's thought, Zhang Yong realized that Chen Ping categorized him as one of "many people in China."

After a two-second silence, he nodded, his voice revealing nothing of his thoughts: "Chen is right, I'll go back and check again."

Chen Ping paused slightly.

He was waiting for Zhang Yong to refute him.

They had also prepared a set of arguments, complete with academic citations and journal sources. As soon as Zhang Yong uttered his rebuttal, they could use these sources to suppress this ignorant young man.

But the person didn't accept it, so they just accepted it.

This is not something that people who write about great powers would do.

Chen Ping raised his hand, pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses, and instantly lost interest in crushing his opponent.

"Okay, go back and check it out. Feel free to discuss any questions." He turned to the side, his tone returning to its previous casualness.

"I've also been writing a few academic articles recently. You can take a look when they're published. If you have any different opinions, we can discuss them."

Zhang Yong only said one word: "Okay".

Chen Ping extended his hand.

Zhang Yong's gaze lingered on that hand for a moment. The nails were neatly trimmed, and the fingers were fair and long, showing no signs of having worked with machinery.

He reached out and gently shook hands.

Chen Ping's hands were cool, and he wasn't applying much pressure.

Then he turned and walked towards the exit, took two steps, turned his head to the side, and softly threw back:

"Let's have a proper chat another day, Zhang—classmate."

The sound of leather shoes gradually faded away on the terrazzo floor, and the scent of perfume also faded, eventually being overshadowed by the smell of old paper and dust.

Zhang Yong remained standing in the same spot, without moving.

He glanced down at his notebook.

Turn to the circled page, next to which are written four words: "Three years ago".

He closed the notebook, put it back in the canvas bag, and fastened the buttons.

Then I walked back to the bookshelf, picked up the two ISO document compilations I had just taken out—the 1986 edition and the 1989 revised edition—and pushed the book next to it so that its spine was level with the others.

Without leaving a trace.

I slung my canvas bag over my shoulder, got my copy stamped at the lending desk, and left the industrial literature section.

......

The joint graduate program of Beijing University has a dormitory building on the third floor.

Chen Ping pushed open the door and closed it behind him.

The school arranged a single room for him, which was much better than the regular undergraduate dormitory. The desk and lamp were brand new, and there was even an internal telephone.

The window faces a grove of poplar trees; the leaves are a deep green this time of year, rustling in the wind.

Chen Ping placed the English journal on his desk, sat down, and looked out at the lush green leaves.

He was thinking about the conversation he had just had.

Zhang Yong was too quiet.

What should a young author's normal reaction be when someone directly tells them that "there is a problem with the article"?

Explain, refute, or at least blush, or press for details about where the data is incorrect, perhaps with a slightly anxious tone—

Zhang Yong had nothing.

They admitted it, said, "I'll check again when I get back," and that was it.

This silence made Chen Ping uneasy. It wasn't the kind of silence that comes from someone who's been wronged and is too afraid to speak up; it was more like—they were ready to go.

He opened the draft of the rebuttal paper and found a certain page.

The source cited is: ISO 4990:1986

His finger paused on that line of text.

No problem, I have accurate data, there's no way there could be any errors.

He lightly tapped his finger on the manuscript paper and chuckled softly.

An 18-year-old mechanical engineering student in an adult education college, who failed the college entrance examination, what could he possibly know? That article was just a stroke of luck for him.

These young people, who can only piece together knowledge from factory workers and popular science magazines, have no databases, no laboratories, and no access to subscribe to international journals.

All we know are incorrect information, not refined.

I can't keep wasting my time on this greenhorn; a quick resolution is the right thing to do.

He thought for a moment, then picked up the phone.

"Please transfer me to the October editorial office."

"Yes, find Deputy Editor-in-Chief Lin."

The smell of old paper and dust from the library still lingers in my nostrils for some reason.

......