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

The call went through quickly.

"Hello, October Editorial Office."

"Editor-in-Chief Lin, this is Chen Ping."

The sound of a chair being moved came from the other end of the phone, followed by Lin Xuechang's slightly surprised voice.

"Oh, Mr. Chen Ping! What brings you to call me today? I still owe you that meal from last time—"

"Editor-in-Chief Lin, you're too kind." Chen Ping leaned back in his chair, lightly twirling his pen, his tone composed. "I was just wondering if there's been a date for my next essay?"

"Don't worry, Professor Chen!" Lin Xuechang immediately replied, his voice tinged with a smile. "The space has already been reserved for you; it's definitely a good layout, a whole page."

Chen Ping responded calmly, his gaze falling on the swaying poplar trees outside the window, before suddenly changing the subject.

"What a coincidence! I just ran into someone at the Kyoto University library. Can you guess who it was?"

"Who?"

"You know him, Zhang Yong."

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

Chen Ping continued, "This person is indeed quite clever; he's quick-witted and speaks with perfect tact."

"but--"

He paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Still too young. An engineering student from an adult education college has no real substance; he just cobbles things together from various sources. What he writes can't withstand academic scrutiny."

Lin Xuechang's voice also relaxed considerably.

"Haha, Teacher Chen, you didn't see it. When his manuscript was sent over last time, our editor-in-chief Zhou's attitude was... To be honest, I had my doubts too."

"It's just... a kid writing that kind of thing, I always feel like there's someone behind it all."

"Nobody's here," Chen Ping said with certainty.

"I observed him today. He learned it all by himself, through unorthodox methods. He has talent, but talent is inherently worthless."

He put down the pen.

"Editor-in-Chief Lin, you're worrying too much. This kind of person won't cause any trouble. Focusing your energy on him will only give him credit."

Lin Xuechang hesitated for two seconds.

"That's true... but the articles he wrote under the pen name Zhang Wengong were very popular in the Workers' Weekly, and they went through two printings. What if he used that momentum to try and squeeze his way onto our side—"

"You can't squeeze in," Chen Ping interrupted him. "October is a bastion of serious literature, not a popular science tabloid. Just keep the tone in check."

"The things he wrote, about changing engine oil and repairing tractors, are one thing if ordinary people like to read them, but another thing is that they are not respectable."

Lin Xuechang chuckled.

"Teacher Chen is right. So, shall we... each go about our own business?"

"Everyone's busy with their own things," Chen Ping repeated, then added, "But Editor Lin, after I finish my rebuttal article, I'll have to trouble you to arrange a space for me. It doesn't need to be too big, just an academic discussion section will do."

"No problem! I'll handle it later!" Lin Xuechang's voice was clearly ingratiating.

"I'll talk to the editor-in-chief and reserve a good spot for you. Professor Chen's articles are something we'd beg for."

Chen Ping hung up the phone.

He took off his gold-rimmed glasses and slowly wiped them with a lens cloth.

The poplar leaves outside the window rustled in the wind, and the setting sun filtered through the gaps in the trees, casting streaks of light and shadow on the desk.

An eighteen-year-old student who failed his college entrance exam.

It's not worth him spending too much time on it.

……

When Zhang Yong came out of the west gate of Peking University, it was already dark.

In late July, the evenings in Beijing were still muggy, with a burnt smell in the air from the asphalt roads that had been baking in the sun all day.

The sound of an engine rose from the quiet street.

There weren't many cars on the road at this time. Occasionally, a large Jiefang truck or a bus would pass by, its headlights flashing from the opposite direction, making my eyes go white.

Zhang Yong's mind was still replaying the meeting minutes that Liu Jianguo had copied for him.

Chen Ping refuted three points in his speech at the symposium.

The first point is the pouring temperature.

Article 2: Mixed use of alloy grades.

Article 3, Unit of fuel injection pressure.

All three reference the old 1986 industry standard.

Zhang Yong mentally reviewed the logic of his counterattack once more. He had already confirmed the data from the 1989 revised edition; it was in black and white, irrefutable.

He borrowed both books and put them in his canvas bag.

But this counterattack cannot be published now.

We have to wait for Chen Ping to publish his rebuttal paper first.

Let him make the first move, then I'll finish him off with one decisive blow.

Furthermore, you need to think carefully about where to post it and what identity to use.

While he was still thinking, the motorcycle had already turned into the old neighborhood near Jinsong.

Zhang Yong slowed down; he was almost home, and ahead lay the narrow alley leading to the back gate of the residential complex.

During the day, this alley is bustling with people, but at night it becomes very quiet. On both sides are the back walls of two company dormitory buildings, without windows or streetlights.

Just as he was about to turn in, he suddenly realized something was wrong.

[Driving Lv.6: Ambient Perception Triggered - Two moving sound sources behind, engine RPM is increasing, distance is approximately 80 meters and continuously decreasing.]

Zhang Yong did not turn around.

He eased off the accelerator slightly with his right hand, and his ears perked up.

The voice behind me was very clear.

They are two motorcycles with large engine displacements and a muffled sound; they are probably the Happiness 250 or Changjiang 750 type.

At this time, there shouldn't be two large-displacement motorcycles appearing in this alley at the same time.

Unless you're being targeted by someone.

He maintained his current speed and slowly drove into the deserted alleyway.

We went in less than thirty meters.

The engine noise behind me suddenly increased.

"Buzz—"

Two headlights shone in from the alley entrance, blindingly white.

Then, two motorcycles suddenly appeared from behind him, one on the left and one on the right.

The car on the left almost grazed Zhang Yong's handlebars, leaving a black mark on the ground with its tires, and stopped five meters ahead.

The car on the right was a beat slower and blocked the retreat from the right rear.

Both cars had their headlights on, and the intersecting beams of light illuminated the entire alley in a stark white light.

Zhang Yong was caught in the middle.

He firmly gripped the brakes, and the motorcycle slowly came to a stop, the sputtering sound echoing through the narrow alley.

A person got out of the car in front.

He was broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, wearing a white tank top that was soaked with sweat and clung to his body, revealing two lumps of flesh.

A thick chain, made of either iron or copper, hung around his neck, swaying in the headlights.

He held a threaded steel bar, about half a meter long, in his right hand, with the other end wrapped in tape as a handle.

A thinner man got out of the car behind them, with a cigarette in his mouth and a stick in his hand.

The man in the vest patted the rebar twice in his left palm and walked up to Zhang Yong.

"You're Zhang Yong?"

Zhang Yong didn't speak, but looked at him calmly.

The man in the vest grinned.

"Jinsong Residential Area, Building X, Unit X, Room 808. Right?"

Someone asked me to pass on a message to you.

......