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

Lin Xuechang recognized this type of envelope.

Custom-made. These are official letter envelopes used internally by the Workers' Publishing House, with a subtle watermark, and only the editor-in-chief is authorized to use them.

His eyes lingered on the brown paper envelope for a moment.

Then he slowly withdrew his gaze.

The ceiling fan in the living room was spinning overhead, making a series of creaking noises.

Lin Xuechang stood up and gently fastened the clasp on his briefcase.

Comrade Zhang Yong.

His tone changed.

"I didn't want to bring this up."

"You're young but talented, and your writing is quite skillful. I came here today to give you a way out."

He paused.

"But since you're not answering—I'll make myself clearer."

Lin Xuechang tapped the leather surface of his briefcase twice with his right index finger, each tap accompanied by a sharp crack from his knuckles.

"First, the two thousand yuan penalty for breach of contract—I'll go back and process the paperwork. Whether you acknowledge it or not, the magazine's legal department has ways to make you admit it. The contract has your signature and fingerprint; you can't escape it."

"Second." Lin Xuechang's gaze swept around the living room, and he raised his hand to sweep away the dust in the air, his voice steady.

"Professor Chen Ping's rebuttal paper will be published in the next issue. At that time, academic rebuttal will be academic rebuttal, but the matter of 'one person playing two roles and submitting articles under multiple pseudonyms' will be explained in a separate editor's note in the sub-journal."

He looked into Zhang Yong's eyes.

"Do you think the readers of 'Workers' Life Weekly' don't read our 'October'?"

"Believe it or not, once this journal is published, your name, Zhang Yong, will be nothing but scrap paper in the submission boxes of all publications in Beijing."

The air in the living room seemed to freeze.

Liu Jianguo's face had turned pale; he knew Lin Xuechang wasn't exaggerating.

The literary circle in 1990 was only this big.

The editorial departments of several top-tier journals all know each other; it's just a matter of making a phone call. Once a label of "this person is incompetent" is attached, it can't be removed for ten years.

Zhang Yong sat on the stool, his expression unchanged.

His hands rested on his knees, the pencil held between his right middle and ring fingers, his fingertips slowly circling the pencil shaft.

Lin Xuechang stared at him for two seconds, then took the final step.

"third."

His voice suddenly lowered, so low that only Zhang Yong and Liu Jianguo could hear it.

"You can't publish the manuscript 'Kingdom on Wheels' either."

"It won't be published in *October*. It won't be accepted by *Harvest*. I've also spoken to *People's Daily*, believe me or not?"

He leaned down, very close to Zhang Yong's face.

"A writer without a place to publish is like a cook without a stove, staring blankly at the sky."

His lips curved upwards slightly.

"Zhang Yong, let's be frank. I won't hide anything from you. You can't understand Professor Chen Ping's circle, and you can't get in. You might as well be sensible—"

He reached out and patted the supplementary agreement on the coffee table.

"If you sign, everything is negotiable. If you don't sign—"

"A dead end."

When Lin Xuechang uttered those four words, there was already a hint of gritted teeth in his voice.

The living room was so quiet you could hear the man in the jacket breathing heavily in the corner.

Zhang Defa raised his wrench half an inch forward; he was furious.

"you--"

"Dad, it's okay."

Zhang Yong sat on a small stool, looking up at Lin Xuechang.

one second.

two seconds.

three seconds.

He sighed, reluctantly picked up the agreement on the table, and started flipping through it very, very slowly.

Seeing Zhang Yong's actions, Lin Xuechang gave a "the dust has settled" smile.

He simply took a pen out of his pocket, along with the new agreement, and placed them on the table.

"Comrade Zhang Yong, take a good look at this. Once you've thought it through, sign this agreement. As for the future, Teacher Chen Ping won't treat you unfairly."

Zhang Yong's gaze swept lightly across the crack in the door, where there was a small corner of white paper underneath.

It was the note he had written before going upstairs, in duplicate, and Grandpa Chen had already taken half of it.

There were only two lines of text on the note.

First line: Phone number.

Second line: Zhang Wengong is at home, come quickly.

Zhang Yong withdrew his gaze from the doorway, faced Lin Xuechang, and spoke in a calm and indifferent tone.

"Editor-in-Chief Lin, would you like some water?"

Lin Xuechang was stunned for a moment.

He wasn't prepared for the other person to offer him water.

"No need," Lin Xuechang replied subconsciously, then frowned.

"Zhang Yong, did you even understand what I just said...?"

"I understand."

Zhang Yong nodded.

"Let me think about it, don't rush me."

He continued flipping through his contract, seemingly reading it word by word.

"However, Editor-in-Chief Lin, there's something I'm quite curious about."

"You've worked really hard helping Chen Ping with all this, what benefits do you get in return?"

Lin Xuechang's smile froze.

"Did Chen Ping's advisor help you secure some academic exchange program overseas? Or did his father, the second-in-command of that big factory in Baoding, pull some strings for you?"

Zhang Yong spoke slowly, one sentence at a time.

"Or...is it someone higher up who agreed to let you move Editor-in-Chief Zhou out?"

The temperature in the living room seemed to drop two degrees.

Liu Jianguo stopped rubbing the seams of his trousers, and he suddenly raised his head, staring intently at Zhang Yong and Lin Xuechang.

He had considered this possibility, but he didn't know how Zhang Yong had come to this conclusion.

He only mentioned to Zhang Yong that "Chen Ping has more than one deputy factory director behind him."

Zhang Yong simply pierced through that thin layer of paper.

Lin Xuechang's expression changed.

It's not anger, it's panic.

A feeling of panic that you can't control after someone has seen through your hand.

But he was someone who had worked in the magazine industry for over a decade, and he quickly composed himself.

"Stop labeling me!"

"I'm not labeling people," Zhang Yong interrupted him. "I was just guessing. Please don't mind if I'm wrong."

After he finished speaking, he glanced at the doorway.

Zhang Yong mentally calculated the time. At least twenty minutes had passed since he went upstairs.

Grandpa Chen walks slowly; it takes him three minutes to walk downstairs to the gatehouse. Reading the note, making a phone call, and explaining the situation takes at least five minutes.

After receiving the call, they drove back here immediately.

It will probably take about twenty minutes.

Zhang Yong sat back down on the stool, knowing he had to wait a little longer.

"Editor-in-Chief Lin, would you please have a seat?"

Lin Xuechang gripped the strap of his briefcase tightly until his knuckles turned white.

He couldn't quite figure out what Zhang Yong's unhurried demeanor meant. Was he genuinely going to think things through, or was he just bluffing?

But time waits for no one.

Zhou Deqing will return to Beijing the day after tomorrow. If he can't get Zhang Yong's signature before he gets back, his mission will be completely ruined.

He made a decision.

I can't wait any longer.

"Zhang Yong." His voice deepened, reaching its lowest point.

"I'm giving you one last chance. If you sign this agreement, the two thousand yuan penalty will be waived, your royalties will continue, and you can continue being a contributing writer. It'll be a dignified outcome for everyone."

He held up one finger.

"If you don't sign—tomorrow, I'll have someone expose Zhang Wengong's affair."

"When Editor-in-Chief Zhou returns the day after tomorrow, his rebuttal article, along with my editor's notes, will be on his desk. You won't even have a chance to defend yourself."

"You're doomed—"

"What do you mean by 'a dead end'?"

The sound came from outside the door.

Like an iron nail, it was driven straight into the air of the living room.

Everyone turned their heads toward the door at the same time.

The door to room 808 was pushed open from the outside.

......