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

"My dad said you had to come; you're a hero!"

Zhang Yong hummed in agreement.

"And—" Wei Shuyun's voice chuckled, tinged with a hint of smugness.

"Following your method, my dad invited the logistics directors of the supply and marketing cooperatives in Chaoyang and Fengtai districts, as well as purchasing agents from three transportation companies. My dad said that in his forty-plus years of life, this was the first time he had ever heard of alcohol being sold in this way."

Zhang Yong leaned against the door frame of the guardhouse, the sun shining warmly on the back of his head, and there was a faint scent of crape myrtle flowers in the air.

"Okay, I'll be there on time."

"Then...you'll come on your motorcycle then, and I'll wait for you at the door!"

"Um."

After hanging up the phone, Grandpa Chen sat next to him cracking peanuts, looking completely understanding.

"Yongzi, this Wei girl calls you twice a day—she's really taking you seriously."

"Oh, right," Grandpa Chen pointed to the basket on the table again, "there's also a registered letter. Take it yourself. Sigh, these old bones of mine can't get up once I sit down."

On the table was a large kraft paper envelope with the return address: Editorial Department of "Workers' Life Weekly" on Dongsi North Street.

Zhang Yong reached out and took it, squeezing it; there were several pages of paper inside.

"Thanks, sir." Zhang Yong stuffed the envelope into his canvas bag, hopped on his motorcycle, and said, "You rest first, I'll get on now."

Grandpa Chen nodded, squinted his eyes, hummed a little tune, and lay down, fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan.

......

Zhang Yong went upstairs and into the house.

The living room was as clean as ever; all traces of last night were gone.

Li Guilan was chopping radishes in the kitchen, the knife making a series of loud thuds on the cutting board, each chop heavier than the last.

Zhang Defa is not home—he's probably at work, or maybe he's too scared to stay home.

Zhang Yong placed the canvas bag on the desk, sat down, opened the registered letter, and read it from beginning to end.

The first document was the formal publishing contract. It was a red-headed document from the Workers' Publishing House, with densely packed clauses, and the last page was stamped with the Workers' Publishing House's round seal.

A note folded into four sections was attached to the contract.

Tan Xingguo's handwriting.

He writes as casually as he speaks.

"Xiao Zhang: Read the contract carefully, and mark any problems. Come to the editorial department when you have time; Lao Tan will treat you to braised pork offal. —Lao Tan"

Zhang Yong folded the note and put it back in the envelope.

The corners of her mouth curved slightly.

This old Tan.

The first print run was 10,000 copies, with an 8% royalty and a price of 2.8 yuan – the first payment received was 2240 yuan.

With the commissions from "October" and "Workers" magazines, as well as the fees from weekly publications, I had enough cash on hand.

He estimated that the publishing house's financial process was slow, and it would take another ten days to two weeks for the money to arrive after the contract was signed. The first batch of remittance slips for "The Workers" magazine should arrive in the next day or two.

He opened his notebook and went through the important things.

First line: Zhang Dewang will arrive in Beijing next Monday.

The second line: Ma Degui is related to Zhang Dewang. The Zhang family in the countryside of Baoding is not short of money at all.

The third line: Next Saturday is a tasting event at the Tongxian Winery. You could ask Wei Dabiao about the current oil situation in Tongxian.

Fourth line: School starts in two weeks.

He hasn't started writing the manuscript for October yet; he has to wait for Zhou Deqing to come back and clean up his own mess before he can get started.

However, he did finish writing the second part of "The Worker".

He put down his pencil and glanced at the system panel.

[Writing Lv.4: Progress 37% (AFK efficiency +10%, 33x speed)]

[Driving Lv.6: Progress 6% (fixed)]

[Auto Repair Lv.5: Progress 16% (AFK... 30x speed)]

Zhang Yong stretched and closed his laptop. A fragrant aroma wafted from the living room.

"Yongzi, come eat! I made you fried radish balls and fried lotus root sandwiches."

Well, Zhang Defa isn't going home, so I've improved my own meals, but it's a bit hot to eat this in the middle of summer.

Zhang Yong responded and checked the time: 12:30 pm.

After we finish eating, let's send the manuscript over directly and thank Lao Tan in person.

There's a lot to do next, so we need to hurry.

......

The locust trees on Dongsi North Street are growing vigorously, and the cicadas on them are chirping incessantly.

Zhang Yong braved the afternoon sun and headed straight for the workers' editorial department. Just as he passed through the alley, he heard a shout.

"Here you are!"

Tan Xingguo was squatting on the steps at the entrance of the editorial department, holding a loofah sponge in his hand, scrubbing an enamel pot.

Upon seeing Zhang Yong, he smiled, wiped his hands, and entered the courtyard.

Zhang Yong propped up the motorcycle, took the canvas bag off the back seat, and first carried an oil paper package into the yard.

On the folding table next to the cooling mat was a bowl of braised pork, glistening with oil, and thickly sliced ​​baked buns.

"Editor-in-Chief Tan."

"Hey—eat first, eat first." Tan Xingguo put the enamel pot on the side of the steps and wiped his hands on his trouser leg.

"Please sit down, please sit down. I just can't get this pot clean. I'll have Xiao Meng take it to get a new one later."

Zhang Yong sat down on the folding stool and placed the oil paper package on the table.

"My mom made these radish balls and lotus root sandwiches, they're fresh out of the pan, give them a try."

Tan Xingguo said, "Oh, no need, no need," but his hand had already reached out and torn open the kraft paper.

A delicious aroma of fried batter and radish wafted out.

"Whoa!"

Tan Xingguo picked up a meatball, put it in his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, and squinted his eyes.

"Your mom's cooking—tsk," he mumbled, "did she put Sichuan peppercorn powder in these radish balls?"

"I've put it away; there's still a little bit of dried shrimp left."

No wonder. It's delicious.

Tan Xingguo picked up another piece of lotus root sandwich, took a bite, and kept nodding as he ate.

He was eating lotus root sandwiches in one hand and cold boiled water in the other, and he even broke out in a sweat.

Zhang Yong smiled and shook his head, picked up the bowl of braised food on the table, and tasted a sip of the soup.

The soup is thick and flavorful, with peppercorns still swirling inside.

This tastes just right.

The two of them ate for a while under the shade of a tree.

There weren't many people in the editorial department. Xiao Meng and Lao Lu had gone to the printing factory to check the plates in the afternoon, leaving only the locust tree in the courtyard constantly shedding its leaves.

Zhang Yong put down his bowl and pulled the publishing contract out of his canvas bag.

"Editor-in-Chief Tan, I've carefully reviewed the contract, and there are no problems."

Tan Xingguo wiped his mouth and hands, then took the contract and flipped through it. Actually, he didn't need to flip through it at all; he had drafted the terms himself.

"The first print run is 10,000 copies, with a royalty rate of 8% and a price of 2.8 yuan. Subsequent print runs will be tiered based on the number of copies printed, with the royalty rate increasing to 10% after 30,000 copies are printed."

He took out a pen and handed it to Zhang Yong.

"Sign it. Make sure to use your real name."

Zhang Yong took the pen, signed his name "Zhang Yong" on the last page under the "Party B" section, and then pressed his fingerprint on it.

Tan Xingguo carefully put the contract away, stuffed it into an envelope, and placed it in the briefcase next to him.

Then he pulled a crumpled newspaper clipping out of his pocket.

"Take a look at this."

Zhang Yong unfolded.

It was yesterday's *Dazhong Daily*, page three, the culture supplement. A summary of "The Whisper of Machinery," about five or six hundred words, was reprinted in the lower middle section.

But what caught Zhang Yong's eye was the editor's note at the bottom.

"...Recommended by the Publicity and Education Department of the All-China Federation of Trade Unions, the Workers' Publishing House will soon publish the 'Practical Technology Popular Science Series for Workers and Peasants,' featuring a series of articles written by Comrade Zhang Wengong, the first batch of specially invited authors. These articles address the actual needs of frontline industrial workers and have outstanding social educational significance..."

The Publicity and Education Department of the All-China Federation of Trade Unions specifically commended them.

It was printed in black and white on a provincial newspaper.

Tan Xingguo leaned back on the stool, crossed his legs, and wiggled his toes.

"See this? This is our backstage."

He reached out and tapped the editor's note.

"Here you go. If anyone ever brings up Zhang Wengong's matter again, shove this in their face."

"If even the All-China Federation of Trade Unions has acknowledged him, which magazine's deputy editor-in-chief would dare to challenge him?"

"If this isn't handled well in October, we'll get criticized again!"

Zhang Yong took the clipping, folded it, and carefully stuffed it into his canvas bag.

......