Official title: Refused to stay at the university, started his career in a rural town.

On April 19th, the weather was somewhat gloomy. Yang Fan turned to the last page of the cooperative's shareholder roster.

Of the nine villages, a total of 2,371 households signed and sealed the agreement, but less than 10% withdrew their shares. He stared at this number for a long time, then put down his pen and prepared to open the audit materials he was going to submit.

The door was pushed open.

Wu Xiang stood at the door, clutching a newspaper in his hand, his knuckles white.

"Secretary Wu." Yang Fan quickly stood up.

Wu Xiang didn't speak. He slammed the newspaper on the table, his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses were bloodshot.

Yang Fan picked up the newspaper—the *Jingzhou Daily*, the second headline on the front page, with eight large characters:

Beware of turning back the clock of history!

He continued reading.

"Recently, some areas in Handong Province have seen attempts at collective economy under the name of 'cooperatives.' According to my understanding, the agricultural cooperative project being promoted in Qingping Township, Anyang County, Ningzhou City, is led by the government to manage farmers' land and orchards in a unified manner, including unified purchasing and sales. Data shows that the township's specialty industries such as apples and mountain delicacies have indeed improved in recent years, and local farmers' incomes have also increased significantly."

Yang Fan tapped his finger on the newspaper.

"The achievements are commendable! However, looking back at history, the 'cooperative' and 'people's commune' movements launched in the late 50s, while initially intended to 'concentrate resources to accomplish major tasks,' ultimately led to a collapse in production efficiency and widespread agricultural losses—a profound lesson. At that time, farmers contributed land as shares, and means of production were uniformly allocated. This 'iron rice bowl' distribution mechanism severely dampened their enthusiasm for production, causing per capita output to plummet from 306 kilograms in 1958 to 217 kilograms in 1960. Food shortages became the most painful memory of that era—"

The article cited internal Ministry of Agriculture documents, "Historical Experiences and Lessons of the Agricultural Cooperativization Movement," transcripts of speeches at the Lushan Conference, and analyses of the collectivization movement in the book "The Logic of Reform." The detailed citations made Yang Fan's brow furrow even more.

"History has proven that any organizational form that exceeds the level of development of productive forces will ultimately destroy productive forces. Cooperatives and the 'iron rice bowl' may reappear under different names, but no matter how they are packaged, they are the same thing: the impulse to turn back the clock of history still lingers in the minds of some grassroots cadres."

"Achievements are achievements, but they cannot be used as a fig leaf to cover up the restoration of the old system. Being complacent and arrogant after achieving a little success is not the quality that party members and cadres should have. I hope everyone will be vigilant against this behavior and pay attention to this trend."

Yang Fan put the newspaper down.

The office was silent for a full ten seconds.

"What the hell is this?" Wu Xiang tugged at his collar, his voice extremely low, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth.

"The cooperative is clearly a joint venture between the village collective and individual farmers. What does it have to do with the old system of 'eating from the same pot'? One household, one vote; voluntary participation and withdrawal; signed and sealed profit-sharing plan—can't he see any of this?"

Yang Fan did not respond.

He was thinking about something else.

This article cites the 1982 summary of agricultural collectivization experience, 1960 production data, and Zhou's academic works—something an ordinary journalist couldn't find; the materials were provided by someone else.

Zhao Lichun!

After the last incident, Yang Fan thought that the matter was over and that low-level tactics would not work on them.

If the disciplinary committee investigates and finds nothing wrong, the person will be sent back, giving others grounds for criticism.

What about the newspapers? The newspapers said you were turning back the clock on history. You said you weren't, how can you prove it? You asked them to produce evidence, and they did—data from 1958, the transcripts of speeches at the Lushan Conference, all official documents.

The argumentation process was flawless, the logic was airtight, and there wasn't a single gap that could be refuted.

This is not a tactic that a low-ranking official could come up with; it may have been a casual strike by Zhao Lichun.

"This cooperative is clearly a completely different thing from the 'iron rice bowl' system," Wu Xiang continued, pointing to the line in the newspaper that read, "History has proven it." "He's forcing a bunch of historical data onto us. This report, which was originally an experimental project, is being put under a magnifying glass. Sooner or later, something bad was bound to happen—"

"Secretary Wu."

Wu Xiang stopped.

Yang Fan's voice was very soft: "That guy from Jingzhou has made a move."

Wu Xiang's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and he opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"This isn't something a reporter could write," Yang Fan said, turning the newspaper over and pointing to the words "Jingzhou Daily." "This was written by someone commissioned by Zhao Lichun, and the sources he cited ranged from internal summaries of the Ministry of Agriculture to Lu Shan's speeches. Ordinary reporters don't have this kind of access."

"He put this article on the front page not to create a big news story, but to define the nature of this matter—cooperatives are a step backward in history."

It's absurd enough that a provincial standing committee member would spend time giving "political theory lessons" to two section-level cadres.

What's even more absurd is that he did it flawlessly, leaving you speechless.

"A reversal of history, a restoration of the old system, complacency—be wary." Yang Fan folded the newspaper and set it aside, his voice as flat as if reading an official document. "Which leader would dare to confidently say that this project is problem-free?"

Wu Xiang didn't say anything.

"Which leader would be willing to take the blame?"

Wu Xiang stubbed out his cigarette.

"Whether it's you, me, County Chief Ma of Anyang County, or Secretary Zhao of the city—who can bear the responsibility?"

Who can bear this burden?

Zhao Lichun lost a report, lightly and casually, without any administrative order or organizational means. He was not dismissed, nor was his account investigated.

He's just putting a big accusation on your head—a reversal of history.

Then you have to wait until every leader who's half a rank above you glances down at this hat.

Who would dare pick it for you?

The phone, which was just installed at the beginning of the year, rang.

It was Chen Ming from the Party and Government Office. Yang Fan answered the phone, his voice slightly breathless: "Mayor Yang, the County Party Committee Office called to say they received orders to temporarily halt the cooperative project. We'll decide after... after the organization discusses it."

Click.

Yang Fan put the microphone back. Wu Xiang stood by the window. The old locust tree outside had lost all its leaves, and its bare branches poked at the gray sky. The chimney of Hengtong's factory was still emitting white smoke. The tea trees in the tea garden were neatly pruned, row upon row, waiting to be fertilized in the spring, harvested in the summer, processed in the autumn, and sent to Hengtong's packaging line.

The cooperative is gone, and all those benefits that we repeatedly confirmed and explained to the villagers are gone. What should we do?

What should be done with the 2,371 farmers who signed and sealed the agreement?

The market won't wait for you to "organize seminars".

The delivery contracts are still in effect, the apples need to be picked, the mountain delicacies need to be collected, and the tea needs to be processed—but where will the money come from? Who will manage the distribution channels? Who will maintain the brand? If the cooperative shuts down, farmers will vote with their feet and withdraw their shares, the distribution channels will collapse, the brand will be ruined, and Hengtong's 60 million yuan investment will be lost.

A breeze blew in through the window, causing the tea leaves in the enamel mug to sway slightly. Yang Fan picked up the mug and took a sip. The cold tea tasted astringent.

"Secretary Wu."

Wu Xiang didn't turn around.

"This report," Yang Fan put down the jar, the chipped iron piece gleaming gray under the fluorescent light, "is amazing! But, isn't it a bit like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut?"

Wu Xiang turned around, looked at Yang Fan, remained silent for a few seconds, and then suddenly laughed. That laugh was so bitter it could be squeezed out of you.

"Haha, that's true." He took a drag of his cigarette and said, "We're just two low-level cadres from Qingping Township, why would such a high-ranking leader even glance at us?"

"There's nothing I can do; I offended their son!"

"Just wait and see, this is something we can no longer get involved in."