He fiercely criticized the Manchu scholar clique and the twelve emperors of the Qing Dynasty.

After Zhao Shuyao finished speaking, the smile on his lips gradually faded. He reached out and adjusted the cuffs of his windbreaker, fastening the buttons with unhurried movements.

Without glancing at the two people on the sofa again, Zhao Shuyao turned around and strode towards the office door.

His steps were steady and his rhythm was even.

"Zhao Shuyao!" Assistant Li shouted sharply from behind, "Once you walk out that door, there will be no turning back!"

Zhao Shuyao didn't turn around. He placed his right hand on the brass doorknob, opened the door, stepped out, and then closed the door behind him.

With a soft click as the metal latch clicked shut, the air in the office seemed to be instantly sucked out.

Zhao Shuyao stood in the shadows of the corridor, not in a hurry to go downstairs.

The sounds inside could be clearly heard through the thin wooden door.

At first, there was a deathly silence that lasted for several seconds.

Then, Assistant Li's heavy breathing broke the silence.

"That's incredibly arrogant, Professor Yan! Please don't take it to heart!" Assistant Li's voice carried a frustrated and exasperated tone. "This kid is utterly unreasonable! Who does he think he is? Just an ordinary working-class kid from a poor family, who thinks he can act as a champion of truth after reading a few unofficial histories? If he can get his degree so easily, I'll change my mind!"

Zhao Shuyao leaned against the wall, looking at the red sound waves jumping on his phone screen, a mocking smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

A peasant.

This is the true vocabulary of these intellectuals who control academic resources, once their hypocritical facade is stripped away.

Inside the door, Yan Jianhui's voice rang out slowly and deliberately, revealing the coldness and arrogance of someone who had been in a high position for many years.

"Assistant Li, it's not worth getting angry with this kind of person." Yan Jianhui's voice was full of disdain. "They're all mixed up; these kinds of people always think that just because they've studied a few more years, they can transcend social classes. Do they really believe there's absolute fairness in this world?"

"If he can find a tenured job in the domestic academic community with such a bad temper, then wouldn't all the efforts and accumulation of the Yan family over three generations have become a joke?"

Zhao Shuyao laughed silently.

The efforts of three generations?

Zhao Shuyao quickly went through the Yan family's genealogy in his mind: the eldest daughter bought a villa in Toronto, the second son got a green card in New York and sent the whole family to the other side of the ocean, leaving an eighty-year-old man to speak eloquently on domestic television, packaging feudal dregs as traditional Chinese culture and selling them to the general public.

What kind of effort is this, spanning three generations? This is clearly three generations of transnational money laundering. If you were just making money honestly, that would be one thing, but to package filth as gold and force it into the minds of the Chinese people is called murder for profit.

Zhao Shuyao checked the recording time and pressed the stop button.

The audio file was renamed "Three Generations of Efforts and the Peasant Theory," and uploaded directly to the cloud for double backup. This trump card cannot be played now; it must be revealed when they have put on their best show and the entire internet thinks he is in a dead end.

Putting away his phone, Zhao Shuyao strode down the stairs of the administration building.

……

By the time I got back to dormitory building number three, it was completely dark.

Zhao Shuyao picked up a basin and went to the water room on the first floor to wash his face with cold water. The icy water droplets slid down his cheeks, taking away a trace of fatigue. Back in dormitory 302, he collapsed onto his bed, staring at the yellowish ceiling, enjoying this moment of peace.

A series of hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, and the door to room 302 was pushed open.

Yang Wei rushed in, panting, carrying two plastic boxes of fried noodles. When he saw Zhao Shuyao lying on the bed, Yang Wei breathed a sigh of relief and placed the fried noodles on the desk.

"Old Zhao! You idiot!" Yang Wei pulled out a chair and sat down, not even bothering to take a sip of water. "How many times did I call you this afternoon? Do you know how many times Assistant Li from the dean's office has been looking for you? You sent a WeChat message saying you were writing a thesis, and I almost thought you were being secretly controlled by them. What's wrong with you?"

Zhao Shuyao propped himself up on the bed with one hand, looked at Yang Wei's anxious expression, and said in a relaxed tone, "I'm fine. I've been revising my thesis in the dorm all afternoon."

Yang Wei frowned deeply, pointing at the thick stack of reference books on Zhao Shuyao's computer desk: "Why are you revising the thesis? Didn't your supervisor already sign it off last week? The plagiarism rate is only three percent. The defense is just a formality. Why are you still working on it at this crucial moment?"

Zhao Shuyao stood up, slowly walked to the computer, and pressed the power button.

"Things have changed." Zhao Shuyao gripped the mouse and double-clicked to open a document on the desktop. "My previous paper was too bland. To conform to their grading standards, I didn't write down many things I wanted to say. Now that my spot for staying on at the university is gone, what am I supposed to do?"

The screen lights up, and the document expands.

Zhao Shuyao rotated the screen to a different angle, gesturing for Yang Wei to look.

Yang Wei stepped forward, his gaze falling on the paragraph that Zhao Shuyao had just finished revising.

"The core of the tax system is to exploit Han Chinese lands to supply the Eight Banners. The so-called 'never increase in taxes' is actually a numbers game on top of the existing exorbitant taxes and levies. Its economic recovery is based on the passive abundance of resources caused by the sharp decline in population after the massacre of the city..."

Yang Wei read it word by word, his eyes widening as he gasped.

"You're insane!" Yang Wei straightened up, looking at Zhao Shuyao with disbelief. "You've completely overturned the conclusions! Your wording... 'exploitation,' 'massacre,' 'numbers game'—if you take this paper to your defense, the committee will give you a zero on the spot!"

"What I want is the debate behind the zero score." Zhao Shuyao closed the document and unplugged the USB drive. "I wrote 20,000 words to engrave those unspeakable historical facts in black and white in the archives of the History Department of Dongda University. Taking a step back will never bring about a brighter future."

Looking at Zhao Shuyao's unyielding attitude, Yang Wei felt a deep sense of powerlessness.

He opened the plastic packaging of the fried noodles, broke open the disposable chopsticks, and handed a box to Zhao Shuyao.

"Old Zhao," Yang Wei said, sitting back down in his seat, his tone becoming extremely heavy, "I know you're talented and look down on those seniority-based rules, but can't we be more realistic?"

Yang Wei pointed to the well-worn book of civil service exam questions on his desk.

"We're both from ordinary families. My parents farm in our hometown, and your family is in a similar situation. We have no connections or resources. We went to graduate school just so we could find stable jobs and ease the burden on our families, right?"

Yang Wei looked directly into Zhao Shuyao's eyes, his own eyes slightly red: "You offended Yan Chongnian today. Do you think his family will let you off so easily? Listen to me, go and apologize properly. After graduation, we'll find a peaceful job. There's no need to make such a fuss."

This was the second time Yang Wei had earnestly tried to persuade him.

Zhao Shuyao stopped eating his noodles and looked at Yang Wei, a microcosm of countless ordinary students—fearing authority and willing to suppress all their edges for survival.

"Viagra." Zhao Shuyao pulled out a tissue, wiped his mouth, and said in a gentle but solemn tone, "Thank you."

Yang Wei was stunned for a moment.

"I know you genuinely mean well," Zhao Shuyao pushed the fried noodle box aside. "But some things aren't calculated that way. Tell me, what have we been studying for all these years?"

Zhao Shuyao stood up, walked to the window, and opened it. The March night wind, carrying the chill of the north, blew into the room.

"If it's just about finding a job to make a living, why would I waste my time studying these old books in school? I graduated from high school at eighteen and went straight to work in an electronics factory in the south. I avoided seven years of detours, didn't have to pay tuition, and could even save up for a wife."

Zhao Shuyao turned around, leaning against the windowsill, his eyes clear.

"But we chose to sit in the classroom and study history. What is history? History is the backbone of a nation. The problem now is that some people are covering this backbone with a black cloth, painting a beautiful picture of a prosperous era, and telling everyone that this is the truth."

Zhao Shuyao pointed to his chest.

"I feel extremely uncomfortable right now. Walking through the archives and seeing those ledgers with deficits of tens of millions of taels, and then looking up at the sanctimonious smiles of those people on TV, I feel disgusted. Have you ever seen someone go into a shady business, get ripped off, and then have to write a letter of praise to the owner before leaving?"

Yang Wei stared, unsure how to respond.

"Since we've chosen to study, there are some things we have to do." Zhao Shuyao walked to his desk, placing his hands on the surface. "Children from ordinary families certainly don't have the luxury of making mistakes, but if even those of us who have received an education choose to remain silent when faced with academic cliques, then who will speak the truth for the people in the future? Those vested interests who buy large villas abroad by packaging feudal dregs?"

Zhao Shuyao put his hand on Yang Wei's shoulder.

"Don't worry about me. I have my own plans and I won't starve."

Yang Wei remained silent for a long time, then finally sighed deeply, lowered his head, and began to eat the fried noodles in large bites. He knew that he couldn't persuade him anymore.