One person said: The essence of Wuhou Qimen lies not in Qimen, but in Wuhou.

The special plane flew smoothly at an altitude of 30,000 feet. Outside the window was a continuous sea of ​​clouds, as white as freshly fluffed cotton, spreading out like an endless velvet carpet in the sunlight.

The cabin is furnished simply and practically, without the fancy decorations found on commercial airliners. Every inch of space is designed for work – a fixed desk, an encrypted communication terminal, a small medical monitor, and two staff members on standby.

Logically speaking, given Zhuge Ming's administrative rank of director-general, a private jet would not be appropriate.

Only those at the provincial or ministerial level or above are qualified to be equipped with dedicated aircraft; this is a hard rule written in the regulations, and no one can be an exception.

But this aircraft is different—it does not belong to the administrative sequence; it belongs to the military scientific research support sequence.

This plane was carrying only one person, Zhuge Ming.

It wasn't because of his high rank, but because of the scientific research achievements he held, each of which was crucial to the lifeline of national defense technology.

Two young men in civilian clothes sat at the back of the cabin, their rank insignia on their shoulders indicating they were lieutenants. Their gazes were calm and alert, and they had maintained the same posture since takeoff, like two breathing sculptures.

They are special forces soldiers specifically responsible for Zhuge Ming's safety, assigned to a unit of the Strategic Support Force, with only one mission: to ensure the absolute safety of their leader.

Zhuge Ming leaned back in his seat by the porthole, his eyes closed, his breathing steady and long.

His hands were naturally folded in front of his abdomen, his ten fingers slightly bent, as if he were holding an invisible sphere.

The cabin was quiet, with only the slight white noise from the air conditioning system and the occasional low-decibel beeping from the medical monitors.

He is in the interior.

The Wuhou School's internal cultivation secrets use oneself as a cauldron and essence, qi, and spirit as medicine to perceive the root principles of heaven and earth and all things.

Ordinary people enter the inner realm to seek an answer, while Zhuge Ming enters the inner realm to seek a number.

A key parameter that affects the terminal guidance accuracy of a certain type of missile.

He had been calculating in the inner vision for a full forty minutes. His brain was like a supercomputer running at full power. Countless data streams intertwined and collided in the deep sea of ​​consciousness. The Qimen Dunjia chart of destiny calculation and the mathematical model of nonlinear dynamics were superimposed layer by layer in the void. The patterns of the Guiyuan Array were constantly reorganized in high-dimensional space.

Then he found it.

That number lit up in the darkness of consciousness, like the brightest star in the night sky, clean and crisp, without a trace of redundancy.

Zhuge Ming checked the number in his mind three times, and each time it matched perfectly and was flawless.

He opened his eyes and slowly exhaled a long, stale breath, which dissipated into a light mist in the cabin's constant-temperature air.

He raised his slender fingers from his knees and gently beckoned to the accompanying officer sitting to his side.

The lieutenant stood up almost simultaneously, took three steps in two, walked to Zhuge Ming, bent down, and asked in a low but well-trainedly tense voice, "Sir, are you alright?"

His gaze swept quickly across Zhuge Ming's face, while his right hand was already raised, gesturing to the medical staff behind him.

The crisp sound of a medical kit being opened immediately rang out from the rear of the cabin. A female military doctor in a white coat walked up quickly, carrying a portable monitor. Her steps were light and fast, as if she had practiced it countless times.

Zhuge Ming waved his hand, the force not strong but the attitude clear, stopping the two professionals who were on high alert halfway: "It's alright, there's no need for such a big fuss and wasting national resources."

He pressed his temples with his fingers, his tone as calm as if he were saying that the weather was nice today, "I just need to rest for a bit."

Then he raised his eyes, his gaze clear and steady. After exhaling that breath of stale air, his complexion visibly returned to normal.

He looked at the lieutenant, his tone now carrying an added layer of solemnity, as if stating an order: "Notify the base that the direction is correct, and to proceed with it. Victory belongs to the people."

The lieutenant crossed his legs, the heels of his shoes making a crisp, light sound, raised his chin slightly, and let out a short but forceful reply from his chest: "Sir, you've worked hard!"

Zhuge Ming leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the armrest twice, the number in his mind still faintly glowing.

He was about to close his eyes and rest for a moment when he suddenly remembered something and frowned slightly.

It seems that he didn't see his mother when he returned home this time.

This thought, like a tiny thorn, inadvertently pierced his consciousness; it didn't hurt, but it was impossible to ignore.

He carefully recalled the entire process from entering the village to leaving it—his mother was not among the welcoming party at the village entrance, nor was she present during the meal in the main room. The aroma of pig's trotters wafting from the kitchen indicated that she had cooked, but it was Zhuge Gong and Zhuge Bai who served the dishes. She was the only one who was absent from the entire meal.

He was so busy eating pig's trotters, so busy outwitting Old Deng, so busy chatting with his third uncle and great-grandfather about national affairs that he completely forgot about his mother.

He muttered under his breath, a hint of genuine guilt in his voice: "I, I was so focused on eating Mom's cooking that I didn't even see her. How unfilial of me."

Later, he asked around and found out that his mother had just finished cooking that meal, turned off the stove, and taken off her apron before going to the village with the town's women's federation to implement work on protecting women's rights.

It wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision; it was a work arrangement that had been on the schedule long ago and was unshakeable.

After listening to the report, Zhuge Ming remained silent for two seconds, then uttered a meaningful remark: "Even my mother's political awareness is higher than Lao Deng's—she's a section-level cadre after all."

He took out his phone, scrolled to the contact in his address book labeled "Mom," hesitated for a moment with his thumb hovering over the dial button, and then withdrew.

The plane is about to land, and there's still work waiting for us at the airport.

He locked the screen, put his phone back in his pocket, and silently made a mental note: Next time I come back, I will definitely go see my mom first.

……

In Beijing, in an inconspicuous office building.

This building is as unassuming as the last one – it has no eye-catching sign, no grand entrance, and even its address isn't marked on any public map.

But once you step through that door, the furnishings inside and the occasional faces passing by in the corridor will send a chill down the spine of anyone with a discerning eye.

Zhuge Ming entered a simply furnished office with a table, two chairs, a potted plant, and a calligraphy scroll hanging on the wall, exactly the same as the one last time.

But this time, the old leader sitting opposite him had a different expression than last time.

Last time, it was gentle yet probing, like observing a sword that had just been drawn from its sheath.

This time, there was a seriousness mixed with trust, like handing over a real task to a sword that had already been tested and proven its quality.