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

But that's not the point! The point is, you just want to be an official!

Zhuge Ming wasn't about to let him off the hook, continuing his earnest admonition: "Father, even extraordinary people are human. The reason we possess the skills passed down from extraordinary people is for survival. Now the country needs us; without the greater good, where would our individual families come from? Our family's Guiyuan Formation, combined with astrological deduction, is used to deduce using the Qimen Dunjia divination method—whether it's science or mathematics—"

He paused, his tone becoming more solemn, and said, enunciating each word clearly, "Now is the time of reform and opening up, and the country needs a large number of scientific and technological innovation talents. Our Zhuge family, the Wuhou School, will not shirk our responsibility. Even if it means sacrificing some lives for the country, it will be worth it."

Zhuge Gong's defenses were completely breached.

He did the only thing he could do—he confined Zhuge Ming to his quarters.

Then, the president of Tsinghua University personally went to the village.

Zhuge Gong would never forget that day.

An elderly professor with a full head of white hair, followed by two secretaries, stood in the main room of his house, holding a red-headed document specially approved by the Ministry of Education. In an unquestionable tone, he told him, "Zhuge Ming is a recipient of the National Special Talent Training Program. Tsinghua University's Department of Political Science and Law will provide him with a combined bachelor's, master's, and doctoral program. Comrade Zhuge, you are the village party branch secretary; you should understand what this means."

Zhuge Gong understood, of course.

This means that if he continues to obstruct the process, he is competing with the country for talent and with the Party for skilled personnel.

He was the village party secretary; he was aware of his position, but he had no other choice.

So he watched helplessly as the old professor took his son away.

Zhuge Ming was twelve years old that year.

From then until he was twelve to seventeen, he didn't come back more than a few times in those five years.

After he turned seventeen, he completely disappeared.

Zhuge Gong could only piece together his son's trajectory from fragmented information: he graduated from Tsinghua University, went to a research institute in the Northwest, and could not say what projects he worked on, and then joined the army, where he served could not be said either.

Until two years ago, Zhuge Ming suddenly returned.

As expected—he became an official.

Moreover, he wasn't a minor official; he was a full-fledged division-level cadre.

Zhuge Gong's feelings at that time were so complex that he couldn't even explain them to himself. He felt proud, disappointed, and had an unspeakable bitterness.

Then he searched for Zhuge Ming's name online.

He read that entry on Baidu Baike no less than fifty times, and every time he read it, he felt it was unreal.

The National Science and Technology Progress Award (Special Prize), the Army's Model Worker in Science and Technology, the Second-Class Merit Award, his status as a demobilized soldier, his record of being injured on duty... Behind those official words lies his son's blood and sweat.

He got it.

He finally understood.

His own son was not a rebellious son, but a prodigy.

He knew what he wanted to do from a young age, and he never wavered or hesitated.

Every step he took was heading in that direction, a direction that his father had never truly understood.

Zhuge Gong took another big gulp of liquor. The spiciness of the Erguotou burned from his throat to his stomach, and then a feeling that he couldn't quite describe—whether it was bitterness or pride—rose from his stomach.

He looked up at the portrait of Zhuge Liang above the altar. In the portrait, the strategist with a feather fan and a turban was quietly watching him, his gaze traversing eighteen hundred years of time.

Zhuge Gong's eyes welled up with tears, it was hard to tell whether it was from the alcohol or something else.

He put the wine bottle on the table, stumbled to the offering table, knelt down, and banged his forehead heavily on the ground.

"What a tragedy..."

His voice came out muffled, tinged with alcohol and a sob, "Oh, heavens, how cruel you are to me! My ancestor! Prime Minister! The fate of this descendant, Zhuge Gong, is truly bitter!"

He straightened up, tears streaming down his face as he gazed at the portrait, his voice trembling: "The country comes first, then the family. My Zhuge family of the Wuhou School has devoted ourselves to the cause until our dying breath! Our loyalty to the country and the court—whether it be the Han Dynasty or this era—has remained unchanged throughout history!"

He wiped away his tears, not caring that snot and tears were mingled together, his voice choked but each word forced out: "The country needs people, and our village has no choice but to give them up! We can't compete with the country for people! Zhuge Ming, that rebellious son... no, this child, he has already dedicated himself to the country!"

His voice suddenly softened, so softly it didn't sound like that of an old father who had drunk half a bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor) after being angered by his son: "May you bless him from heaven... This child has had a tough time; he was wounded and had to leave the military! He must have been helping the country with scientific research in the inner realm, injuring himself in the process! As his father, my heart is bleeding!"

He kowtowed again, his forehead hitting the ground with a dull thud: "But I believe the nation will never mistreat my son. Your Excellency, Prime Minister!"

On the offering table, the portrait of Zhuge Liang, the Marquis of Wu, still silently gazes upon him.

The smoke from the incense burner rose in wisps, drawing delicate arcs under the dim light.

Zhuge Gong knelt on the ground and remained silent for a long time.

Then he stood up.

He stood up very quickly, much faster than someone who had just drunk half a bottle of Erguotou (a type of Chinese liquor) and knelt on the ground crying.

He patted the dust off his knees, wiped his face, and wiped his tears and snot onto his sleeve. Then he looked up and stared at the portrait, his expression suddenly turning ferocious.

"But this rebellious son—that's a separate matter!"

He stretched out a finger, pointing to the sky—no, to the roof beam—no, probably to some direction in the void, which was probably the direction of Jiangxi.

"How dare he talk to his father like that!"

His voice was filled with renewed energy, the kind of energy that comes from angering his son and causing his blood pressure to spike.

He turned around and pulled out a feather duster from behind the door. He weighed it in his hand, but it wasn't quite right for him, so he switched to a bamboo back scratcher. He waved it around in the air a couple of times, making a whooshing sound.

"As the saying goes, 'Spare the rod and spoil the child!' This rebellious son has been away from home for a long time, and as his father, I must give him a complete childhood and a complete adolescence! Let him experience the touch of a father's love!"

He held the back scratcher, his eyes gleaming with a complex light that blended paternal love with a vengeful thrill, like a general boosting his morale before a battle.

"Although I might not be able to beat this rebellious son."

His momentum suddenly dipped, but it immediately rebounded and rose even higher.

"Even if I had two lives, he wouldn't dare fight back! I'm definitely going to beat him up!"

He flicked the back scratcher, and the bamboo made a crisp sound as it was pulled through the air.

Under the dim light, Zhuge Gong's face was half in light and half in shadow, half showing the concern of a loving father and the stubbornness of being driven mad by his rebellious son.

"That's right! No matter how outstanding he is, I'm going to beat him up!"

Above the offering table, Zhuge Liang's portrait still silently watched everything, the curve of his lips seemingly a little deeper than before—or perhaps it was just an illusion caused by the wisps of incense smoke from the burner…