My IQ has been increasing year by year.

2:35.

The door was pushed open again.

This time, the commotion is quite significant.

A foot wearing an old slipper stepped in first, followed by a pair of slightly wrinkled dress pants and that unchanging dark brown jacket.

Old Zhou is here.

He was still holding that huge, chipped enamel mug in his hand, with a stack of papers and a book tucked under his arm, and a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his mouth.

After he came in, he first looked around.

His gaze was indifferent, as if he were surveying his own little plot of land.

His gaze swept over Li Hao and Zhang Wei in the front row, then went straight to Chen Zhuo, who was huddled in the back row.

The corners of his mouth seemed to unconsciously turn up slightly, but it was fleeting.

He slowly walked to the front of the podium and threw the stack of things onto the table.

"Smack."

The sound was crisp and clear, carrying a dusty smell.

Li Hao and Zhang Wei in the front row immediately sat up straight, like two springs that had been suddenly stretched taut.

His eyes revealed a sense of awe for authority.

At No. 1 High School, although Old Zhou looked slovenly and didn't usually get involved, he was practically an absolute authority in physics.

Old Zhou didn't say anything.

He unscrewed the tea mug, took a sip of strong tea, rinsed his mouth, and swallowed it.

"We've all arrived."

He glanced around the classroom, his tone indifferent as if he were saying, "The weather's nice today."

He did not introduce Chen Zhuo, nor did he introduce Li Hao and Zhang Wei.

Everyone is tacit.

Since you're all sitting in this room, it means you've been selected to participate in the competition.

A name doesn't matter; a good brain is enough.

"From now on, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, at the same time."

Old Zhou tapped the podium with his finger.

"No roll call, no need to ask for leave, come if you can, and if you can't come, just attend class in the classroom."

"We don't care about superficial things here; we only care about efficiency."

After saying that, he picked up the two sets of test papers on the table and casually waved them around.

"Li Hao, Zhang Wei."

"arrive."

The two responded instinctively, their voices a little tense.

"Take it."

The test paper glided through the air for a while before landing on the table in the first row.

"These are the actual questions from the national semi-finals in 98 and 99."

Old Zhou pointed to the hanging clock on the wall.

"It's 2:50 now. You have two hours. Finish it and put it on the podium, then get out of here."

"Yes."

The two were overjoyed and quickly picked up the test paper.

Those are real exam questions.

In this era when the internet was not yet developed and resources were scarce, past exam papers with standards and scoring details were truly more valuable than gold.

The two immediately went into battle mode.

The sound of a pen being pulled off its cap, the rustling of a test paper being laid out, the sound of deep breaths.

A sense of oppression called "exam-oriented" instantly enveloped the front half of the classroom.

Old Zhou ignored them.

He picked up the remaining book on the table.

It was a thick book with a dark red cover. The corners were worn down to reveal gray cardboard, and the spine was wrapped with layers of transparent tape.

He carried the book, slipped on his slippers, and shuffled to the back of the lab.

Chen Zhuo raised his head.

Old Zhou didn't say anything, he just threw the red book onto Chen Zhuo's desk.

"Thump."

A dull thud.

A tiny speck of dust even rose from the book cover, dancing in the afternoon light.

Chen Zhuo glanced down at it.

The gold lettering on the cover has all worn off, leaving only uneven indentations.

Although it was a bit blurry, he recognized the layout style.

That was a style unique to Soviet-style textbooks, full of cold and violent aesthetics.

Selected Solutions to Difficult Physics Problems in Middle Schools (Soviet Edition)

Below is a line of smaller Russian text: Moscow State University Press.

"You don't need to do the test paper."

Old Zhou stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking down at Chen Zhuo.

"Those questions are too conventional; doing too many of them will make your brain rigid."

He pointed to the red book with his chin.

"Take a look."

"There are no standard answers or exam syllabus restrictions here. Some of the questions even I find ridiculous."

Old Zhou paused, a strange expectation flashing in his eyes.

"Read what you can understand. For the Russian words you don't understand, go look them up in that big dictionary on the podium."

Chen Zhuo reached out and touched the rough cover of the book.

A sensation like touching sandpaper came through my fingertips.

Old enough.

It's tough enough.

It's like an aged Pu'er tea or a fine wine stored in a cellar; you can smell its spicy aroma even before you open it.

"Okay, sure."

Chen Zhuo answered with two words.

Calm and decisive.

Old Zhou nodded in satisfaction, turned and left, his slippers making a clattering sound on the floor as he returned to the podium.

When Lao Zhou passed by, Li Hao and Zhang Wei, who were in the front row, couldn't help but turn around and take a look.

That look in his eyes was very complicated.

There was envy, jealousy, and confusion.

On what grounds?

Why is it that everyone here is here for intensive training, and we have to work ourselves to the bone on test papers, while that nine-year-old can read leisure books?

And what the hell is that tattered book? I can't even read the cover, I even have to look it up in a dictionary?

Are you perhaps Old Zhou's biological grandson?

But they dared not ask.

After all, Lao Zhou's intimidating presence was still there, and the two-hour countdown had already begun.

"What are you looking at?"

Old Zhou cursed without turning his head. His voice wasn't loud, but it was very intimidating.

"Finished the questions? Still have time to watch others?"

The two were startled and quickly buried their heads in their papers, their pens flying across the paper as if afraid of being kicked out if they were even a second too slow.

Old Zhou walked back to the podium and plopped down on the peeling wooden chair.

He wasn't idle either.

He picked up the newly delivered newspaper, put on his reading glasses, and began to study the news about the national football team qualifying for the World Cup, clicking his tongue twice as he read.

then.

Time begins to flow at different rates.

The front row was filled with the hurried, anxious sound of scribbling, the sound of people fighting for their scores.

The sound of newspapers rustling through the pages of the lectern was leisurely, mundane, and filled with self-satisfaction.

Li Hao wrote very quickly, his handwriting was heavy, each stroke seemed to be carving a mark on the paper.

He wrote while frowning, occasionally stopping to twirl the pen in frustration or scratch his hair.

Zhang Wei was slightly better, but he couldn't sit still. He would drink water, change his pen, and then randomly press keys on the computer, making beeping noises.

Like machine guns on a battlefield, rapid, chaotic, and lacking in order.

back row.

There was silence.

Chen Zhuo sat in the corner.

He opened the red book.

The first page.

The paper was yellowed and brittle, like old fallen leaves.

A strong musty smell wafted over.

This book has probably been gathering dust in some corner for many years; the pages even seem to be connected.

Chen Zhuo didn't care about these things.

His gaze fell upon the dense text and graphics.

Familiar Russian.

Cyrillic letters, with their barbs and circles, resemble rows of standing soldiers, imposing and austere.

Interspersed among these letters are lines of common mathematical language.

Integral symbol ʃ

Partial differential symbol ∂

Summation symbol Σ

And then there are those complex, three-dimensional geometric figures covered with force analysis arrows.

Chen Zhuo read it very slowly.

He did not write anything.

He rested his chin on one hand, and in the other hand he held an automatic fountain pen with the lead not yet ejected, unconsciously twirling it between his fingers.

He seemed to be admiring a painting, or perhaps deciphering a sophisticated code.