Chapter 577: Go See the Collection

Kuaizi, one end round and one end square, the round symbolizing heaven, the square symbolizing earth, corresponding to the concept of a round heaven and a square earth. Because its number is two, it also embodies the yin-yang philosophy of heaven and earth: Taiji is one, yin and yang are two; heaven and round symbolize movement, earth and square symbolize stillness. When holding kuaizi, the thumb and index finger rest on top, the ring and little fingers below, the middle finger in the center—this represents the Three Talents of heaven, earth, and humanity, reflecting Laozu's understanding of the relationship between man and the world.

Wang Bin still wasn't very skilled with kuaizi, using them awkwardly. His chubby fingers gripped the lower end, and instead of separating them to pick up food like adults, he crossed them. Even though his father had specially made him small kuaizi, he couldn't control them well—he'd eat from a large bowl for a while, then have to use his other hand to readjust their position, his hands like pig's hooves, always slipping, sometimes even dropping them.

Yet despite his inability to master the tool, it didn't affect how deliciously the boy ate—one hand holding a roasted duck leg, the other kuaizi, his face shoved deep into the big bowl as he greedily scooped rice, occasionally picking up a bite of vegetable; though much of it fell onto the table mid-air, he kept picking fast. Food that fell wasn't wasted—he'd use his small kuaizi to pick it up bit by bit, and when frustrated, he'd just grab it with his hands. Eating like a pig rooting for food, his face smeared with grease and rice grains.

Though eating noisily wasn't pretty, the boy had few bad habits—he tried not to smack his lips or flip through dishes, all lessons beaten into him by his father, Wang Yan. Moreover, children naturally imitate adults, and he unconsciously copied their eating manners. As the child's best teachers, the whole family ate well; Wang Yan, his father, ate with particular refinement—even though his gorging seemed uncouth, it somehow felt utterly natural, as if eating itself had a proper posture, textbook-perfect.

The little one was learning from his father—he didn't master the natural grace, but he fully copied the gorging. If not for daily forced Wu Cao exercises, he'd have become a little piglet long ago.

Su Meng, annoyed, smacked her son's head: "Eat slower, look at you wolfing it down—nobody's stealing your food."

Caught off guard, the boy's head was shoved into the bowl, but he didn't get mad—just looked up, grinning with his teeth showing, then went right back to his own way. He'd figured out the pattern: what Dad forbade, he truly couldn't do; what Mom forbade, it wasn't a big deal.

Seeing no effect, Su Meng, annoyed, turned and gave Wang Yan a shove: "If a child is untaught, it's the father's fault. Can't you rein him in? Your son's eating habits are all copied from you. Now he doesn't listen to me—left ear in, right ear out—just grins like an idiot."

Before Wang Yan could reply, Su Su Lao Tai frowned: "Isn't it good that the child eats heartily? Being able to eat is fortune. When you were little? Back then things were so hard, and you refused this, rejected that. Binbin, don't listen to your mother—eat freely. If she scolds you, I'll scold her."

Su's mother placed meat into her grandson's bowl: "Just eat. Why keep nagging the child?"

"Fine, it's all my fault for speaking up." Su Meng rubbed her son's head hard again, sighing: "This reform and opening-up is really taking off. Just look—two years ago, people on the street wore only a few colors; now? All sorts of colors, all kinds of patterns."

Su's father nodded in agreement: "True. There are also many more private cars on the streets, motorcycles everywhere—you can't even count them. Sometimes Chang'an Street even gets jammed. And over the past two years, I've noticed more and more meat smells in our hutong. That means people's lives are getting better."

Listening to the Su family's reflections on life's changes, Wang Yan ate heartily, chuckling and chiming in now and then. These changes, of course, needed no elaboration—whether in the people's spirit, their material lives, or the countless detailed statistics, everything was leaping forward; urban population rose by percentages, each point meaning millions.

Wang Yan didn't know how many times he'd witnessed such transformation, yet he still felt awe at the tremendous vitality of the Shenzhou land and its hundreds of millions of people…

After chatting a while, Su Meng sighed: "How's your clothing factory with Liu Dahai going?"

"Doing well," Wang Yan nodded.

He didn't hide it from Su Meng—there was no need to. He'd opened the factory back in 1979, right after a happy night when Su Meng had mused about special economic zones in the south, and people were already smuggling goods onto their campus. He'd casually suggested opening a clothing factory, even outlining a rough plan to her. Now, nearly everyone in the Su family and Wang Bin wore clothes and shoes made by the factory. He wore the Huili white sneakers only because he'd worn them for years and hadn't thrown them out.

Though Su Meng wasn't stingy, she'd never seen the factory outside the house, and hearing only Wang Yan's words made it feel unreal—she kept asking just to be sure. If not for seeing Wang Yan bring home that Kuaizi two months ago, she'd have traveled to Shenzhen to see it herself. But now that she'd seen the Kuaizi—worth thousands, bought in under two years—she was even more suspicious. She thought Liu Dahai and the others were falsifying accounts and stealing their money.

So, as expected, she continued: "Can you trust Liu Dahai and the others? I hear any factory over there makes a fortune. You just put up the capital, came up with ideas, and designed a few clothes—you sit at home making money. They work themselves to death over there, yet you get the biggest share. Who wouldn't resent that? Don't you think they might embezzle our money?"

"Don't hire if you doubt; hire if you don't. Micromanaging kills you. To grow big, you must delegate properly." Wang Yan shook his head. "Don't bring up old grievances. These men have followed me nearly twenty years—they've worked hard all these years. Even if they've developed greed and taken a little, so what? As long as it's not excessive, just close one eye. And don't you think—do they even have the guts to cheat me?"

"Not to mention my friends, but just me—a full academician of the Academy of Sciences—if they dare cheat me today, they'll be arrested tomorrow. Don't be petty. Don't assume everyone's evil. Right, son?"

Wang Bin didn't look up, nodded: "Yes!" His father was always right—couldn't be wrong…

"Yes yes yes, you're so capable, I'm the petty one, alright? Boring. Let's eat." Su Meng, the Young Lady, still acted like one—even after having a child.

As Wang Yan said, he now had real power. His friends had all succeeded, and he himself had done exceptionally well.

Since entering Beijing University in 1975, six years later, he'd contributed greatly to China's computer development. For researchers stumbling forward, six years achieved little. But for him, it was different. What once was a decades-long gap with Western computer tech was now gone. He'd built a full computer technology chain—from textbooks for specialists, to hardware, to software research. Thanks to continuous breakthroughs, last year he became an academician in his field.

Though his computer research was strong and no longer lagged behind the West, because the time was too short, his main work still served the military and various research institutions, plus some mechanical control systems—he was at the cutting edge, even leading. But his technology chain, applied to civilian use, still needed more time to develop. Yet commercially, they were already competitive, beginning exports.

As for software and chip manufacturing technologies that historically stalled China, they were now roughly equal to the West. Chinese scientists weren't any less intelligent than foreigners—once parity was reached, falling behind again, as in the original timeline, was difficult. Even if foundational sciences lagged, unless there was some revolutionary breakthrough, it was basically a 50-50 split. Of course, that was without Wang Yan's involvement…

At this point, his work was essentially done. Raising China's computer technology and application to match the West was enough. The rest needed real scientists to develop slowly—perhaps, with this altered history, new wisdom would emerge, new paths found.

So Wang Yan no longer pursued more advanced tech—he planned to wait two more years, until private enterprises were allowed, then strike out on his own to continue researching balanced ternary, artificial intelligence, virtual reality, aerospace engineering…

Ignoring Su Meng, Wang Yan drank and ate, chatting with his father-in-law, inquiring after his health. Aside from sudden trauma, illness never struck abruptly. Even rapid deterioration had a process, a latent period—signs always appeared.

In the original plot, in summer 1982, when Su Meng graduated university, her father suffered a myocardial infarction, survived surgery, and lived decades longer—he was still alive at the finale, tough as nails.

Su's parents weren't inflexible, but rarely changed unless it involved Su Meng. Otherwise, they were always kind, never asking favors. This attitude earned them goodwill at school but didn't help advancement. Su's mother remained a regular homeroom teacher; Su's father, though skilled, worked diligently for years, earning only a grade-level leader position—still teaching high school, still a homeroom teacher, and it was exhausting.

Wang Yan had noticed signs of physical strain in the old man, warned him to rest, not to teach nonstop. Though he knew the man still had over twenty years left, better to avoid surgery if possible—avoid if you could.

The next day, Wang Yan still rose early to exercise—not to Chang'an Street, but to the nearby Dongdan Sports Field.

In fact, the field had long existed, but he'd disliked its small size, found circling it boring, so he'd always gone to Chang'an Street to be the monkey. People watched him as a spectacle; he, too, found amusement in it—a mutual joy. But now, with cars and motorcycles roaring early morning, belching exhaust, he didn't want to suffer—so he came here.

He circled, found a corner to practice fists, then strolled home—still before half past six—thanks to summer, dawn came early, so he rose earlier.

Back home, he washed up, didn't wake Su Meng, who'd worked late and would sleep in. Instead, he went to the back courtyard, lifted the little one from bed. The boy had already woken—proper nutrition, healthy exercise, regular sleep meant he naturally woke around six—but he was lazy, didn't want to get up. Su Su Lao Tai, doting grandmother, had risen early to cook porridge, sat on a stool beside the bed, fanning her precious great-grandson gently—no wonder he didn't want to rise.

But seeing his father's smile, he had to get up—knew resistance was useless, so he complied. Quickly pulled on shorts and a half-sleeve shirt, slipped into his small sports shoes, ran straight out to the sports field Wang Yan had just returned from, bounced around, then began his morning exercises in perfect rhythm to Wang Yan's "one, two, three, four."

Since defeating all under heaven in "The Grandmaster," entering the martial path, this Wu Cao, blending hundreds of martial styles, had never stopped being refined. He improved it himself, and also gathered experts in sports and life sciences to deeply study why these movements strengthened the body.

These details were invisible to Wang Yan—he only knew they worked, that they mobilized the body's strength to forge it. He understood the principles, but not the deeper microscopic changes. The human body was a vast treasure—he kept digging.

Wu Cao had two sets: one for strengthening the body, one for killing. Like military fist techniques, but far more vicious and deadly, with immense lethality. Of course, the health-focused set still had combat ability—after all, derived from hundreds of martial styles, it still had effect. But the subtle variations and flexible application? Far beyond Wang Bin's understanding. That's why this boy only knew how to wrestle and push.

After a morning's exercise, father and son trudged home slowly, arriving before eight. After the child washed and ate a simple breakfast, the beautiful day began.

Wang Bin wasn't relaxed—he was old enough to read, and with three teachers in the family, how could he be? Who likes tedious, rote memorization? So the boy suffered.

Su Meng wouldn't rise until she couldn't stand the heat; Wang Yan had nothing to do, so he walked out, hands behind his back, tapping his back with his golden nanmu fan, strolling toward Lao Guantou's house.

Just as he stepped out, he met Cheng Army Supervisor pushing a cart in: "Wang Ye, out for a stroll?" He grinned, as if delighted to see Wang Yan, quickly stepped aside to let him pass.

Wang Yan smiled, nodded, brushed past him…

Only after Wang Yan vanished from the gate did Cheng Army Supervisor spit on the ground, then turned the cart around the screen wall into the courtyard.

He had to admit—Wang Yan's power filled him with despair. That man was an academician of the Academy of Sciences, a great scientist, added last year at just twenty-eight, the youngest ever—how limitless his future. And yet, he had no idea how to retaliate against Wang Yan.

Countless nights, thinking of Wang Yan stealing his woman, humiliating him before classmates, yet being utterly powerless to harm him—even one speck—his vengeful nature and pinhead-sized grudge made life unbearable. Four words: life was torture.

Even Han Chunming's life had improved—he'd gotten a motorcycle before Wang Yan. And yet, Han, the college student, was the worst off…

His life was a mess—after all, he was in college. Though he had subsidies, they covered only meals, little left over. He was active on campus, loved saving face, pretended to be rich, so he spent heavily.

And now, unlike the original plot, he had a wife and child. His wife had failed the college entrance exam twice, still worked in a factory—arranged by his father. He studied away, came home only when broke; even if he talked big, their marriage wasn't harmonious. But because his wife hadn't gotten into college while he was a promising student, she endured silently.

Cheng's parents disapproved of his spending, but he lied constantly, kept fooling them. Thinking of his future after graduation, they tolerated it—family relations were strained.

He sighed deeply, eased his negative emotions, then entered the house…

In Lao Guantou's Youfeng Xiaoyuan, summer felt vivid. Walls were covered in ivy, the courtyard held many pots of flowers, a large tub held lotus and carp—pure summer.

At this moment, Lao Guantou lay in a reclining chair in the shady corner, a small low table beside him, holding a purple clay teapot and several Qing-dynasty tea bowls, as always—one hand holding a fan, the other a bead bracelet. In winter, the fan became walnuts—his hands never rested, year-round.

Han Chunming had just bought fresh vegetables and was preparing them in the kitchen; Cai Xiaoli had also come to help. Their child sat in the courtyard counting ants.

Also sitting on a small stool nearby was a young Miss, reading a book. It was Guan Guan Xiao Guan, Lao Guantou's granddaughter, recently returned from abroad. She was twenty-one, a manager at a hotel.

In the original plot, Guan Guan Xiao Guan appeared in 1982, already a manager at a four-star hotel. When she appeared didn't matter—now, the times were looser; she'd been born before leaving, held a Jingcheng household registration, and her return timing was perfect. But being a hotel manager was odd—no foreign hotels had entered Jingcheng yet, and China hadn't issued any star-rating standards or management documents.

But now Guan Guan Xiao Guan was a manager—so be it.

"You're here, Your Highness." Han Chunming and Cai Xiaoli greeted him, and Guan Xiaoqiao also called out respectfully—she knew Wang Yan's status and was very courteous.

Han Yi, squatting on the ground counting ants, looked up hopefully and asked: "Uncle Wang, where's Binbin?"

Wang Yan chuckled and patted Han Chunming's son on the head: "He's in the back courtyard learning characters with Grandma. Go find him—he's been waiting for you to rescue him."

The boy was mischievous and had been Binbin's number-one little follower, always reckless and ready to fight alongside him. After getting approval from his own mother, Cai Xiaoli, the kid dashed off with quick steps. He was going to play with Wang Bin, but he'd almost certainly be stuck there studying—walking straight into the trap…

Cai Xiaoli sighed: "It's good to have a teacher at home—starting early with learning builds a solid foundation, and when they grow up, their studies won't suffer."

A child's education has been a problem for over a thousand years; any normal person would recognize this as the sigh of every mother hoping her child will become a dragon.

Wang Yan shook his head with a smile, sat beside Old Guan, and poured himself tea: "Children are young—they should play. They can start studying properly once they enter school. But we've got three teachers in the family, and I've got no say."

"Hey, I agree with Your Highness. I didn't learn much as a kid, and look—I'm fine now!" Han Chunming glanced at his wife: "Don't glare at me—just look at Your Highness, he never properly attended school as a child, spent his days fighting, and now? He's a top scientist! So if your child has talent, just guide him a little. If he doesn't, no matter how hard you force him, he won't achieve much. You stress yourself, and the child suffers more—why bother? Isn't that right, Your Highness?"

Wang Yan sipped his tea and raised an eyebrow: "Don't ask me—look how Xiaoli's glaring at you."

"Alright, Boss, you're the boss." Han Chunming glanced at his wife, shrugged, then turned back to Wang Yan: "Your Highness, could you go tell Grandma Su to teach my son too?"

"No need to ask—every time your son comes to play with mine, isn't he immediately dragged over to study? Grandma's got something to do, and she's happy. When her mood improves, she lives years longer. Isn't that right, Provincial Military Commander?"

"You little rascal, using your Nine Gates Provincial Military Commander grandfather for amusement again." Old Guan snorted, squinting sideways at him: "I still remember all your little trinkets—will I even get to see them before I die?"

The old man had been thinking about this for years—he'd brought it up so many times… Wang Yan thought for a moment, then nodded: "It's cool right now. How about we go?"

Before Old Guan could react, Han Chunming slammed down his knife: "Xiaoli, tidy up. We're going out with Your Highness. Don't say where we're going, don't say what we're doing—and you, lazy cat, don't open your mouth, got it?"

On matters concerning Wang Yan, Cai Xiaoli probably knew more than Su Meng. She nodded: "Do I need you to tell me?"

Guan Xiaoqiao rolled her eyes hard: "I don't even know all the people—what am I supposed to gossip about?"

Only then did Old Guan push himself up with his wrinkled arms. Hearing there was something new to see, his old bones suddenly had energy—he was seventy-three this year, right at a critical juncture.

Wang Yan reached out to help him up and smiled: "No rush. Take your time, Grandpa. Find your reading glasses. I'll call Xiao Ma and tell him to go straight there—save us the trouble of going back and forth."

He stepped out and walked to the alley entrance—the same spot where Cheng Army Supervisor had repeatedly reported Han Chunming in the original drama—and called Ma Dudu. They had a phone, but no one was home. Probably out on his break, patrolling the streets collecting things again.

Back home, Wang Yan grabbed the motorcycle keys and rode to Old Guan's door.

Han Chunming gazed enviously at Wang Yan's ride and sighed: "Why didn't I ever think to buy a sidecar back then? Ended up with that piece of junk."

Old Guan, seated in the sidecar, snorted at his disciple's words: "If you want to die fast, ride a kick-start motorcycle."

"You're already seated and still complaining?" Wang Yan shook his head with a smile as he watched Han Chunming start his motorcycle and follow: "Provincial Military Commander, hold on tight."

Left hand on clutch, right hand on throttle, foot shifting gear—off they went…