Chapter 98: Daily Life

(Old Di caught a cold, had a fever, runny nose, head spinning. Brain was mush. Originally planned to write “Chinese Partners” to explore reform and opening-up, but ended up scribbling nonsense—nothing worthwhile. Now I’m sick of this plot. Let’s talk tomorrow—figure out a new image. Finally made it to midnight, but don’t want to delete it… Don’t subscribe!! Don’t subscribe!! Don’t subscribe!!)

Wang Yan opened his eyes and silently stared at the ceiling for a while…

After a long while, he got up, grabbed a bottle of water, drank as he walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and summoned the system interface.

Wang Yan

Attributes: Strength 25

Agility 25

Constitution 25

Spirit 27

Unallocated points: 4

Storage space: 2m³

Attributes unchanged; this reward granted four attribute points.

In skills, he hadn’t specialized—just learned at a daily rhythm, improving slightly in everything.

Having spent nearly five years in “Ode to Joy,” Wang Yan had fully recovered.

The system never explained what happened to his original world after he left—whether it continued operating, time froze, or shattered completely. It never clearly indicated whether he could ever return.

So in every world, he gave all his wealth to his women—that was the only thing he could do.

As for the rest, let it be. He had no power to change it. To be sentimental is to be heartless; why add unnecessary pain?

He shook his head and stopped thinking. Tomorrow he’d set out—soon there’d be no such comfortable bed. After drinking the water, Wang Yan turned back to bed and slept.

………

The next day, Wang Yan woke up refreshed, went out for his morning exercise, ate breakfast, then returned to the guesthouse to pack.

Nothing much—just daily toiletries, a couple sets of clothes, and a laptop.

After packing everything into his storage space, he estimated the remaining room and the space left on his bicycle frame, then went out to buy extensively.

His outdoor gear was already mostly set up; he mainly bought a lot of food. This two-thousand-kilometer journey on a bicycle would be brutal—he might as well bring extra.

Since the route offered endless scenery, he spent several thousand on a DSLR camera—not for any special reason, just because having something to look at during idle moments was nice. He knew photography—LV2—developed back in “The Days of Our Youth” while training with Lin Jiamao.

After all that hustle, it was already afternoon. Wang Yan didn’t linger—checked out and set off immediately. He didn’t care about elaborate plans; wherever he went, he stopped. He could endure outdoor living—he had the physique for it, the luxury of endurance. Besides, after years of development along Route 318, commerce was well-established, signal coverage was solid, and there were virtually no major issues.

He meandered along, and after two days of cycling, he’d barely reached Yucheng.

Wang Yan stayed at a hotel there for a day, experiencing this “throat of western Sichuan,” this “ethnic corridor.”

Along the way, he cycled past Luding, where the iron chains of the Dadu Bridge hung cold; through Dazhe, where horses galloped freely; ascended Zhe Duo Mountain to survey the “King of Shu Mountains”—the Gongga Range—where snow-covered peaks stretched as far as the eye could see, winding mountain paths snaking through white expanses; in Xinduqiao, he calmly photographed boundless grasslands, meandering streams, rolling hills, scattered Tibetan villages, and scattered cattle and sheep; passed through the “Eighteen Bends of the Heavenly Road,” turned south at Litang—the “Highest City of China, Sacred Land of Snow, Pearl of the Grassland”—and arrived at Dao Ba, “the last pure land on the blue planet.”

Along the way, he met many fellow travelers who cursed themselves as fools yet pressed forward without retreating. Each had their own story, their own brilliance.

For many, this journey was a spiritual pilgrimage—but for Wang Yan, it wasn’t. He’d traveled too much; this was just idle wandering.

By the time he reached Dao Ba, half a month had passed—he’d cycled roughly seven or eight hundred kilometers from Rongcheng.

Wang Yan was no longer clean-shaven—his face was covered in stubble, disheveled. Even though his skin had been enhanced by the system, traces of wind and frost still showed.

Wang Yan had to stop advancing—because work had come.

“Chinese Partners: Cheng Dongqing: Change.”

He checked into a hotel, rested, opened his laptop, logged into his membership, and watched the movie.

The film told the story of three young men in the 1980s…

After watching, Wang Yan had a clear idea.

Most people, as children, wanted to conquer the world; as they grew older, they realized it was beyond their ordinary selves, so the world conquered them. As adults, they wanted to conquer life—but after struggling in this sea of red dust, life conquered them, leaving only dull, lifeless eyes.

At the end of the film, Wang Yang’s voiceover said: Cheng Dongqing replaced a happy life with speeches. Now he barely speaks human language in public. He disgusts me. He turns off the lights not for romance, but to save money. He never intended to change the world—but at least, he wasn’t changed by it.

Cheng Dongqing was successful, and lucky. But Wang Yan thought no one remained unchanged—Cheng Dongqing was no exception. How could one say he wasn’t changed by the world?

He glanced at the time—it was barely past four in the afternoon.

He stopped thinking, pulled up the interface, and dumped all his attribute points into Spirit—raising it from 27 to 31.

Feeling the coolness in his mind, he confirmed the choice, accompanied by a blue glow…

………

Wang Yan regained awareness, felt a hand on his arm, and instinctively executed a small joint lock.

“Clang!” Something hit the ground, followed by a man shouting: “Hey hey hey, hurt, hurt… let go of me…”

He looked closely—the man was a youth in worn clothes, carrying a rolled-up bedding, a large bag at his feet, bent over in pain from Wang Yan’s grip.

It was Cheng Dongqing. Wang Yan scanned the surroundings—confirmed his location: the gate of Peking University.

He released his grip and patted the man’s arm: “You okay?”

Cheng Dongqing stood up, adjusted his glasses, and rubbed his shoulder with a grimace: “Fine, fine—your grip is crazy strong.”

Wang Yan smiled and extended his hand: “I’m Wang Yan, Chinese Literature. What’s your name?”

Cheng Dongqing shook his hand: “Hello, hello—I’m Cheng Dongqing, Foreign Languages.”

Wang Yan nodded: “Don’t just stand there—get in line. So many people, who knows how long we’ll wait?” He picked up his things and walked off.

“Oh… Hey? Wait up!” Cheng Dongqing nodded, bent to pick up his bag, and saw Wang Yan already several steps ahead—he hurried to catch up.

Cheng Dongqing caught up and said: “I’m from Jiangsu. Where are you from?”

Wang Yan had already received the system’s information—it was minimal. An orphan, raised in a welfare home, Beijing household registration, eighteen years old, admitted to Peking University’s Chinese Literature department with outstanding grades. That was it.

“Local,” Wang Yan replied with a smile. “Meeting is fate. Once we’re settled, I’ll show you around Beijing.”

“Really? Then… uh… won’t that be too much trouble?”

“We’re classmates—what trouble? It’s settled.”

Cheng Dongqing grinned: “Great! Thanks!”

Wang Yan waved his hand without speaking, picked up his things, and joined the registration line.

After a flurry of activity, registration was done. Wang Yan and Cheng Dongqing, who stared around wide-eyed at everything new, carried their luggage toward the dormitory.

Wang Yan wasn’t unfamiliar with Peking University—he’d attended Tsinghua in “The Days of Our Youth,” right across the street. He’d also stayed here during “In the Name of the People,” studying Sinology and philosophy.

After walking a while, they reached the dorm area. Two girls ahead were giggling, looking up at a tall youth with long hair reciting poetry in English.

Cheng Dongqing had never seen anything like it—he couldn’t move.

Before the long-haired youth could keep showing off, a head popped out of the neighboring window: “Are you crazy? People are studying—what are you yelling for?”

Then the two began arguing, and it escalated…

Wang Yan knew this was the opening scene—the three would meet because of this. He left Cheng Dongqing behind and slipped away quietly.

He found his assigned dorm and pushed the door open.

Three men turned to look at him, startled. Two bunk beds, a long table in the middle, a cabinet near the door.

He tossed his things onto the empty top bunk: “Let’s get acquainted—I’m Wang Yan, from Beijing. You guys?”

A short, slightly overweight boy with glasses sitting at the table said: “Wu Jiang, from Shanghai.”

The boy beside him spoke: “Zhang Wenliang, from Tianjin.”

The last boy, sitting on the bed against the wall, said: “Xu Jian, from Changsha.”

“All first-timers?” Seeing them nod, Wang Yan said: “When you get some free time, I’ll take you around.”

Zhang Wenliang clapped: “Perfect! We won’t know the city like you locals do.”

“Hey, Wang Yan, is Beijing really…?” The others began asking questions—first-timers, naturally curious. Wang Yan patiently answered, occasionally sharing amusing stories—the dorm atmosphere was warm.

………

A month passed. The students, dragged off to the mountains for military training, were finally released—marking the official start of university life.

On the Great Wall, under the blazing sun, Wang Yan asked: “What are you thinking about?”

Cheng Dongqing snapped out of his daze, leaned against the wall, and said: “America.”

Wang Yan knew Meng Xiaojun had brainwashed him—he replied coolly: “You want to go?”

Seeing him nod, Wang Yan patted his shoulder: “Don’t waste energy on fantasies. From what I know, your English isn’t good. It’s too early to think about this. Focus on studying. Don’t you need to pass the language barrier first?”

In this era, as reform and opening-up unfolded, the door opened slowly. The impact on this generation of youth was unimaginable.

Some, like Meng Xiaojun, waved flags, yearning for a free land where everyone was equal and gold lay everywhere. They went, saw what freedom really was—some thrived, some failed. But they couldn’t accept failure or humiliation. There, they loudly praised how great the West was, how superior they were, and tricked people back home into cheering. Those people went too—and like the first batch, they couldn’t accept failure, and started another round.

One person might lie to you. Ten might lie. But not everyone?

In such a situation, any dissenting voice becomes “jealousy,” “wanting to ruin others,” “blocking progress.”

Forty years later, in reality, people now know what “free America” really is—but they still go about their lives. Everyone knows they’ll rise one day—so they wait until that day comes.

Cheng Dongqing nodded, silent. He knew all this—but lately, his heart felt like it was overgrown with weeds, constantly preoccupied.

Seeing this, Wang Yan said: “Let’s go. The sun’s getting fiercer. Head back.”

He called to his roommates. By the time they returned to Peking University, it was night. They ate a quick dinner, collapsed on their beds, and fell asleep from exhaustion.

In this era, there were no entertainment options. Wang Yan read by flashlight for a while, then slept.

The next day, Wang Yan woke early, went out for a few laps of exercise.

On the track, he spotted an unexpected person—Su Mei. She walked slowly around the track, dictionary in hand, muttering vocabulary aloud.

As he passed, Su Mei glanced at Wang Yan. He nodded to her. They passed without stopping.

After breakfast, Wang Yan returned to the dorm, wiped his body, picked up his books, and resumed student life.

When he had free time, he contacted a publishing house and took on a translation job. No choice—the system’s initial money ran out after tuition started. Now, university was tuition-free, and students like him even got subsidies.

This time, he was utterly broke—nothing at all.

And since it was 1980, Wang Yan didn’t dare show off. The situation was still unstable—he’d have to lie low for a few years.

While he was out contacting people, Cheng Dongqing was attending events with Meng Xiaojun.

Meng Xiaojun stood confidently and said: “I’d like everyone to describe our generation with one word.”

"Chase after it."

"Ideal."

"Impulse."

One by one, the classmates voiced their answers; Meng Xiaojun patted Cheng Dongqing on the shoulder without comment: "Cheng Dongqing, what do you think?"

Cheng Dongqing blurted out: "The red flag never falls." He was met with laughter.

Meng Xiaojun did not laugh; as he paced, he spoke eloquently: "Have you ever considered why we’ve discussed so many ideologies, doctrines, and methods here? Because we all want to find a ready-made answer..."

After speaking, he looked at the silent, thoughtful group, then stepped onto a chair: "I believe the most important thing for our generation is change—change every person around us, change every thing around us. The only thing that must never change is the courage we hold at this very moment. If we can do this, we will change the world."

Cheng Dongqing felt these words struck straight to his heart. He clapped and cheered wildly.

After the gathering broke up, the two walked along a quiet path outside; Meng Xiaojun said softly: "What do you think of what I just said?"

"Great. Truly great."

"Then let me tell you—there is only one place where you can truly change the world: America."