Chapter 11

Zhao Jianguo tapped the small screwdriver against the desk corner; the lamp shadow wavered, the blade became clean, the black specks gone, as if that tap had shaken off anything that shouldn't be there. He stared at the tip for two seconds, then without further thought slipped it into his ring and blew out the oil lamp.

The next day after school, the sky was overcast, wind swirling dust at the hutong entrance. Zhao Jianguo had just stepped out of the school gate not far when he saw Liu Guangqi, accompanied by two classmates who rarely spoke, blocking the way under the crooked-neck sophora tree at the hutongkou. Liu Guangqi had both hands in his pockets, shoulders shrugging, a grass stalk clenched in his mouth; seeing Zhao Jianguo approach, he spat out the stalk, gave a sideways glance and smiled: 'Yo, isn't this our class's new "physics expert"?'

Zhao Jianguo didn't stop, lifted his bag onto his shoulder: 'Make way, you're blocking the path.'

'What's the rush?' Liu Guangqi stepped forward, stretched out a hand to block him, 'You answered smoothly in class—do you think we workers' kids are stupid and can't understand?'

The two behind him also moved in, one deliberately bumping Zhao Jianguo's shoulder, nearly slipping his bag strap.

Zhao Jianguo didn't get angry or retreat, just stood there looking at Liu Guangqi: 'Your father is just an official‑obsessed second‑grade grandpa, and you insist on learning his official tone?'

Liu Guangqi blinked, not expecting him to respond off the usual script.

'I got the answer right because I read the book.' Zhao Jianguo spoke softly but clearly, 'If you don't agree, you can read it yourself. But you're blocking here not to discuss physics, you just want to copy your father's way of lording it over people, right?'

Liu Guangqi's face changed: 'What nonsense are you spouting?'

'I'm not spouting nonsense.' Zhao Jianguo took a half step forward, eyes locked on him, 'Last week you had Li Xiaozhu copy your homework for you, refusing to let him into the self‑study room if he didn't; last month in PE you snatched Wang Qiang's sneakers, saying "workers' kids must listen to workers' kids." Now you're standing here—do you want to keep building your little fiefdom, or have the Youth League Committee investigate whether you're violating the unity regulations?'

When those two heard 'Youth League Committee,' their faces went pale. Liu Guangqi opened his mouth wider: 'You… you're spitting blood!'

'Whether it's slander, you know in your heart.' Zhao Jianguo's tone sank, 'Your father lacks the destiny to be an official but has the official's disease; managing to become a second‑grade grandpa is his talent. If you think that lets you ride over your classmates, that's not the honor of workers' kids—it's disgracing them.'

Liu Guangqi flushed red, neck thick, raised his hand to shove him, but froze mid‑air—he knew that if he really struck, the matter would blow up. The school most forbids 'class oppression' and 'family privilege'; if it were brought up, not only could he not be class representative, he couldn't even hope for commendation.

'You… you wait!' he gritted his teeth, voice low, 'You're pretending to be aloof, pretending to be a top student—sooner or later you'll fall flat on your face!'

Zhao Jianguo didn't reply, walked past him; his bag strap swayed lightly in the wind.

He didn't look back, but he knew inside: this wasn't over. Liu Guangqi wouldn't just let it go.

On the way home, he passed the back gate of the Steel Rolling Factory and heard a commotion inside. Peering in, he saw a crowd gathered at the No. 3 Workshop door, his father Zhao Erniu standing in the middle, opposite Yi Zhonghai holding a blueprint, saying something.

Zhao Jianguo's steps grew heavy; he hurried inside.

'Old Zhao, the axis of this old press is off by three millimeters—do you dare to calibrate it on the spot?' Yi Zhonghai's voice wasn't low, deliberately letting everyone hear, 'This is a question only a Seventh‑Level Fitter would be asked; if you can fix it in three minutes, I'll buy you tea for a month.'

Zhao Erniu had a cigarette dangling, eyelids unmoved: 'You're not testing me; you just want to see me embarrass myself, right?'

'Ah, that's not how to put it.' Yi Zhonghai laughed, 'Technical exchange—who can, who can't, we'll know once we try.'

The onlookers frowned or shook their heads. Everyone knew the problem looked simple but actually required dismantling the machine, measuring clearances, adjusting bearings—three minutes? They didn't even have the tools ready.

Zhao Jianguo pushed to the front of the crowd and asked an old worker in a low voice, 'What's going on?'

'What else can it be?' the old worker lowered his voice, 'Yi Zhonghai heard your dad was transferred in as Technical Group Leader and is unhappy. Today he deliberately brought up this old machine to make an article of it, hoping to embarrass him publicly.'

Zhao Jianguo frowned, about to speak, when he saw his father stub out the cigarette butt, toss it to the ground and stomp it out, roll up his sleeves, and walk toward the machine.

'Fine, I'll give it a try.' Zhao Erniu's voice wasn't loud, 'But let me say this first—if I fix it, that tea of yours is definitely mine.'

Yi Zhonghai's mouth curled: 'Rest assured, I won't renege.'

Zhao Erniu wasted no words, grabbed a wrench, caliper, and pry bar, squatted down and got to work. He first used the caliper to measure the shaft‑end clearance, then lightly nudged it with the pry bar, pressed his ear to listen, and in under two minutes had opened the bearing cover, tapped it lightly with a wooden hammer, slipped in a copper shim, twisted and tested— the machine's axis settled firmly back into place.

'Done.' He stood up, brushed his hands, 'That tea of yours—I'll go drink it tomorrow.'

The hall fell silent for two seconds, then someone clapped: 'Awesome! This technique is sharper than that of the factory's several Seventh‑Level Fitters!'

'This isn't three minutes—it's under two!'

Yi Zhonghai's face flushed then paled, he gave a dry laugh twice: 'Okay, okay, you're impressive—I'll treat you another day.'

Having said that, he turned and walked away, his back a little stiff.

Zhao Jianguo let out a breath, walked over: 'Dad, you knew he was coming for you, right?'

Zhao Erniu glanced at him: 'Nonsense—who doesn't know Yi Zhonghai's little scheme? Thinking a tough problem could overwhelm me? Workers live by their skills, not by wrangling with words.'

Father and son walked home side by side; the sky was already dark, the streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, stretching and shortening their shadows.

That night, Zhao Jianguo sat on the edge of the bed, took out a small notebook, opened a page, and lightly wrote with a pencil:

"Liu Guangqi, leaning on his father to intimidate, bluffing—deters but cannot endure a prolonged fight."

"Yi Zhonghai, envious of talent, resentful of ability, his methods are sneaky, yet he fears actual achievement."

"To deal with such people, winning an argument is no match for winning by deed."

He finished writing, closed the notebook, lifted his head, and saw his father smoking in the inner room, the ember glowing and dimming.

'Dad.' He suddenly spoke, 'What if I show up less at school from now on? That way I won't become a target.'

Zhao Erniu exhaled a puff of smoke: 'Why? You answered the question right—what's wrong?'

'But they think I'm putting on an act.'

'Putting on an act?' Zhao Erniu snorted, 'If you were really faking, you'd have been exposed by now. You're genuinely learning, genuinely capable. They resent you only because you're stronger than them. In this world, whoever is strong has the right.'

He paused, stared at his son: 'Remember, don't provoke trouble, don't fear it. If they argue reason, we argue reason; if they play rough, we show our skill. Don't overthink anything else.'

Zhao Jianguo nodded, said nothing more.

The next day in physics class, the teacher had just finished explaining a pulley‑system problem when Liu Guangqi suddenly raised his hand: 'Teacher, I think Zhao Jianguo's previous answer to the lever problem actually has a loophole.'

The whole class fell silent, all eyes snapping toward Zhao Jianguo.

The teacher also blinked: 'Oh? Go on, then.'

Liu Guangqi stood, cleared his throat: 'He used torque balance under ideal conditions, but in reality the fulcrum has friction, the lever arm loses efficiency, and he didn't factor that in, so his answer isn't rigorous.'

Zhao Jianguo didn't rush to rebut, waited for him to finish, then stood: 'You're right—there really is friction in practice. But the problem explicitly said to "ignore friction," it's a theoretical question. If you insist on adding real‑world variables, let me ask—if your bicycle chain is rusted and pedaling is hard, should we also blame the laws of physics for not being rigorous?'

The class stared, then someone burst out laughing.

Liu Guangqi's face flushed crimson: 'You… you're spouting nonsense!'

'I'm not spouting nonsense.' Zhao Jianguo's tone calm, 'Theory is the foundation, practice the application. You're harping on "reality"—is it because you couldn't answer last time and you're unwilling to accept it?'

The teacher also chuckled: 'All right, everyone sit down. Zhao Jianguo's answer was correct, Liu Guangqi's question also makes sense; we can discuss it after class, but don't disrupt the lesson.'

Liu Guangqi gritted his teeth as he sat down, his fists clenched so tight they crackled.

When the dismissal bell rang, he jumped to his feet and snapped at Zhao Jianguo: 'Don't think that because your dad fixed the machine well you can swagger around school!'

Zhao Jianguo kept packing his bag without pause: 'I'm not swaggering—it's you who's been blocking the way.'

'You—!' Liu Guangqi glared, furious, but in front of the whole class he didn't dare to strike, finally forcing out: 'We'll see how it goes!'

Zhao Jianguo shouldered his backpack and walked out of the Classroom. Wind blew in from the corridor, flipping the corner of his clothes.

He didn't look back, but his hand slipped into the side pocket of his backpack and gently felt the handle of the small screwdriver.

In the evening, Go Home, Zhao Erniu was wiping tools in the courtyard. Zhao Jianguo squatted to hand him the Wrench and casually asked, "Dad, do you think Yi Zhonghai will come looking for trouble again?"

"Will." Zhao Erniu didn't look up, "This kind of person, after losing once, needs to find three chances to turn it around."

"So what should we do?"

"What should we do?" Zhao Erniu wiped the Wrench on the oilcloth, "He throws one problem, we solve ten. He sets a trap, we break ten. The hardest thing in a worker's hand isn't the mouth, it's the work."

Zhao Jianguo laughed, "I need to cram the physics book quickly, otherwise when you're fixing the machine I can't answer the question and we'll both lose face."

Zhao Erniu lifted his head, glanced at him, and also laughed, "You little brat, now you know to fear losing face?"

Father and son were still talking when the Courtyard Gate creaked open; Zhao Jianguo looked up and saw a young worker from the factory holding a note: "Old Zhao, a new imported calibration instrument has arrived in the workshop; the manual is in Russian, no one can read it, the supervisor told you to check it out."

Zhao Erniu took the note, glanced at it, and frowned: "This thing... really is a bit troublesome."

Zhao Jianguo leaned in and saw that the note had a few lines of Russian letters, and beside it was drawn a strange Symbols.

He suddenly remembered that the worn-out Russian Basics Handbook inside the ring had been obtained from a sign-in the day before yesterday.

He lowered his head, and his fingers lightly tapped his pant pocket.