Chapter 12

Zhao Jianguo flipped the Russian-written note over and over, looking at it twice, his fingers lightly tapping in his pocket. The Russian Basics manual inside his ring was still warm, just taken out after clocking in not long ago, the edges still a bit hot. He didn't rush to pull it out; instead, he slipped the note back into the young worker's hand: "Go back first, wait for my dad a moment—he'll be here right away."

After the worker left, Zhao Jianguo turned and went inside, pulling out that tattered book from his ring, flipping it open to see dense letters crawling like ants, yet somehow he recognized every one. His heart skipped—this thing could actually be used.

But he didn't dwell on it, shoved the book under the bed, and went to the courtyard to look for his dad.

Zhao Erniu was squatting in front of the toolbox wiping a wrench, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, looking indifferent. Seeing his son approach, he didn't even lift his head: "What? Can't you make sense of that thing?"

"I can read it." Zhao Jianguo squatted, lowering his voice, "But I think this isn't something you should shoulder alone. Yi Zhonghai just stumbled in your hands, and now the factory has thrown up a Russian piece of equipment—if you don't touch it, you look afraid of him; if you do, and something goes wrong, they'll just say you're 'relying on talent to act arrogant, defying organization arrangements.'"

Zhao Erniu's hand paused, he lifted his eyes to him: "You little brat, your ears are awfully long?"

"It's not that my ears are long; it's that when people's hearts stir, the wind rises." Zhao Jianguo cracked a smile, "I heard Old Li from the workshop say yesterday that Yi Zhonghai was muttering in the tea room to a coworker that you 'have good technique, but you don't know how to unite the masses.' That remark sounds light, but as it spreads it turns into 'Zhao Erniu is practicing individual heroism.'"

Zhao Erniu gave a cold snort: "Isn't he just scared I'll become Technical Group Leader and outrank him? Fine, if he wants to play dirty, we'll see whose work is tougher."

Zhao Jianguo didn't respond, just stared at the wrench in his father's hand. The oil cloth had been rubbed over and over—either it wasn't clean enough, or something was on his mind.

He knew this wasn't over. Yi Zhonghai wouldn't just accept defeat like that. If it came down to a skill showdown, his father fears no one, but living in the courtyard, it's not just about skill putting food on the table—you also need to see who's got an audience when they speak.

Days passed, the factory was calm on the surface, but Zhao Jianguo's inner string stayed taut. He began to watch the courtyard's movements, especially who Yi Zhonghai hung out with and what they said.

That evening, he was pulling white flour from his ring to make noodles when a sudden burst of coughing came from next door. Looking up, he saw Jia Dongxu squatting at his own doorway, holding a little girl in his arms, her forehead pressed to his, his brows knotted tight enough to crush a fly.

The child's face burned crimson, lips dry and cracked, tiny hands clutching her father's collar, whimpering weakly.

Zhao Jianguo hurriedly poured a cup of warm water and handed it over: "Dong Xu, this fever's serious—should we go to the hospital?"

Jia Dongxu took the water, gave a bitter smile: "Cough… who'd dare go? Registration's two mao, a shot's one yuan two fen, we're grade‑one workers earning twenty‑eight a month—after grain, coal, and cloth coupons, there's hardly any change left."

"It still needs treating." Zhao Jianguo frowned, "The kid's fever's addled her."

"Just tough it out, maybe it'll pass." Jia Dongxu lowered his head to pat the girl's head, his voice hoarse, "Before we've done this—cold compress on the head, work up a sweat, and it's fine."

Zhao Jianguo's heart sank. He remembered that girl—just days ago she'd been chasing chickens around the courtyard, laughing loudly, and now in only a few days she'd grown thin.

He didn't ask further, went inside and brought out a bowl of just‑cooked noodle soup: "Drink it while it's hot, warm yourself up."

Jia Dongxu demurred twice, but finally couldn't hold out, taking small sips. A few drops of oil floated in the soup—a rarity these days. He drank slowly, yet each gulp was swallowed with earnestness.

Zhao Jianguo squatted beside him, watching, then suddenly asked: "Dong Xu, you've been a fitter for nearly ten years, right? Why are you still a grade‑one worker?"

Jia Dongxu's hand trembled, the bowl nearly slipping. He glanced down at his daughter, sighed: "I'm just slow. I never mastered what the teacher taught, my work's clumsy, I can't move up a grade—no wonder others think so."

"Your teacher is Yi Zhonghai?"

"Mm." Jia Dongxu nodded, "My father entrusted him before he died. He said to follow Old Yi, learn the craft well, and not bring shame on the old Jia family."

Zhao Jianguo didn't speak, but his mind was as clear as a mirror. His dad had mentioned while eating yesterday: "Yi Zhonghai takes on apprentices, always keeps a trick up his sleeve. He doesn't demonstrate key procedures, doesn't let them see the drawings, just lets them do odd jobs. After ten years, it would be strange if he could get promoted."

It turns out Dong Xu isn't stupid; someone is holding him back.

He looked at Dong Xu's hands, thick with old calluses, the nail grooves filled with black dirt, the tiger's mouth split and wrapped in blackened tape. This isn't someone slacking off; this is someone working himself to death. Yet after ten years of such labor, he's still a grade‑one worker, his wages not even enough to cover medicine.

"Brother Dong Xu." Zhao Jianguo suddenly said, "My dad always says: 'Skill belongs to the public, not anyone's private purse. If you can teach, teach; if you can help, help. To hide a trick, fearing the apprentice will surpass you—that's not a master, that's a stumbling block.'"

Dong Xu stared, then lifted his head to look at him.

"You've worked ten years, done plenty of work, endured plenty of hardship, yet your skill hasn't improved, your wages haven't risen, and when your child fell ill you didn't dare go to the hospital." Zhao Jianguo spoke softly, but each sentence hit the ground like a blow: "Do you really think it's because you're incapable?"

Dong Xu moved his lips, but said nothing.

"Your father entrusted him with 'to bring you up to talent,' not 'to let you do odd jobs for life.'" Zhao Jianguo stared at him. "If Yi Zhonghai truly regarded you as an apprentice, why wouldn't he teach you the core techniques? Why wouldn't he let you see the drawings? Why does your rating stay at grade‑one every time?"

Dong Xu slowly set down his bowl; the soup noodles swayed, reflecting his pallid face.

He opened his mouth to retort, but the words died at his lips. It wasn't that he didn't want to speak; he couldn't. Deep down he had long suspected, but he never dared pierce that veil—Yi Zhonghai was the person his father entrusted on his deathbed, his only reliance in the factory. If even that relationship collapsed, what would he have to prop up this family?

"But… but he's my master." Dong Xu's voice dropped so low it was almost inaudible. "When my father passed, he personally handed my work badge to him. I could never be ungrateful."

Zhao Jianguo didn't press further. He knew that was enough to say. The wall in Dong Xu's heart wasn't built in a day, and it wouldn't crumble from a few words.

But he saw it—a glint of light flickered in those cloudy eyes. Not anger, not hatred, but a belated, dull clarity.

It was like someone in a dark room quietly pulling open a slit.

At dinner, Zhao Erniu as usual took a couple of sips of liquor, smacked his lips: "I heard the workshop's Russian equipment— the director had Yi Zhonghai take the lead on translating it. Old Yi declined, saying, 'My level isn't up to it; I need someone who knows the field.'"

Zhao Jianguo's chopsticks halted: "He declined?"

"Yeah. He even said at the meeting, 'Zhao Erniu has good skills and loves to learn; maybe he can make sense of it.' That sounds like praise for your father, but it's actually putting a hat on his head—if you take it on and mess up the translation, you'll be labeled 'pretending to know what you don't, causing trouble for the factory'; if you refuse, you'll be called 'shirking responsibility, not cooperating with work.'"

Zhao Jianguo snorted coldly: "What a nice soft knife."

"No kidding." Zhao Erniu picked up a bite of vegetables: "He's using the organization's mouth to press down on your father. Since he can't win technically, he trips you up with personal connections and worldly tactics."

Zhao Jianguo lowered his head to eat rice, saying nothing more. But he already understood clearly—Yi Zhonghai's net isn't just woven in the factory; it's also woven in the courtyard. Dong Xu is a pawn in his hand: for ten years he hasn't been promoted, his wages are stuck, and the poorer his family gets, the more he has to rely on Yi Zhonghai's favor. All Yi Zhonghai needs to say is "I'll help you secure a quota," and Dong Xu will follow him wholeheartedly.

This isn't taking on an apprentice; it's raising a permanent laborer.

He suddenly recalled how Dong Xu had sipped his noodle soup that afternoon, mouthful after mouthful, as if eating his last relief rations. His daughter burned with fever, mumbling, still shouting, "Dad, I don't hurt."

Zhao Jianguo set down his bowl, rose, and went back to his room.

The oil lamp lit; he felt under the bed for that little notebook, opened a page, and added a line beneath the name "Yi Zhonghai":

"Control technique to govern people, borrow name to suppress power—this is the root of the plot."

After writing, he closed the notebook, stared at the wick for a moment. The flame flickered, casting on the wall like a hand constantly waving.

He knew he couldn't rely solely on his father's technical skill to muscle through this. Yi Zhonghai plays with people's hearts, with the Rules Sign, with something invisible and intangible that can nonetheless trap a person to death.

But he also knew that some things, sooner or later, must be broken.

Early the next morning, he went to the factory to deliver meals, passing No. 3 Workshop when he saw Yi Zhonghai standing at the doorway talking to Dong Xu. Yi Zhonghai patted his shoulder, looking concerned: "Dong Xu, is your child's illness better? If not, I could speak to the director and apply for a hardship allowance."

Dong Xu waved his hands repeatedly: "No need, no need; my family can still manage."

Yi Zhonghai sighed: "You're just too stubborn. If you have difficulties, can the organization ignore them? As your master, I certainly can't stand by and watch you suffer."

Zhao Jianguo stood at a distance, not approaching. He watched Yi Zhonghai's "kind master" façade and smirked inwardly—yesterday he was in the tea room saying his father "doesn't understand unity," and today he's rushing to plead for the apprentice; his face changes faster than flipping a page.

He said nothing, turned, and walked away.

But as he rounded the corner, he heard Dong Xu whisper: "Master, I… I dreamed last night of my father. He said, 'Study well, don't let people look down on you.'"

Yi Zhonghai's voice followed immediately: "Let your father rest easy; with me here, no one will dare look down on you."

Zhao Jianguo's steps halted.

He didn't turn around, only feeling as if something had poked his chest.

Not anger, not sympathy, but an indescribable heaviness.

He knew Jia Dongxu hadn't woken yet. But he also knew that gap had already been opened.

He lifted his foot and kept walking, his fingers lightly tapping inside his pant pocket.

The Russian Basics Manual inside the ring was still there.