Chapter 14

Zhao Jianguo, before heading out in the morning, slipped a packet of salt into Li Xiaohua's sewing basket, saying it was factory welfare, but he knew it came from yesterday's sign‑in. He didn't plan to live on luck, yet when luck arrived he couldn't turn it away.

Zhao Jianguo walked to the Courtyard Gate and happened upon Yanbugui squatting under his own eaves tinkering with that antiquated tube radio; the antenna was askew and the Speaker crackled like a dying cricket.

"San Daye, are you tangling with that iron lump again?" Zhao Jianguo stepped over, chuckling.

Yanbugui glanced at him, hands still moving: "You understand this? Don't just run your mouth."

"I don't know, but I want to learn." Zhao Jianguo squatted, slipped his book bag to his feet, and said, "You said you needed help moving boxes for those old books, right? I'm strong and can read a few characters. If you trust me, I can lend a hand fixing the radio."

Yanbugui narrowed his eyes, sizing him up: "Last time you said you were buying salt, now you're tinkering with a machine again, Xiao Zhao—do you have some connection?"

Zhao Jianguo grinned: "No connection, just a hobby. Besides, if your old‑book pile really had a copy of Wireless Theory, I'd strike it rich."

Yanbugui snorted, but didn't stop him. He shoved the radio toward Zhao Jianguo: "Fine, give it a try. If you can't fix it, that batch of old‑book trades will go south."

Zhao Jianguo wasn't annoyed; he flipped open the back cover and saw the tube blackened, the circuit board dusty, and a wire reversed—the fault wasn't huge nor tiny, something an average person could wrestle with for three days.

He showed no reaction, pulling a small pair of tweezers from his pocket—acquired two days ago from a sign‑in, which he'd thought was for watch repair. As soon as he gripped a loose solder joint, his head buzzed and a strange yet familiar feeling surged, as if someone had slipped an Elementary Electrical Technician's Manual into his brain.

He froze for half a second, then realized: the system had upgraded.

That moment wasn't an illusion; it was a concrete infusion of knowledge. Even more striking, with a thought he gained a spare tube in his ring, matching the model and even the factory batch number exactly.

"Amazing," he muttered, and quickly set to work replacing it.

In less than ten minutes the radio went "pop" and the Speaker announced crisply: "It's now exactly seven o'clock Beijing time—"

Yanbugui nearly jumped up: "This… this sound is far brighter than before!"

Zhao Jianguo wiped his hands: "I also tweaked the middle wave, so the signal's steady. Your set's old, but swapping the Speaker would make it sound even better."

Yanbugui stared at him, his expression shifting: "You kid… have you done this before?"

"Self‑taught," Zhao Jianguo laughed, "I've read a lot of books and got itchy hands."

Yanbugui didn't ask further, but his gaze visibly softened. He patted Zhao Jianguo's shoulder: "All right, the books are yours. Later I'll take you to the Scrap Yard—there are still a few crates of old materials; you might find what you need."

Zhao Jianguo nodded in agreement, but his mind was already turning over another matter—the System Prompt had just unlocked Directed Sign‑in. He tried silently chanting "Yan family radio" in his head, and indeed received five jin of premium flour and two industrial coupons. This wasn't a blind cat finding a mouse; he could now strike where he aimed.

He went home, dumped the premium flour into the flour bin, stirred it, and mixed it with his household white flour. That evening, when Li Xiaohua lifted the pot lid to cook, she laughed: "The noodles look white today—did the factory hand out another subsidy?"

"Yeah, Old Zhang from the Technical Section traded the coupons for it and gave me a share," Zhao Jianguo said, picking up a bite of vegetables without changing his expression.

Li Xiaohua nodded, not asking further. In the Siheyuan, such things are unspoken—if a family has a bit of pull, as long as they don't flaunt it, everyone turns a blind eye.

But someone wasn't having it.

The next noon, Zhao Jianguo had just finished wiping down the lathe in the workshop when he overheard Yi Zhonghai chatting with someone over there.

"These days some young people don't keep their minds on the proper path," Yi Zhonghai said, dangling a cigarette, "They learn a bit of surface knowledge and dare to fix people's machines—if the radio just sounds okay, that's enough? If they wire it wrong and leak electricity hurts someone, the rules are ruined in the hands of these 'wild‑road' types."

Zhao Jianguo pretended not to hear, but a glance revealed Dong Xu squatting by the wall changing his work clothes, his hand pausing.

He felt a twinge, and after work that afternoon he deliberately sidled up to Dong Xu, slipping him a wrench: "Brother Dong, your tool bag's zipper's about to bust—I'll sew it up for you later."

Dong Xu stared, took the wrench: "Thanks… you still sew?"

"A little," Zhao Jianguo chuckled, "It's the same principle as fixing a machine—tighten what's loose, connect what's broken. By the way, what do you fitters fear most? Isn't it a hair‑sized dimension error that scraps the work?"

Dong Xu looked up at him: "You get this?"

"My dad often rattles on about the three major errors of fitting—measurement error, clamping error, tool‑wear error. If any isn't controlled, the shaft hole won't line up."

Dong Xu's eyes shifted. He stared at Zhao Jianguo, as if meeting him for the first time: "These… did your dad teach you?"

"Yeah," Zhao Jianguo nodded, "He also said a true good master doesn't just show you how to do it, but explains why—otherwise you'll spend your life just copying the gourd."

Dong Xu fell silent. He lowered his head, fiddling with the wrench, his knuckles whitening, before finally squeezing out: "Back then… the master only let us be helpers, never explained the principles."

Zhao Jianguo didn't reply, just lightly patted his shoulder: "I'll bring needle and thread for your tool bag tomorrow."

Having said that, he walked off.

But he knew those words had already taken root.

That evening, as he just entered the courtyard, he saw Yi Zhonghai strolling with his hands behind his back; upon spotting Dong Xu he paused, sighed: "Dong Xu, if your father had listened to me back then, it wouldn't have come to this… oh well, never mind."

Dong Xu stood where he was, silent.

Zhao Jianguo lingered at the gate, not going in. After Yi Zhonghai left, he saw Dong Xu alone squatting by the well platform, rubbing that old wrench with a rag, over and over, as if trying to scrub away something unseen.

The next morning, Zhao Jianguo handed the repaired tool bag to Dong Xu, slipping in a hand‑copied booklet.

"What's this?" Dong Xu flipped it open to see densely packed dimension annotations, tolerance fit diagrams, and a few pages titled "Common Fault‑Finding Procedure."

"I just put it together in my spare time," Zhao Jianguo said. "If you find it useful, keep it. It's no secret—just textbook stuff."

Dong Xu's fingers twitched; he wanted to push it away but didn't, finally asking in a low voice: "You… why are you helping me?"

"Who in our courtyard isn't constantly in each other's sight?" Zhao Jianguo laughed. "Besides, if your daughter's radio—the one you scavenged at the Scrap Yard—really broke, she'd miss her storytelling and be heart‑broken."

Dong Xu said nothing, but his eye sockets reddened. He slipped the booklet into his pocket and nodded: "Thanks."

Zhao Jianguo was about to leave when Dong Xu suddenly called him: "Jianguo… Master… was he… always……"

He didn't finish, but the meaning was all in his eyes.

Zhao Jianguo looked at him, not rushing to answer, only throwing back: "What do you think?"

Dong Xu's lips moved, then he lowered his head, voice soft as a mutter: "What he taught… and what you wrote… aren't the same."

Zhao Jianguo said no more. He knew some things need only be hinted at.

But he knew someone wouldn't just let it go.

That afternoon the factory held a meeting; Yi Zhonghai, in front of everyone, praised a few veteran workers, then veered onto Zhao Jianguo: "These days some young people's enthusiasm is good, but technique stresses lineage and rules. Those 'quick‑fix' methods learned outside look slick, but when the crunch comes they're unreliable."

Some in the audience echoed him; others frowned.

Zhao Jianguo sat in the back rows, head down taking notes, as if he hadn't heard.

But after the meeting broke up, as he passed the tool shed he overheard Yi Zhonghai speaking inside: "……Dong Xu that kid's honest, but also stupid. Hand him a few scraps of paper and he treats them like treasure, really thinking he can match a ten‑year first‑class worker? Hmph, if I weren't watching, he'd sooner or later be led into a ditch."

Zhao Jianguo's steps didn't falter, but his grip tightened on the notebook.

That night he returned home, opened the notebook, and added another line under Yi Zhonghai's name:

"What's to fear isn't that people learn, but that they wake up."

He closed the notebook and touched his ring.

The sign-in interface quietly appeared in his mind, he silently chanted: "Directed sign-in: what Jia Dongxu needs."

The system had no response.

He frowned, tried again: "Directed sign-in: technical material that could help Jia Dongxu advance."

Still no response.

He understood—the system could obtain things selectively, but couldn't directly interfere in personal relationships. He could provide tools, provide knowledge, but might not be able to accept; whether to dare to believe or not still depended on the other party.

He blew out the lamp and lay down to sleep.

In the middle of the night, footsteps came from the courtyard.

He opened his eyes, heard the neighboring room's door creak open, followed by a suppressed cough. He didn't get up, but his ears were perked.

After a while, Jia Dongxu tiptoed out, crouched by the coal pile at the corner of the courtyard, and flipped through that little booklet by moonlight. His finger slid across the page, page by page, reading extremely slowly, as if he wanted to engrave each character into his mind.

Zhao Jianguo closed his eyes and didn't look again.

He knew that some things had already begun.

The next morning, Zhao Jianguo had just stepped out when he saw Jia Dongxu standing at his own doorstep, clutching that booklet, his gaze different.

"Jianguo." He called out to him, "That... 'dimension chain calculation' you wrote... could you... explain it again?"

Zhao Jianguo smiled: "Sure, tonight at my stove side, we can talk while cooking."

Jia Dongxu nodded and carefully slipped the booklet into his inner pocket.

Zhao Jianguo was about to leave when he suddenly heard Yi Zhonghai's voice from the courtyard gate: "Dong Xu! The factory has an urgent task, the head has specifically called for you!"

Jia Dongxu startled, quickly responded, and turned to leave.

Yi Zhonghai stood there, his gaze sweeping over Zhao Jianguo, then landing on his empty hand, and said leisurely: "Little Zhao, you have plenty of free time; you'd better learn some proper skills. Drawing well on paper isn't as solid as making a cut on a lathe."

Zhao Jianguo smiled: "What the elder said is right, so I plan to enroll in a mechanical vocational specialty."

Yi Zhonghai's expression changed slightly.

Jia Dongxu stood in the middle, looking this way and that, his hand gradually tightening around the booklet in his pocket.

Zhao Jianguo turned and walked away, his steps light.

As he stepped out of the courtyard gate, he heard Yi Zhonghai's lowered voice from behind: "Lately, stay away from that kid, got it?"

Then came a silence.

Zhao Jianguo didn't turn back, just slipped his hand into his pants pocket and touched his ring.

The system interface flashed briefly.

He silently chanted in his heart: "Directed sign-in: technical evaluation materials."

A flash of light passed.

He knew the pieces had already been set up.