Chapter 157: The Pickle Jar Plot of the Admission Ticket

As Sha Zhuzi stepped out with his front foot, Zhao Jianguo stepped in with his back foot. He threw the canvas bag onto the kang, pulled open the innermost hidden clasp, and probed inside with his fingers—empty.

He frowned, searched again, even pulling out the interlayer to look, but still didn't find it.

The admission ticket is missing.

He remembered clearly that he had personally slipped it in before lights-out last night, and had even casually placed it under the Mimeographed Lecture Notes, fearing he might lose it in the morning rush. But now the lecture notes are still there, the admission ticket is gone.

He stood still, his mind racing. This wasn't an ordinary slip of paper; it was the admission credential he had uniformly produced, numbered, and stamped for over three hundred examinees of the Mutual Aid Group, each linked to a name and exam site. If something went wrong, the whole exam would descend into chaos.

As he thought, a bright flash appeared before his eyes—a semi‑transparent screen floated in mid‑air, like someone had slipped a pane of glass obliquely into the air. The image wobbled twice, then steadied: a room, an old five‑drawer chest against the west wall, the camera slowly pushing in until it stopped at a pickle jar. The jar's mouth was covered with a tin lid, slightly warped at the edge, and the jar bore a yellowed label reading "Aged Snow‑Vegetable".

The Positioning Arrow blinked repeatedly, pointing straight to the Jia Family West Room.

Zhao Jianguo's eyelid twitched.

He turned and headed out without changing his shoes, slipping straight into the dusty cloth‑covered rubber shoes. As he passed the Central Courtyard, he saw San Daye squatting under a jujube tree, quizzing his grandson on vocabulary; hearing the Footsteps, San Daye looked up, but Zhao Jianguo didn't stop, merely nodding in greeting.

Arriving at the Jia Family Gate, the door was ajar, and a rustling sound came from inside.

He pushed the door open, passed through the Main Hall, and went straight to the West Wing. The door wasn't shut tight; a slit let out a dim yellow light. He pushed it open and bumped into Jia Zhangshi squatting before the pickle jar, one hand lifting the iron lid, the other shoving something into the jar's bottom.

The stack of paper hadn't fully sunk; a corner peeked out of the brine, its edge showing clear numbered ink marks and a red stamp reading "College Entrance Exam Mutual Aid Group – Proctor‑Only".

It was the admission ticket.

Zhao Jianguo's throat rolled out a sentence: "Are you pickling admission tickets or aged old vinegar in that jar?"

Jia Zhangshi jerked violently, her hand freezing mid‑air; the jar lid clanged back into place, splashing a little brine onto her pant leg.

She turned her head, her face as white as if coated with a layer of wall plaster, her lips trembling: "I… I just wanted to take a look…"

"Look?" Zhao Jianguo stepped forward, raised his hand and pressed; the System Screen whooshed open, hovering in mid‑air. The screen showed Jia Zhangshi's figure crystal‑clear—last night at midnight, she had sneaked to his room's doorway, crouched for a long time on the edge of his canvas bag, her fingers reaching out several times then pulling back, finally, taking advantage of his turning over, she pulled that stack of paper from the Storage Ring Interlayer.

"You've been looking at it for three days." Zhao Jianguo spoke softly but clearly: "The day before yesterday you touched the bag's corner, yesterday you rubbed the edge, and today you finally got your hands on it. If you really just wanted to look, why wait until this morning? Why hide it in the salt‑vegetable jar?"

Jia Zhangshi said nothing, shrinking back with her back against the wall.

Zhao Jianguo bent over and opened the jar lid; a strong sour stench burst out. He reached in, fished a few times, his fingertips touching the wet stack of paper. One sheet, two sheets, three sheets… he pulled them all out and spread them on the table. The paper had soaked until soft, edges curled, ink slightly blurred, but the numbers and names were still legible.

He took out a clean cloth from his pocket, wiped each sheet dry, his motions swift and without hesitation.

"Your son Sha Zhuzi told me this morning that if he fails the exam, you'll have to give up on him." Zhao Jianguo said while wiping, "He's actually quite afraid, terrified that poor performance will disappoint you."

Jia Zhangshi's throat moved, and a sudden sheen of tears welled in her eyes.

"And what about you?" he asked, looking at her. "You're not afraid he'll fail; you're afraid he'll succeed."

The woman's body shuddered.

"You think if he really got into college he'd never come back, right? Far away, out of your control, and you wouldn't have to worry about his life anymore. So you might as well—" he paused, wiped the last admission ticket dry, and slipped it into the oilcloth bag he carried, "—soak it rotten in this jar, let it mold and grow fuzz, until no one can tell what it originally was."

Jia Zhangshi finally spoke, her voice hoarse like sandpaper on wood: "I didn't mean to destroy it… I just wanted to put it away… return it after the fuss dies down…"

"Fuss?" Zhao Jianguo snorted coldly. "The college entrance exam is just one day—where's the fuss coming from? You're afraid people's hearts will change, afraid the child will have a way out and then won't listen to you."

She said nothing, just lowered her head, her fingers picking at the thread on her pant seam, pulling it out strand by strand.

Zhao Jianguo stood up, tightened the oilcloth bag and slung it over his shoulder. The room was so quiet you could hear the tick‑tock of the wall clock.

"These papers," he said, "aren't made by me, nor approved by any leader. They're the opportunity painstakingly gathered by each child staying up late to memorize, correct mistakes, and calculate math problems. Tampering with them isn't just messing with a few sheets—it's meddling with the morale of three hundred people."

Jia Zhangshi's shoulder twitched.

He walked to the doorway, rested his hand on the doorframe, and paused again.

"Sha Zhuzi was right this morning—knowledge is for solving problems." He glanced at her. "But you're using something besides knowledge to settle the knot in your heart. That's not right."

Having said that, he pulled the door open and walked out.

Outside, the sun had risen high, bathing the courtyard in bright light. A few children were chattering at the stone table, reciting words; Sha Zhuzi was among them, counting grammar mnemonics on his fingers. Seeing him come out, he immediately waved: "Teacher Zhao! I've just finished three sentence patterns!"

Zhao Jianguo smiled at him, didn't stop, and headed straight toward his own home.

As he passed the stone table in the Central Courtyard, he casually put the oilcloth bag on the corner, untied the strap and checked it through. All the admission tickets were there, none missing; although they'd been damp, the handwriting remained clear and usable.

He retied it, held it in his arms, and looked up at the sky.

Time's about up.

He strode toward the courtyard gate, his steps steady, his back straight.

Upon reaching the Screen Wall, he suddenly heard someone shout from behind.

It was Jia Zhangshi.

She stood at her own doorway, clutching the cloth that had wiped the admission tickets, her lips moving as if she wanted to say something.

Zhao Jianguo didn't turn back, nor did he stop.

He lifted his foot over the threshold, walked out of the Siheyuan, and headed toward the street entrance.

Sunlight fell on the oilcloth bag on his shoulder, casting a small gleam.