Chapter 23: Sha Zhu

When Zhao Jianguo folded the paper titled "Jia Dongxu Teaching Plan" and slipped it into the drawer, the moonlight outside fell exactly on the doorframe, as if a silver edge had been applied to the wooden crack. He didn't rush to light a lamp; instead, he casually packed the bench‑vise parts into the box, while his ears stayed alert to the sounds outside.

The courtyard was so quiet you could hear a mouse gnawing at the wall base, but before long, footsteps sounded.

It wasn't the cautious, careful steps of Jia Dongxu, fearing to startle anyone; it was the thunderous, stomping rhythm of big strides—Sha Zhu was back, still carrying a bulging cloth bundle, probably another batch of steamed buns from the cafeteria.

Zhao Jianguo didn't open the window; he stood inside, peering out through the glass cracks. Sha Zhu walked to the Jia Family gate, raised his hand and knocked twice; the door opened a sliver, Qin Huairu stuck out half her body, took the cloth bundle without even a smile, turned and shoved it inside. From the door gap, Jia Zhangshi muttered, "Coming to deliver again, never getting tired of it—do you really think you're their own son?"

The door slammed shut, Sha Zhu froze for a moment, scratched his head, gave a crooked smile, then turned and left.

Zhao Jianguo stood rooted, his brows slowly knitting together.

How many times has this happened? Every few days he runs to the Jia Family—delivering Meal Tickets, repairing houses, mending children's clothes, even racing to replace broken light bulbs. Yet their attitude? They call him "Brother Sha Zhu" aloud, but behind his back call him "old bachelor" and "Meal Bucket", not even pour him a cup of hot water. What does he want?

The thought just surfaced, and the Jia Dongxu line from two days ago—"I can't hold on much longer"—came to mind. It sounded like a grievance, but on reflection, the Jia Family's finances are tight yet not destitute—they have a house, receive grain, children attend school for free, while Sha Zhu alone eats his fill and the whole family stays unfed (often forgetting his sister), his wages fully subsidize others, and he dresses like a beggar.

This isn't help; it's being used as a donkey.

Zhao Jianguo felt a thud in his chest, suddenly recalling Yi Zhonghai's words in the cafeteria a few days earlier: "Sha Zhu is kind‑hearted; when he grows old, the Jia Family won't abandon him." At the time he took it as a casual remark; now, looking back, it tastes off.

How can a master not help his disciple, yet force the disciple to rely on another family for support? Yi Zhonghai is a childless man; if that day comes, isn't he afraid the Jia Family will abandon him? Isn't he just looking for someone to care for him in old age? Why then does he make even the elderly unable to be cared for?

Suddenly Zhao Jianguo had a flash of insight: yes, Yi Zhonghai earns a high salary and is frugal; when he retires his pension will be generous, his savings enough for old age, and he can still occasionally help the Jia Family. This is a scheme to control two generations of them!

As for Sha Zhu, this isn't concern; it's brainwashing, pushing Sha Zhu into a furnace.

The more he thought, the clearer it became—Yi Zhonghai is setting a trap. Jia Dongxu's side suppresses his technique, blocks promotion, freezes his salary; the poorer the family, the more they must rely on outsiders. Sha Zhu's side feeds him a "future Meal Ticket" soul‑soup, making him willingly a laborer. One is suffocated by pressure, the other is coaxed forward; both cannot do without this "master" as judge.

This move is truly black.

Zhao Jianguo sneered, turned back to the table and sat down, not lighting a lamp, pondering in the darkness. He can now help Jia Dongxu improve his technique, but Sha Zhu's issue is different. Technique can be taught; a brainwashed heart needs a slap of reality to awaken.

He was thinking when, outside, the sky was just dawning and the courtyard stirred. He Yushui squatted by the well rinsing vegetable roots, Qin Huairu held a child beside her, a worried expression on her face. Zhao Jianguo glanced, knowing in his heart—this month's grain is tight again, the bangzi noodles are nearly gone, let alone the fine grain.

He said nothing, rose, fetched from the cabinet the premium powder he had signed for yesterday, grabbed two handfuls into the pot, cracked two eggs and whisked, flipped the wok, and the aroma instantly burst out.

Within two minutes, a small head poked out at the courtyard gate—He Yushui peered through the door gap, eyes eager to look inside.

"Come in," Zhao Jianguo said without looking up, "Just one serving left, don't stand out there sniffing."

He Yushui startled, quickly pushed the door open, rubbed her hands, smiling like a flower: "Brother Jianguo, your days are like a New Year celebration."

"Nonsense, it's just one Meal Ticket," Zhao Jianguo handed over the bowl, "Eat quickly, it's gone cold and fishy."

The child took the bowl, devoured it, licking the bowl's bottom clean.

Zhao Jianguo watched, a bitter feeling in his heart. He knew this single bowl couldn't save anyone, but he knew even worse: it's not the lack of food that kills, it's that some have food while they don't know why they have none.

Just then, footsteps sounded again outside. Sha Zhu, lugging a needle‑and‑thread kit, squatted at the Jia Family gate, mending Jia Xiangwen's trousers. The knee had a big hole; he patched it with an old cloth, stitches crooked like worms, his fingers frozen bright red, the thread snapping several times without breaking.

Zhao Jianguo stood at the gate for a while, silent.

Is this man foolish? No. He works efficiently, his mind is sharp, everyone in the cafeteria respects him. Yet on this Jia Family matter, he's like a blind man, clearly being used as a gun, still cheerfully charging forward.

Yi Zhonghai's "future Meal Ticket" line acted like a talisman, sealing his mind.

The fire in Zhao Jianguo's heart flared again. He isn't afraid of bad people, only of people stupid enough to be clear‑sighted. Jia Dongxu is suppressed, unable to resist; Sha Zhu jumps into the pit himself, yet thinks it's a warm bed.

This cannot be watched any longer.

He turned back into the house, pulled a small notebook from the drawer, opened to a page, and wrote a heading: "Observations on Sha Zhu."

Below he listed several points:

1. Behavior pattern: frequent one‑way output (delivering Meal Tickets, repairs, purchases) with no substantive return; 2. Psychological motive: long‑term indoctrination by Yi Zhonghai of the "rely on Jia Family for old age" notion, creating an illusion of emotional investment; 3. Real‑world feedback: Jia Family's contemptuous attitude, calling him "fool" and "old bachelor", showing no respect; 4. Potential risk: once aged or if the Jia Family falls apart, he could easily become isolated and unsupported.

After writing, he closed the notebook, slipped it back into the drawer, feeling he had a grasp on things.

This cannot be forced. Sha Zhu now won't take reason; if you tell him "they're using you as a donkey", he'll think you're jealous that he "has someone to rely on". He must see for himself—that it's not who he relies on, but who is sucking his blood.

But how to make him see clearly?

Zhao Jianguo squinted, replaying the courtyard's affairs in his mind. The Jia Family won't speak up, Yi Zhonghai won't dismantle his own platform, Sha Zhu remains in the dark. The only breakthrough is to let him see with his own eyes—how the Meal Tickets he saves are eaten bite by bite by others, while the hot soup he wants can't even get through the door.

He was pondering when Sha Zhu finished mending the trousers, stood, brushed off dust, and turned toward the cafeteria. Passing Zhao Family's gate, his nose twitched, and he grinned, "Jianguo, your family is eating plain flour again today? It smells so good my stomach is growling."

Zhao Jianguo, carrying a bowl, heard the remark, looked up at him and said, "You deliver Meal Tickets to the Jia Family every day—what's your aim? You can't even have a good meal yourself."

Sha Zhu froze, then waved his hand, "Hey, I'm alone, I can do anything. Besides, Master Yi said I help them, and when I'm old I'll still have a bowl of hot rice."

"Why doesn't Master Yi help himself?" Zhao Jianguo asked casually.

"He… he's a master, must save face," Sha Zhu scratched his head, "Besides, his family isn't well off either."

Zhao Jianguo felt a thud in his heart.

It arrived.

Having spoken, Sha Zhu didn't even sense a problem—Yi Zhonghai teaches him sacrifice yet never sacrifices himself; he makes Sha Zhu pin his future on another family while clutching his disciple's Meal Ticket. This isn't deep master‑disciple bond, it's mental manipulation.

More laughable, Sha Zhu still thinks this is "loyalty" and "responsibility."

Zhao Jianguo didn't reply, just lowered his head and sipped porridge. He knew words now were useless. The string in Sha Zhu's mind had been tuned by Yi Zhonghai into a one‑way channel—only in, never out; only belief, no doubt.

But he isn't afraid. He has plenty of time.

He looked up at the sky; the sun had already crept over the eaves, shining on the well in the courtyard's center. He knew that from today, this Siheyuan housed not only a suppressed technician, but also a brainwashed "living Lei Feng." One he was already rescuing, the other he must also pull back.

He set the bowl down, returned inside, counted the eggs he had signed in for, and glanced at the premium powder in the cabinet. These things can't save everyone in the courtyard, but at least they let him stay awake.

And wakefulness is the first step of retaliation.

He walked to the window and saw Sha Zhu emerging from the cafeteria, lugging two steamed buns, turning straight toward the Jia Family. Qin Huairu took the buns, didn't even let him enter, turned and shut the door.

Sha Zhu stood at the doorway, rubbed his hands, let out a sigh, then grinned.

Zhao Jianguo stood behind the window, his gaze gradually cooling.

He knew some people aren't born foolish; they've been coaxed for so long they forgot they could still look up at the sky.

He turned, took the small booklet from the drawer, flipped to a blank page, and wrote a line:

"When will Sha Zhu be able to hold a steamed bun and ask himself—who truly deserves this bowl of rice?"