Chapter 24: System Upgrade, Skill Fragment Synthesis

Zhao Jianguo closed the little booklet, placed it on the desk, and tapped the cover twice with his finger. Sha Zhu had just left, and the courtyard fell silent; even the clanking of the iron chain by the well was no longer heard. He had no mind to watch who came and went; his thoughts were on something else—people are unreliable, the bowl of food must be held in one's own hands, but how solid that bowl is depends on whether one's skill is hard enough.

He opened the drawer, took out the ring he wore close to his skin, slipped it onto his palm, and silently whispered "System" in his mind.

When the interface popped up, his eyelids twitched. It wasn't because of any new gadget, but because the pile of long‑accumulated prompts finally reached the top—"Basic Repair ×3", "Basic Electrician ×2". A few skill fragments flashed on the panel like gold paper used for New Year decorations, dazzlingly bright.

What tightened his chest even more was the grayish "LV. 2" badge in the system's upper right corner, whose edges had begun to glow gold for some unknown reason.

"Conditions for LV. 3 upgrade met. Confirm upgrade?"

Zhao Jianguo stared at the line, not rushing to click. He knew this thing never jokes. The skills he got from previous sign‑ins were genuinely usable—fixing a lamp head, replacing an electric wire, and the neighbors even praised his "handiness". But this fragment synthesis sounded far from a trivial matter; if the upgrade flooded his mind with incomprehensible schematics, he'd be stunned on the spot, and his mother would think he'd gone mad.

He got up, pulled the door latch shut, and casually nudged the tea jar on the desk aside to make room. Just as he crouched to pull the box out of sight, Li Xiaohua's voice came from outside: "Jianguo? What are you doing in the room? It's pretty noisy."

"Moving a box," he replied bluntly, raising his voice a notch on purpose, "Moisture got under the cabinet; I'm taking it out to air."

"Then be careful, don't smash your foot," Li Xiaohua said before walking away.

Zhao Jianguo exhaled, plopped back onto the small stool, and tapped the interface with his finger.

"Confirm upgrade."

In that instant, his mind felt as if jammed into an old printing press. With a boom, the screen scrambled—every mis‑tightened screw from fixing a door latch, every reversed live wire from changing a bulb, and even the coil he had pierced with a screwdriver while repairing a neighbor's radio… all resurfaced, shoved into his brain piece by piece, like someone hammering nails, each strike making his temples throb.

He clenched his back molars, braced his hand on the desk edge, and cold sweat streamed down his temples. A rooster crowed outside, and he heard himself mutter from his throat, "Ow, really stepped on my foot!" his voice had shifted in tone.

Fortunately the surge came on hard and left just as fast. In less than half a minute, the chaotic force in his mind suddenly receded like the tide, leaving a clear brightness.

The System Prompt sounded clearly: "LV. 3 unlocked, skill fragment synthesis system activated."

He eased his breath, wiped his face, and looked at the interface again; a new element had appeared—a synthesis slot, with a line of small text beneath: "Consume three identical Basic skill fragments to synthesize one Intermediate skill."

He stared at the three "Basic Repair" fragments, didn't hesitate, and dragged them over.

"Synthesizing…"

"Intermediate Repair Technique acquired."

In that moment, it didn't feel like he'd learned something new, but rather that he'd always known it and just hadn't recalled it. How gears mesh, how to adjust bearing clearances, when a lead screw's wear warrants replacement, which oil temperature is optimal for lubrication… all queued up in his mind, ready on demand.

He looked down at his hands, spreading his five fingers then clenching them, as if the hands had suddenly gained their own memory.

"Alright, let's try."

He got up, walked to the corner, and fetched the old bench vise. Zhao Erniu had scavenged it from the factory years ago; after a decade of use it had become increasingly stiff, turning it felt like pulling a broken bellows, and Zhao Erniu had said the day before yesterday he'd take it back to the factory for a master to inspect.

Zhao Jianguo said nothing, fetched a wrench, a scraper, and an oil can, and with a few "ka‑ka" clicks disassembled the base. Sure enough, a coil of lead‑screw threads had polished bright, the lubricant had hardened into black sludge, and iron filings were embedded.

He used the scraper to chip away the old oil bit by bit, then gently sanded the threads with fine sandpaper; the motions were slow but each stroke steady. Finally he retrieved a small can of industrial grease from his signed‑in supplies, spread it evenly, and reassembled the piece.

He turned the handle to test it; it moved as smoothly as a brand‑new one.

He had just stowed the tools back into the drawer when footsteps sounded outside. Zhao Erniu returned from work, a towel draped over his shoulder; the moment he entered, he spotted the vise on the desk, its handle still turning with residual momentum.

"Huh?" he said, walking over, turning it two turns, his eyebrows lifting, "Did you touch it?"

"Mm." Zhao Jianguo wiped his hands, "Had nothing to do, so I took it apart to look."

"Your technique…" Zhao Erniu crouched, prying at the base, "Did you clean the lead screw? Adjust the preload?"

"More or less." Zhao Jianguo smiled, "I've fixed a lot of radios, just tinkered a bit."

Zhao Erniu straightened up, stared at him for two seconds, then suddenly patted his shoulder twice: "Not bad, kid, your hands are faster than your eyes. Keep training for two more years, and those old guys at the factory will have to step aside."

He said that and went back inside, his back straight, his tone crisp. Yet Zhao Jianguo stayed where he was, still reading something else in his gaze—not pure delight, but more like… contemplation.

He was too lazy to explain; the words were already settled. In the system interface, the four characters "Intermediate Repair Technique" hung steadily, and he had casually starred it, setting it as a frequently used skill.

This craft will be indispensable in the future.

After dinner, the courtyard livelily buzzed as usual. San Daye Yanbugui squatted at the doorway peeling garlic, while Liu Haizhong passed by carrying a thermos; the two chatted, their voices neither loud nor soft, just enough to carry across half the courtyard.

"Did you hear? At the Steel Rolling Factory's machining workshop, the old Zhao family's guy machined a high‑precision shaft yesterday; the supervisor publicly named him, saying, 'That job requires an eighth‑grade worker to handle.'"

"Yo? Doesn't that mean he's about to be rated at eighth level?"

"Exactly! Those old Zhao heads, each more diligent than the last, their skills leap faster than rabbits."

Zhao Jianguo heard it inside, didn't look up, still grinding a small file in his hand. He knew Zhao Erniu's skill had always been solid; in recent years he'd been steady, so reaching eighth level was only a matter of time. But hearing it from someone else gave it a different flavor.

Especially that evening, he saw Yi Zhonghai squatting at his own doorway smoking.

He usually liked to mingle with crowds, but today was unusual; he sat alone on a small wooden stool, a rolled cigarette between his lips, his eyes occasionally flicking toward the Zhao family window. The ash had built up a long stub, yet he didn't flick it away.

Until Liu Haizhong passed by, he finally spoke, his voice low but just enough for the wind to carry it into the house: "Those old Zhao heads, both buried in their tech, will the factory ever let anyone else have a say in the future?"

Zhao Jianguo's file paused for a moment in his hand.

He didn't look up nor speak, just pushed the blade back and forth on the whetstone twice, producing a light "chaa, chaa" sound.

This talk sounds like idle chatter, but it's actually a blade. Yi Zhonghai isn't afraid of Zhao Erniu reaching eighth level; he is afraid that those two heads will become technical pillars, making it harder for others to climb the ladder through connections or seniority.

What he fears more is that Zhao Jianguo, this "young man", has such uncanny skill that he can even repair a bench vise more deftly than the factory.

He tucked away the file, closed the tool box, and casually pulled up the system interface, dragging "Intermediate Repair Technique" to the front of the skill list.

A draft slipped through the window crack, lifting the corner of the sketch of the bench vise on the table ever so slightly. He didn't press it down, just kept watching.

Ability is something no one notices while you train, but once it shines, people can't sit still.

He was pondering when the sound of Yi Zhonghai stubbing out his cigarette drifted from outside, the matchbox snapping shut with a "pop".

Immediately after, footsteps at the courtyard gate came from near to far, as if they had walked away, yet also as if they were standing still for a moment.

Zhao Jianguo stayed still, slid the drawer open a crack, and slipped the ring back onto his hand, pressed against his skin, warm.

He knew that from today onward, the technical work in this courtyard could no longer be suppressed by anyone's will.

He got up to close the window; his finger just brushed the frame when a dark silhouette flickered outside—Yi Zhonghai had turned back again, standing at the Zhao family doorway, a piece of paper clenched in his hand.

"Jianguo," he said, his voice sounding gentle, "the equipment maintenance manual the factory issued a couple of days ago—I slipped your father's copy home; please keep it safe for him."