Chapter 344: and translation of title, then ===GLOSSARY=== with list of named entities appearing in these lines

The wattage of the light bulb in the East Wing Room was not high; the yellow light glowed on the wall plaster like a thin layer of oil. Zhao Jianguo's right hand still rested on three small hands, palm warm, knuckles relaxed but not withdrawn, just covering them like a cloth over freshly steamed buns. His shoulder didn't move, his waist didn't bend, he sat upright, the muscle at the back of his neck tensed, sweat droplets trailed down from behind his ear, spreading a small dark patch on his collar.

Su Qing squatted at his front‑right, knees pressing her blue‑cloth trousers, toe touching the ground, heel slightly raised. She touched neither Zhao Jianguo nor the child, only rested her left hand on her left knee and held her right hand in midair, fingertip less than an inch from the light screen. The light screen hovered before the kang edge, cold‑white background, black characters, clean and steady, without tremor, flash, or bolding.

"I saw the bottom of the door frame light up three times," she said.

Her voice wasn't loud, hurried, or hoarse—just the ordinary tone of asking what to eat for dinner. Yet as her words fell, the faint yellow light in the room seemed to pause for an instant, even the bulb's hum shortening by half a beat.

Zhao Jianguo didn't respond, didn't lift his eyelids, only drew his covering hand inward a little, pulling the three small hands tighter together so the fine hairs on their backs pressed against his palm.

Without waiting for his reply, Su Qing pushed her right index finger forward, tapping the gray box in the lower‑left corner of the light screen. A line of small text appeared inside: "Permission application entry." She didn't pause, pinched the cursor between thumb and index finger, dragged it down to the line "Childhood Protection Mode," and pressed her fingertip.

The light screen flashed and popped up a confirmation box: "Authorizer: Su Qing. Command: Activate Childhood Protection Mode. Submit?"

She didn't tap "Yes" or "No"; her finger just stayed there.

Only then did Zhao Jianguo shift his neck, his Adam's apple rolling up and down like swallowing a dry mouthful. He didn't look at Su Qing; his eyes remained fixed on the light screen, scanning the confirmation line before dropping back to the bottom—where it was blank, nothing written.

The light screen lit up.

The characters remained cold‑white, without punctuation or line break, simply standing there:

"Rejection. Childhood Protection Mode will block all cross‑dimensional perception interfaces and prevent neural synapses from autonomously reorganizing to accommodate higher‑dimensional information. Civil inheritance relies on intergenerational information leaps; activating this mode means the inheritance chain is severed."

Su Qing didn't blink, didn't pull back her hand; her fingertip remained suspended, two millimeters from the confirmation key.

Zhao Jianguo slowly relaxed his right hand, but didn't withdraw it; instead he turned it palm‑down and lightly pressed it against the backs of the three small hands. He lifted his left hand from his thigh, fingers spread, hovering half a foot above the light screen, wrist still, and used his index finger to draw two strokes in the air.

The first stroke was horizontal, the second vertical, crossing to form a "plus" sign, then he dragged rightward, pulling out two lines of text:

"Growth isn't about avoiding the storm; it's learning to read the wind's direction."

The characters were finer and lighter than the system's line, floating on the cold‑white background, not eye‑catching but perfectly legible.

Su Qing finally turned her head to glance at Zhao Jianguo. The corners of her eyes were slightly red—not from crying, but from fatigue; the skin beneath was bluish, her lips dry, a faint crack at the corner of her mouth. She said nothing, merely drew her right hand back to rest on her left knee, fingers pressed together, nails trimmed neat, edges whitened.

Zhao Jianguo didn't look at her; his gaze remained fixed on the light screen, his lips moving slightly as if he were chewing over those two lines again.

The room grew quiet. The light bulb gave a soft "sizzle," its halo wavered, and the oily yellow stain on the wall trembled along with it.

Su Qing lowered her head and saw a speck of dust on the toe of her right shoe, picked up when she'd squatted. She didn't wipe it off, only drew her foot inward, the shoe brushing the kang edge with a faint rustle.

Zhao Jianguo's left hand remained aloft, index finger not lowered, pad facing downward toward the light screen, as if ready to write something more at any moment.

The three small hands still lay in his right palm, warm and sweaty, unmoving, not withdrawn.

Su Qing's left hand pressed on her knee, her right hand resting atop the left, the two hands stacked, knuckles tensed, the veins on the backs of her hands faintly bulging.

The light screen didn't go out; its cold‑white background remained steady, the two characters "Rejection" unmoved, beneath them a smaller line of text half the size of the above: "Command pending review. Guardian consensus <100%.”

Zhao Jianguo's index finger finally came down, not touching the light screen, but lightly resting on the outer side of his right thigh, pad rubbing against the trouser seam—the coarse fabric making his skin a little itchy.

He didn't scratch.

Su Qing tapped the toe of her right foot on the ground again, this time silently, the sole pressing the dust in the brick seam and grinding it.

Zhao Jianguo's right shoulder sank half an inch—not a slump, just a release of tension, yet the muscle at the back of his neck remained taut.

Su Qing's left thumb nail pressed into the pad of her right hand, leaving a faint white mark that didn't break the skin.

Zhao Jianguo curled his left index finger back together with the other four, enclosing the backs of the three small hands. His palm temperature hadn't changed; it was still warm.

Su Qing didn't lift her head; her gaze fell on Zhao Jianguo's right wrist. There lay an old scar, lighter than the surrounding skin, like a pencil‑drawn line, not long, slanting upward half an inch from the wrist bone.

Zhao Jianguo didn't move that scar, nor cover it.

Su Qing slowly raised her right hand—not to touch the light screen or Zhao Jianguo, but to reach for the enamel jar at the edge of the kang. The jar was white with blue flowers, its rim chipped, exposing the rusted iron underneath, a small reddish‑brown patch.

She didn't pick up the jar, only pressed her fingertip to its rim—cool, the rust spots on the iron pressing against her pad.

Zhao Jianguo's right hand shifted—not to loosen, but to draw the three small hands a little closer into his embrace, the motion gentle, as if fearing to startle a child just fallen asleep.

Su Qing's fingertip lingered on the jar's rim for three seconds, then withdrew and came to rest on her left hand.

On the light screen, the line "Guardian consensus <100%” remained unchanged.

Zhao Jianguo lifted his left hand from his thigh; this time it wasn't hovering but pressed against his left knee, fingers spread, the web of his thumb pressing against the trouser seam, knuckles whitening slightly.

Su Qing tapped the toe of her right foot on the ground again, this time a bit harder, the sole scraping the brick surface and emitting a short "scritch."

Zhao Jianguo didn't turn his head or speak; he merely drew his left index finger inward, the nail scraping the trouser fabric with a faint "hiss."

Su Qing's left thumb pressed again into the pad of her right hand, deepening the white mark.

Zhao Jianguo's right wrist hung loose, his fist already relaxed, yet the forearm muscles weren't fully loose—a line of tension ran from the elbow crook to the inner side of the wrist.

Su Qing didn't look at the light screen or Zhao Jianguo; her gaze fell on the toe of her right shoe. The dust was still there, not brushed off.

Zhao Jianguo's left index finger twitched again, scraping the trouser seam as if trying to rub something off.

Su Qing lifted her right hand, this time reaching for the corner of the kang table. On it lay half a watermelon, red flesh with black seeds, the cut side up, droplets of juice rolling down the rind and pooling into a small patch on the tabletop.

She didn't take the melon, only extended her fingertip to touch that pool of water—cool, slick—and when her fingertip made contact, the droplets scattered into smaller beads that slipped into the table seam.

Zhao Jianguo's right hand remained still, the three small hands still cupped in his palm.

Su Qing withdrew her fingertip, not wiping it, still damp, and placed it back on her left hand.

On the light screen, the two characters "Rejection" neither flashed nor trembled; they remained unchanged.

Zhao Jianguo's left hand pressed on his knee, his right hand covering the three small hands; his shoulders weren't slumped, his waist not bent, yet the muscle at the back of his neck remained taut.

Su Qing's left hand pressed on her knee, her right hand resting atop the left, the toe of her right foot touching the ground, the speck of dust on her shoe still there.