Chapter 5: Breakfast turmoil, striking back at Jia Zhangshi

Zhao Jianguo squatted on the threshold mending his shoes, needle and thread shuttling back and forth across the sole, his movements unhurried. The earlier surge of system heat had faded, but the shadow of the《Intermediate Repair Manual》still lingered in his mind, as if someone had stuffed an entire toolbox into his head, and even while walking he pondered which brick seam could be pried open with least effort.

Li Xiaohua bustled at the stove, simmering millet porridge that bubbled gurgle. She would occasionally turn and glance at her son, her eyes holding a hint of uncertainty. This boy had been too quiet these past two days, unnaturally so. Yesterday the electric wire was repaired well, the door hinge no longer creaked, and the faucet was fixed to be drip‑free—how could a seventeen‑year‑old lad manage all that?

"Jianguo, come lend a hand." She finally spoke, her tone lacking sharpness but not the usual warmth.

Zhao Jianguo replied, slipped the needle onto the shoe upper, rose and entered the house. He knew what his mother was thinking—nothing more than fear that he'd stick his neck out too far and draw envy. But the water in this siheyuan is shallow; the more you shrink back, the more others will tread on you.

He took the rice‑washing basin and, as an afterthought, added half a bowl of white rice to the pot. Li Xiaohua's eyelid twitched: "What are you doing? Our rations don't have an extra half bowl."

"The factory's subsidy was issued a couple days ago—I already collected it." Zhao Jianguo said evenly, "Father earned a reward for fixing the machine; the work team gave us five jin of rice and five jin of white flour, stashed at the bottom of the rice bin."

Li Xiaohua was half‑believing, half‑doubting, but when she reached down she really felt that layer of fine grain. She didn't ask further; the tension in her heart eased a little, yet she still muttered, "Eat sparingly, don't let anyone eye you with envy."

Zhao Jianguo smiled and said nothing. He knew envy would come sooner or later, and there was no escaping it.

At dinnertime, Zhao Erniu returned from work, still smelling of machine oil. Zhao Jianguo pulled two eggs from his ring—earned that morning from the sign‑in bonus, he'd dared not take more for fear of trouble. He cracked the eggs into a bowl, added a pinch of salt, stirred, and waited for the pan to heat before pouring them in.

The oil sizzled, and the aroma exploded.

Li Xiaohua flared: "Are you crazy? Frying eggs now? Who in the courtyard won't smell it?"

"Father works hard, he needs the supplement." Zhao Jianguo flipped the eggs, "Besides, these eggs are what we earned by turning in industrial coupons—nothing stolen or robbed."

Zhao Erniu neither stopped him nor praised him, merely lowered his head and took a bite of rice, though the lines at the corners of his eyes relaxed a bit.

Just as the eggs left the pan, their fragrance slipped out through the window crack. The wife of the neighboring He family lifted her curtain, glanced, and muttered, "Oh, whose family is so well‑off?"

The words had barely left her lips when hurried footsteps sounded at the courtyard gate. The curtain flipped open and Jia Zhangshi swept in like a gust, clutching a broken palm‑leaf fan, the word "justice" written on her face.

"Well! I said there was an oil smell outside—turns out you're pulling something special here!" She raised her voice so the whole courtyard could hear, "The state advocates thrift, everyone in the courtyard eats millet porridge, yet you're frying eggs? You're taking the capitalist road!"

Li Xiaohua sprang to her feet: "Aunt Jia, you can't talk nonsense like that—just two eggs, the boy is showing filial piety to his father…"

"Filial piety?" Jia Zhangshi sneered, "Your family lives better than San Daye—why would you need to be filial? I ask you, who in the courtyard has ever fried eggs? Who dares? You're corrupting the morals!"

Zhao Jianguo slowly set down his chopsticks, lifted his eyes to her, and said, "Aunt Jia, you just said 'who in the courtyard dares to fry eggs'? That means someone has done it—you just weren't told."

Jia Zhangshi blinked: "What nonsense are you spouting?"

"I'm not spouting nonsense." Zhao Jianguo spoke calmly, "Last month your household was allotted three liang of soybean oil, but at month's end you only turned in one and a half liang to the public—what happened to the remaining half liang? Wasn't it used for cooking? Otherwise, how could that oil stain on your stove edge refuse to come off, no matter how hard you scrub?"

Jia Zhangshi's face flushed: "What business is it of yours what I do with my oil? I… I saved it to fry convalescent meals for Dong Xu!"

"Oh, so convalescent meals can be fried but healthy people can't get a supplement?" Zhao Jianguo rose, his voice rising a notch, "Did you come today to preach thrift—or to act as the courtyard's 'tyrant'?"

"You—what did you say?" Jia Zhangshi glared.

"I'm asking whether you're trying to be a 'tyrant.'" Zhao Jianguo stepped half a pace forward, his eyes unwavering, "Labeling people, handing out criticism, attacking the advanced, suppressing the masses' efforts to improve their lives— which line does your approach follow? If not, I'll go straight to the residents' committee and have you explain, in front of everyone, just what this 'thrift campaign' of yours really is."

The room fell silent all at once.

Li Xiaohua's hand trembled, nearly dropping her bowl. Zhao Erniu's chopsticks halted mid‑air; he lifted his gaze to his son, and for the first time a glimmer shone in his eyes.

Jia Zhangshi's face shifted through several shades, she opened her mouth to curse, but the two words 'tyrant' hit her like a block of ice, lodging in her throat. These days, anyone associated with that term gets torn apart. She stood there stiffly for two seconds, then flung her fan and snapped, "Fine! You've got the guts! If anything happens from now on, don't come looking for me!"

Having said that, she turned and strode away, her steps three times faster than when she came, her silhouette all askew.

Zhao Jianguo neither saw her off nor laughed; he simply covered the pot, turned to Li Xiaohua and said, "Mom, the eggs have cooled—eat them while they're hot."

Li Xiaohua stared for a long while before muttering softly, "You kid… how dare you say that? What if she really goes to file a complaint…"

"She wouldn't dare." Zhao Jianguo sat down, speared a bite of fried egg, "If she really did file, she'd first have to explain where her missing half liang of oil went. Do you think she'd be willing?"

At last Zhao Erniu spoke: "What you just said was a bit over the top."

Zhao Jianguo nodded: "It was a bit much, but she needs to remember we're not a soft persimmon to be squeezed."

Zhao Erniu stared at him for a moment, then said, "If no one offends me, I won't offend them. But if someone reaches out, you shouldn't pull back your hand."

Zhao Jianguo gave no reply, just lowered his head to eat his rice. He knew his father's words were an acknowledgment.

At night he sat under the lamp, holding a piece of scrap iron, pondering according to the《Intermediate Repair Manual》how to remake a labor‑saving spatula. The ring lay quietly on his finger, no longer heating, yet he knew the system was waiting—for him to turn his skill into 'power'.

A few coughs drifted from outside the courtyard—Jia Zhangshi scolding at her own door: "These kids nowadays are unmanageable! Their parents don't even teach them!"

Zhao Jianguo didn't even lift his head; he lightly pushed the file in his hand, and the edge of the iron sheet instantly smoothed.

The next morning, as usual, he squatted at the door mending his shoes. Sha Zhu passed by with a bowl of porridge, caught sight of the thread on the sole, and stopped: "Hey, why's your shoe mended so oddly?"

"What's up?" Zhao Jianguo looked up.

"The thread is double‑plied and tied with a dead knot." Sha Zhu crouched to look, "Most people mend shoes with a single ply—yours… are you afraid it'll come undone?"

"Mm." Zhao Jianguo nodded, "With all the walking, the thread loosens easily; double‑ply makes it sturdy."

Sha Zhu stared at that knot for two seconds, then burst out laughing: "Your brain works differently from everyone else's."

Zhao Jianguo also laughed: "Nothing's different—I just don't want to keep changing shoes."

Sha Zhu shook his head, walked off with his bowl. Reaching the courtyard entrance, he glanced back at the Zhao family kitchen and murmured, "Yesterday's egg aroma… tsk, really mouth‑watering."

Zhao Jianguo kept his head down, stitching steadily, each needle‑thread firm.

At noon, while he was tidying his tools, Jia Zhangshi appeared again—this time she didn't enter, just stood in the doorway, speaking with sarcasm: "Oh, still mending shoes? The money from yesterday's fried eggs could buy ten new pairs, right?"

Zhao Jianguo lifted his eyes, drawling, "Aunt Jia, if you truly care what shoes I wear, why not first manage your son Dong Xu's socks? Yesterday he went to work with a blue sock on his left foot and a gray one on the right—everyone at the factory laughed at him."

Jia Zhangshi's face stiffened: "You—you were spying on my family?"

"I wasn't spying." Zhao Jianguo flipped the shoe sole, "I just glanced an extra two seconds as he passed by. You tell me—if the whole courtyard stared at your house, could you stand it?"

Jia Zhangshi gasped with rage, found no retort, and finally choked out, "You wait!" before turning and marching off.

Zhao Jianguo lifted the mended shoe, held it up to the light to inspect the stitching, and nodded in satisfaction.

That evening over dinner, Zhao Erniu broke character and said, "Today the factory leaders asked about the electrical‑wire renovation—they said the wire at the back wall of our courtyard was fixed neatly; who did it?"

Zhao Jianguo picked up a vegetable, "I don't know—maybe someone just happened to fix it."

Zhao Erniu glanced at him, didn't call him out, and simply said, "From now on, don't shoulder such things alone. If there's trouble, we two will face it together."

Zhao Jianguo nodded, then lowered his head to eat his rice.

He knew the courtyard's rules were shifting bit by bit. Skill can fix things, but to make others think twice before provoking you, you also need mouth, guts, and that spirit of 'you dare come, I dare flip the table.'

After finishing his meal, he squatted back on the threshold to mend the other shoe. A night breeze blew, and the thread on the sole trembled faintly.

Zhao Jianguo tightened his fingers, and the needle point sank steadily into the leather.