Chapter 6: with translation of chapter title

When Zhao Jianguo opened his eyes in the morning, the ring was pressed against his skin, hot as a piece of charcoal just raked out of the stove. He lay still, replaying last night's events—Jia Zhangshi slamming the door and leaving, the lights blinking on one by one, and Sha Zhu's remark, "Your hands are nimbler than any factory veteran," still echoing in his ears.

He sat up, pushing the ring onto his wrist with a casual motion. It now felt like it had grown into his body, heating and cooling in pulses as reliable as a time signal. Just as he slipped on his shoes, the ring jolted again, and a message popped straight into his mind: 【Check‑in incomplete, location: Courtyard at No. 95 South Gong and Drum Lane】.

He cracked a smile, thinking the system was pretty diligent, urging him to clock in first thing in the morning.

He grabbed a broom and slipped out, sweeping while edging toward the corner of the courtyard wall. Yesterday he'd just finished repairing the wiring; today he couldn't afford any commotion. He squatted, pretending to clear scraps of paper at the wall base, but with a thought he triggered: 【Check‑in successful, acquired "Basic Metalworking Skill"】.

He felt a surge of joy. This skill came just in time. Before he only knew how to take things apart and put them back together; now he could finally handle finer work. He casually pulled a tiny piece of fine sandpaper from the ring, rubbed it between his fingertips to confirm the texture hadn't changed, then tucked it back into his sleeve.

Just as he straightened up, he saw Yanbugui leisurely emerge from the East Room, holding a steel pen, hands behind his back, walking toward him.

Zhao Jianguo's heart skipped a beat—this San Daye was famous for being "tight‑fisted," never using an extra matchstick in daily life, and his sudden visit today was surely to probe the situation.

"Jianguo, sweeping the courtyard?" Yanbugui approached with a grin, the Hero brand steel pen flashing in the sunlight, "Just ran into you—this pen's been dead for days, won't write. Can you fix it?"

Zhao Jianguo took the pen, unscrewed the cap, and saw the nib coated with a layer of dried ink, the ink channel completely clogged. Such a minor fault would earn a stationery‑repair stall five yuan in three minutes—over before you could finish a yawn.

He didn't rush to agree, instead asking, "San Daye, how many years have you used this pen?"

"Seven or eight years," Yanbugui patted the pen's barrel. "It's an old piece; I hate to replace it. The factory folks say you know your way around tech, so I thought, if you can revive it, I'll be deeply grateful."

Zhao Jianguo instantly understood—this wasn't just pen repair; it was a test.

He nodded. "Sure, please wait."

He fetched a small stool, and in Yanbugui's presence disassembled the pen into parts, laying them on his knee. Onlookers gathered gradually; Sha Zhu squatted by the door, nibbling a steamed bun, muttering between bites, "Can this thing even be fixed? I tossed mine ages ago."

Ignoring Sha Zhu, Zhao Jianguo focused, gently sanding the ink channel with the abrasive paper, his motions as light as combing a cat's fur. He worked swiftly but calmly, each step clearly visible—he knew the worst thing now would be to seem "mystically skilled"; he needed everyone to think, "This job isn't supernatural, just handy."

Three minutes later, he reassembled the pen, dipped it in ink, and drew two strokes on scrap paper—smooth and fluent, as good as new.

"Oh!" Yanbugui's eyes lit up. "It works! It really works!"

He took the pen, wrote three "good" characters in a row, the strokes flowing ever more smoothly, and the creases on his face relaxed.

"Jianguo, how much should I pay?" he said, pulling out a cloth bundle ready to produce money.

"No, no, no." Zhao Jianguo waved his hand. "It's just a trifle; your pen isn't a big item—I'd even balk at charging five fen and having to make change."

Yanbugui blinked, then smiled. "You're a sensible kid."

He pocketed the money, tucked the pen like a treasure into his coat pocket, gave it two pats for fear of losing it, and before leaving lowered his voice: "If you have any old parts or broken tools, bring them to me—I'll keep them safe. Your skill is rare around this courtyard."

Zhao Jianguo nodded. "Sure, if you have spare sheet metal, old springs, or the like, I'll take them."

After Yanbugui left, Sha Zhu sidled up, clicking his tongue twice. "You've really won over San Daye this time. That pen is the symbol of his 'technician' status—being able to fix it means you've been accepted into the circle."

Zhao Jianguo chuckled without responding. He knew it wasn't that simple. Yanbugui's pleasant façade was actually a probe—testing whether Zhao had genuine skill, whether he'd be greedy for petty gain, and whether he understood boundaries. If Zhao opened his mouth to ask for money, even a single fen, Yanbugui would wonder: "Is this kid trying to profit from his craft?"

Now it's fine—by not taking money and leaving an opening for cooperation, he displayed both ability and magnanimity.

Just as he was about to head back inside, Li Xiaohua poked her head out of the kitchen. "Jianguo! What's bulging in your sleeve?"

He glanced down; the cuff wasn't tucked in properly, half of a cloth bag peeked out, containing the millet flatbread and two eggs he'd earned from last night's check‑in.

His heart tightened, but his face stayed calm. "Mom, I helped Uncle Yan fix his pen; he insisted on giving me something, and I couldn't refuse."

"Given?" Li Xiaohua eyed him skeptically. "You got a pen plus eggs? His family isn't exactly well‑off either."

"They call it the 'pen‑fixing three treasures,'" Zhao Jianguo bluffed. "Old custom: whoever repairs a pen gets noodles, eggs, and pickles for luck. San Daye said it's shop‑floor slang passed down in their factory."

Li Xiaohua was half‑believing, half‑doubting. "Really? There's such a saying?"

"If you don't believe me, go ask San Daye." Zhao Jianguo handed over the bag. "Perfect—I'll buy some pickles to go with rice today."

Li Xiaohua took the bag, weighed it, gave it a sniff to confirm it wasn't pilfered from the factory, then relaxed: "All right, but next time don't just accept things from people. We're not short on this, but we don't want gossip."

"Got it, Mom."

He breathed a sigh of relief. The lie had held up fairly well. The key was borrowing Yanbugui's reputation—he's well regarded in the courtyard and a "public employee," so giving him a gift draws no suspicion. Had it been Jia Zhangshi, even two eggs would have been seen as "buying favor."

After lunch, the courtyard's atmosphere was noticeably different.

Sha Zhu was scrubbing a pot at the gate when he saw Zhao Jianguo pass by and suddenly shouted, "Jianguo! Does your labor‑saving hook really cut effort in half?"

"Don't believe me—try it." Zhao Jianguo produced an improved hook from the ring, snapped it onto the clothes line in two or three moves, and said, "Go hang a quilt and see."

Sha Zhu hooked it up, gave it a lift, and his eyes widened. "Hey! It's really light! How'd you make this?"

"Just bent wire with a tiny pulley," Zhao Jianguo laughed. "If you want one, I'll weld you a full set tomorrow."

"Weld?" Sha Zhu slapped his thigh. "You know how to weld?"

"Roughly," Zhao Jianguo waved a hand. "Just from hanging out at the blacksmith's so much, I've got the feel."

As soon as he said that, several women hanging laundry nearby gathered around.

"Jianguo, the handle on my kettle broke—can you fix it?"

"Jianguo, my window won't shut tight, wind blows straight in—can you adjust it?"

He agreed to each request, amiable but noncommittal: "I'll fix what I can, and if I can't, I'll show you how to save effort."

Yanbugui sat under the eaves basking in the sun, hearing these remarks, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. He said nothing, but the approval in his eyes was worth a hundred praises.

Zhao Jianguo sensed it—this round had shifted the label "technician household" from "suspect" to "useful." Earlier Jia Zhangshi had accused him of "making special arrangements," but now folks looked at him with a little more confidence that "this guy can get things done."

He knew the survival rule of the courtyard was never about who shouted loudest winning, but about who made others feel, "It's good to have you around."

At dusk, he was squatting in a corner of the courtyard fine‑tuning a homemade washer for a leak‑proof faucet when Sha Zhu came over with his rice bowl and squatted beside him.

"Jianguo, I've got a question," Sha Zhu said, scooping a mouthful of rice. "Yesterday you fixed the wiring; when the lights came on, Jia Zhangshi's place went dark. Wasn't that your doing?"

Zhao Jianguo didn't even look up. "If I really had that ability, would I just let her yell at me? I'd have blown her bulbs straight away."

Sha Zhu chuckled. "True. Her wiring's a rat's nest—blowing a fuse is only a matter of time."

"So," Zhao Jianguo tightened the last screw, "in this courtyard, I'm not afraid of bad people; I'm afraid of stupid ones. Bad folks know the line, but stupid ones can't tell live wire from neutral—one slip and they drag the whole courtyard down."

Sha Zhu nodded. "That's clearer than my master's safety lecture."

As they talked, Yanbugui strolled over again, holding an old toolbox.

"Jianguo, I've turned up some old parts," he said, opening the box to reveal screws, springs, and worn gears. "If you can use them, take them."

Zhao Jianguo took the box, his heart warming. "This isn't charity; it's trust."

"Thank you, San Daye," he said sincerely. "I'll make you a sorted toolbox later—compartmentalized for easy use."

Yanbugui laughed, "Alright, I'll be waiting."

He turned to leave, then stopped, "By the way, the neighborhood committee is holding a 'Neighborhood Mutual Aid Day' next week; if you're willing, you can sign up for a 'Home Repair' service stall."

Zhao Jianguo was startled.

This was a formal invitation for him to "debut."

Before he could reply, Sha Zhu shouted, "Then we have to go! Jianguo sets up a stall, I'll be the first in line! If the repair is good, no charge; if it's bad, I'll compensate for him!"

Zhao Jianguo smiled and shook his head, "Brother Zhu, I don't dare to take your guarantee money."

"Hey, you kid!" Sha Zhu pretended to strike, "Dare you not trust me?"

While the two were arguing, Li Xiaohua came out of the house, holding a shabby tin box.

"Jianguo, take a look at this," she handed it over, "Your dad used to be a plier worker and kept some tools, never used them. If you need this… take it."

Zhao Jianguo took the box, opened it, and saw a small file, several saw blades, and a rusty Wrench. All were old, but well maintained.

He looked up at his mother and saw her eyes a bit complicated— not worry, but expectation.

He knew his mother finally wasn't afraid of him being "too capable." She began to think his craftsmanship could support the family.

He gently closed the box and nodded, "Alright, I'll use it."

He stored the tools into his Ring, casually took out a freshly made Anti-slip Pad, and handed it to Li Xiaohua: "Mom, the Kitchen floor is slippery; place this at the doorway, prevents falls."

Li Xiaohua took it and muttered, "Your pocket, how does it have everything?"

"Just happened," Zhao Jianguo laughed, "Just made."

He stood up, brushed dust off his pants, looked up at the sky. The sunset dyed the Siheyuan's roof orange‑red, and wisps of cooking smoke rose.

He knew this hurdle was passed.

Technology wasn't the issue, nor was rhetoric; the real obstacle was the human heart.

You have to make people think you're not here to snatch their rice bowls, but to add chopsticks.

He was about to go back inside when his Ring suddenly heated, and the Intermediate Repair Manual in his mind automatically flipped to the chapter "Micro Bearing Lubrication Technique."

His fingertips unconsciously brushed the Ring's edge, about to examine closely—

Li Xiaohua shouted from the Kitchen, "Jianguo! The soy sauce bottle fell!"