Chapter 31: Chen Jingrun

As a professional assigned to Xiangjiang, Chen Jingrun naturally underwent rigorous training before departure.

Thorough preparations were required from the Chinese state, to his personal affairs, to the Xiangjiang side.

From identity cover to financial support, from liaison arrangements to academic readiness.

All he needed to do was undergo training.

Theoretically, the training covered five areas: academic preparation, language training, sociocultural adaptation, practical skills, and security training.

Academic preparation was left to Chen Jingrun himself—if he failed to rank in the top fifty, it would be an outright farce.

Not only did he have this confidence, so did Hua Luogeng; fifty spots were certainly within reach.

Even if there were only five spots, Chen Jingrun could still get in—that was the confidence of a top mathematician.

Thus, only the other four areas required training.

Three months ago, he was sent to Yangcheng for training.

“Xiangjiang is a special place; you must be fully prepared and make no mistakes.”

First, Hua Luogeng warned him, then others told him in a tightly sealed meeting room.

The language training went smoother than expected because he already spoke English; the only focus was on spoken fluency.

His English instructor used “English for Scientists” to train Chen Jingrun; within less than a week, he moved from slightly rusty to fluent in daily usage.

But Cantonese class truly gave him headaches—his teacher, an elderly man transferred from Guangdong, had a hoarse voice: “Hello is ‘neihou,’ sorry is ‘mgoisai’!” Chen Jingrun sweated profusely, but thinking of the unfamiliar Cantonese signs on Xiangjiang’s streets, he gritted his teeth and practiced daily in front of a mirror until he could stammer out a few questions for directions.

In simulated scenarios, he was required to play a Xiangjiang citizen ordering food at a tea house.

“I want one dim sum and two drinks,” he said in stiff Cantonese, drawing laughter from the surrounding locals.

His instructor, Miss Lin, corrected him: “It’s ‘yatchungleunggin.’ Don’t rush, take it slow.” Chen Jingrun blushed but resolved inwardly: he would never show weakness in Xiangjiang.

In the final month before departure, Chen Jingrun was taken to a simulated training site to learn practical skills for living in Xiangjiang.

An instructor surnamed Zhao handed him a Xiangjiang map and pointed to Kowloon and Hong Kong Island: “Remember, trams run east to west, ferries cross Victoria Harbour, and rent is not cheap.”

Chen Jingrun learned to count Hong Kong dollars—the colorful banknotes bewildered him. He simulated renting an apartment, clumsily haggling in Cantonese with the “landlord”: “Can it be cheaper?” Instructor Zhao nodded beside him: “You’re getting the hang of it.”

After each day’s training, he stood before the map, silently memorizing streets: Tongluowan, Mong Kok, Central… these names were strange and mysterious, as if calling him into another world.

In the final week before departure, Section Chief Zhang’s gaze was sharp as a blade.

“Comrade Jingrun, Xiangjiang is different from the mainland—the English are watching, and the KMT has spies,” Zhang said, handing him a small booklet filled with coded messages and emergency contacts.

“In an emergency, go to a tea house in Central, order a pot of Longjing tea, and the server will take you to the contact.”

Chen Jingrun was required to learn his cover identity, pretending to be a local Xiangjiang student, even practicing how to respond to interrogations.

“Where are you from?” Section Chief Zhang simulated asking. “I’m from Xiangjiang, raised in the New Territories,” Chen Jingrun replied in Cantonese, his voice trembling slightly.

Section Chief Zhang also taught him to send messages through newspapers: folded into triangles, placed between specific pages, and left at designated locations.

As he practiced, his palms sweated—he thought: “What kind of work is this for a mathematician?”

After three months of training, Chen Jingrun stood at the Yangcheng railway station, preparing to depart for Xiangjiang.

His suitcase held mathematical notes, an English dictionary, and a few old clothes, yet his heart was filled with complex emotions—excitement at the prospect of studying alongside Professor Lin, yet unease over the unknown journey ahead.

Hua Luogeng’s encouragement still echoed in his ears: “Jingrun, show your talent. Don’t shame the nation.”

Section Chief Zhang’s warning also rang in his mind: “Remember, stay low-key. Safety first.”

July 1, 1960

The sky over Xiangjiang was a clean, brilliant blue; a light breeze blew in from Victoria Harbour, carrying the salt of the sea and distant whistles.

Inside the Xiangjiang University campus, the air buzzed with tension and excitement. On the lawn by the gate, a bright red banner fluttered in the wind, bearing bold characters: “Warmly Welcome Professor Lin Ran to Xiangjiang University”—written in the powerful hand of a local calligraphy master.

Students gathered in small groups, either whispering over books or craning their necks, eyes alight with anticipation for the world-renowned mathematician.

Mostly because he was handsome, young and handsome.

Before coming to Xiangjiang, the photo of Lin Ran alongside Yang Zhenning and Li Zhengdao, published in the American Chinese Daily, had already been widely circulated by Xiangjiang newspapers.

Young students, especially female students, eagerly awaited Lin Ran’s arrival.

Young, handsome, brilliant, rumored to be single, and wealthy—the Xiangjiang press had even dug up his annual salary of over thirty thousand U.S. dollars. The female students of Xiangjiang University were all eager to pursue him.

Like Tang Sanzang falling into the Spider Demon’s lair, he was coveted by all.

At precisely three in the afternoon, a black Austin sedan slowly entered the campus gate, its tires crunching over gravel with a soft rustle.

The door opened, and Lin Ran stepped out, dressed in a custom-tailored dark gray suit arranged by John Morgan, his tie perfectly knotted, his face wearing a gentle smile—though weary from travel, his eyes remained bright as stars.

His appearance instantly ignited the atmosphere; the crowd erupted in applause, and female students excitedly waved their notebooks.

Sir Lin Ken, president of Xiangjiang University, stepped forward first. He wore a black academic gown, his silver hair glinting in the sunlight, his steps steady, his face wearing a professional, warm smile.

Sir Lin Ken was an Anglo-Australian, having served as president of Xiangjiang University since 1949, for which he received the Order of the British Empire and a knighthood.

Behind him came a group of guests: Professor Zhang, the head of the Mathematics Department, a tall, thin middle-aged Chinese man with gold-rimmed glasses, and several board members, all dressed in suits, exuding distinguished poise.

Additionally, reporters from major media outlets held notebooks, barely containing their urge to interview.

Sir Lin Ken extended his hand and spoke first in fluent English: “Professor Lin, welcome to Xiangjiang University. Your arrival is a milestone for our academic community.”