Chapter 991: It

“What? Me?”

Jia Zhangshi hadn’t reacted at first, until Qin Huaiju looked at her, then she asked in surprise.

Qin Huaiju glanced at her, then turned to Li Xuewu and asked, “Is there some situation?”

“Really nothing, I’m just swamped.”

Li Xuewu smiled and explained, “Li Xue and Ji Yuxiu both have jobs, you know my older brother—just my mom alone…”

“I see~”

Seeing Li Xuewu say this, Qin Huaiju nodded with a smile and said, “You scared me half to death.”

She didn’t finish her next sentence, but Li Xuewu understood its meaning.

When she suddenly came to ask for help from the mother-in-law, she’d thought Zhao Yafang or the child had some difficulty.

Now she understood, and smiled as she explained to the mother-in-law: “I don’t want to tire out his mom, so I’m asking you to lend a hand.”

“I…”

Jia Zhangshi was caught off guard by Li Xuewu’s request.

Especially since Li Xuewu had just mentioned it was Li’s old lady who had asked—likely she truly had no other choice.

In truth, once you thought about it, the situation was clear: Li’s family and nearby households certainly didn’t lack women.

But counting properly, there was one in the back courtyard, one in the middle courtyard, one in the front courtyard—three pregnant women!

Li’s daughters and daughters-in-law were all working, leaving only the two girls from the front gate shops.

For caring for a new mother, you use an old woman, not a young girl; beyond this courtyard, there truly were no other usable people.

Seeing her hesitate, Li Xuewu explained: “It’s a natural birth, maybe just two or three days. By Saturday, the family will come down—just lend a hand so my mom can get some rest.”

“If it’s convenient for you, please help out.”

Qin Huaiju spoke up: “We’re not strangers—we’re neighbors…”

“But what about my home?”

Jia Zhangshi knew this boy Li Xuewu was generous and openhanded; when he asked for help, it was never free.

Just two or three days, working alongside Liu Yin—it was like finding money on the street.

But she also thought of home: what if Qin Huaiju was away, and the three kids were left unsupervised?

Qin Huaiju smiled, stroking Huaihua’s braid, and said: “What’s there to worry about? It’s at the Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital, not far.”

“It’s just that I’m worried about the kids~”

Jia Zhangshi said this, then turned to Li Xuewu: “I haven’t prepared at all—I don’t even know how to care properly.”

“It’s not that complicated.”

Li Xuewu caught her meaning, pulled ten yuan from his pocket, and placed it on the table with a smile: “I can’t let you go unpaid—this is from my grandma, she says you’ve worked hard.”

“Oh my! What are you doing?!”

Jia Zhangshi’s eyes lit up at the big bill, but she immediately refused: “We live in the same courtyard—how could I take your money?”

“Put it back!”

“Just take it!”

Hearing Li Xuewu politely insist and the mother-in-law still reluctant, Qin Huaiju smiled, took the money from Li Xuewu’s hand, and placed it in the old woman’s.

“You helping him saves him from begging others—this money isn’t something you can refuse.”

“But still…”

Jia Zhangshi looked down at the big bill in her hand, thrilled inside, her words growing vague.

She’d just been hesitating—whether to go or not.

If she went, she felt awkward taking Li Xuewu’s money; if she didn’t, she felt cheated.

Her daughter-in-law stepping in to take it for her perfectly resolved her dilemma.

“Same as before—you’ve worked hard.”

Li Xuewu pointed outside: “The car took Li Xue there—you pack lightly, nothing needed—the private room has everything.”

He stood up, smiled at Qin Huaiju and the others: “I’ll go home and tell my grandma first—when the car returns, I’ll send for you.”

“Stay a bit longer~”

Seeing Li Xuewu leave, Qin Huaiju walked him to the door, politely urging him to stay.

Li Xuewu waved his hand: “Grandma’s alone at home—I need to tell her quickly so she can rest easy. I’ll return home as soon as I’m done.”

“That’s true~”

Qin Huaiju asked with concern: “When’s your wife’s due? Soon, right?”

“Next month.”

Li Xuewu nodded with a smile and headed toward the inner gate.

Watching his figure depart, she turned back home.

Inside, Banggeng and the three children surrounded Jia Zhangshi, amazed at the ten yuan she’d just received.

“Nai! You’re amazing! Ten yuan in three days!”

Banggeng’s eyes widened: “If you keep this up a month, you’ll earn a hundred!”

“Pfft~”

Qin Huaiju laughed and scolded her son: “Do you think money falls from the sky? Who else is as generous as Uncle Wu?”

“Still, it’s good enough~”

Banggeng reached for the money in his grandmother’s hand, grinning: “Nai, you can’t go to the hospital easily—let me hold this money for you.”

“Ah~!”

Hearing her grandson’s words, Jia Zhangshi felt the money hadn’t even warmed in her hand—it was about to fly away!

Qin Huaiju pushed Banggeng’s shoulder from behind, telling him to go do homework: “Don’t you dare take it—go do your homework!”

“Aww~”

Banggeng pouted, eyes glued to the ten yuan, thinking the money came too easily—he really wanted to spend it lavishly.

Jia Zhangshi no longer showed off; under her daughter-in-law’s glance, she quickly stuffed the money into her pocket.

“When Grandma comes back, I’ll buy you candy.”

Saying this, she rose and went into the inner room, afraid to stay in the outer room—she feared the money would vanish before she’d even lifted a finger.

Qin Huaiju followed her in, helping her pack her undergarments and coat: “That money is definitely Li Xuewu’s own—when you get to the hospital, find a quiet moment and tell Aunt Liu.”

“Tell… oh oh~”

Jia Zhangshi was about to ask why, but immediately understood.

Earlier, Li Xuewu had said the two families were close, that he’d come asking because she’d worked hard.

But in truth, before Li Xuewu and Qin Huaiju became close, the two families had been distant.

Even if help was needed, he wouldn’t have come to her.

If she suddenly appeared at the hospital, Liu Yin wouldn’t dare use her—or wonder why she’d come.

By making it clear she’d been summoned by Li Xuewu in the old lady’s name, the help—and the interaction—would feel solid.

In this era, people valued clarity in relationships: don’t take money you shouldn’t; if you take legitimate pay, do your duty properly.

Otherwise, if she showed up without explanation, Liu Yin would feel too awkward to burden her.

That’s why, once women mature, their thinking doesn’t decline—especially between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, they had perfect understanding.

As she packed, Qin Huaiju subtly reminded her: take the money, do the work—Li Xuewu doesn’t want favors, he wants clarity.

At the hospital, don’t act like a guest—take initiative, don’t wait to be asked.

Jia Zhangshi understood this too; though her daughter-in-law’s words sounded harsh, they were practical.

“Money isn’t easy to earn~”

“Don’t say that~”

Qin Huaiju glanced toward the outer room, then looked at her mother-in-law: “Ten yuan in three days—I don’t even know how to explain it to Banggeng. If he goes blabbing around, you’ll hear gossip—and it won’t be about anyone but you.”

“Heh~ heh~”

Jia Zhangshi waved her hand, regretting her earlier words, nodding in agreement with her daughter-in-law.

Glancing toward the outer room, she whispered: “Why don’t I see you with him…”

“Just pack up~”

Qin Huaiju was utterly exasperated—she couldn’t continue this conversation.

In front of the children, urging her daughter-in-law to find a man…

Jia Zhangshi, seeing her reaction, inwardly sneered: You’re acting high and mighty now—but back then…

Without mentioning Han Jiankun’s return, Li Xuewu delivered Jia Zhangshi and the household’s prepared items to the hospital, busy all around.

When the car stopped at Haiyun Cang Gate One, it was nearly nine.

Like Han Jiankun, Li Xuewu had been rushing about all day and hadn’t eaten dinner.

Upon entering, Qin Jingru asked a question, then went to the kitchen to prepare food.

Li Shu was drowsy; after eight, she’d started dozing off, so she’d been put to bed.

That evening, when Han Jiankun came home to report and fetch things, Gu Ning learned of Zhao Yafang’s condition.

Now seeing Li Xuewu enter, she propped herself up on the sofa and asked: “How is she?”

“Fine—mother and child are both safe.”

Li Xuewu smiled, changed into slippers, took off his coat, and explained: “Mom and my older brother are at the hospital—I asked Qin Huaiju’s mother-in-law to help—everything’s settled.”

He glanced toward the first-floor bedroom, saw Li Shu sleeping soundly, and half-closed the door.

“You’ve been waiting all along?”

“No, couldn’t sleep.”

Gu Ning put down the book in her hand and unconsciously rubbed her belly—she was truly growing anxious.

Li Xuewu rubbed his hands, then his face, went to wash up, and only then did his body warm up as he sat beside her.

“Look at the little one, all wrinkled up—so ugly~”

“All newborns look like that~”

Gu Ning gave him a amused glance, knowing he was teasing her, yet still scolded playfully: “Wait till I give birth—you say that then.”

“Our child will surely be more handsome than Big Brother’s.”

Li Xuewu chuckled and said, “Everyone always said I was the best-looking in our family, and you’re so beautiful—our child will be gorgeous.”

Gu Ning, flattered, pushed him lightly, telling him to stop.

Li Xuewu let out a long sigh and said, “Being a father is such a comforting yet torturous feeling—you haven’t seen how Big Brother looks, sigh.”

Gu Ning blinked, glanced at Li Xuewu with a quiet smile, then lowered her head again to stroke her belly.

These past few months, the little one inside had been especially restless, kicking and punching constantly.

Especially last month, it was like Sun Wukong had crawled into Iron Princess’s belly—kicking the sky one moment, the ground the next, footprints clearly visible on her skin.

They said once it dropped into the pelvis, things would ease—but right now, it showed no sign of settling down. When it hurt, she truly wished she could give birth right now.

Watching Li Xuewu sit beside her, savoring and reflecting on the feelings of being a husband and father, she gained a quiet understanding.

Ten months of pregnancy nurtured not just a living soul, but also the bond between two families, and the future of this husband and wife.

But one future child was enough—she had no interest in bearing another.

These past months had felt like being locked in a room—daring not to eat, daring not to move, forced to endure his restlessness.

“Has Big Brother named the child yet?”

Remembering Li Xuewu’s proposed name, Gu Ning asked.

Li Xuewu turned to her, eyes full of delight, and said, “I told you—I’m better at naming than Big Brother!”

Gu Ning, now curious, blinked and asked, “What’s the name?”

“Li Tang.”

Li Xuewu pursed his lips and said, “Isn’t it less pleasing than Li Ning?”

Gu Ning glanced at him, her lips twitching slightly. “About the same.”

“Fine~ fine~ about the same is enough.”

Li Xuewu said contentedly, “I don’t care if our child becomes rich or powerful—just as long as he never does anything he’ll regret.”

He looked at Gu Ning again. “If you want another, we’ll have one. If not, we’ll keep just this one daughter or son—our family doesn’t have a throne to inherit.”

“Stop it, you’re talking nonsense again!”

Gu Ning felt warm inside, pinched him lightly, and murmured, “If it’s a boy, we’ll think about another. If it’s a girl, then…”

Before she finished, he took her hand in his—no need to say more, they both understood.

“Having children is about honoring the elderly above and nurturing the young below—having more or less, what does it matter?”

Li Xuewu patted her hand. “We live our lives without greed, without cutting off family ties—we cherish what we have.”

Han Jiankun stepped out of the kitchen, intending to call Li Xuewu for dinner, but seeing the couple sitting and talking, hesitated on how to speak.

Gu Ning noticed and nudged Li Xuewu, signaling him to go eat.

Li Xuewu stood up, glanced at the wall clock—it was past nine.

He’d actually wanted to skip dinner, fearing it would upset his stomach before bed.

But if he didn’t eat, Han Jiankun—who’d been busy all evening—wouldn’t dare eat either.

So health was health, but social grace was social grace.

In the dining room, Qin Jingru moved quickly—she must have known they’d return to eat, for the dishes were all prepped, ready to be cooked.

Li Xuewu served himself a small half-bowl of rice; Qin Jingru saw it and scolded him: “Don’t starve yourself!”

In this era, hunger was the worst torment—anything else could be endured, but hunger could not.

Li Xuewu didn’t explain his health habits, just said he wasn’t hungry, picked at the easy-to-digest vegetables, making Qin Jingru grimace.

Gu Ning, perhaps stirred by their earlier exchange or simply wanting to hear about home, followed him into the dining room.

She sat on the sofa by the octagonal window—thanks to the heated wall, it was wonderfully warm.

Only the sheer white curtain was drawn; the indoor light made the snow in the courtyard outside clearly visible.

The contrast between warmth and cold created a heartwarming atmosphere and a deep sense of safety.

Li Xuewu ate while detailing his sister-in-law’s condition; Qin Jingru chimed in, and the room stayed lively.

After putting down his bowl, Li Xuewu asked about his brother-in-law’s situation—Mu Hongyan was also pregnant.

Gu Ning, idle at home, often received calls from her mother-in-law; sometimes Mu Hongyan called too, and letters flowed back and forth, keeping them closely connected.

But it was always her mother-in-law and Mu Hongyan who showed concern—Gu Ning rarely returned calls or letters.

When Han Jiankun finished eating, Qin Jingru cleared the dishes and went to the kitchen; Han Jiankun rose to help clean the table and bathroom.

Li Xuewu and Gu Ning continued talking in the dining room, mentioning that Mu Hongyan had rested, taken leave from work, and was staying home to nurture her pregnancy.

It wasn’t Ding Fengxia’s demand—it was Mu Hongyan’s own choice, driven by her deep hope and reverence for this pregnancy.

After years of childless marriage, not only was her in-laws anxious, but even her own family kept asking what was wrong.

Had their marriage not been truly strong, there would’ve been talk long ago.

Now, their wish had been granted: they’d received herbal tonics from Li Shun, reunited as a couple, and finally received good news.

Compared to Gu Ning, Mu Hongyan’s joy had come far harder.

Especially since her younger sister-in-law had just married and gotten pregnant easily—it made her even more desperate.

Li Xuewu sipped hot tea, muttering about preparing some special local goods and nutritional supplements from Beijing to mail over.

Gu Ning didn’t care about such things—she even thought receiving gifts from her mother and sister-in-law was unnecessary, let alone sending them.

She was simply this way: some called her cold and heartless, yet she was deeply sentimental, loving to sit alone and let her thoughts drift.

Her mother-in-law often scolded her, blaming Li Xuewu for spoiling her—married but still acting like a girl at home, never taking charge.

Sometimes Gu Ning herself felt Li Xuewu spoiled her too much—never arguing, always following her wishes.

Even during pregnancy, he never forced her to eat this or drink that; when her mother sent special tonics from Jinling, she’d refuse, and Li Xuewu would pretend not to notice.

Her mother called, urging her to stay in bed—but if she wanted to read, he let her sit in a chair or on the sofa; all he’d do was hold her and soothe her.

Just like now—his tone was always calm, unhurried. The only hot temper left in the house might be Li Shu.

After Han Jiankun and his wife left, the couple talked a little more in bed.

Li Xuewu, having thought of his brother-in-law, now turned to his younger brother-in-law.

Gu Ning, drowsy, mentioned Gu Yan—he’d been sent to the frontline unit and couldn’t return.

But whenever he had free time, he’d call to ask about his older sister’s health, when she’d give birth, whether he could get a little nephew to play with…

“So annoying~”

“So annoying!”

Xiang Jingyu flung the documents off the desk, grabbed her teacup, and took a furious sip.

Li Xuewu glanced at her, said nothing, and picked up the documents to read.

The tea hadn’t quenched her anger—she now tapped the table, frowning: “Tell me—what the hell are they trying to say?!”

Li Xuewu didn’t rush to answer—she wasn’t asking a question; she was venting.

It wasn’t surprising Deputy Jing was furious—she’d simply been hit with too many frustrating things all at once.

Yesterday, January 8th, good news came from Gangcheng: the first batch of production equipment for the automobile factory had arrived at Yingcheng Port.

The winter river was frozen; inland waterways couldn’t transport goods, so rail was the only option.

These machines needed to be transferred by rail from Yingcheng Port to Gangcheng.

Fortunately, local groundwork had been solid, and prior coordination with transportation departments ensured the equipment was transferred in sequence, not delayed.

After the Gregorian New Year, rail transport becomes most congested—especially this second half of the year, when the little brats ran wild across the north and south, severely disrupting rail operations.

Now, rail freight is heavily backed up; everyone hopes to clear part of it before the Lunar New Year.

The route from Yingcheng to Gangcheng was short, leaving room for maneuver.

Dong Wenxue personally handled this—he visited both Gangcheng and Yingcheng authorities to ensure the automobile factory received its equipment smoothly.

This was Li Xuewu’s first major project, and Dong Wenxue’s second large-scale initiative in Gangcheng after the steel mill’s industrial transformation.

The equipment was procured under the supervision of Japanese businessman Niiyama Kazuya, under the name of a joint foreign trade company formed by the three of them, in partnership with the rolling mill.

With this batch of machinery entering the interior, it opened a promising season of large-scale equipment purchases this winter.

Gradually, more equipment would arrive: shipbuilding, hardware, electronics, and others.

Per the agreement, the rolling mill would carry a certain foreign trade debt; all procurement funds would be offset by products manufactured under contract or processing agreements.

Of course, whether for automobile or food industry equipment, no single party would control everything.

According to the Rolling Mill’s Technical Office’s design and planning, the automobile factory’s equipment procurement was split among three companies.

Japanese, Italian, and Hong Kong firms.

From January until the end of this year, equipment arrivals would be scheduled in sync with construction progress.

When foundations were laid, shipments would follow—ships would arrive just as the factory buildings were completed.

The time for installing and debugging equipment would perfectly coincide with the final phase of factory construction.

This year’s biggest challenge in project management wasn’t construction or installation—it was coordinating these timelines.

The Project Management Department under the Engineering Division had been continuously expanding staff, yet still felt stretched thin, urgently requesting more personnel from Personnel.

It’s impossible to transfer people; Jing Yujing has no one left to transfer.

We can’t pull people from the agency to support them—that would collapse the agency entirely.

The Engineering Office pressing for staff expansion was one source of Jing Yujing’s distress; the other came from personnel recruitment.

In fact, neither agency expansion nor personnel recruitment fell under Jing Yujing’s jurisdiction.

Personnel Affairs was overseen by Gu Weijie, including the assignment and reassignment of agency cadres, all decided through consultation between Gu Weijie and Li Huaide.

But what concerned Jing Yujing was that transferring people meant increased budgets; her own goal this year was to stay within budget.

Yet the new year had barely begun, and one after another issue at the factory kept challenging her limits.

Li Xuewu had just emphasized personnel recruitment discipline in a meeting two days ago, yet the Deputy Director of the Dispatch Workshop accepted bribes and tried to use connections in Personnel Affairs—only to be caught by Security and Supervision.

She was furious: Li Xuewu raised his gun, and people deliberately ran into the barrel, as if trying to make him kill a chicken to scare the monkeys.

You know what? Sometimes, government offices just operate like this—strange and perverse.

Just after leadership stressed discipline and cracked down on work ethics, someone deliberately defied the order, as if taunting them.

Ask them why they did it, and they can’t explain it; even if they answer, their reply only makes you angrier.

Li Xuewu was surprisingly restrained: though Security and Supervision had caught the person and gathered solid evidence, he didn’t mention it today.

She knew that at this moment, no one could stop Li Xuewu from asserting authority—the Deputy Director of the Dispatch Workshop must be severely punished.

Jing Yujing didn’t consider pleading for leniency; Li Xuewu hadn’t told her anything, and the meaning was clear.

Their relationship was complicated; when Li Xuewu made a decision, she never thought of confronting him directly or provoking his anger.

But the anger inside her built up, and now, with Li Xuewu here again, she simply couldn’t hold back.

“Drink your tea, don’t get angry—it’s not worth it.”

Li Xuewu whispered gently: “Don’t let work stress you into illness—what’s the point?”

“You’re still making light of it!”

Jing Yujing glared at him, then tapped the table and asked: “What do you think should be done about this?”

“They’re holding out for a better price—can you just seize it by force?”

Li Xuewu gently placed the documents on the table, smirked, and said: “Even if we’re going to seize, we don’t seize this trash.”

He tapped the documents beside him and looked at Jing Yujing: “In my view, only these two factories have any value—the rest? Hmph.”

“You can see it, others can see it too.”

Jing Yujing snatched the documents, steadied her emotions, and said: “The Ministry first negotiated with us, had the plan finalized—then why bring in Second Auto? Are they trying to create competition?”

“Come on, are you really fighting over trash?”

Li Xuewu picked up his cigarette pack, hesitated, then put it down, looked across at her, and said: “Don’t rush. Let’s go to the site and see what the Ministry says.”

“What if the Ministry forces a split?”

Jing Yujing frowned: “If they dump a pile of trash on us, what are you going to do?”

She looked at the merger plan in her hand with a mix of irritation: “I should’ve never taken on this mess—it’s so much trouble.”

“It’s only going to get worse.”

Li Xuewu calmly looked at her: “This year we can say we’re broke—what about next year? The year after?”

“You think splitting up and getting trash is hard now? Later, they might just throw garbage straight into your lap.”

Jing Yujing pressed her lips shut, silent. She understood Li Xuewu’s implication, but had no outlet for her anger.

Factories must answer to local authorities and the Ministry—whatever they decide, you carry it out.

You can vent in the office, but when it comes to real matters, there’s no room for negotiation or argument.

If you want to talk about injustice, when Beijing Auto Factory was founded, it unilaterally absorbed every single automobile enterprise in the capital.

Those factories were doing fine, everyone believed they’d soon produce cars—then suddenly they were absorbed, their machinery and talent stripped away—who suffered?

Why did Li Xuewu move heavy industry and auto production to Gangcheng, shipbuilding to Yingcheng, trade management to Jinmen, and hollow out the headquarters to rebuild light industry, research, and integrated residential zones?

The supervising departments are in Beijing, the Ministry—they want the steel mill to bleed for Beijing’s enterprises, but only if they can reach it.

After the industrial center realignment, trying to exploit the steel mill means considering how far Gangcheng is.

Look at Gangcheng: the local government wants to constrain and harass, but the factory’s headquarters aren’t there—so if they want to speak up, they must go to Beijing. That’s an advantage.

Scientifically dispersing industry and production doesn’t hinder corporate development—it protects the enterprise under unwritten rules.

Local protectionism will always exist; steel mills like this one, always on the verge of rebelling and forming conglomerates, are the least favored by local authorities.

They know how to stir up trouble, how to run industry, and eventually slip right out of their grasp.

What to do?

Mix in sand: whoever develops well, share the burden evenly—that’s called shared progress, shared development.

Dare you oppose it?

This is the current dominant management model and policy: balancing wealth—not just for individuals, but for enterprises too.

Last year, the steel mill was so active—holding exhibitions, dealing with foreign merchants, launching autonomous trade orders.

Even Zhao Yufeng from the Traditional Chinese Medicine Hospital heard about it—who in Beijing doesn’t know?

So naturally, the leadership above found the trash packages too tempting to let go—they wanted to auction them off.

The settlement terms previously agreed upon with the steel mill are now void, with another party entering the scene.

These factories, once sorted, might fetch a good price—perhaps even dig a deep hole in the steel mill before it upgrades.

Even if the bidding fails, Second Auto will cover the loss, and dump all the leftover trash onto the steel mill—who dares complain?

So Jing Yujing was furious, afraid that going there would mean being forced to accept it all.

The steel mill’s development now looks excellent: personnel, ideology, finance, and the main contradictions of future development have all eased.

But the fundamental contradiction of the steel mill remains unresolved.

The contradiction between enterprise ownership and the management system under planned economic conditions versus future development.

Li Huaide and Li Xuewu spent all of last year researching this issue; Gu Weijie, Jing Yujing, and others who later united with them, were all practicing and studying solutions to this fundamental contradiction.

On one hand, there was an active attitude toward accelerating industrial reform, personnel reform, and ideological reform.

On the other, they were deeply experimenting with market-oriented practices under planned production conditions.

Whether it was experienced manager Li Huaide, capable administrator Li Xuewu, or factory leaders like herself—they were all feeling their way across the river, stone by stone.

No one could say the path the steel mill was taking now was correct or risk-free.

First time handling foreign trade orders, first time negotiating with foreign merchants, first time completing project construction and production—each step, like walking on thin ice.

Since October, when the metal goods orders were signed, delivery operations had already begun, laying a solid foundation for future foreign trade.

But small-scale metal goods couldn’t fully support the transformation of this giant steel mill—they needed more boosters, more manpower and resources.

Enterprise conglomeratization marked the pivotal stage in resolving this contradiction—further autonomous management would enhance corporate cohesion and execution.

If conglomeratization succeeded, such unreasonable actions from above would be impossible.

Jing Yujing slammed the table and stood up: “Let’s go—see what tricks they’re playing!”

Beijing Sixteenth Auto Parts Factory: Li Xuewu accompanied Jing Yujing, following behind Ministry leaders as they toured the workshop’s production.

Also present were the business leadership from Second Auto Factory and other accompanying personnel.

In the office building, Ministry staff had already introduced everyone; Li Xuewu only remembered the opposing leader: Second Auto’s Deputy Factory Director Gu Litong.

In this banquet of betrayal, only a few people had real speaking power.

Li Xuewu’s attention remained fixed on the Ministry officials and Gu Litong.

He didn’t even care what the Sixteenth Auto Parts Factory’s director was called.

A factory that can’t even stay afloat—what ability could its director possibly have? Not worth remembering.

He hadn’t expected that while he looked down on them, they weren’t even bothering to properly host them.

As they walked and observed, Ministry staff handed out factory situation documents to everyone.

Jing Yujing didn’t even look—she handed them straight to Li Xuewu, her eyes fixed on the distracted workers and the old, dilapidated machinery, frowning.

Hand-forging hammers? Fine. Hand-forging wrenches? Fine. Even hand-forging artillery shells? Acceptable. But this is an auto parts factory—there isn’t a single decent machine in sight, and everyone’s holding a file—do they plan to hand-forged cars?!

Jing Yujing didn’t understand production, but she wasn’t a desk-bound fool—she regularly toured workshops and inspected equipment.

This factory gave her one feeling: it’s doomed.

She didn’t need to ask the technicians behind her—just from the workers’ demeanor, the managers’ attitude, and the condition of the machinery, she could judge the factory’s total value.

Li Xuewu glanced at the documents in his hands and couldn’t help scratching his eyebrow.

Beijing Sixteenth Auto Parts Factory was originally a military-industrial enterprise that primarily copied the German Zündapp K500 motorcycle to produce its first model, named “Jinggangshan.”

How to describe it? Back then, productivity was backward, scientific research nonexistent—the simplest method was to disassemble, then copy.

Willys was like this; motorcycles were like this too.

Whether imported, captured, or otherwise acquired—anything with superior performance was taken apart and copied; no shame involved.

But think carefully: this thing was bulky, guzzled fuel, and was less practical than a Jeep; for city use, a bicycle was far better.

Engine: twin-cylinder opposed air-cooled, displacement 498cc, power 11.8KW, curb weight 195kg, top speed 110km/h.

Four hundred pounds!

Five hundred cc displacement!

So this thing could only serve the concept of motorized infantry—barely even that.

Wow, Li Xuewu stared at the documents and muttered: “Wow!”

Ji Weidong wasn’t here—if he were, he’d love this thing, riding it like riding a bomb.

He’d just left his home in Xicheng, and Li Xuewu in Dongcheng already knew he’d arrived—he could judge his speed from the sound alone!

Far away, it sounds like a tiger; up close, it sounds like a fool!

Thank goodness this factory went bankrupt early—if they’d waited another year, until the steel mill’s lightweight motorcycles came out, this gas-guzzler would’ve been given away for free and no one would take it.

Look at what this material says—it claims this motorcycle can pull a cannon.

That’s truly amazing—dragon-slaying tech! But where on earth are there cannons for it to pull?

Not only did Li Xuewu stare in silence, but even the Second Auto Plant staff couldn’t help grimacing as they finished reviewing the documents and stepped out of the workshop.

Perhaps the ministry folks felt guilty, or realized their own lack of enthusiasm, so they didn’t ask any questions on the spot.

Li Xuewu guessed that if they dared ask about bidding prices, Deputy Director Jing would explode right there.

After leaving the Sixteenth Beijing Automobile Plant, the group immediately headed to the Seventh Beijing Motorcycle Parts & Assembly Plant.

Just listen to the factory’s name—you already know the situation.

Being ranked low doesn’t mean the factory was established recently, nor does it prove it’s a stepchild.

The clearest sign is: it’s already the Seventh, yet hasn’t been merged, nor renamed like the Red Star Rolling Mill, which changed from the Third Rolling Mill—this means it has no future.

No hope of merger, no hope of rescue—only waiting to be broken up and reorganized.

Same old routine: meet with factory management, then head straight to the workshop.

For a company like this, only the skilled workers and equipment have value—see whatever’s there, straight up.

As for technical reserves, how many factories even had those back then? Whatever little expertise they had was already documented, and they showed it while touring.

Jing Yunong still refused to take the documents; Li Xuewu handled the review instead.

As a motorcycle manufacturer, the Seventh Plant had some real strength.

Since the 1950s, they first copied the Changjiang 250 motorcycle.

The blueprints for that thing were everywhere—hundreds of enterprises across the country copied it; its popularity was extremely high.

How high? Even bicycle factories could produce it.

Any province with basic industrial capacity could set up a factory—it had no technical complexity.

What gave it real strength was that in 1963, three years ago, the Seventh Plant obtained the Nanfei Manufacturing Company’s 250-type blueprints from the Beijing Motorcycle Manufacturing Plant.

Last year, they successfully produced their first batch of fifteen Niuwang 250 motorcycles.

Don’t think the Sixteenth Plant’s 500cc model is superior—it’s not even comparable.

Back then, fuel cost more than the vehicle itself. As always, meeting political targets was simple: just chase size and completeness, flail around wildly.

But to adapt to the planned economy and market demands, you had to follow market rules.

The 500cc model had more power, but still had three seats; the 250cc had two, yet was more convenient and fuel-efficient.

In Li Xuewu’s view, a 60cc single-cylinder model would be ideal—something so economical you could ride two kilometers even after urinating.

But power needs and technical capability are inversely proportional; domestically, a 250cc engine was already impressive.

A true 125cc model would require several more years of development.

Or follow Li Xuewu’s path: overtake on the curve—import foreign technology and equipment, and ditch all the impractical fluff.

“You’re Deputy Director Li, right?”

Li Xuewu was frowning at the documents when Gu Litong from the Second Auto Plant suddenly approached him.

Glancing at the ministry official ahead, Li Xuewu smiled and nodded. “Good day, Deputy Director Gu.”

“Want to go smoke a cigarette?”

Gu Litong had sharp eyes—he knew exactly who among the rolling mill delegation was the actual technical expert.

He gestured toward the door and smiled at Li Xuewu. “I’ve got the cravings—can’t stand it anymore.”

“Sure, sure, me too.”

Seeing Gu’s sly wink, Li Xuewu knew—he’d suffered under the ministry’s blind directives just as long.