2:35 PM.
The door was pushed open again.
This time, with quite a bit of commotion.
A foot in an old slipper stepped in first, followed by a pair of slightly wrinkled trousers and that same old dark brown jacket he always wore.
Old Zhou had arrived.
He was still carrying that huge, chipped enamel mug, a stack of test papers and a book tucked under his arm, and an unlit cigarette butt dangling from his lips.
He scanned the room after walking in.
His gaze was nonchalant, as if surveying his own little kingdom.
His eyes swept past Li Hao and Zhang Wei in the front row, then skipped straight to Chen Zhuo, who was nestled in the back.
The corner of his mouth seemed to twitch into a fleeting, almost imperceptible smile.
He ambled to the lectern and tossed the stack of things onto the desk.
SLAP.
The sound was crisp, carrying with it the smell of dust.
In the front row, Li Hao and Zhang Wei immediately shot upright, like two springs suddenly snapping straight.
Their eyes showed a deep reverence for authority.
At No. 1 High, even though Old Zhou looked sloppy and didn’t usually manage things, when it came to physics, he was an absolute authority.
Old Zhou said nothing.
He unscrewed the lid of his mug, took a sip of strong tea, swished it around in his mouth, and then swallowed.
"So, everyone’s here."
He glanced around the classroom, his tone as flat as if he were commenting, "Nice weather today."
He didn’t introduce Chen Zhuo, nor did he introduce Li Hao and Zhang Wei.
It was an unspoken understanding.
Anyone sitting in this room had been chosen for the competition.
Names didn’t matter. A sharp mind was all that was required.
"From now on, Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, same time."
Old Zhou tapped the lectern with his finger.
"No roll call, no asking for leave. Come if you can, stay in your regular class if you can’t."
"We don’t bother with formalities here. We’re all about efficiency."
With that, he picked up the two sets of test papers from the desk and gave them a flick.
"Li Hao, Zhang Wei."
"Here."
The two answered reflexively, their voices a little tense.
"Take these."
The papers sailed through the air and landed on the desk in the first row.
"These are the real papers from the ’98 and ’99 national semi-finals."
Old Zhou pointed to the clock on the wall.
"It’s two-fifty now. You have two hours. When you’re done, leave them on the lectern and get lost."
"Yes."
The two snatched up the papers as if they’d struck gold.
These were the real deal, after all.
In an era before the internet was widespread and resources were scarce, old exam papers like these, complete with standards and grading rubrics, were truly more precious than gold.
The two immediately entered combat mode.
The pop of pen caps, the rustle of papers being spread out, the sound of deep breaths.
An oppressive atmosphere, one that could only be called "test-taking," instantly descended upon the front half of the classroom.
Old Zhou paid them no more mind.
He picked up the remaining book from the desk.
It was a thick old book with a deep red cover, its corners worn down to the gray cardboard beneath, and its spine wrapped in layer after layer of clear tape.
Holding the book, he shuffled to the back of the lab, his slippers pattering softly on the floor.
Chen Zhuo looked up.
Old Zhou didn’t say a word, just tossed the red book onto Chen Zhuo’s desk.
THUD.
A heavy, muffled sound.
A fine cloud of dust even rose from the cover, dancing in the afternoon light.
Chen Zhuo glanced down at it.
The gold foil lettering on the cover was completely gone, leaving only uneven indentations.
Though it was a bit blurry, he recognized the layout style.
It was unique to Soviet-style textbooks, filled with a stark and brutalist aesthetic.
Selected Solutions to Difficult Problems in Secondary School Physics (Soviet Edition)
Below it was a line of small Russian text: Moscow University Press.
"You don’t need to do the test papers."
Old Zhou stood over Chen Zhuo, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.
"Those problems are too formulaic. Do too many and they’ll stiffen your brain."
He jutted his chin toward the red book.
"Take a look through this."
"There are no standard answers in here, no syllabus restrictions. Even I think some of these problems are insane."
Old Zhou paused, a flicker of strange anticipation in his eyes.
"Just read the parts you can understand. For any Russian words you don’t know, there’s a big dictionary on the lectern. Look them up yourself."
Chen Zhuo reached out and felt the book’s rough cover.
His fingertips felt a texture like sandpaper.
’It’s old enough.’
’Tough enough.’
Like a brick of aged Pu’er tea, or a cellar-aged fine wine, he could almost smell its pungent aroma before even opening it.
"Mm, okay."
The reply was calm, concise.
Satisfied, Old Zhou nodded and turned away. His slippers tapped against the floor as he returned to the lectern.
As Old Zhou walked past, Li Hao and Zhang Wei couldn’t help but glance back.
Their expressions were complicated.
There was envy, jealousy, and confusion.
’Why him?’
’Why do we have to grind away at these tests when we’re all here for the same training, while that nine-year-old kid gets to read for leisure?’
’And what the hell is with that shabby book? You can’t even make out the cover, and he has to look things up in a dictionary?’
’Are you sure you’re not Old Zhou’s actual grandson?’
But they didn’t dare ask.
After all, Old Zhou’s intimidating presence was still palpable, and the two-hour countdown had already begun.
"What are you looking at?"
Old Zhou snapped without even turning his head. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was full of menace.
"Are you done with the problems? You have time to stare at others?"
The two of them flinched and quickly buried their heads in their papers. Their pen tips flew across the page, terrified that slowing down for even a second would get them kicked out.
Old Zhou walked back to the lectern and plopped down onto the chipped wooden chair.
He didn’t stay idle either.
He picked up the newly delivered newspaper, put on his reading glasses, and began studying an article about the national soccer team qualifying, tutting to himself as he read.
And so, time began to flow at different speeds.
In the front row was the SCRITCH-SCRATCH of frantic, anxious writing—the sound of a battle for points.
At the lectern was the RUSTLE of a newspaper turning—leisurely, mundane, self-contented.
Li Hao wrote quickly. His handwriting was heavy, as if each stroke was meant to carve a mark into the paper.
He frowned as he wrote, occasionally pausing to spin his pen in frustration or run a hand through his hair.
Zhang Wei was a little better, but he couldn’t sit still. One moment he was drinking water, the next he was switching pens, and the next he was mashing the buttons on his calculator, which went BEEP BEEP BEEP.
It was like machine-gun fire on a battlefield—rapid, chaotic, and disorderly.
In the back row.
Silence reigned.
Chen Zhuo sat in the corner.
He opened the red book.
The first page.
The paper was yellowed and as brittle as old autumn leaves.
A thick, musty smell hit him.
The book had probably been sealed away in some corner for years; the pages even seemed to be stuck together.
Chen Zhuo paid no mind to any of this.
His gaze fell upon the dense text and diagrams.
Familiar Russian.
Cyrillic letters, with their hooks and loops, stood like rows of soldiers—stern and imposing.
Interspersed between these letters were lines of the universal language of mathematics.
The integral sign, ∫.
The partial derivative symbol, ∂.
The summation symbol, Σ.
And then there were the complex, three-dimensional geometric diagrams covered in arrows for force analysis.
Chen Zhuo read extremely slowly.
He didn’t pick up his pen.
He rested his chin in one hand, while the other unconsciously twirled a mechanical pencil whose lead was not extended.
He looked as if he were admiring a painting, or deciphering an intricate cypher.

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