It was still September of 2001.
The early morning sun filtered through the two rows of tall plane trees at City No.1 Middle School, dappling the second-floor hallway of the administration building with specks of light.
The cool of last night’s dew still lingered in the air, but beneath that chill, an undercurrent of restless energy was already stirring.
7:30 in the morning.
The first-year faculty office.
This was the nerve center of the entire first-year grade, a hub for gossip, exam papers, teachers, and chalk dust.
Old Zhao.
Zhao Jianguo.
The homeroom teacher for first-year Class 1, the first-year grade head, and also the head of the math department.
At this moment, he was sitting behind the large desk that was his domain.
He did not look pleased.
In fact, his expression was downright grim.
He looked like someone had just borrowed five hundred yuan and not paid him back, or like he’d just discovered the neighbor’s hog had rooted up the prize-winning cabbage in his garden.
Yesterday afternoon, Chen Zhuo hadn’t been in class.
He had personally approved the leave slip. The reason: a secondment to the physics department.
As an open-minded homeroom teacher, Old Zhao had approved it without hesitation at the time.
After all, it was Old Zhou who had asked.
That scruffy but undeniably brilliant physics eccentric had come to him personally.
But the more Old Zhao thought about it afterward, the more something felt wrong.
Who was Chen Zhuo?
He was the treasure Old Zhao had moved heaven and earth for, even slamming the desk in the principal’s office, just to get himself assigned as the homeroom teacher for Class 1.
The derivations in class that day, the logic, the handwriting, the sensitivity to numbers... The boy was a born mathematical talent!
How could he have been poached by that blacksmith Old Zhou less than a month into the school year?
And for a whole afternoon, no less!
Two entire class periods, plus the after-school activity time!
’How many math problems could he have solved in that time? How many formulas could he have memorized?’
Old Zhao gripped his red pen and viciously drew a large X on some unlucky student’s homework, with enough force to nearly tear through the paper, even scratching the page beneath.
’That old coot sure moves fast...’
Old Zhao snorted, picking up his freshly brewed cup of jasmine tea. He hadn’t even had a chance to take a sip.
CREAK~
The office door was pushed open.
The hinges had needed oiling for a long time; every time the door opened, it sounded like a scream.
Old Zhao didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
Aside from the principal, the only person in the entire school who dared to enter his office without knocking was that old coot.
Sure enough, a familiar scent of cheap tobacco mixed with a whiff of machine oil drifted in.
Old Zhou ambled in, carrying his chipped enamel mug, a copy of *Radio* tucked under his arm. He was humming a Peking Opera tune so off-key it was unrecognizable, shuffling along in his trademark pair of slippers.
"Well, well, Team Leader Zhao. Busy, are we?"
Old Zhou’s stubbled face wore an infuriatingly smug grin.
It was the grin of the cat that got the canary, of an old bachelor who’d finally bagged himself a wife.
Old Zhao rolled his eyes and ignored him, looking down to continue grading homework.
"Spit it out or get lost. This is the grade faculty office, not your physics department’s junkyard."
Old Zhou didn’t get angry.
He made himself at home, pulling over a chair and plopping down right across from Old Zhao.
Then, he slowly and deliberately pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his copy of *Radio*.
"Nothing major."
Old Zhou unfolded the paper, his movements as gentle as if he were stroking a lover’s hand.
"Just wanted to show you something impressive."
Old Zhao sneered.
"Impressive? What could you possibly have that’s so impressive? Unless you brought over a Nobel prize."
He glanced nonchalantly at the paper.
Just one glance, and Old Zhao’s red pen froze.
It was an integral derivation for air resistance.
A complex coordinate system, rigorous vector decomposition, and line after line of calculus equations that flowed like water.
And there it was—a beautiful natural logarithm, ln.
Old Zhao was an expert.
Even though he taught middle school math, he was a top student who had graduated from a proper university mathematics department.
He could tell at a glance that this wasn’t just a physics derivation; it was a display of an incredibly solid mathematical foundation.
The integral transformation, the substitution of variables—it was all clean and concise, without a single wasted step.
"This..."
Old Zhao pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned forward involuntarily, his face nearly touching the paper.
"Who wrote this?"
Old Zhao’s voice trembled slightly.
He already had an answer in his heart, but he didn’t dare believe it.
Or rather, he refused to believe it.
Old Zhou chuckled, revealing a set of teeth stained yellow from smoking.
"Who else could it be?"
He flicked the paper with his finger, producing a crisp SNAP.
"Your class’s little treasure, of course. The nine-year-old."
Old Zhao’s head shot up, his eyes fixed on Old Zhou.
"Chen Zhuo?!"
"That’s the one."
Old Zhou raised his mug and took a long, loud SLURP, looking utterly pleased with himself.
"The night before last, I gave him this problem. The kid complained it was too simple and insisted on factoring in all the different types of resistance. What could I do? And the result..."
Old Zhou spread his hands, an expression on his face that said, ’My hands were tied’.
"The result is that he whipped out calculus for me right on the spot. Tsk, tsk. Wouldn’t you be impressed?"
Old Zhao said nothing.
His gaze fell back to the paper, his expression growing extremely complicated.
Shock.
Ecstasy.
And then, deep, profound jealousy.
’This is fucking calculus!’
’A nine-year-old first-year student, self-taught in calculus, and able to apply it with such proficiency!’
’What did this mean?’
’It meant the kid’s logical thinking skills had completely surpassed his peers, and even most high school students.’
’This was a mathematical genius!’
’A mathematical genius blessed by God—no, a genius God was practically chasing down to force-feed!’
’But...’
’How could such a promising talent be wasted on a crude discipline like physics?’
’Look at these equations! All to calculate the friction of some damn wooden block?!’
’What a monstrous waste!’
’It was like using a golden bowl to beg for food!’
Old Zhao’s heart was bleeding.
"So, what do you think?"
Old Zhou, seemingly oblivious to his old friend’s inner turmoil, continued to show off.
"That brain of his, he’s a natural-born physicist. His intuition, his modeling ability... it’s incredible. Next year’s national prize, I’d say it’s in the bag."
Old Zhou folded the paper back up as if it were a treasure map.
"Alright. You’ve seen it. I just came by to give you a heads-up. From now on, on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, the kid’s with me. Don’t schedule him for general cleaning or any other chores."
With that, Old Zhou stood up, hummed a little tune, and left, completely satisfied.
Leaving Old Zhao sitting there alone.
The office was frighteningly quiet.
Old Zhao slowly put down his red pen.
He took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and put them back on.
Behind the lenses, a sharp glint flashed in his eyes.
It was the gleam of a wolf spotting meat, of a hunter spotting its prey.
’A natural-born physicist?’
Old Zhao let out a cold laugh. His voice was low but carried a fierce intensity.
’Bullshit!’
’That physics nonsense is just a lackey for mathematics. Without the skeleton of math, physics is nothing but a pile of rotten meat.’
’Using calculus so fluently proves that the blood of mathematics flows in the boy’s veins.’
’Old Zhou, oh, Old Zhou. You think you can have him all to yourself?’
Old Zhao pulled open his drawer.
From the very bottom, beneath a pile of lesson plans and exam papers, he fished out a thin, slightly yellowed test booklet.
It was a high school math competition test.
Old Zhao pulled the test out and slapped it onto his desk.
’In your dreams!’

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