In the Capital City, the summer air was dry and sweltering.
The leaves of a few locust trees were curled up. There were no cicadas chirping, only the sound of tires occasionally scraping against the road.
The bus was parked on the access road a few dozen meters away.
The doors hadn’t opened yet. The driver stood smoking in the shade in front of the bus.
"I’m going to wash my hands."
Chen Zhuo stopped and said to the few people behind him.
He pointed to a small door on the side of the practical training center. Above the door hung a blue sign with white characters indicating the restroom.
Zhou Kai nodded. "We’ll wait for you by the bus."
Lin Yi waved a hand and walked straight toward the shade of the trees.
Wang Huashao fanned himself with a towel as he followed Lin Yi.
Chen Zhuo turned and walked toward the side door.
Pushing open the glass door revealed a slightly dim corridor.
The corridor floor was laid with white tiles, some of which were stained with water.
The walls were painted with a light green wainscoting.
The air held a faint, mixed smell of disinfectant and a damp mop.
The thick walls blocked out most of the noise from outside, making the corridor seem very quiet.
Chen Zhuo walked to the sinks.
He turned on the leftmost faucet.
Tap water gushed out. The stream was a bit strong, splashing against the bottom of the white ceramic basin and kicking up fine droplets.
Chen Zhuo placed his hands under the stream.
The backs of his hands and the crevices of his nails were covered in pencil graphite, dust from multimeter probes, and shavings from dismantling a metal case’s bottom plate.
There was a bar of soap on the counter by the sink.
Chen Zhuo picked up the soap and rubbed it in his hands a few times.
He put the soap down, interlaced his fingers, and scrubbed vigorously.
The white foam quickly turned grayish-black.
He scrubbed meticulously, working his way along his fingers to wash away the stubborn grime, bit by bit.
Then he put his hands back under the stream to rinse.
The grayish-black water swirled down the drain.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
The steady sound of hard-soled leather shoes tapping against the floor tiles.
TAP.
TAP.
TAP.
The footsteps stopped about two meters from the sinks.
Chen Zhuo didn’t look up.
He continued scrubbing a black mark on his left wrist.
Someone was standing beside him.
The mirror reflected half of the person’s body.
It was a man in his sixties with short, salt-and-pepper hair.
He wore a faded dark blue jacket, unzipped to reveal an ordinary striped shirt underneath.
He was holding a clear plastic document folder.
He looked like any ordinary faculty member you might run into on a tree-lined path of a university campus.
The old man didn’t speak, just watched Chen Zhuo wash his hands.
Chen Zhuo finished washing his wrist.
He turned off the faucet.
The sound of running water stopped abruptly.
Quiet returned to the corridor.
Chen Zhuo flicked the water from his hands.
Droplets splattered on the tiled floor, creating a few dark spots.
The old man took two steps forward.
He walked up to the side of the sink counter.
He opened the clear document folder in his hand and pulled out a sheet of paper.
He placed it on a dry, water-free spot at the edge of the counter.
The paper was smooth and uncreased.
A line of red text was printed at the very top.
The font wasn’t large, but it was striking.
Hua Country Science and Technology University Junior Class Pre-Admission Letter of Intent.
"No entrance exam."
The old man spoke. His voice was quiet, with a hint of a northern accent, and his tone was a flat statement of fact.
"A consecutive Bachelor’s-Master’s program, a full scholarship, and your pick of any major in the university starting your third year."
The Keda Junior Class didn’t assign majors for the first two years; students could choose freely in their third year.
He pointed to the bottom right corner of the paper, where there was a blank signature area.
"Sign it, and we can start the internal file transfer process within a few days. You won’t have to go back and suffer through middle school."
Chen Zhuo turned around.
He didn’t look at the paper on the counter.
Nor did he look at the form with the red letterhead.
He reached out and pulled a paper towel from the dispenser next to the sink.
Chen Zhuo folded it in half, pressed it against the back of his hand, and slowly dabbed his hand dry.
"If I go to the Junior Class," Chen Zhuo said calmly, his eyes on the paper towel in his hand,
"do I still have to do roll call and morning exercises at 6:30 AM every day?"
The old man froze for a moment.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the ten-year-old boy before him.
He had prepared many different spiels.
For the arrogant geniuses, he had a spiel to put them in their place.
For the timid prodigies, he had a spiel to show concern.
For the shrewd parents, he had a spiel for negotiation.
But this was the one question he wasn’t prepared to answer.
"The Junior Class enrolls minors."
The old man quickly composed himself and replied in an official, business-like tone.
"The semi-military style management and standardized schedule are to ensure your physical health during your developmental years. It’s a school regulation."
Chen Zhuo took another paper towel.
He began drying between the fingers of his right hand.
"What if I feel the professor is teaching too slowly in class?"
Chen Zhuo crumpled the used paper towel in his hand, lifted his head, and looked the old man straight in the eye.
"If I can learn faster by studying on my own in the library, can I skip class attendance and just take the final exam to get the credit?"
The old man’s brow furrowed.
"A university has its curriculum."
The old man’s tone grew heavier, carrying the gravity of someone who has spent years following the rules within the system.
"When a professor lectures, it’s not just about imparting knowledge; it’s about cultivating scientific literacy. We’ve seen plenty of geniuses. Every student we recruit each year is one of the top prodigies in their region.

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