「November 2001.」
For Zhang Qiang, a sixth-grader in Class 3 at Yu Hong Primary School, life felt like the pair of sneakers he’d worn for three months straight. They looked sturdy, but the soles were worn so smooth that every step was on the verge of slipping.
「8:00 AM.」
He had become a giant, fat rabbit trapped in an iron cage.
Outside the cage stood Chen Zhuo. He was wearing his ill-fitting, small-sized school uniform and holding a coldly gleaming meat cleaver. With light glinting off his glasses, he asked Zhang Qiang with a deadpan expression:
"Zhang Qiang, given thirty-five heads and ninety-four feet in a cage... Now, let me ask you: if I chop you up and make you into braised chicken nuggets, how many feet will the remaining chickens have...?"
"Bro! Bro! Don’t chop me! Don’t do it! I don’t taste good! I only have two feet!"
Zhang Qiang wailed as he watched the cleaver whistle down.
"AHHH!!!"
Zhang Qiang was scared awake.
He let out a cry from his dream and shot up from the bed.
He sat there, drenched in a cold sweat, his heart pounding like it was about to burst out of his chest.
Outside, the sky was gloomy. The autumn rain of the south pattered against the window, making an irritating rustling sound.
Zhang Qiang wiped the cold sweat from his forehead and glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table.
’Phew.
It was a dream.
Phew.
It’s Sunday today.’
He wouldn’t have to go to school and face that math test covered in red X’s, nor would he have to see his teacher’s "this-kid-is-a-lost-cause" sour face.
Zhang Qiang flopped back onto the bed, staring blankly at a yellowed water stain on the ceiling.
"Sigh..."
Zhang Qiang heaved a long sigh, rolled over, and buried his face in his pillow. He felt as limp as a wet noodle.
Ever since Brother Zhuo skipped a grade and went to City No.1 Middle School, Zhang Qiang felt like his life had lost half its sparkle.
Sure, he could still see him at the fence every day at noon and listen to Brother Zhuo talk about his scientific research—which he didn’t understand but felt was amazing anyway...
But it just wasn’t the same.
Back in primary school, Chen Zhuo had been the little squirt who sat in front of him, the one he needed to protect.
Now, Chen Zhuo was the captain of two competition teams, a child prodigy, a big shot who even the ninth-grade "big brothers" respectfully called Brother Zhuo.
And him? Zhang Qiang?
He was still just a chubby sixth-grader who’d spend half an hour on a "chickens and rabbits in a cage" problem and still get it wrong.
"I can’t go on like this!"
Zhang Qiang clenched his fists under the blanket.
’Brother Zhuo said the difference between people is fundamentally a difference in processing power. He’s a Pentium 4, and I’m just a cartridge-based Famicom clone. I can’t change my hardware, but I have to find a way to overclock myself!’
Zhang Qiang howled these thoughts nonsensically under his blanket.
But speaking of which, he’d been worried about Chen Zhuo for the past few days.
A few days ago at noon, he went to deliver lunch at the iron fence on the west side of City No.1 Middle School as usual.
Through the rusty iron bars, he could see that Chen Zhuo’s face was a little pale, and he even had dark circles under his eyes.
Zhang Qiang’s heart ached for him.
"Brother Zhuo, what’s wrong with you?" he had asked.
Chen Zhuo didn’t say much, just occasionally muttered things Zhang Qiang couldn’t understand.
And though Zhang Qiang didn’t get it, he was deeply shaken.
’He’s clearly overloading!’
Zhang Qiang didn’t understand physics, but he understood four-wheel drive mini racers.
In that moment, he felt that Chen Zhuo was just like his mini racer with the Atomic Fission motor: the RPM was too high, the voltage was too great, and the coils were about to burn red-hot, emitting an invisible wisp of smoke.
’No,’ he thought.
Zhang Qiang rolled over under the covers, his gaze becoming determined.
’Brother Zhuo is the hope of the whole village... no, the whole family housing compound. His brain is a national treasure. He’s going to build rockets and win a Nobel Prize someday.’
’I’m the big brother here (we have our own arrangement, just wanted to clarify that to avoid any arguments), and even if my brain is slow and I can’t figure out how many legs the chickens and rabbits have, I have to be in charge of logistics.’
’He needs supplements.’
Zhang Qiang recalled his grandmother’s golden rule:
"Eat what you want to replenish. For weak legs, eat tendons; for blurry vision, eat fish eyes. For a slow brain... you have to eat something that looks like a brain."
’Pig brains?’
Zhang Qiang imagined it: a pale, veiny lump, boiled in a hot pot...
BLECH.
He shuddered.
If he brought that stuff to Chen Zhuo’s house, he’d probably be chased out by Aunt Liu with a broom before he even got through the door.
’No, no way.’
Zhang Qiang shook his head.
’That only leaves one option.’
’Walnuts.’
The king of nuts, the embodiment of wisdom, a food that looked exactly like the cerebral cortex.
"Right, I’ll buy walnuts!"
Zhang Qiang attempted a graceful carp-leap to get out of bed, but thanks to his belly, it turned into more of a clumsy, flailing roll.
Today was Sunday.
He had an important mission to carry out.
He was going to find the most perfect walnuts in the entire city for his good brother, for this future scientist!
He got dressed, washed his face, and brushed his teeth.
Zhang Qiang faced the mirror, wiped the toothpaste foam from the corner of his mouth, and looked at the chubby, round-faced kid staring back. He tried his best to muster a serious expression.
"Zhang Qiang, you are on a mission," he told himself.
Back at his desk.
The desk was a total mess, piled high with Saint Seiya comic books, leftover crumbs from instant noodle snacks, and that math test with only the word "Solution:" written on it.
Zhang Qiang pushed all the junk to one side.
He rummaged through his pencil case.
As someone about to conduct a scientific procurement in a rough-and-tumble place like the South Gate Vegetable Market, he couldn’t go without some professional equipment.
Finally, at the very bottom of the case, he found a ruler.
It was a 20-centimeter transparent plastic ruler.
The kind that came in a two-yuan drafting set from the stationery store outside the school.
Its edges were chipped and uneven, the measurement lines were heavily worn, and there was even a clear set of teeth marks right at the 15-centimeter mark.
The result of Zhang Qiang chewing on it while pondering math problems.
It wasn’t precise.
It was just a beat-up ruler for a primary school student.
But in Zhang Qiang’s eyes, at this moment, it was a scepter, a scientific standard, the one and only tool to distinguish premium quality from inferior goods.
’Gotta bring it.’
Zhang Qiang solemnly tucked the ruler into his pants pocket.
Besides tools, he also needed a theory.
Zhang Qiang sat in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to review the scientific principles that Chen Zhuo had once explained to him (though most of it was his own embellished interpretation).
Rule number one: Bigger is better.
This was a simple truth. The bigger the CPU, the more transistors it has. The bigger the car, the more horsepower it has. Therefore, the bigger the walnut, the more energy it must contain.
Rule number two: Structure determines function.
Chen Zhuo had said that the brain is smart because its grooves are deep, giving it a large surface area.
Walnuts had to be the same.
The ones with smooth surfaces were definitely no good. A shell that smooth meant a slippery brain; knowledge wouldn’t be able to get a foothold and would just slide right off.
He had to find the ugly ones, the ones that were pitted and craggy, with grooves so deep they could trap a mosquito.
That’s what you call rich convolutions. That’s what you call depth.
Rule number three: Density.
Zhang Qiang hefted the eraser in his hand.
Heavy means it’s solid; light means it’s hollow.
You can’t buy hollow walnuts. You have to get the ones that feel heavy in your hand. When you crack those open, they’re full of oil, full of the essence of wisdom.
"All set!"
Zhang Qiang slapped his thigh, slung on his backpack, and pulled open his bedroom door.
"Mom! I’m heading out!"
"Where are you going in this heavy rain? Is your homework finished?"
His mom’s piercing shout came from the kitchen, accompanied by the THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of a knife on the cutting board.
"I’m going to give Chen Zhuo... some review materials! And I’m stopping by the library to look something up!"
Zhang Qiang lied without batting an eye.
In this house, the name "Chen Zhuo" was a get-out-of-jail-free card, a hundred times more effective than saying "I’m going to study."
Sure enough, his mom’s voice immediately softened.
"Oh, you’re going to see Xiaozhuo? Okay, you can go. Hey, wait!"
His mom poked her head out of the kitchen, a handful of scallions in her hand.
"Take that case of milk from the fridge! For Xiaozhuo, to help him replenish his strength. Also, are you eating lunch over there? Don’t be a bother! If you’re coming home for lunch, let me know ahead of time!"
"Got it! I won’t be back for lunch!"
Zhang Qiang grabbed the case of milk, thought for a moment, then put it back down.
’The milk’s too heavy. It’ll affect my mobility in the vegetable market.’
’I’ll deal with it later.’
Zhang Qiang grabbed the umbrella by the door, tucked the plastic ruler in his pocket, and with the fifteen yuan and fifty cents in assorted coins and small bills he had saved up all week, he charged out into the rain.

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