Chen Zhuo opened the musty-smelling Russian book.
Time to get to work.
This wasn’t reading.
This was construction.
Chen Zhuo’s first target was Chapter one of the Russian edition of the *Calculus Tutorial*: The Theory of Real Numbers.
He couldn’t read the Russian words.
It didn’t matter.
He had a dictionary. He had logic.
He stared at the core formula:
|xn - a|
This was the rudimentary form of the definition of a limit.
Next to the formula, he found a few recurring Russian words.
Based on mathematical logic, the noun in this position could only be "limit" or "neighborhood."
To verify, he opened the heavy *Russian-Chinese Scientific and Technical Dictionary*.
His fingers were small, his nails cut short, making him look especially clumsy as he turned the dictionary’s pages, which were as thin as a cicada’s wings.
He had to gingerly pinch the corners of the pages, afraid he might tear the paper with the slightest excess force.
P... R... E...
He compared them letter by letter, as if searching for parts in a ruin.
The dictionary was dense with tiny characters, the layout so tight it made his eyes blur.
The Russian letters looked very similar; a moment’s inattention and he’d lose his place.
He looked up the wrong word several times.
Sometimes the definition he found made no sense at all, forcing him to start over.
Finally, after the third attempt, he found it.
The entry for "предел" read: (math) limit; boundary; range.
Chen Zhuo picked up a pencil, neatly copied the Russian word onto his scratch paper, and wrote "limit" beside it.
It was like playing an incredibly difficult puzzle game.
The known variables were the mathematical formulas.
The unknown variables were the Russian words.
Use the known to deduce the unknown.
Next was the word: функция (function).
And the next: производная (derivative).
It was slow.
Excruciatingly slow.
The hour hand of the wall clock ticked past one mark, then another.
The people in the reading room came and went in waves.
Chen Zhuo remained in his corner, holding the same posture: left hand flipping through the dictionary, right hand taking notes.
The pencil lead broke once, and he switched to another.
There were no miraculous flashes of insight.
There was only tedious repetition and the ache in his neck from looking down for so long.
In one afternoon—five hours—
he had only managed to get through half a page.
His scratch paper was covered in a mess of words and symbols, along with many crossed-out, incorrect guesses.
But the engine that had been idling in his mind finally found a load to bear.
Every word he looked up, every piece of logic he untangled, was like adding another gear to that engine.
It began to transform from a high-pitched whine into a deep, steady roar.
The feeling wasn’t pleasant. It was exhausting.
But it was fulfilling.
HUMMM~
After some unknown amount of time, a faint ringing suddenly exploded in his head.
Then his temples began to throb, as if a rubber band were snapping against them.
Chen Zhuo’s hand trembled, the pencil tip drawing a long streak across the paper.
He stopped, closed his eyes, and his brow furrowed deeply.
’The hardware is overheating.’
This seven-year-old body, with its underdeveloped nervous system, couldn’t supply enough blood and oxygen to keep up with such high-intensity mental calculations.
His stomach also gave a twitch—a sign of low blood sugar.
’Only half a page...’
Chen Zhuo sighed in frustration.
He put down the pencil and fished half a chocolate bar out of the side pocket of his backpack.
It was the "protection money" Zhang Qiang had forced on him yesterday. He’d claimed it was imported, but it was really just the cheap kind made with cocoa butter substitutes. It had gotten warm in his pocket and was now soft and limp.
Chen Zhuo peeled back the foil and popped the dark, gooey lump into his mouth.
The sweetness spread through his mouth. It was a little cloying and stuck to his teeth.
He chewed slowly, as if eating a compressed biscuit.
The sugar entered his bloodstream through his esophagus and was then pumped to his brain by his heart.
After several minutes, the steel needles dancing on his temples slowly withdrew.
Chen Zhuo opened his eyes and glanced out the window.
The sky was already growing dim.
He didn’t go back to the Russian book.
His brain felt numb; continuing would be too inefficient.
He picked up the red copy of the *Feynman Lectures on Physics* and flipped through it.
English.
This time was a little better. At least he recognized the letters.
But he didn’t have the energy to use a dictionary again.
He just stared at the illustrations and formulas for a while, giving the table of contents a quick scan.
Not until the closing music began to play.
It was that famous saxophone song again, "Going Home."
Mournful and melodic.
The lights in the reading room flickered twice. The old administrator stood by the door, dangling a set of keys that jingled loudly.
Chen Zhuo closed the book.
He stretched his stiff neck, and his joints let out a sharp CRACK.
His eyes were painfully sore.
But he glanced at the densely filled scratch paper beside him, then felt the two books, thick as bricks.
’Not bad.’
5:30 PM.
Chen Zhuo carried the four "bricks" to the checkout counter.
The books were too heavy. The four of them together weighed nearly eleven pounds, pressing down in his backpack—the one with Black Cat Detective printed on it—and making his shoulders ache.
The librarian was a middle-aged woman knitting a sweater.
She glanced at Chen Zhuo, then at the books on the counter.
*Calculus Tutorial*, *Feynman Lectures on Physics*, and two large dictionaries.
"Little one,"
The woman pushed up her reading glasses, looking at him with amusement.
"Did you grab the wrong books? The comic books are on the first floor. This one..." she said, "this book is probably twice your age."
She pointed at the Russian book, its cover coated in dust.
Chen Zhuo stood on his tiptoes and handed her his brand-new library card.
In the photo on the card, his lips were pressed together, his gaze calm.
"Ma’am, I’m borrowing them for my dad."
Chen Zhuo told a lie.
His voice was steady, without a hint of guilt.
"Oh, I see."
Realization dawned on the woman, and her knitting needles paused for a moment.
"Your dad must be a technician, right? He works so hard, making his kid come borrow old books like this on a weekend."
She was probably reminded of her own husband, who worked three shifts at the factory.
KA-CHUNK. KA-CHUNK.
The red steel stamp pressed heavily onto the yellowed pages.
"Can you carry all that? Need a hand?" the woman asked with concern.
"No, I’m fine. Thank you, ma’am."
Chen Zhuo packed the books back into his bag.
The backpack was stuffed so full the zipper barely closed.
He shouldered the bag.
The weight immediately pulled him backward, making him stumble.
But instead of reaching for the counter to steady himself, he quickly leaned forward, using his own center of gravity to counteract the downward pull.
By the time he walked out the library’s main entrance, the rain had stopped.
It wasn’t completely dark yet. The air carried the damp, earthy smell of soil, and from a distance, the pungent aroma of someone stir-frying chili peppers drifted over.
Chen Zhuo trudged through the puddles, his steps uneven.
His rain boots were covered in mud.
The backpack was heavy on his shoulders. With every step, the two straps dug deeper.
As he passed a newsstand, he glanced again at the copy of *Computer News*.
Windows 2000.
7:00 PM.
Chen Jianguo came home from his overtime shift, bringing with him the smell of oil and a sense of exhaustion.
The moment he walked in, he saw that the light in his son’s room was on.
He changed his shoes and quietly pushed the door open a crack.
He saw seven-year-old Chen Zhuo hunched over his desk, his left hand turning the pages of an old, dictionary-thick book, while his right hand held a pencil, drawing strange symbols on a sheet of scratch paper.
As a veteran fitter who had worked at the state-owned enterprise for twenty years, Chen Jianguo didn’t understand calculus, but he recognized those kinds of symbols.
They were the real deal.
The kind of thing the true chief engineers at the factory would mark on their most precise blueprints.
He couldn’t understand what his son was writing.
But he could understand the look on his face.
Focused.
Utterly focused.
Like a craftsman polishing a precision part, not even daring to breathe too loudly.
Chen Jianguo didn’t dare to disturb him and gently closed the door.
He went to the kitchen and heated up a glass of milk.
When he went back in, Chen Zhuo was still writing.
"Son, drink some milk. Take a break."
Chen Jianguo placed the milk on the corner of the desk, trying not to make a sound.
Chen Zhuo looked up, adjusted his slightly slipping glasses, and said, "Dad."
Chen Jianguo’s gaze swept over the Russian book and the paper full of formulas.
He didn’t ask, "Can you understand that?" or "What is this?"
He just reached out his big, rough hand and gently ruffled Chen Zhuo’s hair.
"Reading is a good thing, but don’t stay up too late. Be careful with your eyes."
The thick calluses on his palm felt a little scratchy on Chen Zhuo’s scalp, but they were very warm.
"I know."
Chen Zhuo replied.
Chen Jianguo left the room, closing the door behind him.
The room fell silent again.
Chen Zhuo picked up the milk and took a sip.
The warm liquid flowed into his stomach, chasing away the chill from the rainy day.

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