Great Power Reclamation

Before dawn, when it was still dark, Ye Wancheng got up again in the dark. Meihua muttered a curse under her breath beside her pillow:
"You old codger, isn't your back hurting anymore? Who was it last night groaning and unable to turn over?"

Ye Wancheng chuckled, touching his pants as he retorted, "As long as there's a breath left, we have to keep going."

Ye Ling'er, who was standing nearby, had already woken up. She silently got up and helped the old man put on his sweater. Mei Hua glared at her again:

"Just keep spoiling him. If that old man really kicks the bucket one day, you'll be crying."

Ye Ling'er pursed her lips, her hands still moving, and said softly, "If he dies, I will die with him." Her words were soft, but heavy.

Inside the Military Reclamation Pharmaceutical Research Institute, the lights were already on. Old John and Liu Xiangdong stood by the lab bench. The three Nobel laureates were hunched over, their hands trembling, and their faces were lined with wrinkles that seemed to conceal the passage of time.

But as soon as he put on the white coat and stepped into the room, his cloudy eyes lit up, like an old soldier touching a gun.

Yuan Kewang arrived early, and looking at them, a surge of bittersweet respect welled up in his heart. He was one of the first batch of top students that Ye Yuze had "recruited" back then, with the highest academic qualifications, yet he had served as the director here for his entire life, never even taking the position of company CEO.

His wife, Xue Lian, often complained, saying he was foolish and that he had lost out. But Ke Yuan and Ke Wang felt it was worth it—every world-renowned drug produced by the pharmaceutical research institute bore the mark of his role as an assistant.

Behind the medals awarded to these three masters lies decades of silent support from him. He is a shadow, but a shadow recognized by the light.

Ye Wancheng walked over to Yuan Kewang, patted him on the shoulder, and turned to Old John and Liu Xiangdong with emotion: "We... owe this child an explanation."

Upon hearing this, Yuan Kewang quickly waved his hand, his eyes crinkling with laughter: "Uncle Ye, I'm two years older than Yuze, almost seventy, what more do you need to say..."

The three elderly people looked at each other and remained silent. Some words are too light to say aloud, and some debts are too heavy to bear in one's heart.

They turned and walked towards the lab bench—the development of a new drug for lung cancer was at a critical juncture. The liquid in the beaker sloshed slightly, and the instrument emitted a low hum, like a heartbeat.

The morning light slowly seeped through the window, falling on their gray hair and on the hands of Yuan Kewang, who was no longer young but still steady.

Another day has begun. Just like the past few decades, and just like every day to come—as long as I can still move, I have to keep going.

Because life waits, but time does not.

The research on a new lung cancer drug has been stuck on the verification of key data for three months.

The cell lines in the culture dish were unreliable in their response to the newly synthesized compounds, sometimes good and sometimes bad. Old John, adjusting his reading glasses, almost pressed his nose against the microscope, while Liu Xiangdong silently stared at the fluctuating curves on the computer screen.

The air smelled of disinfectant, along with the faint scent of mothballs and old books emanating from an aging body.

Yuan Kewang skillfully handed the three teachers warm ginseng tea, then turned around to check the experimental data from the automatic recorder last night.

His movements possess a subtle precision honed over many years, neither disturbing the elderly people's contemplation nor failing to deliver things precisely when they need them.

"Xiao Yuan," Ye Wancheng suddenly spoke, his eyes never leaving the sample in his hand, "how did that kid Yuze manage to trick you into coming back back then? Did he just make empty promises?"

Yuan Kewang smiled, and the wrinkles on her face smoothed out a bit:

“It wasn’t exactly a scam. He said there was a place in Northwest China that could become the world’s best pharmaceutical research institute, but they were short of someone to handle the grunts and do the odd jobs. I thought, odd jobs are something I’m good at.”

He spoke of it casually. But back then, he was one of the most promising young scholars at Tangcheng University and could have stayed on as a faculty member.

As a result, Ye Yuze and he drank beer in the dormitory for three days. They didn't talk much about ideals, but instead talked a lot about the sandstorms in the Northwest, the stubbornness of the military reclamation workers, and the story of how Ye Wancheng and his generation of "old military reclamation workers" produced the first antibiotic under rudimentary conditions.

Finally, Ye Yuze said, "Kewang, some things can be accomplished faster by a group of fools than by a group of smart people. Because fools don't know how to give up."

And so he came. And he stayed for life. From a full head of black hair to graying temples, from "Xiao Yuan" to "Yuan Suo," he became the "living dictionary" of the pharmaceutical research institute, the one most familiar with the quirks of every instrument and every data line.

On the day the Nobel Prize was announced, the world's attention was focused on three elderly men. He quietly applauded from outside the crowd and was pushed aside by reporters who mistook him for an ordinary staff member.

As Xue Lian watched the live broadcast on TV at home, tears welled up in her eyes. They weren't tears of pride, but of heartache and years of pent-up grievances.

That night, for the first time, she didn't complain. She just cooked two extra dishes for him, and even though she doesn't drink alcohol, she had a drink with him.

"The data is in." Old John's voice was a little hoarse, with a hint of barely perceptible excitement. Liu Xiangdong quickly moved closer, and Ye Wancheng also straightened up—his movements were a little slow, and Yuan Kewang subconsciously reached out to support his elbow.

On the computer screen, the new curve extends smoothly and significantly downwards, indicating that the activity of cancer cells has been stably suppressed.

A few seconds of silence filled the lab. Then, Liu Xiangdong slammed his hand on the table, Old John let out a long sigh of relief, and Ye Wancheng looked into the distance, a glint in his eyes.

"It's done?" Yuan Kewang's voice was steady, but the knuckles of his fingers holding the data tablet were slightly white.

"This stage of the model is complete." Ye Wancheng nodded, then shook his head. "It's still far from true success. But... the direction is right."

This was a huge glimmer of hope. Yuan Kewang immediately turned around and began organizing the materials and data needed for the preliminary report. His thinking was clear and his ideas were well-organized, revealing the solid foundation he had built over decades. The three elderly men watched his busy figure and exchanged glances again.

In the afternoon, Ye Yuze suddenly arrived at the pharmaceutical research institute. He was now an old man, but he was still vigorous and had sharp eyes.

He didn't disturb the busy group; he just stood outside the laboratory window for a while and then quietly called Yuan Kewang to the corridor.

"How are the old men doing lately?" Ye Yuze asked.

"It's alright, but I can't stay up all night anymore," Yuan Kewang answered truthfully.

Ye Yuze paused for a moment, then handed Yuan Kewang a file folder: "Take a look."

The manuscript, which can be opened from afar, contains a thick, draft, jointly authored academic paper elucidating a new mechanism of targeted therapy for lung cancer.

In the author column, the name following John Lao, Liu Xiangdong, and Ye Wancheng is "Yuan Kewang".

Furthermore, the "Acknowledgements" section specifically notes that the researchers at Far East Research Institute made crucial and continuous contributions to experimental design, data analysis, and mechanism derivation during the project's two-decade-long systematic work.

Yuan Kewang's hand trembled slightly, and he almost dropped the file folder. "This...this is against the rules. I..."

"Rules?" Ye Yuze looked at him. "The rule of the pharmaceutical research institute is to be pragmatic. You are the 'central nervous system' of this project. The old men know this, and I know it too."

“This paper was personally requested by three professors to include your name, and they insisted on clearly stating your contributions. They said,” Ye Yuze paused, his voice lowering, “that we can no longer let the shadows stand in the darkness.”

Yuan Kewang's throat tightened, and he couldn't utter a single word. He remembered Ye Wancheng's words that morning: "I owe you an explanation." So, they had remembered all along. "It's not out of pity, nor to compensate you," Ye Yuze patted his shoulder, his tone returning to its usual crispness.

"If this medicine really works, it can save many lives. Its story should include the names of those who actually did it. You, Yuanwang, are worthy of it."

Ye Yuze left. Yuan Kewang leaned against the cold wall, clutching the file folder tightly in his hand. At the other end of the corridor, the laboratory lights shone warmly, and he could hear the occasional, aged yet passionate discussions coming from inside.

He wiped his face, took a deep breath, and carefully put away the file folder. Then, he pushed open the door and walked back into the light.

"Uncle Ye, Professor John, Professor Liu, I've done a preliminary review of the model parameters for the next batch of animal experiments, but there are a few details that may need further discussion..."

His voice was calm and steady, as if nothing had happened. However, when he handed a chart to Ye Wancheng, Ye Wancheng noticed that the old man's eyes were slightly red. The old man didn't say anything, but simply squeezed his wrist tightly.

That hand was old, warm, and strong.

Outside the window, the northwestern sky stretches high and far, and the winds of the Gobi Desert seem tireless. But in this quiet laboratory, time flows in a different way—in the subtle changes in the petri dishes, in the fluctuations of the data stream, and in the unwavering gaze of several elderly people and a “young” elderly person.

As long as I can still move, I have to keep going.

For those waiting breaths, for the silent glory of the shadow finally being seen.

On the day the clinical trial data for the new targeted drug for lung cancer was finally released, a rare spring rain fell in Junken City. The dry air of the Gobi Desert was filled with the moist scent of earth.

In the small conference room of the pharmaceutical research institute, it was so quiet that you could hear the patter of raindrops against the windowpanes. The final report lay on the table, black and white on paper, with clear charts and graphs, and unambiguous conclusions:
In the pivotal Phase III clinical trial, the new drug significantly prolonged the median survival of patients with advanced lung cancer, with manageable side effects. This is not just ordinary progress; it is a historic breakthrough.

Old John took off his glasses and slowly wiped them with the corner of his shirt, his fingers trembling slightly. Liu Xiangdong leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and let out a long, silent breath. Ye Wancheng looked at Yuan Kewang, who was sitting at the end of the long table, his gaze complex.

Yuan Kewang was giving his final report, his voice as steady as ever, breaking down complex data into clear language.

Only those who know him best can hear the hidden turmoil in his slightly faster-than-usual speech.

The report is over. Ye Wancheng cleared his throat and took out a document that he had prepared beforehand.

"This is the finalized authorship page for the core technology paper of the new drug, as well as the application materials of the main R&D personnel."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone before finally settling on Yuan Kewang's face. "After a unanimous decision by the three of us old guys, and with approval from our superiors, Yuan Kewang will be the first person to complete this project and the first author of the paper."

"Uncle Ye, this absolutely won't do!" Yuan Kewang suddenly stood up, the chair legs scraping against the ground with a screeching sound. "You were the ones who decided on the plan, you were the ones who set the direction, I..."

"What are you?" Liu Xiangdong interrupted him, his voice not loud, but carrying an undeniable power. "You are the one who turned the plan into every step of the operational experiment, the one who fished out the key clues from the sea of ​​data, the one who pulled us back from the wrong path when the three of us old fogies were stuck in a rut! Twenty years, a long way to go, every gram of medicine and every data point in this project has your soul in it!"

Old John looked into the distance with his eyes, which had regained their clarity, and slowly spoke in broken Chinese:
"Far, science... must be honest. Honor, too, must be honest. Without you, there would be no 'medicine.' We are merely... the old map. You are the one who draws the new map."

Ye Wancheng pushed the document in front of Yuan Kewang, pointed to the blank line for the first author, and noted that the names of the three authors were already signed next to it, in the order listed.

“Sign it. This isn’t about giving up, it’s about returning the favor. Military Reclamation Pharmaceutical, our pharmaceutical research institute, doesn’t tolerate burying the merits of our heroes. Your contributions should be seen and remembered.”

Looking at those three strong and familiar signatures from afar, my vision blurred.

He recalled the countless nights they spent working together, the countless times they encouraged each other after failures, and how they addressed him from "Xiao Yuan" to "Ke Wang" and then to "Lao Yuan"...

His hands trembled as he picked up the pen. The pen tip hovered over the paper, hesitant to write. Finally, stroke by stroke, he wrote his name. After finishing, it was as if he had used up all his strength.

The news spread like a spring breeze, instantly reaching the entire military reclamation city and also reaching the world via radio waves.

Mainstream media described it as a "historic breakthrough" and a "milestone for Huaxia Pharmaceutical." The name Yuan Kewang, along with the names of his three Nobel laureate mentors, was engraved on the monument of this medical advancement.

At home, Xue Lian rummaged through drawers and found the old suit that Yuan Kewang had brought back years ago, which he no longer wore.

She carefully ironed out every wrinkle with an iron, her movements so gentle they were unlike her usual self.

Yuanfang, the daughter, rushed into the house, her face a mixture of tears and laughter. She held up her phone to show Xuelian the news feed and the explosive social media updates: "Mom! Look! Dad! It's my dad! The lead author! Mom, my dad... he..."

Yuanfang choked with sobs, unable to speak, only able to hug her mother tightly. Xuelian patted her daughter's back, her eyes fixed on the gradually ceasing spring rain outside the window, and whispered:
“I saw it… I should have seen it sooner.”

She recalled her complaints over the years, her accusations that he was "useless" and "only knew how to serve old men," and how she once thought he had lived his whole life in the shadow of others.

Her face flushed, but a warm current of bittersweet pride welled up inside her, unlike anything she had ever felt before. This man, through a lifetime of silence and steadfast devotion, had given her the most resounding answer.

The celebration banquet was simple, held in the institute's canteen. There were no outsiders, only old colleagues who had worked together through thick and thin for decades.

The three elderly men were in exceptionally good spirits and, unusually, all drank a little wine. Ye Wancheng, holding his wine glass, walked up to Yuan Kewang, said nothing, simply clinked glasses with him forcefully, and drank it all in one gulp. Everything was understood without words.

After the banquet, slightly tipsy, Old John and Liu Xiangdong, like two children, insisted that Yuan Kewang help them go to the laboratory one last time.

Under the bright operating lights, the instruments stood quietly, the incubator humming softly, as if everything were normal. They simply stood there quietly, watching for a long time.

"From now on, this place is in your hands." Ye Wancheng patted Yuan Kewang on the shoulder. "We're getting old, it's time to rest. But this business, this energy, can't be put to rest."

He nodded emphatically, looking into the distance.

As night deepened, Yuan Kewang escorted the three elderly people back to rest, then returned to the laboratory alone.

He didn't turn on the main lights, only a small lamp on the control panel. In the soft light, he began to tidy the table, check the instrument status, and record the temperature and humidity, just as he had done for decades.

The Gobi Desert outside the window was exceptionally clear and bright after the rain, stretching endlessly into the distance. Inside the laboratory, it was quiet, with only familiar, comforting, subtle sounds.

He picked up a lab notebook that had been used for many years and whose edges were worn white, turned to a new page, and neatly wrote down the date.

A new day is about to begin. Countless mountains still lie ahead to climb, and his name will no longer be just a shadow, but a light that those who come after can look up to and follow.

But for him, the most important thing is always this quiet place in front of him, and that weighty promise: "As long as I can still move, I have to keep working."

The light cast his shadow on the wall, and this time, the shadow itself glowed. (End of Chapter)