My IQ has been increasing year by year.

Chen Zhuo opened the Russian book that smelled musty.

start.

This is not reading.

This is called construction.

Chen Zhuo first tackled the first chapter of the Russian version of "A Course in Calculus": the theory of real numbers.

He can't read Russian words.

It's okay.

He has a dictionary and logic.

He stared at the core formula:

|xₙ- a|<ε.

This is the prototype of the definition of a limit.

Next to the formula, he found several Russian words that appeared repeatedly.

According to mathematical logic, the noun for this position can only be either a limit or a neighborhood.

To verify this, he opened the thick Russian-Chinese Dictionary of Science and Technology.

Her fingers were small, her nails were cut very short, and she seemed particularly clumsy when flipping through those thin, cicada-wing-like dictionary pages.

He had to carefully twist the corner of the book, afraid that he would tear the paper if he used too much force.

п...р...е...

He compared them letter by letter, as if searching for parts in ruins.

The dictionary is filled with densely packed words, so densely formatted that it makes one's eyes dizzy.

Russian letters look very similar, and it's easy to mistake one for the other if you're not careful.

He checked it incorrectly several times.

Sometimes the meanings of the words you look up don't match up at all, so you have to start all over again.

Finally, after the third comparison, he found it.

【предел】：(numerical) limit; boundary; scope.

Chen Zhuo picked up a pencil and neatly copied the Russian word onto the draft paper, then wrote the Chinese word "Extreme" next to it.

This is like playing an extremely difficult puzzle game.

The given condition is a mathematical formula.

The unknown condition is a Russian word.

Deducing the unknown from the known.

Next is the word: функция (function).

The next one: производная (derivative).

very slow.

Very slow.

The hour hand of the wall clock moved one notch, then another.

The people in the reading room changed wave after wave.

Chen Zhuo remained seated in that corner, maintaining the same posture, flipping through a dictionary with his left hand and taking notes with his right.

The pencil tip broke once, so he replaced it with a new one.

There was no sudden flash of inspiration or miracle.

All that's left is monotonous repetition and neck pain from looking down for long periods.

One afternoon, five hours.

He only managed to eat half a page.

The draft paper was covered with messy words and symbols, as well as many crossed-out wrong guesses.

However, the engine that had been idling in his mind finally found a load.

Every word that is found and every logical connection that is made up is like adding a set of gears to this engine.

It began to change from a howling sound to a deep rumble.

This feeling is unpleasant and exhausting.

But it was very fulfilling.

"Buzz~"

After an unknown amount of time, a slight ringing sound suddenly exploded in my head.

Next, my temples felt like two rubber bands were throbbing.

Chen Zhuo's pen trembled slightly, and the tip drew a long mark on the paper.

He stopped, closed his eyes, and his brows furrowed tightly into a deep frown.

The hardware is overheating.

This seven-year-old body's nervous system is not fully developed, and the blood and oxygen supply cannot keep up with this high-intensity mental processing.

A spasm came from my stomach, a sign of low blood sugar.

"Only half a page..."

Chen Zhuo sighed helplessly.

He put down his pen and took out half a chocolate from the side pocket of his backpack.

That was the protection money Zhang Qiang forced on him yesterday. He claimed it was imported goods, but it was actually the cheap kind made with cocoa butter substitute. It had melted a bit from being kept in his pocket and was now soft and limp.

Chen Zhuo peeled off the tin foil and stuffed the dark lump into his mouth.

The inferior sweetness melts in the mouth, is a bit cloying, and sticks to the teeth.

He chewed very slowly, as if he were chewing a compressed biscuit.

Sugar enters the bloodstream through the esophagus and is then pumped into the brain by the heart.

Several minutes later, the two steel needles that had been dancing on his temples were slowly pulled out.

Chen Zhuo opened his eyes and glanced out the window.

It was already getting a little dark.

He stopped reading the Russian book. His mind was already a bit numb, and continuing would be too inefficient.

He picked up the red copy of "Feynman Lectures on Physics" and flipped through it.

English.

This time it was a little better; at least I recognized the letters.

But he was too tired to look up anything in the dictionary.

He just stared at the illustrations and formulas in the book for a while, and glanced at the table of contents.

Until the closing music played.

It's that famous saxophone piece again, "Going Home".

Melancholy, lingering.

The lights in the reading room flickered twice, and the old librarian jingled a bunch of keys by the door.

Chen Zhuo closed the book.

He stretched his stiff neck, and his joints made a crisp "crack" sound.

very tired.

My eyes are extremely sore and dry.

But he glanced at the few sheets of densely written draft paper beside him, and then touched the two books that were as thick as bricks.

Still.

5:30 p.m.

Chen Zhuo carried the four "bricks" to the book lending counter.

The books were too heavy; the four books together weighed almost ten pounds, pressing down on his backpack with the Black Cat Detective printed on it, making his shoulders ache.

The administrator was a middle-aged woman who was knitting a sweater.

She glanced at Chen Zhuo, then at the books on the table.

"A Course in Calculus", "Feynman Lectures on Physics", and two large dictionaries.

"kid"

The aunt pushed up her reading glasses and looked at him with amusement.

"You must have borrowed the wrong book. The comic books are on the first floor. This book... this book is almost twice your age."

She pointed to the Russian book, its cover completely covered in gray.

Chen Zhuo stood on tiptoe and handed over the brand-new library card.

In the photo on his library card, he pursed his lips and looked calm.

"Auntie, I borrowed it for my dad."

Chen Zhuo told a lie.

His voice was steady, without a trace of nervousness.

"Oh, I see."

The aunt suddenly realized what was happening, and paused in her knitting.

"Your dad works in technology, right? That must be tough, having the kid borrow these old books on a weekend."

She was probably thinking of her husband, who worked three shifts at the factory.

"Click, click."

The red stamp slammed heavily onto the yellowed pages.

"Can you carry it? Do you need help?" the aunt asked with concern.

"No need, thank you, Auntie."

Chen Zhuo put the book back into his schoolbag.

The backpack was so bulging that the zipper could barely be closed.

He slung his schoolbag over his shoulder.

He suddenly lurched backward, his body swaying.

But instead of reaching out to steady himself on the table, he quickly leaned forward, using his center of gravity to counteract the downward force.

When I walked out of the library, the rain had stopped.

It wasn't completely dark yet, and the air was filled with the damp, earthy smell of chili peppers. In the distance, someone was stir-frying chili peppers, and the pungent aroma wafted far and wide.

Chen Zhuoshen waded through the puddles, his feet sinking slightly.

Those dark green rain boots were covered in yellow mud.

The backpack on my shoulder was very heavy, and with each step, the two straps dug deeper into my shoulder.

As he passed the newsstand, he glanced at the "Computer World" magazine again.

Windows 2000.

7 PM.

Chen Jianguo returned from working overtime, covered in oil and exhausted.

As soon as I entered the room, I saw that the light in my son's room was on.

He changed his shoes and quietly pushed open the door a crack.

Seven-year-old Chen Zhuo was lying on his desk, flipping through an old book as thick as a dictionary with his left hand, and drawing strange symbols on a piece of draft paper with a pencil in his right hand.

As a veteran fitter who has worked in a state-owned enterprise for twenty years, Chen Jianguo may not understand calculus, but he recognizes these symbols.

That's high-end stuff.

These are the things that the factory's actual chief engineers would mark on the most precise blueprints.

He couldn't understand what his son was writing.

But he could understand that expression.

Focus.

Extremely focused.

It's like a worker polishing a precision part, not daring to even breathe loudly.

Chen Jianguo didn't dare to disturb them and gently closed the door.

He went to the kitchen and heated up a glass of milk.

When I went back in, Chen Zhuo was still writing.

"Son, have some milk and rest for a bit."

Chen Jianguo placed the milk on the corner of the table, trying not to make a sound.

Chen Zhuo raised his head, adjusted his slightly slipped glasses, and called out, "Dad."

Chen Jianguo's gaze swept over the Russian book, then looked at the pages full of formulas.

He didn't ask, "Can you understand this?" or "What is this?"

He simply reached out his rough, large hand and gently rubbed Chen Zhuo's head.

"Reading is a good thing. But don't read too late, be careful with your eyes."

The palms had thick calluses that scratched Chen Zhuo's scalp, making it a little itchy, but it was very warm.

"Understood," Chen Zhuo replied.

Chen Jianguo walked out of the room and closed the door.

The room returned to silence.

Chen Zhuo picked up the milk and took a sip.

The warm liquid flowed into my stomach, dispelling the chill brought by the rainy day.