My IQ has been increasing year by year.

The campus was unusually quiet on a September afternoon.

The sun was still scorching.

The sunlight poured down on the concrete, making the air feel slightly distorted.

The two rows of plane trees that usually seemed rather arrogant now looked rather listless from the sun.

The cicadas are still chirping loudly in the trees; it seems they've lived exceptionally long this year.

One sound after another, varying in length, was enough to irritate and annoy the listener.

The physics teaching and research group's office is located on the shady side of the first floor of the laboratory building, making it a rare summer retreat in the school.

It's lunch break time.

The two tireless old ceiling fans were also turned off, hanging motionless overhead.

The room was very quiet, so quiet that you could hear the clicking of the old-fashioned wall clock in the corner.

Zhou Guoping, also known as Lao Zhou, was nestled in his rattan chair.

He didn't sleep.

He held a palm-leaf fan in his hand, idly waving it.

The edges of the palm-leaf fan were frayed, held together by several red plastic strings, and made a soft whooshing sound as it was shaken.

Before him, on the weathered desk, lay an open copy of the magazine "Radio," next to a large enamel mug filled with tea that had turned a deep brown and was steaming.

Old Zhou squinted, staring blankly into the air, lost in thought.

He is waiting.

Yesterday, I gave that test paper to that kid named Chen Zhuo. Although I told him to take it back and try it out, I wasn't really sure myself.

This test paper was a preliminary selection for the school's training team, specifically organized to prepare for the National Junior High School Applied Physics Knowledge Competition next March.

The questions were pieced together by him and several experienced teachers in his group from past competition questions and mock exams. They were quite difficult and were specifically designed to screen out a group of top students.

A first-year junior high student, even a nine-year-old first-year junior high student who skipped a grade.

If someone has never taken a physics class, even if they are talented, and rely entirely on self-study, how well can they perform on this comprehensive exam?

Was it scribbling? Or just pure luck?

Old Zhou picked up the tea mug, blew away the tea leaves floating on top, and slowly took a sip.

Just then, there was a gentle knock on the slightly warped wooden door of the office.

Old Zhou didn't even lift his eyelids, maintaining his tea-drinking posture, and gave a light, nonchalant reply.

"Come in."

The door was gently pushed open, with only the slight creaking of the hinges.

It was Chen Zhuo who came in.

He was still wearing his own small-sized school uniform, with the sleeves rolled up in two places, and holding a slightly wrinkled test paper in one hand.

A fine layer of sweat clung to his forehead.

It's so hot outside. Walking from the classroom to this place feels like walking through a sauna.

Chen Zhuo entered the house and gently closed the door behind him.

In that instant, the cicadas' chirping outside was largely shut out, and the room regained its tranquil, slightly cool atmosphere.

He didn't say anything or look around; he walked straight to Old Zhou's desk.

Old Zhou put down his teacup and glanced at him.

"Why are you running around instead of taking a nap on such a hot day?"

Old Zhou's voice was hoarse, carrying the drowsiness and languor typical of midday.

Chen Zhuo stood by the table and placed the test paper in his hand on Lao Zhou's table.

"carry out an assignment."

It was folded several times, bulging in the middle and curled at the edges, looking like an unwrapped jianbing guozi (Chinese crepe) or a wad of draft paper ready to be thrown into the trash can.

Chen Zhuo didn't intend to flatten it either.

Just like that, he casually placed this not-so-good-looking exam paper on Old Zhou's desk.

"It's done."

Chen Zhuo said.

Old Zhou's gaze fell on the exam paper.

He didn't move.

Unlike some younger teachers, who would frown and criticize something like "untidy handwriting" or "improper attitude," I didn't do that.

He slowly picked up the palm-leaf fan, waved it a couple of times, and tried to drive away the not-so-hot air around him.

Old Zhou put down his palm-leaf fan and reached out to take the exam paper.

It's a bit heavy when you first get it.

What's tucked inside the exam paper?

Old Zhou pulled the contents out of the test paper.

A sheet of paper covered with writing.

Dense array of derivations, coordinate systems, vectors, functions...

The office was silent.

Even the ticking of the wall clock in the corner seemed to have disappeared.

Old Zhou stared at the map for a full minute.

He didn't jump up in shock.

There was no overwhelming approval.

Even the expression on his face didn't change much.

He simply reached out slowly, took a cigarette from the Hongtashan cigarette box on the table, and put it in his mouth.

But he did not light it.

He held the cigarette in his mouth and, through the thin cigarette paper, bit the filter.

Do you know what this is?

Old Zhou finally spoke, pointing to the blank sheet of paper filled with writing, and then to the slightly crumpled test paper next to it.

Chen Zhuo looked at him calmly: "Solution process."

"fart."

Old Zhou cursed.

His voice wasn't loud, and there was no anger in his tone; instead, it carried an indescribable quality.

"This is called a saturation attack."

Old Zhou took the cigarette down, tapped it on the table to tamp down the tobacco.

"Using a sledgehammer to crack a nut, and an anti-aircraft gun to swat a mosquito."

"You're even bringing out calculus just to fill in a blank?"

Old Zhou shook his head, and a smile slowly appeared on his wrinkled face.

This was the first genuine smile he had shown on his face that afternoon, or even in the entire week.

"When we created this question, our intention was for you to treat the ground as a simple, rough surface, with air resistance being absolutely negligible. What we need is a standard answer under an ideal model."

"You're something else."

Old Zhou pointed to the jagged ground and then to the air resistance formula.

"You've almost included the intermolecular forces on the ground; you're practically going to flip the question setter's table!"

Chen Zhuo pushed up his glasses, his tone remaining calm:

"If you don't take these factors into account, then the answer is just something cobbled together."

"Made from scratch?"

Old Zhou raised an eyebrow. "That's exactly the number they're asking for on the test."

"I know."

Chen Zhuo scratched his hair.

"But if you don't add air resistance to that model, the final speed curve is just a straight line, just a straight line, which looks very awkward."

"Does it look awkward?"

Old Zhou was stunned for a moment.

"Um."

Chen Zhuo answered honestly.

"Since the formula has already been written down to that point, all we need to do is add a resistance coefficient k, integrate it, and the curve will become smooth, and the logic will be closed."

It's just a matter of adding two more lines, so I just wrote it down.

Old Zhou stared at Chen Zhuo for a few seconds.

Just because it looks awkward.

Just because it's convenient.

"Okay, it looks awkward."

Old Zhou was delighted.

He put down his cigarette and picked up the paper again.

This time, his movements were not only slow, but also carried a hint of caution.

His rough, large hands rubbed the edge of the paper, his eyes becoming unusually deep.

The No. 1 High School in the city where he studied had a prestigious reputation; it was considered the king of the city behind closed doors.

If you really compare it to the provincial level, compared to the giants in the provincial capital, it's only at a mid-level.

He's worked in the physics department his whole life, and his hair has turned completely white.

Every year, batches of students are sent to participate in the competition, and the best result is only a second prize in the province.

Save one?

Those were the private plots of those key schools in the provincial capital.

National Scholarship?

That was an even more unthinkable luxury—the moon in the sky.

Old Zhou originally thought that this was all there was to his life.

I'll stay in this dilapidated lab, mentor ordinary students, fix up the junk, and then retire.

This preliminary selection was just a formality for him; he was just trying to pick the best from the worst and put together a team to go to the provincial level to make up the denominator.

But now, he looks at the piece of paper in his hand.

Looking at the integral formula for air resistance, and at the correction term that was hastily written down to "smooth the curve".

Old Zhou's heart suddenly skipped a beat beneath the greasy old jacket.

This doesn't look like a first-year junior high student.

This was clearly a peerless sword that hadn't even been sharpened yet, and it crashed down with a clang at the blacksmith's doorstep.

"Chen Zhuo".

Old Zhou suddenly spoke, his voice deepening and losing its previous languidness.

"Do you know what our school's best competition result was in the past?"

Chen Zhuo shook his head.

"Save two."

Old Zhou held up two fingers and shook them with a self-deprecating smile.

"And that was five years ago. They were lucky that time; they encountered a few tricky questions that the student had just done before."

"In the eyes of those competition organizers in the province, our No. 1 High School is just a country bumpkin. They can eat meat, but we can't even get a hot bowl of soup."

At this point, Old Zhou paused for a moment.

His gaze was fixed on Chen Zhuo, and behind his cloudy old glasses, something seemed to be ignited.

It was a flame that had been suppressed for a long time and was about to be extinguished.

"But this time is different."

Old Zhou tapped the paper heavily with his finger, making a crisp "thud" sound.

"With this piece of paper, and with your brain..."

"This time, we can make a hole in the sky."

Chen Zhuo looked at Lao Zhou.

He could sense that the decadent aura in Lao Zhou was fading, replaced by something called "ambition".

"National Scholarship"

When Lao Zhou uttered those two words, it was as if he were chewing on a hard bone.

"A national first prize. There are only a handful of those in the entire province. It's a golden ticket that can directly open the door to any high school in China."

"I didn't dream before because I knew what those students were capable of. Asking them to compete for the National Scholarship would be like forcing a duck onto a shelf."

Old Zhou picked up his fan again, but this time he didn't wave it. Instead, he pointed at Chen Zhuo, his tone becoming more serious than ever before, even carrying a hint of ruthlessness.

"But you are different."

"Your skill level is already high enough to meet that threshold. In fact..." Old Zhou glanced at the integral formula, "As long as you don't make any mistakes, you're better than them all."

"Therefore, you must make it into this training camp."

"Not only do you have to get in, you also have to practice hard. Don't think that just because you know a little calculus you're invincible. Competitions have their rules and their pitfalls."

I'll feed you all the practice problems I've accumulated over the years.

Old Zhou took a deep breath, as if he had made up his mind.

"For the next six months, you'll stay with me. If you don't understand or don't want to attend other classes, come to the lab, and I'll give you special treatment."

"I only have one request."

Old Zhou stared intently into Chen Zhuo's eyes. "Don't try to fool me with some 'saving two or three' nonsense next March."

"I want the National Scholarship."

"I want to show those arrogant old fogies in the provincial capital that even a golden phoenix can fly out of our lousy place."

Chen Zhuo was taken aback.

He never expected that simply adding a few more formulas would ignite such a strong fighting spirit in the seemingly slovenly old man in front of him.

National Award.

"understood."

Chen Zhuo nodded, his tone still calm, but with a hint of seriousness.

"I will get it back."

"OK."

Old Zhou nodded heavily.

He said nothing more, and slowly and carefully folded the paper.

After folding it, he didn't put it back into the exam paper.

Instead, he casually picked up the "Radio" magazine, flipped to the middle page, and neatly tucked the folded drawing inside.

Then, I closed the magazine.

It was as if that was the most important page illustration in the magazine, and his greatest hope for the rest of his life.

After doing all this, Lao Zhou finally turned his attention back to the abandoned, crumpled junior high school exam paper on the table.

The answer areas for the two major questions were completely blank.

There were only two hastily written final answers.

It stood alone, looking rather shabby.

"Where's the test paper?" Chen Zhuo asked.

"examination paper?"

Old Zhou glanced at the exam paper, then casually waved his palm-leaf fan as if shooing away flies.

"Just leave it there."

Old Zhou leaned back in the rattan chair, in his most comfortable position.

"You've already built an aircraft carrier on paper, and you still want me to check if your little sampan leaks?"

Old Zhou waved his fan, his tone carrying a carefree air like an old rogue, but his eyes were full of undisguised laughter.

"I'll give you a perfect score later. You're guaranteed a spot on the training team, no matter who leaves."

"Alright, if you have nothing else to do, get lost."

Old Zhou waved his hand, signaling them to leave.

"Don't get in my way. Go back to your class, or find somewhere to sleep. You'll be busy starting tomorrow."

Chen Zhuo stood there, not leaving immediately.

He looked at Old Zhou, and then at the book "Radio" which contained his drawings.

He could sense that something had changed.

If before it was just about handing in assignments, now it has become a promise.

"Thank you, teacher."

Chen Zhuo said softly.

Then he turned around and walked towards the door.

The door creaked open and then closed gently.

Chen Zhuo's figure disappeared into the shadows of the corridor outside the door.

The office fell silent again.

Only the chirping of cicadas, the sound of Old Zhou waving his palm-leaf fan, and the occasional puff of a cigarette remained.

A long time passed.

Until the cigarette reached the butt and burned his finger.

Old Zhou then stubbed out his cigarette in the enamel ashtray that was full of cigarette butts.

He sat up straight and reached out to take the copy of the "Radio" magazine.

Turn it over.

I pulled out the paper again.

Unfold.

The afternoon sun shone brightly on the integral formula for air resistance, making every symbol clearly visible.

Old Zhou looked at the formula, stretched out his rough fingers, and gently flicked the paper.

The paper made a crisp sound.

"National Scholarship..."

Old Zhou muttered something, a long-lost light flickering in his eyes.

"That's what you call hope."

He opened the drawer, rummaged through a pile of messy pens for a while, and found a red ballpoint pen.

He was next to that meticulously drawn blueprint, beneath that hastily written formula.

I drew a crooked, big checkmark.

It wasn't drawn on the paper.

It was drawn on this piece of paper.

After finishing the drawing, Old Zhou stared at the hook for a while and nodded in satisfaction.

He folded the paper again, put it back in the book, then placed the book in the deepest part of the drawer and locked it.

Then, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and began to rhythmically fan himself with the palm-leaf fan in his hand again.

Huhu~

Huhu~

The wind was gentle.

On this sweltering afternoon, in this corner of the campus filled with mediocrity and exam-oriented education.

At that moment, Lao Zhou felt that his shabby office was cooler than the principal's office with the air conditioning on.