In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 93, Section 92: A Weighty Recognition
Inside the office, Zhao Guodong turned his gaze away from the closed door.

He picked up the red and blue pencils on the table, and unconsciously and slowly drew a small, yet exceptionally clear and full circle next to the three square and powerful characters on the cover of the manuscript: "Drafter: Yang Guangming".

Then, he opened the drawer on his right, took out a cigarette and a matchbox with a Tiananmen Square pattern, and struck a match with a "snap".

A wisp of bluish-white smoke rose and swirled in front of him, blurring his sharply defined face.

Ability, temperament, steadiness, and reliability... all seem to have come together perfectly in this young man.

The position of full-time secretary has been vacant for a long time; it seems it's time to settle it.

Let's take it a step further, go through the necessary organizational review process, and also get a closer look at whether this little guy can maintain such a brilliant performance and whether his temperament is stable enough.

If there's nothing more outstanding...

Zhao Guodong took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled. The smoke blurred his face, but a satisfied and confident smile clearly appeared on the corner of his mouth.

He tapped the circled name on the manuscript paper three times with the end of his pencil, steady and powerful—this young man in front of him was the most suitable and the person he could trust the most.

Yang Guangming walked out of the heavy door of the deputy factory director's office and gently closed it behind him.

The corridor was quiet, with only the sound of his own footsteps echoing clearly and steadily in the empty space, just like the beating of his heart at that moment.

Yang Guangming leaned against the cold door panel and let out a long, silent sigh, as if releasing the tension and anxiety that had been building up in his chest all night, along with the immense joy that was surging within him.

The afternoon sun slanted in through the tall, stained-glass window at the end of the corridor, casting a bright and warm band of light that stretched to the very end of the corridor. Dust motes danced in the golden beam of light, like countless tiny sprites leaping about.

Yang Guangming subconsciously clenched his fist, feeling the slight sweat on his palm, and even more so, the heavy sense of accomplishment and an unwavering certainty that a new chapter was about to begin.

He knew that the path beneath his feet was now different.

The manuscript was approved by Deputy Factory Director Zhao Guodong. His words, "Well written," and the weighty look of appreciation in his eyes, were like a burning brand, deeply imprinted on Yang Guangming's heart.

Every word he spoke carried weight, striking his tense nerves and instantly melting away all his fatigue, leaving only a warm, almost dizzying sensation coursing through his body.

The corridor was empty and quiet, with only the sound of his own footsteps echoing.

The sound was exceptionally clear, each step imbued with a newfound certainty, as if the ground beneath one's feet was no longer cold terrazzo, but rather solid, ascending steps.

The afternoon breeze squeezed in through the cracks in the window that wasn't completely closed, carrying the unique heat of early summer and the mixed smell of machine oil and cotton wool from the factory. It brushed against his sweaty temples and surprisingly brought him a sense of coolness.

Yang Guangming returned to the two-story building where the secretariat was located, his steps steady and his back straight, as if the night's fierce battle had not bent his spine.

He pushed open the half-closed, peeling wooden door, and the scene inside the large office instantly came into view.

The air felt like solidified grease, so heavy it was almost suffocating.

The afternoon sun slanted across the dusty windowpane, illuminating the fine dust particles suspended in the air, but unable to penetrate the invisible low pressure.

The invisible pressure emanated from Li Weidong, and Zhang Yuqin, influenced by him, lost her mood for laughter. She sat by the window, the half-knitted baby cardigan in her hands frozen in place. Two slender bamboo needles hung motionless in mid-air, a loop of yarn at their tips.

Her mouth was slightly open, and she stared blankly at the doorway, seemingly lost in thought, as if she had been so startled by the sudden appearance of Yang Guangming that she forgot to breathe.

Li Weidong almost buried himself in that old chair, its wood grain worn smooth and shiny.

He had a list of labor protection supplies distributed in front of him, his head bowed low and his neck stiff, as if he wanted to shrink into the pile of forms and disappear completely.

He was enveloped in an intense, oppressive gloom and despondency, like a damp, cold patch of moss that never sees the light of day.

Yang Guangming could even feel that as he approached, the cold aura became more solidified, almost emanating a chill.

Yang Guangming seemed oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere at its center, his gaze calmly sweeping across the office before he walked straight to his seat against the wall.
The seat originally belonged to Zhou Bingsheng, and at this moment the table was still scattered with unorganized documents, old newspapers and several worn-out reference books.

He pulled out the same creaky old wooden chair, sat down, and began to methodically tidy up the scattered documents on Master Zhou's desk, his movements unhurried and with a sense of post-event composure.

Just then, the door hinges emitted a slight groan again.

Han Mingqian's tall figure walked in, his leather shoes striking the terrazzo floor with a steady echo.

His gaze swept across the entire office like a searchlight, passing over Zhang Yuqin, pausing slightly above Li Weidong's head which was almost buried in the desk, and finally settling steadily on Yang Guangming.

Deep within those eyes was a hint of barely perceptible approval and relief.

"Xiao Yang".

Han Mingqian's voice, though not loud, was exceptionally clear and powerful, breaking the silence in the room: "Director Zhao has read the manuscript and is very satisfied!"

He emphasized the words "very satisfied," and the words echoed clearly in the quiet office.

"You've worked hard, staying up all night, yet you still have so much energy. There's nothing particularly urgent today, so tidy up your things and go home to rest early."

"Thank you, Director Han. I'll leave as soon as I'm done packing," Yang Guangming replied in a deep voice, his hands still moving swiftly.

He could clearly feel that the gaze from Li Weidong in the corner had instantly become colder and sharper, like a poisoned ice pick, silently piercing his back.

But he didn't care at all; in fact, a cold calm rose in his heart.

This weighty recognition was earned through his own hard work, by toiling away under the lamplight all night, word by word.

It is clean and transparent, and can withstand scrutiny from any eye!
After packing up, Yang Guangming picked up the faded, worn-out military satchel and walked briskly out of the factory gate.

The warm breeze of early summer swept over him, carrying the fresh scent of sycamore leaves and the faint, fishy smell of the Huangpu River in the distance, brushing against his tired yet slightly flushed cheeks.

(End of this chapter)