Chapter Twenty-Two: The Disciple of the Great Master

Now things were getting urgent; he couldn’t just let it go. He was here to safeguard the project, not to arrange some job—plainly put, he was here for funding.

“Director Bai, I came to tell you this project is crucial—it can’t be allowed to stop.”

Director Bai set down his pen, looking at Yang Hui with a hint of surprise. He couldn’t quite grasp what Yang Hui was getting at.

“What are you talking about? Who’s stopping this project? Such an important undertaking—how could I possibly halt it? The core of our institute’s research is engines. If this project were scrapped, what would be left to study?”

Director Bai felt it necessary to explain the institute’s research priorities to this young man, to let him know the project he had joined was truly promising.

“Then why is there no funding for the project? Why is it stuck on paper, unable to progress to prototype creation and testing? Is that what you call prioritizing? No matter how much you claim to value it, nothing can come of it under these circumstances.”

...

After a long pause, Director Bai finally understood the reason behind Yang Hui’s agitation: his concern had made him anxious—he cared too much for the project. Director Bai couldn’t fault him for that.

Did the director not value the project? What a joke! The entire institute was centered on developing advanced engine combustion chambers. How could such a pivotal project be denied funding? The issue was simply that there wasn’t enough money. Even if he wanted to allocate funds, the institute was responsible for more than just this one project.

Director Bai, who rarely smoked, opened his drawer and took out a cigarette, usually reserved for entertaining superiors. He lit it and took a silent drag; it was obvious he was a novice, the smoke stinging him slightly, but nothing compared to the discomfort in his heart.

He exhaled deeply. “I’m decades older than you, so I’ll just call you Xiao Hui. You’ve seen it for yourself today. Chief Engineer Yu didn’t follow your proposed improvements, but it’s clear your plan was constructive. In the end, it couldn’t be implemented—and frankly, it was all because of funding.”

Yang Hui knew the institute lacked money, but he was determined. Even if they had to squeeze every last drop, a project with a solid theoretical foundation deserved to be continued. To abandon it halfway would be a lifelong regret.

He suggested, “But this project is truly just one step away. If things are tight, maybe funds can be shifted from other projects that haven’t made much progress yet?”

Director Bai smiled, not quite sure how to explain further. He continued, “It’s no secret—the institute’s total annual budget is just one million. That covers all research expenses—and, by the way, includes everyone’s salaries.”

A national key military research facility with only this much funding wasn’t unusual for the era. Military development had to give way to economic growth, a helpless but necessary decision.

He hadn’t expected things to be so dire. In his previous life at the flight test center, the sense of hardship was less acute. Flight testing was vital; as long as there were aircraft projects, the test center had a reason to exist, and funding would follow. Life wouldn’t be too difficult.

Now he was experiencing first-hand the true hardships of frontline research. The saying that making missiles was less profitable than selling tea eggs had its roots in reality.

Yang Hui knew now he wouldn’t get any funding; his spirits sank. He had no idea how to realize his ideals—patching holes, making up for regrets required money. If the funds were there, perhaps decades later there’d be fewer regrets. For the first time in a month, Yang Hui felt lost.

“Is the institute really in such a tough spot? What can I do now?” His voice was barely audible. He knew the answer, but couldn’t give up without asking.

When Director Bai finished his cigarette, he stood to leave. With a final word as he was heading out, he said, “There’s not enough money now. Your project is important, but so are others. In time, you’ll understand.”

He tidied his desk and walked over to Yang Hui. “Come on, young man. Whatever happens, you still need to eat, and everything moves forward. With such a large country, there will always be a place for us to shine.”

Yang Hui silently followed him to the cafeteria, hoping there’d still be some food left.

...

“Now, you can go report to the combustion chamber project design group. Don’t waste the afternoon,” Director Bai instructed after lunch.

Watching the director leave, Yang Hui was at a loss for what to say. Step by step, he walked toward the project group’s office to report in.

Before a door with paint peeling badly, the sign read “Combustion Chamber Project Group.” This must be the place. He knocked, and the door swung open—it had only been left ajar.

Inside was Wu Dabao’s desk, and Wu himself was sprawled over it, seemingly engrossed in hand-drawing schematics—a daunting task.

“Brother Dabao, Director Bai sent me to report to you. He said I’ll be working with you,” Yang Hui stated simply, getting straight to the point—just as any researcher should.

Half a minute passed before the man on the blueprints finally paused, putting down his tools. His hand, smudged with pencil dust, reached out.

“That’s good. We’ll share this office from now on.”

Seeing Dabao reach out, Yang Hui immediately extended his hand, not minding the pencil dust—draftsmen never did.

He glanced around the office; there were plenty of empty desks, but the situation was clearly less than ideal.

Dabao followed Yang Hui’s gaze, surveying the room. “No need to look. The only thing we have enough of in this project group is office space. Before you came, it was just me and Wu Hongjun. The others either retired or left.”

He pointed to a large desk. “How about that one? It’s as big as mine. From now on, you can do whatever you want there—unless the institute allocates funds and asks us to take on some redesign, the rest of the time is yours.”

He stepped out onto the balcony, found a rag, and handed it to Yang Hui. “You’ll need this. Clean up your area first. When Hongjun arrives, I’ll introduce you. He’s not a college graduate, but he learned from a master in the ‘ox shed’ some years ago. Apparently, he’s passionate about this field, which is why he ended up in the institute.”

Yang Hui hadn’t expected such a character. Most of the group had left, but thankfully, some genuine enthusiasts remained. True grit always survives the roughest waves.

He took the rag, filled a basin with water, and began cleaning the desk. It was still solid—perhaps the previous occupant cherished it.

“Dabao has long guessed you’re the one cleaning. The moment I walked in, I felt the air was full of lively water molecules. I told you, with just the two of us cleaning such a big office, it’s exhausting!”

The voice arrived before the man himself. Judging by it, he wasn’t a particularly industrious type, but he seemed cheerful enough. Finished with his own desk, Yang Hui carried out the dirty water, unwilling to clean any more—he didn’t have the energy.

Wu Hongjun noticed the unfamiliar face. “Hey, is this young comrade new?”

“All right, Hongjun, let me introduce you. This is the new university graduate—a real talent. He’s assigned to our group, and now our numbers are on the rise again. A bright future is ahead!”

Dabao was suddenly optimistic again—who knew what prompted this mood? Just hours ago, he had been complaining about the project’s hardships, and now he was dreaming of a rosy future.

Back in the office, Yang Hui extended his freshly washed hand. “Hello, I’m Yang Hui. I look forward to your guidance.”

It was a perfectly polite, fifteen-character greeting—enough to leave a good impression.

“Oh, hello, Yang Hui. I’m Wu Hongjun. As for guidance, I doubt I can offer much. On academic matters, I’ll probably be asking you for advice—I’m not a college graduate, just a country lad.”

He lowered himself with self-deprecating humility—so modest that it left others unsure how to respond. Clearly, anyone who survived contact with the masters of the ‘ox shed’ era had to possess some skill in getting along with people.