Chapter 57: The Two Kinds of Smart

Early morning, the eastern room’s door creaked open from within, and Ah Li, wrapped in a lotus pavilion shawl, stepped outside.

Usually, she was the first to rise in this household—but not today.

Out in the courtyard, Runsheng and Tan Wenbin sat across from each other, heads lowered, sharpening their sickles.

As Ah Li passed by, Runsheng looked up and smiled at her. “Morning.”

She paused, then walked on into the house and went upstairs.

Though she said nothing, that brief stop was the clearest reply.

Pushing open the bedroom door, she entered. The boy was still asleep. She quietly began admiring the paintings he’d hung on the wall.

Three were finished. The first was of Little Oriole.

The woman in the painting wasn’t monstrous or wild; instead, she appeared restrained and poised. Her body swayed forward, and the soft parting of her lips gave her the look of someone about to step out of the painting to sing and dance.

The second depicted a kindly white-haired old woman, sunbathing in a courtyard, with a black cat dozing on her lap.

The third was a middle-aged man. His image had been intentionally blurred, showing only his back. Yet the ancient copper coin hanging at his waist was meticulously detailed, every groove and line clearly rendered.

All three backgrounds were thoughtfully handled.

The first had a dreamlike haze, the second was warm yet tinged with sorrow, and the third was stiflingly oppressive.

Ah Li was still absorbed when Li Zhuiyuan woke.

He walked over to stand beside her, silently joining her in viewing the paintings.

After freshening up, they played chess as usual—now with three boards at once, which greatly sped up Li Zhuiyuan’s rate of losing.

“Breakfast is ready!”

As always, it was Aunt Liu’s voice that marked the official start of the day.

Runsheng and Tan Wenbin returned from the fields. The autumn harvest was in full swing, and Tan Wenbin had woken early to help.

He wasn’t used to hard labor. His hands blistered from the work, but he didn’t mind, casually popping the blisters with a needle.

Even Li Sanjiang told him to stop, but Tan Wenbin just laughed and said:

“It’s fine. Builds strength.”

After morning self-study, Li Zhuiyuan and Tan Wenbin entered the classroom.

There was a flowerpot on Zheng Haiyang’s desk.

His family’s case had been classified as home invasion and murder. Tan Yunlong hadn’t told Li Zhuiyuan whether anyone from higher up had taken over, nor did he follow up with details. But sometimes, no news was news in itself.

It meant the three of them had been quietly removed from the case.

Even though they’d visited the scene and left behind traces that could easily be uncovered during a detailed investigation, forensic work was a specialist’s domain. Whether Yu Shu had returned or someone new took over, these professionals weren’t likely to account for the roles of “ordinary people.”

Recently, Tan Wenbin had been diligently studying. During breaks, unless Li Zhuiyuan needed a bathroom companion, he was buried in his workbooks.

The Zhuiyuan Secret Workbook was now printed and sold by the school, saving Tan Wenbin a lot of effort. His own workbook, however, was a custom edition designed specifically by Li Zhuiyuan to match his progress and needs.

Since entering high school, Li Zhuiyuan hadn’t focused much on textbook learning. If it weren’t for his exceptional memory, his grades might have slipped.

But his ability to teach others had skyrocketed—it was as if he were attending a teacher’s college rather than a high school.

Binbin remained cheerful, full of jokes and chatter, always helping Li Sanjiang liven up mealtimes with his banter.

Yet in his private moments, he was often quiet, constantly immersed in tasks.

At school, he tackled problems; at home, he learned the basics from Runsheng. Periodically, he’d bring tough academic problems and those involving Dead Sinkers to Li Zhuiyuan for help.

Li Zhuiyuan could tell these were the real head-scratchers, filtered and refined through Tan Wenbin’s own repeated efforts.

Slow, steady growth is a form of happiness.

Maturity that arrives overnight, however, is rarely enviable.

In the past, Tan Wenbin spoke of getting into “Haihe University” more as a dream. Now, he was earnestly working toward it. He had become focused.

A retired philosophy professor from the housing compound once told Li Zhuiyuan there are two kinds of smart people: those like Li Zhuiyuan, naturally gifted; and another kind—those who are clear-eyed and self-aware.

The first type breezes through learning with a sharp mind. Others can admire but not replicate it—it’s in the genes.

The second type isn’t inferior. These are people who, at certain turning points in life, realize what must be done next and then plan and execute accordingly.

In a world where most are blindly pushed into the next phase of life, if you can start planning two or three years ahead, your peers are few.

Xue Liangliang was a genius of the second kind. He could see not just two or three years ahead—but even two or three decades.

Even Li Zhuiyuan often found himself treating Liangliang’s words as a forecast of things to come—not some mystical prediction, but genuine insight into key conflicts and underlying trends.

Though they had phones now, calls were inconvenient and rarely useful for real conversations. So they still preferred letters.

In his last letter, Li Zhuiyuan had mentioned the workbook publication and Tan Wenbin’s ideas.

Xue Liangliang replied, calling Tan Wenbin a commercial genius. He was certain this field would explode—it was a vast blue ocean with immense potential. Education held cultural importance in China; families would always invest in it, no matter how tight money was elsewhere.

He even offered to invest if Tan Wenbin chose to pursue it and advised him not to rely on personal branding alone. It would be better to leverage the South Tong Education Exam label and collaborate with prestigious high schools, building a city-wide brand.

When Li Zhuiyuan relayed all this, Tan Wenbin was stunned, then slapped his thigh.

“Damn, that guy’s a genius!”

But when asked if he wanted to take that path, Tan Wenbin shook his head. He didn’t.

He wanted to attend university. He wanted to keep learning.

Now that he was on this ship, he wanted to sail far, to truly see distant vistas—and reach that destination.

He added, quite cheerfully, “My parents work for the government. I don’t need to worry about their retirement.”

Fair enough. Someone who had stared down death yet still embraced life with optimism wasn’t likely to devote themselves purely to chasing money.

At lunch, Li Zhuiyuan didn’t eat with Tan Wenbin. Instead, he boarded a school bus parked on campus, already stocked with snacks and drinks.

Principal Wu led the group, with Teacher Yan as his assistant. The bus set off for Jinling, where they would compete in the provincial math olympiad.

The six other students on board were cheerful, munching and drinking the whole way.

Li Zhuiyuan just nibbled a bit to settle his stomach, then leaned against the window, watching the scenery roll by.

Wu Xinhang noticed and came over, asking if the food didn’t suit his taste.

Li Zhuiyuan shook his head and replied bluntly—it was just that he’d grown up comfortably, so this didn’t seem like a big deal.

The answer gave Principal Wu pause before he smiled. To outsiders it might sound boastful, but those who knew Li Zhuiyuan could hear the sincerity.

A man doesn’t rise to principal without mastering people skills—the difference lies in who’s worth the effort.

So he found himself liking this straightforward boy. Around him, there was no need for pretense or strain.

Wu Xinhang helped Li Zhuiyuan recline the back seat so he could rest.

The school had rented the bus precisely for that reason: to ease the students’ travel fatigue.

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