Chapter 89: Morning Inspection and Blind Spots

Five in the morning. Dawn had not yet broken. The window glass at the end of the corridor held a gray-blue sheen. Lin Chen opened his eyes. He did not turn on the light. His movements followed a fixed sequence. He threw back the thin quilt. Sat up. Pulled on his socks. Slipped into his shoes. Left foot first, avoiding the pressure point on the dressing. He tightened the laces evenly. He walked to the sink. Turned on the tap. Cold water struck his face. He dried it with a towel. The evaporating moisture carried away the surface warmth. Awake. He checked his backpack. Admission slip. ID card. Two sharpened 2B pencils. Eraser. Ruler. Iodine swabs. Spare gauze. Seven yuan and thirty mao, split up in the hidden inner pocket. He zipped it shut. Soundlessly.

He pushed open the door and went downstairs. Three concrete steps. Right foot bearing weight. Left foot touching down lightly. He kept his stride to thirty centimeters, avoiding the low spots where last night’s rain had collected. The main road through campus was empty. The streetlamps glowed dim yellow. Water dripped from the plane trees and hit the asphalt. Pat. Pat. A steady rhythm. He adjusted his breathing to match his steps. Two steps to inhale. Two steps to exhale. His heart rate stayed at around sixty-five beats per minute. The professional theory supplement for the electronic information track at Provincial Institute of Technology had been moved temporarily to the old campus engineering buildings. One point four kilometers from the guesthouse. Eighteen minutes on foot. He had already calculated it. He would arrive two hours early, leaving forty-five minutes to confirm the classroom, the notice board, and the equipment list for tomorrow's practical exam. More than enough margin.

At 6:05, the outline of the engineering building emerged through the morning mist. The temporary theory waiting room was at the end of the east-side corridor on the second floor; Laboratory Five was next door. A seal had been pasted across the laboratory's iron door, and the silhouettes of instruments showed through the crack. The fluorescent light in the security room was on. The old watchman on duty was dozing in a military coat. Lin Chen did not knock. He went around to the side window. The glass was fogged with moisture. He wiped clear a small patch with the back of his hand and looked inside. Long lab tables. Twelve workstations. Arranged along the wall. Fluorescent tubes hung overhead. Some of the filaments were blackened. A power distribution box stood in the corner. The red indicator light was steadily on. Power supply normal. He withdrew his hand, turned, and went to the main door. He pushed it open. The hinges gave a dry rasp. The old man woke with a start and looked up. “Candidate?” “I came early to check the route and the theory waiting room.” Lin Chen handed over his admission slip. The old man squinted while checking it, stamped it, and let him through. “Don't touch the lab. Theory only today. The equipment list goes up this afternoon.” “Understood.”

The waiting room was cold inside. The air smelled of chalk dust and old dust. He walked to a seat by the window in the third row. Seat numbers had not been drawn yet, but the theory room was simple: blackboard, lectern, three columns of desks, and a row of wall outlets sealed with strips of paper, off-limits to candidates. He sat down. The desktop was scored with scratches. Across the corridor outside the window was the side window of Laboratory Five; the equipment inside had not been powered on. He did not go near it. He only drew a route map on a blank page of his mistake notebook: guesthouse, engineering building entrance, waiting room, notice board, Laboratory Five. Beside it he wrote the most conservative warm-up time, fifteen minutes, to be confirmed by the afternoon notice. He ran through the manual calibration steps in his head. The resistance of the attenuator knob. Zeroing the reference level. Setting the center frequency. All of it mapped onto muscle memory, but for now he would not touch any real equipment.

The edge of the dressing on his left foot was starting to feel damp. Tissue fluid was seeping out. The gauze was sticking to the skin. He could not stand for long. He sat down. Untied his laces. Lifted his trouser leg. The dressing was intact. It had not shifted. He tied the shoe again, half a turn looser than in the morning, reducing the pressure. Then he stood and walked a straight line down the aisle. Thirty-centimeter stride. Heel first, then rolling to the forefoot. Center of gravity steady. No limp. No compensatory tilt. Gait verification passed. He returned to his seat and pulled half a steamed bun from his inner pocket. Ate it with cold water from the thermos. Chewed. Swallowed. His stomach felt full. Energy replenished. Seven yuan and thirty mao. Enough for two bottles of mineral water. Or the cheapest boxed meal. But he would not eat during the practical exam. Water intake kept under two hundred milliliters to avoid frequent bathroom trips. The logic closed cleanly.

There were still two hours and twenty minutes before the exam. There were no new theory questions left to do. He opened the science paper and reviewed only the questions he had gotten wrong. Electromagnetism. Thermodynamics. Optics. Formula derivations. Unit conversions. Trap options. The keywords marked in red stood out clearly in the morning light. He closed his eyes and recited silently. Maxwell’s equations. Kirchhoff’s laws. Fundamentals of Fourier transform. Not memorization. Retrieval. His brain was like a terminal running in low-power mode, calling only the necessary modules, spending no redundant computing power. Outside the window, the mist thinned. Sunlight slanted through the glass. Dust floated in the beam. Slow. Disorderly. Yet its trajectory could be measured. He opened his eyes, closed the paper, and laid the admission slip flat on the desk. On the back were the words Plan C. He picked up his pen and added a line beneath them: If the theory score clears the line, confirm the practical equipment list this afternoon; if the power supply is unstable, delay the reading and switch to manual compensation; if the equipment fails, request a backup unit; if time is insufficient, secure the basic points and abandon the hardest items. The pen tip paused. The ink dried. The logic closed cleanly.

Footsteps began to sound in the corridor. Candidates arrived one after another. Low voices. The rustle of pages turning. Plastic bags brushing together. The air gradually warmed. Lin Chen did not look back. He adjusted his sitting posture. Spine straight. Shoulders relaxed. Both hands flat on the desk. Fingertips slightly curved. No clenched fists. No interlaced fingers. His breathing rate dropped to twelve per minute. His heartbeat stayed steady. The dull pain in his left foot was still there, but it had already been classified as an environmental parameter. It would not affect operational precision. He looked at the wall clock. 6:45. The proctor pushed the door open. Dark jacket. A sealed bag in hand. Counting heads. Checking documents. Handing out scratch paper. Standardized procedure. No surprises. Lin Chen took the scratch paper, folded it in half, then in half again, edges aligned, and placed it in the upper left corner. Pencil sharpened, tip up. Eraser set to the right. Every item returned to its place, forming a fixed array.

The proctor rapped the blackboard. “Theory exam. Starts at nine. The papers will be distributed now. No writing before the start. No whispering. Violators will be disqualified.” His voice was flat, without rise or fall. Lin Chen lowered his head and looked at the desk. Wood grain. Scratches. Admission slip. Pen. Paper. Everything ready. He closed his eyes and ran through the checklist one last time. Question types. Formulas. Units. Gait. Funds. Afternoon notice board. All confirmed. Nothing missed. No luck involved. Only execution.

Outside the window, the provincial capital’s morning rush was beginning. Car engines. Bicycle bells. The music for morning exercises faint in the distance. The world was moving according to its own rules. He sat in the theory room like a rivet set into a gear. Silent. Unshifting. Waiting only for the instant of engagement.

At exactly nine, the bell rang. Shrill. Crisp. The sealed bag was torn open. Paper rustled. Passed out. Lin Chen opened his eyes. Took the exam paper. Turned to the first page. Multiple-choice questions. Single-answer. Multiple-answer. Fill-in-the-blank. The print was clear. The ink smell faint. He picked up his 2B pencil. The tip hovered. No hesitation. It came down. Filled in the mark. First question. Done. Second question. Read the stem. Eliminate. Confirm. Fill it in. The rhythm stayed steady. No speeding up. No hesitation. Time began to flow, measured in seconds, marked in minutes. He entered the state he had entered for more than a thousand days and nights before. Calculate. Derive. Verify. Output. The dust had settled. The stars had not yet appeared. But the orbit was already fixed.