Chapter Eleven: Deciding the Destination

The southwestern region’s aviation industry has its own origins—on the surface, it’s attributed to the Great Third Front construction. In truth, most people understand. Anyone assigned to the Southwest, this ancient place of exile, is, frankly, either stubborn or, less kindly, a troublemaker. Talented but lacking political consciousness? Then you’re sent to build the Third Front in the Southwest. No matter how gifted you are, that’s how it goes.

Take the famed Project Number Ten. Back then, every institute was called to present their proposals in the capital for review—everyone was notified, except for Research Institute 0611 in the Southwest. Everyone knew why. If not for the institute’s relentless efforts to explain their project in detail, and the truly excellent design, China’s Air Force might have remained a mystery for decades.

“Yes, I’m sure I want to go there. It’s tougher, but you can learn a lot. If it doesn’t work out, I can always transfer back.” Seeing Director Yang’s strong opposition, Yang Hui intentionally left himself an escape route as he spoke. In truth, he had little chance of heading north; a reborn person doing so poorly might as well bang his head against the wall. But to secure the transfer, he could only speak ambiguously.

“You really need to think this through. The conditions there are harsh, the funding can’t compare to the North, and there are fewer good projects. Honestly, there’s no future in it. As a young person, it’ll be hard to achieve anything!” Director Yang pressed on, unwilling to let go.

Back then, it was hard for any young Chinese to get ahead—everyone had to endure. In reality, the Southwest was somewhat easier. The hardship exposed one's abilities, making it easier to carve out a career.

“Uncle Yang, you watched me grow up. You know my character. Let me go. If it doesn’t work out, you can transfer me back. Five years—just five years. If I accomplish nothing, you can bring me back. I’ll listen to you.”

Yang Hui steeled himself and set a deadline. Otherwise, who knew how this would develop? If he wasn’t careful, he’d be stuck in the North forever.

Looking at Yang Hui’s earnest expression, Director Yang seemed to see his own younger self—a spirited, determined youth. He ought to give the young man a chance; it would be good for him.

“Very well. Since you insist, I won’t say more. But remember, five years—just five years. If you achieve nothing, you must come back. I won’t be in my position much longer; once I’m gone, you might not even be able to return.”

Director Yang truly had high hopes for Yang Hui, already planning his safety net. But for someone reborn, is there really any retreat?

“Rest assured. I’ll achieve something. If I fail within five years, I’ll come back as you say.” Yang Hui was also putting pressure on himself—without it, there’s no motivation.

“Alright, leave your documents here. Tomorrow, when everything’s arranged, I’ll have Xiao Yue bring them to you.”

Sure enough, with the main matter settled, attention turned to Yang Hui and Yang Yue. Even such irrelevant matters were handled so smoothly, transitioning seamlessly—it took skill.

“Hey, Xiao Yue, are you finished? Should I have Xiao Hui help you?”

Yang Hui broke out in a sweat hearing this. The grandfather was certainly open-minded, pushing his granddaughter toward another right in their home.

“No need. I’m done,” Yang Yue replied, stepping out and removing her apron—this time, without a knife.

Now Yang Hui could take a good look. After four years apart, a northern woman exposed to the South’s culture changed even more.

The longer he looked, the more attractive she seemed. Not that Yang Yue was merely passable—her appearance was that of a classic northern beauty: tall, poised, and well-built. Yet, on closer inspection, she had gained the inner and outer grace typical of southern women; the wildness she once displayed had faded, perhaps returning to authenticity.

In any case, she was both beautiful and appealing. Taken outside, she would exhibit the combined virtues of northern, southern, and even foreign women.

Being stared at like this by Yang Hui in her grandfather’s presence, Yang Yue felt embarrassed. Her cheeks reddened as she turned and retreated to the kitchen.

Yang Hui watched Yang Yue disappear into the kitchen, slowly coming to himself. He awkwardly scratched his head and glanced at Director Yang.

Director Yang seemed oblivious, absorbed in his writing and drawing. But was he really unaware? After all, it was he who called Yang Yue out. Heh…

Apparently, Uncle Yang hadn’t noticed—thank goodness. That was embarrassing, Yang Hui thought in relief.

“Alright, clear the table and bring out the dishes,” Yang Yue said as she carried out the food. Her face showed no sign of embarrassment—well, almost none.

Yang Hui immediately stood to tidy the table, masking his own discomfort with action.

“Is there more? Let me help you carry it.”

“No need, you sit. You’re a guest.”

“Let’s do it together. We’ve known each other for years.”

Yang Hui hurried after her into the kitchen. Both reached for the chopsticks at the same time, and as their hands touched, Yang Yue quickly withdrew hers, the flush returning to her cheeks.

“This kitchen’s small; it’s hard for two people to stand here. You should go out,” Yang Yue whispered.

Yang Hui realized the problem. “Uh, alright, I’ll go out then.”

He lifted the curtain. “Ah! Uncle Yang, you’re here! ...Um...” Behind the curtain stood Director Yang.

“Well, I came to see if you needed any help.”

Still the seasoned veteran—thick-skinned and quick-witted. Director Yang’s excuse was perfect, albeit clichéd.

The two in the kitchen wished they could disappear into the cracks; even Yang Hui’s face was burning, and Yang Yue’s cheeks were red as blood.

“Come now, Xiao Yue, bring out the dishes. Xiao Hui, come out—the kitchen’s cramped.” Director Yang swiftly dispelled the awkwardness.

Soon the dishes were served, and Yang Yue sat down, cheeks still flushed.

“By the way, I saw Xiao Hui bring a bottle of wine. I didn’t expect this—Old Li finally brought out his last bottle after all these years. Haha, quick, Xiao Hui, bring it over.” Director Yang suddenly remembered, his excitement difficult to describe.

“Oh, right, I’ll get it.” Yang Hui quickly fetched the wine from beside the cabinet.

“I’ll pour, careful now. One glass each. Xiao Yue, you can have some too—this vintage isn’t spicy, you can drink a little,” he said, turning to Yang Yue.

“Too bad Old Li isn’t here. Pity, really—he’ll feel it when he sees the bottle gone! Haha, next time we’ll invite him to drink together.” Director Yang couldn’t forget the old man.

“Come on, Xiao Hui, Xiao Yue’s cooking is excellent—try it. I wonder who’ll be lucky enough to enjoy this in the future.” He looked meaningfully at Yang Hui.

The meal felt strange, despite Director Yang’s best efforts to liven it up; the young people’s thin skins made it awkward.

There was no adequate way to describe the meal—they dawdled until it was finally over.

“Uncle Yang, it’s getting late. I’ll head back now,” Yang Hui said, taking his leave.

“Alright then. Xiao Yue, stop washing the dishes for now—I’ll do them later. Go see Xiao Hui off.” The scene was familiar.

“Okay,” Yang Yue agreed, joining Yang Hui as they walked out together.

Watching the pair leave, Director Yang thought, Don’t waste my efforts, you two. Such little ones... He shook his head and headed for the kitchen.

The two walked wordlessly down the corridor. “Yang Hui, thank you. I really learned a lot in Nanjing,” Yang Yue broke the silence.

“Don’t mention it. I deceived you—I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.” Yang Hui turned to her with a sincere apology—not exactly skilled in romance, despite his years.

“It’s not your fault. I was a bit willful before, but I still have to thank you. I learned to be more gentle in Nanjing.”

They kept circling around the topic. If Director Yang saw, he would be furious. He had gone to such lengths to create this opportunity...

“Have you decided where to work? I heard you’re unhappy with the arrangements.”

“Yes, I don’t want to stay up north. I’ve spoken with Uncle Yang—I'm going to the Second Design Institute at the 0011 Base in the Southwest.”

“Oh...” The mood seemed to sink again.