After completing the procedures in Jiangcheng, Zhou You returned. As Shi Zhongshan had suggested, Zhou You could come to class whenever he had time, and if he didn’t, that was fine too—he’d just make up the lessons later on a unified schedule. In a way, he was enjoying super VIP treatment. Otherwise, even with his advisor’s backing, he’d still have to attend classes regularly.
It was the annual enrollment season. Cars streamed endlessly at the school gate. The wealthy drove their kids themselves. Those with fewer means took the train and then the school bus together. At times like this, you could see the different lifestyles of China’s various social classes and industries. Rich families were a bustling affair—the whole clan turned out: parents, grandparents, and even great-grandparents, making it a family trip. Most families had one parent accompanying the child. A few came alone.
On rainy days, some people sat in cars, others held umbrellas. Some had no choice but to get drenched. In poverty, one tends to oneself; in success, one helps the world. His liquid funds were a bit tight lately, but once his finances recovered next year, he planned to discuss with his advisor about setting up a scholarship specifically for library science students—a small gesture of goodwill.
In the blink of an eye, Zhou You’s first batch of students had reached their junior year. Huang Jiankai and the others had matured, occasionally treating Zhou You to meals, and they had a good relationship. Through his careful efforts, Zhou You had built a solid reputation among the students. Last year, he’d even let slip that he was the investor behind *Tongue on the Tip of the Tongue*, giving him a bit of a halo.
Freshmen were greeted by sophomore seniors. The sophomores would briefly explain the school’s basics and the strictness of the专业课 teachers. As for professional standards? Sorry, this major couldn’t be quantified.
...
Every first class, Zhou You would lay down the law to establish his authority. After all, kids fresh out of high school were still easy to fool. Human nature was fascinating. If you came across as a nice guy from the start, many students wouldn’t take you seriously and might even think you were a pushover. But if you started strict and gradually loosened up, you’d earn a lot of goodwill. Without contrast, there’s no harm. Fear authority rather than virtue—it was quite interesting.
“Who’s the class monitor? Please step up and take attendance.” Zhou You was getting lazier by the day, having learned to let students manage students while he sat back and watched. With so many class officers, he’d rotate who took attendance each time, or randomly pick someone. He’d turned it into a game. When special situations arose, he’d step in to play the good guy. See? That’s how you build a persona. Fun, engaging, and the students loved it.
As usual, Zhou You shared some knowledge about library science, winning over a wave of goodwill. He didn’t teach to just read from a textbook—what fun would that be? He wasn’t short on money now; his main drive was the joy of teaching. He loved imparting knowledge and resolving doubts. To put it bluntly, if anyone remembered the things Zhou You said—especially the bits he casually let slip—they’d never worry about making a living. Occasionally, he’d share book insights or recommend documentaries. When he spotted promising students, he couldn’t help but chat a bit more.
Back when Zhou You was a freshman, he loved literature and spent his free time auditing every literature teacher’s class at the university. Unfortunately, most teachers just read from textbooks, making classes dreadfully dull. After half a semester, Zhou You started to let loose. The university had disappointed him—he couldn’t tell if the teachers were genuinely skilled or just lazy. Luckily, he later took a liking to the library and corrected himself; otherwise, he might have struggled to graduate. Now that it was his turn to be a teacher, unburdened by financial worries, he was determined to teach fun, engaging things that students enjoyed—living up to himself and his students.
After class, Zhou You still felt a bit unsatisfied. It wasn’t just about exercising the body; the mind needed exercise too. If he didn’t shoot the breeze in class, his thinking wouldn’t stay sharp. Besides, was he really just bragging? No, it was all facts! That was until his advisor called him over.
“Teacher, what’s up?” Zhou You arrived at the office. “Nothing much, just checking in on you. Old Shi keeps calling me, singing your praises.” Professor Wang chuckled, a hint of pride in his voice. Old Shi had always looked down on him a bit, thanks to his school’s prestige. But times had changed—now the tables had turned, and it was all thanks to his student. He’d have to show more care.
“Ah, it’s just luck. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be much help. By the way, teacher, I’m planning to donate some financial aid to our major next year. What’s the process?” Zhou You seized the chance to ask. Professor Wang was taken aback. He honestly didn’t know the process—no student from their major had ever donated before, since it wasn’t a hot field. The only exception was way back when, Li Yanhong of Baidu had studied library and information science at Peking University, but he later switched to information management and computer science.
“I’ll ask the school about the process when I have time. How much are you planning to donate?” “What do you think is appropriate? I’m not sure myself. Is five million enough?” Zhou You genuinely didn’t know. He’d seen others donate tens of millions to the school, but he wanted to focus on the library science major.
“That’s too much. How many students are in our major?” Professor Wang was startled. This student was becoming harder to read. The school already had scholarships and grants, but only a few students per class received them, around 3,000 yuan a year. “If you donate five million, it’ll last for years. Don’t rush it. Try one million first.” Professor Wang advised.
Zhou You thought it over. That made sense. He didn’t want to give to those who weren’t in need. His plan was to cover everything for impoverished students—tuition and living expenses—but implementing it would be tricky. He’d have to take it step by step, careful not to turn a good deed into a mess. Based on his own college costs, tuition was 5,000 yuan a year, plus living expenses and dorm fees, totaling about 10,000 yuan annually. For four years, that was 40,000 per student. There weren’t that many poor students in the class, so one million was indeed enough.
As education became more stratified over time, fewer students from humble backgrounds made it to college. It wasn’t just Lüzou University—even top-tier schools rarely saw kids from poor families. When a rural student got in, it made the national news! What was news? Only the rare and unusual. When had you ever seen a report on how many students from Beijing got into college each year? Later, among those who got into key universities, less than 20% were from rural backgrounds. It was hard for the underprivileged to produce outstanding children. Though the term “underprivileged” might not fit perfectly here, it was a common way to put it. Most rural kids dropped out early or were funneled into vocational schools after middle school.
The thought stung. But Zhou You just let it pass. He’d only had a few good days himself, and here he was, feeling pity for the world. He couldn’t help but slap himself a few times. Don’t get carried away—take care of yourself first. Was this something he could meddle in?