Academician Wang Liangeng was a titan in China's academic elite, his authority in cultural and scientific circles unmatched. But even he wasn't immune to worldly pressures. When a close friend called, asking him to mentor a Lei family grandson, Wang couldn't outright refuse—not with the Leis' clout. Digging deeper, though, he was dismayed to learn the candidate was Lei Zhengyang, Beijing's infamous wastrel, notorious for debauchery and recklessness. Taking such a student risked tarnishing his pristine reputation.
Wang didn't care about gossip, but he doubted Zhengyang's sincerity. Likely, the kid wanted to piggyback on his fame to boost his status—a common ploy. Genuine scholars were welcome, but Zhengyang? Hardly. So, that morning, Wang summoned his disciples, ostensibly for a lesson, but really to use their presence to politely deflect this apprenticeship request. His students, hailing from Beijing's elite families, might not match the Leis' power but had enough sway to make Zhengyang back off.
Wang expected a smooth rejection. Instead, reality defied him. Reports painted Zhengyang as an ignorant, arrogant playboy, wasting his days chasing women, his body withered by vice. Yet, meeting him, Wang was stunned. His "striking young man" remark wasn't flattery—it was genuine. Zhengyang stood tall, poised, not a hint of the gaunt lecher Wang imagined.
Then came the clash with Ye Qingcheng. Tsinghua's brightest star and a Leaf family gem, she was one of Beijing's four legendary beauties, her charm irresistible to most men. Zhengyang's response? Not only did he skip the expected fawning, he didn't even grant her basic courtesy. His scathing "playing the saint while acting the sinner" line left Wang reeling. Such resolve—how could this be a wastrel?
Curiosity piqued, Wang abandoned his initial plan to dismiss him. Zhengyang stood, neither servile nor overbearing, sparking Wang's interest in a real conversation. As Wang settled, Zhengyang grinned. "Academician Wang, I know your standards are high. Test me however you like. Even if I don't win your favor, your guidance would be a life's treasure."
Wang smiled. "You're quite the talker, Zhengyang. I hear you dropped out after high school. Have you studied on your own since?"
First impressions shaped Wang's tone—he hoped for a promising answer. But Ye Qingcheng cut in, voice dripping with scorn. "Mentor, I can answer that. He's the famed Lei Third Young Master, too busy for self-study. Even if he finished high school, he's probably forgotten it all by now."
Her usual composure frayed, stung by Zhengyang's crude retort. Frost coated her face—she aimed to crush him. In her mind, this incompetent fool dared dream of studying under Wang? Laughable. High school, college, whatever—he'd have coasted through, clueless about even basic trigonometry, let alone advanced science. Discussing such topics with him was like playing piano for a cow.
Zhengyang ignored her, addressing Wang. "Academician, I quit school not because I hate learning, but because textbooks no longer challenged me. I've been self-studying to save time. I know you're researching a defense technology—I'd love to discuss it with you."
Xu Miaoli blushed, mortified. Self-study? Her son? His old room hadn't a single book, just stacks of illicit magazines she'd found cleaning. He'd spent his days in pleasure dens, not libraries. But Wang, intrigued, leaned in. "Oh? You've looked into dense atom theory? Share your thoughts. Research thrives on debate and collaboration—don't fear mistakes."
Dense atoms were Wang's focus for four years, with little progress. At Tsinghua, it wasn't secret—anyone could explore it pre-breakthrough. Qingcheng knew of it but, new to Wang's tutelage, had only scratched its surface, awed by its complexity. Zhengyang's casual mention floored her.
"I've always been curious about it," Zhengyang said. "What you call dense atoms, I term X atoms—or antimatter. It's a phenomenon of containment and being contained. Researchers fail to find true antimatter because physical matter doesn't exist in isolation."
Qingcheng scoffed. "Doesn't exist? Dr. Erland from the U.S. proved antimatter's real. You're just pretending to know!"
Wang silenced her. "Qingcheng, that attitude won't do. Science demands skepticism. Even Einstein's theories aren't absolute—we challenge them to find truer answers. Our understanding evolves, like society, step by step. Full mastery of nature's essence is impossible. Zhengyang, continue."
Xu Miaoli frowned. Qingcheng was usually sweet—why so harsh today? No one grasped her mindset: to her, Zhengyang was a fixed failure. If he were chasing women, she'd shrug it off as normal. But vying to study under Wang, spouting terms like "dense atoms" and "antimatter"? Unacceptable. If a "wastrel" grasped concepts beyond her genius, what did that make her? Inferior? So, she targeted him relentlessly.
"Antimatter lacks physical form but exists, like pi," Zhengyang continued. "We call it an infinite non-repeating decimal based on current limits. A century from now, advanced tech might prove it cycles. I once ran an experiment yielding pseudo-antimatter. It proves antimatter's existence. This pseudo-antimatter is bizarre—light as cotton, yet denser than steel by a hundredfold, with a destruction resistance of a thousand tons per square meter. Worth studying."
The room gaped, even Xu Miaoli, who knew her son's bluffing ways. Experiments? As if! But Wang, electrified, pressed, "Zhengyang, you produced pseudo-antimatter? What's its composition? Fusion stability? A thousand tons per square meter—reliable data?" Others might scoff, but Wang knew the stakes. Real antimatter was elusive, but pseudo-antimatter could be a revolutionary material, world-shaking if true.
Qingcheng watched Zhengyang speak fluently, Wang's excitement palpable, and felt the world tilt. The sky seemed to darken, reality warping. Was this really Lei Zhengyang, Beijing's laughingstock?
Zhengyang shook his head. "It was a one-off, with incomplete equipment and data. Not fully verified. How about this? I'll write the antimatter equations, and you can see if we can replicate it."
Wang, barely containing himself, urged, "Yes, write them! I'll analyze immediately." True or not, the possibility was irresistible to a scientist.
Zhengyang took paper and pen, jotting six equations involving thirty-six elements and over a hundred substances. Whether correct or not, his fluid notation of such complex symbols stunned everyone. This was a high school dropout?