No. 66 The Game of Power
“Come on, Yi Yao, cheer up!”
As I lowered my phone, I met Xiaodie’s encouraging gaze. She had seen the message.
“My dad doesn’t understand. A successful surgery is only half the battle.” I tucked my completed assignments into my bag, my voice flat. “Things aren’t always black and white. The higher the hopes, the greater the disappointment.”
It was the complexity of the world that had drawn me to computers in the first place.
Machines didn’t play mind games. Computers only understood 0 and 1, on and off. Right was right, wrong was wrong. A program either executed successfully, producing a result, or it failed, generating an error. Simple, straightforward, unambiguous.
If only the real world were that simple.
“But…” Xiaodie frowned. “I don’t get it. Didn’t you say the surgery was successful? Is there another surgery scheduled?”
I turned to her, the setting sun painting her face a soft crimson as she sat by the window.
“With major surgeries, especially transplants, the biggest challenge isn’t the success rate, but the infection rate.”
Unless cloning technology became widespread, transplant surgeries would always carry the risk of rejection. The human body’s immune system attacked foreign objects, including transplanted organs. To ensure the organ’s survival, doctors had to suppress the immune system, often using powerful drugs with debilitating side effects.
This left the patient vulnerable to infections, which could be fatal.
It was a catch-22. Strengthen the immune system, and the transplanted organ would be rejected. Suppress it, and the infection would spread. Either way, the outcome was grim.
“But at least she survived the surgery. That’s something to be happy about, right?”
The 20% success rate was just a statistic. A patient’s mental state played a crucial role in their recovery.
And for this surgery, we had exhausted all our resources.
“You’re right! Let’s visit your mom at the hospital tonight!” Xiaodie chirped, linking her arm with mine. “I bet she’ll be happy to see you when she wakes up.”
Her innocent optimism made it difficult to break the bad news.
No patient who had undergone such a major surgery would wake up within a few hours. My mother would remain in the sterile isolation ward for at least a day or two. Visitors wouldn’t be allowed.
Even without a medical background, I knew that her chances of developing an infection were practically 100%. The best the doctors could do was prepare her mentally for the challenges ahead.
“You’ve been through a lot lately. Get some rest,” I said, forcing a smile and patting her head.
The April monthly exam results were out. Xiaodie had placed second in our class and forty-third overall.
It was an impressive feat, considering she had been a notorious truant just a few months ago.
“Hey, Yi Yao, what do you think about the issue everyone’s talking about?”
Tan Lijiang and Liang Tong approached our desk as I packed my bag, settling down beside me as if we were old friends.
“We’re neutral,” I replied.
They were referring to the school’s new policy regarding supplementary classes.
Upper Capital City No. 3 Middle School had announced that, starting in April, classes would be held seven days a week, with only Sunday afternoons off, until the high school entrance exams in June.
The students were outraged. Even the rival factions led by Tan Lijiang and Li Xiang had united in protest, planning to file a complaint with the education bureau.
“Why are you so passive, Yi Yao? If we don’t fight back, they’ll just keep pushing us further! If they think we’re pushovers, who knows what they’ll do next? We’re doing this for the future generations!” Tan Lijiang argued.
For the future generations? So they can grow up and resent you?
“I’m sorry…”
I kept my thoughts to myself, my expression neutral.
“Yi Yao, you can’t be so timid! If you don’t learn to stand up for yourself now, you’ll be bullied your entire life!”
He was still trying to persuade me.
Most of our classmates lived in the school dorms. Only those who lived off-campus could easily file a complaint. Xiaodie and I had become their targets.
“You’ll understand when you enter the real world. All I can tell you now is that these are the best days of our lives.”
I took Xiaodie’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“Okay…”
“Yi Yao!”
Tan Lijiang started to say something, but Liang Tong stopped him, shaking his head.
You’re both adorable.
Someone insults you, their father punches you, and you want to report them to their grandfather? You’re asking for more trouble.
Those complaint hotlines were as effective as the “No Minors Allowed” signs outside internet cafes.
Life was a game, and the only challenge was figuring out the rules.
“Yi Yao… I don’t understand…” Xiaodie asked curiously as we walked along the tree-lined path, the setting sun casting long shadows around us. “What did you mean about the real world?”
“Let me give you an example.”
I thought for a moment. “There was a news report recently about a famous company where factory workers were averaging over 109 hours of overtime per month. The media criticized the company for violating human rights, for not giving their workers enough rest. The company’s response was that the workers were volunteering for overtime and that they were being paid accordingly.”
“109 hours… That’s insane! That’s like working an extra three hours every day! Eleven hours a day! And they’re claiming it’s voluntary? Is the world really that cruel?”
I hesitated, then decided to tell her the truth. “Xiaodie, the key point is that this is a famous company.”
“Yeah, it’s outrageous that a famous company would treat its workers like that!”
“If a famous company is doing this, imagine what’s happening in lesser-known companies.”
We reached the bicycle shed. “I haven’t researched the current situation, but I know that seven years from now, when we graduate from university, most factory workers in Upper Capital City will be working at least 140 hours of overtime per month. They’ll be slaving away day and night, with barely any time to sleep. Because without overtime, their base salary won’t be enough to survive, especially those with families to support. And some factories don’t even pay overtime. So that famous company… people will be lining up to work there.”
The 109 hours mentioned in the news report was probably an understatement.
“The legal limit for overtime is 120 hours per month. Think about it. Their overtime exceeds the legal limit. And this has been going on for thirty years. Do you think no one has reported it? How many times has the law actually been enforced?”
If you refused to do it, someone else, desperate for money, would gladly take your place. If you didn’t want to attend this school, someone else, yearning for education, would gladly take your seat.
Xiaodie lowered her head, her earlier cheerfulness replaced by a somber silence.
“Then… then what’s the point of it all?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Working ourselves to death, with no time for ourselves, no time for anything but survival…”
That’s why I told Tan Lijiang that these were the best days of our lives. Our carefree student days.
I parked the bicycle and gently pinched her cheek, forcing a smile. “Just think of it as a game, Xiaodie. Everyone else is just an NPC. And besides, do you really think I would let you work in a place like that?”
“But you…”
“Don’t worry, I know the rules of this game. And you’re my girlfriend now. I’ll take care of you.”
“…”
On our way home, I gave in to Xiaodie’s request and detoured to the hospital where my mother was recovering.
“Her condition is still critical. Her fever isn’t going down, and the infection is spreading. You need to prepare yourselves for the worst,” my father said, his voice grim, as we arrived at her ward. He was talking to a doctor.
“But the surgery was successful, wasn’t it?” I asked, my heart sinking.
“Yes, the surgery was successful. But now we’re dealing with an infection. Her immune system is compromised. Even a common cold could be fatal. And this infection…”
“Just sign this consent form,” the doctor said, handing my father a clipboard.
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