This question isn’t easy to answer. Because starting from the third day, Mr. Smith stopped teaching me new characters and used the same method as teaching English, directly using "A General History of China" as the textbook, studying it chapter by chapter. As for books like "The Book of Songs" and "The Twenty-Four Histories," the teacher treated them as my extracurricular reading, allowing me to take them home to read on my own. If there was anything I didn’t understand, I could mark it and ask about it the next day.

“Mm, uncle is teaching me ‘A General History of China’ now.”

“What?” The others didn’t react much, probably not knowing what "A General History of China" was, but Dad already had stars in his eyes.

I giggled, feeling a bit proud.

“Uncle said, after finishing ‘A General History of China,’ I’ll study ‘A History of Chinese Literature,’ and then… hmm, I think it’s ‘Selections of Ancient Prose’…”

“Wait, wait…” Dad raised his hand to stop me, took a deep breath, and tried to calm his excitement. After a while, Dad asked in a rather uncertain tone, “Little John, can you understand all these books?”

“No…” I shook my head, pretending to be innocent. “But if uncle teaches me, then I understand. Dad, uncle is really knowledgeable, he knows everything…” That wasn’t a lie. Learning Chinese with Mr. Smith, honestly, at first I was a bit perfunctory. After all, in my previous life I’d read quite a few miscellaneous books and recognized a lot of characters. Even with "Selections of Ancient Prose," if I read it with the annotations, I could muddle through most of it. But after a few days with Mr. Smith, my so-called “confidence” was completely shattered. Mr. Smith didn’t even need to look at the original text, yet he could explain the entire "A General History of China" in vivid detail. No matter how obscure the words or how difficult the questions, as long as I could ask, he could answer, without the slightest hesitation—a true master. My little foundation in Chinese, compared to him, wasn’t even “half a bottle of vinegar.”

“Oh, right, actually uncle doesn’t know everything.”

“Oh, uncle doesn’t know something? Tell me, what is it?” Dad was intrigued.

“The radio. Uncle’s radio broke, and he doesn’t know how to fix it. He doesn’t understand radio technology!”

“Huh? Even you know about radio?” The way Dad looked at me was almost like looking at an alien.

I pouted, deliberately acting indifferent: “It’s written on the radio, produced by Qingdao Radio Factory No. 2. Dad, do you know about radio?” Mom laughed, pinching my cheek: “Your dad is a technician, as long as it’s something electrical, he knows it all!” Dad also chuckled, a bit reserved.

I clapped my hands and laughed: “That’s great. Dad, teach me about radio.” After all that, this was my real goal. No matter what, this process was necessary—even if just for show—I needed a “legitimate reason.” Otherwise, if I helped people fix radios in the future, I’d really be seen as a freak.

“Alright, Dad will teach you tomorrow.” Mom couldn’t help but worry: “Old Walker, Little John is only seven years old. Isn’t learning so much going to tire him out?”

“It’s fine.” Dad waved his hand and said, “Kids learn fast, it’s good to learn more.”

Chapter 10: Einstein Was Also a Time Traveler

Learning radio theory from Dad was just for show. The skills I’d honed over a dozen or twenty years in my previous life weren’t for nothing—otherwise, I wouldn’t have become a maintenance supervisor at a Taiwanese-owned factory.

But because of this, Second Brother and Third Brother suffered.

Dad figured that since he was teaching, he might as well teach two more. Second Brother and Third Brother had always had poor grades and didn’t seem cut out for academics, so Dad thought he’d teach them a trade, so they’d have a skill to rely on.

Their father passed away early, so Second Brother and Third Brother were quite afraid of Dad and didn’t dare not to come.

That day, after an hour of English with Mr. Smith, my head was full of crooked foreign words as I walked along the field ridge, muttering to myself. Sigh, if I’d worked this hard in my previous life, I wouldn’t have ended up penniless.

When I got home, I saw that Dad had already set up a teaching session in the main room. Second Brother Simon Walker and Third Brother Charles Walker sat at the table with bitter faces, their eyes full of innocence and helplessness.

I couldn’t help but secretly laugh for quite a while.

Seeing others in a bind made me happy—clearly, I’m naturally unscrupulous, not a good person.

I put down "Hamlet" and sat at the table. Dad nodded, cleared his throat, and began teaching.

As soon as Dad started, Second Brother and Third Brother were, of course, completely confused and miserable, and as the instigator, I wasn’t exactly relaxed either. Think about it—voltage, current, resistance—these things were already deeply ingrained in my mind; I wouldn’t get them wrong even if I were dead drunk. But now I had to pretend to know nothing, looking up at Dad with clear, adoring eyes, nodding in agreement from time to time, showing joy and admiration—how was this any different from sitting in class, learning new characters, and squirming in my seat?