Chapter 113: Finding Joy Amidst Suffering

Military training is indeed a significant physical challenge for college students. Spending the entire morning and afternoon practicing basic skills like standing at attention and marching makes anyone feel exhausted and irritated. Coupled with instructors who are stern and somewhat intimidating, the sense of frustration only deepens.

However, by evening, these feelings tend to ease. The entire playground is arranged in circles by class groups. The instructors shed their daytime sternness and lead the students in singing military songs. Occasionally, classes compete to see who has the loudest voices.

Sometimes, even the young instructors reveal a playful side. Hearing the neighboring class practicing singing, the instructor would secretly teach the students cheeky chants to tease their rivals, such as: “Everyone sings the popular songs; if you don’t sing, I will. If we sing, we sing loudly; forgive us if it’s not good!” Or, “That class is so annoying; their singing is weak. If you don’t want to sing, no pressure, maybe you should stand guard instead!”

This life—tiring by day but finding joy in the evening—was quite amusing.

From the very first day of military training, Li Mu followed Xue Jianfeng to the school gymnasium. Renmin University boasts a sports complex that includes not only a gym but also indoor basketball courts, table tennis halls, a swimming pool, and even a taekwondo gym. However, most facilities are not open to students for free; a few are free but require prior application.

Li Mu purchased an annual gym membership and a swimming pass. He trained there daily for thirty minutes to an hour, always resting a bit before swimming a few laps afterward.

Xue Jianfeng, a landlubber who couldn’t even dog paddle, did not join Li Mu in swimming.

This routine continued for several days until the five roommates began to notice something unusual.

After days of military training under the relentless sun, their skin showed varying degrees of damage—some had tanned, others were sunburned, and some had necks so burnt the slightest touch hurt—except for Li Mu. Aside from a slight change in complexion, he appeared completely unscathed.

Under their questioning, Li Mu finally revealed his secret: he had been secretly applying sunscreen all along. Under their insistence, he contributed the sunscreen he had bought, though the bottle given to him by Su Yingxue he never even considered sharing.

From then on, no one in Room 606 held back. Before training, they would slather sunscreen generously over their faces, necks, and shoulders, sometimes helping each other to ensure no spots were missed.

This monotonous yet fulfilling life persisted until the morning of September 12th.

That morning, thousands of freshmen preparing for military training rose early to eat breakfast in the cafeteria. In the corner, televisions were broadcasting special morning news reports. At 8:40 pm the previous night—8:40 am American time on September 11th—the world had been shaken by the horrific 9/11 terrorist attacks in the United States.

Like thousands of other students, Li Mu gathered before the TV, watching the harrowing scenes of the Twin Towers being struck by airplanes. Yet, in his heart, he felt no surprise.

Later generations would analyze 9/11 extensively and speculate conspiracies. Many believed the U.S. government’s stance on 9/11 mirrored Japan’s surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. Li Mu neither confirmed nor denied such theories, nor sought to uncover the truth. Although he had been reborn, he was still an ordinary person. Not indifferent, but unwilling to shoulder undue social or emotional responsibilities. Such a globally tremulous event was beyond his reach; watching was enough.

As Li Mu silently mourned the innocent lives lost in 9/11, he also felt a pang of guilt. The tragedy strengthened his resolve and hope for the future.

The world continued its predetermined course; only he was different. To him, the world was like a tranquil pool, moved by wind and fish alike, yet all following a set path. He alone held the stone of fate in his hand, capable of stirring ripples. The question was whether he could gather more stones, bigger ones.

Domains untouched by him would remain unchanged by his rebirth. For instance, the Afghanistan war would surely erupt next month. By year-end, Microsoft would release the Windows XP system that would dominate the internet for years. Countless future major events were destined to occur—they would happen.

In the following days, the 9/11 event and its repercussions became the world’s most urgent focus. After grueling training, wandering the campus, Li Mu often overheard heated discussions. Some would recount the plane crashing into the World Trade Center with wild gestures and spittle, as if harboring deep hatred for Americans. Upon encountering such people, Li Mu silently cursed their inhumanity and dismissed them without a second thought.

The 9/11 incident remained a global focal point, but for these exhausted freshmen, it soon became old news. Military training continued relentlessly; by day, their skin peeled under the sun, and their legs ached. By night, they howled hoarsely, straining their voices so much that throat lozenges and plasters were perpetually out of stock at local pharmacies.

Li Mu barely went online during this time. He wanted to install a network cable in the dorm, but the school had strict rules: freshmen’s dormitories could not have internet access until military training ended.

His laptop, brought along the day he arrived in Yanjing, had lain untouched in his locker ever since.

In the interim, Li Mu and his roommates visited internet cafes twice. Li Mu checked his email and saw that Jack Zhou had sent a price offer days earlier. Baidu proposed: a full acquisition for 15 million yuan; or a financing round valuing the company at 10 million yuan, with Baidu taking 20% for a 2 million investment.

Li Mu knew the higher price for acquisition was bait to tempt him to cash out immediately. Though he’d only managed the project for less than two months, he had already crafted a product model worth tens of billions in the future. Yet they valued it at only 10 million yuan? That was absurd.

He replied curtly: “No deal.”

Then he happily went to play Counter-Strike with his roommates.

Baidu’s team had not expected such a straightforward rejection of a 15 million yuan offer. They recognized and strongly believed in the models behind EasyListen and Tieba, especially the promising future of Tieba. Still, this was a very young project, with startup costs estimated below 500,000 yuan. Considering the time and minimal investment, 15 million was a reasonable return. Why was Li Mu so resolute?

After consulting with superiors, Jack Zhou sent another email: “Baidu can offer 15 million after tax for the acquisition, considering the tax rate on equity transfers exceeds 20%.”

Li Mu simply ignored it. The idea of toying with him over income tax was laughable. Who did they think they were kidding?