What Bad Intentions Could a Spoiled Little Brat Possibly have? - Chapter 39

Burning.

A collective gasp rippled through the laboratory.

Cheng Huai’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a tight line. A trace of moisture lingered in his eyes, masked by a forced, brittle hardness. Behind him followed Fu Zheng, whose expression was even darker, radiating a low-pressure aura that warned others to keep their distance.

The people gathered in the public experimental area looked on with complex expressions, their gazes darting between the two.

The latecomers had no idea when these two had entered the independent lab, nor could they fathom how they had spent those ten minutes inside. At this moment, the air was thick with a private grievance obvious to all, yet dared to be named by none. No one approached to ask questions, and no one dared to crack a joke.

However, the dark suit jacket Cheng Huai wore was clearly several sizes too large. Beneath the oversized garment, his graceful frame was shrouded, though his pale, slender waist occasionally peeked through, making it almost difficult for onlookers to keep their eyes fixed there.

Lu Jia was the first to react. He practically bounced up the second Fu Zheng stepped through the door, his face instantly piling on a smile that mixed adoration with sycophancy. He hurried forward in three quick steps. “Great God!! What brings you to the lab today?!”

“Mm.” Fu Zheng withdrew his gaze from Cheng Huai’s retreating back and said flatly, “Came to supervise.”

“Then quick, take a seat. Professor Gu arrives in ten minutes; we’ll start as soon as he’s here.” Lu Jia pulled out a chair for Fu Zheng and handed him the pre-printed list of candidates for review.

Mo Qing’s eyes, however, remained glued to Cheng Huai. He had watched Cheng Huai follow Fu Zheng inside, only to emerge draped in a jacket that clearly belonged to the other man.

And Fu Zheng, despite talking to Lu Jia, found his deep gaze drifting involuntarily toward Cheng Huai. It was not a look of simple brotherly concern; it was a gaze marked by a much more possessive intensity. This discovery caused the doubt in Mo Qing’s heart and a certain vague discomfort to become increasingly clear.

Cheng Huai picked up his laptop bag from the table next to Mo Qing. Behind him, the sounds of Lu Jia’s enthusiasm and Fu Zheng’s brief responses drifted over, adding another layer of irritation to his already frayed nerves. He unconsciously raised his left hand to knead his right shoulder, where he had been bumped inside the room earlier.

Actually, it didn’t hurt at all. It was just that Fu Zheng’s jacket, rubbing against his bare skin, felt somewhat itchy.

As he rubbed his shoulder, Cheng Huai turned around. His position formed a triangle with Lu Jia and Fu Zheng; Lu Jia wasn’t blocking Fu Zheng, so when Cheng Huai looked up, he happened to lock eyes with him.

The moment he felt Fu Zheng’s gaze, a surge of grievance welled up beneath Cheng Huai’s fluttering eyelids. He quickly looked down, reverting to his previous mask of cold indifference.

Mo Qing sat down in the empty seat beside him. Just as they settled, Zhu Manni walked in, followed by a girl Cheng Huai didn’t recognize—likely not a freshman.

Fu Zheng noticed Cheng Huai rubbing his shoulder and frowned. He was about to stand up to check on him when Lu Jia interrupted his movement.

“Everyone, ten minutes left. We will do the final review of the submitted code shortly. Please be prepared.”

Fu Zheng’s rising frame was pressed back into his seat by these words. He composed himself, his focus falling on the brief list in his hand.

Black ink on white paper: six names in total. Cheng Huai, Zhu Manni, and Mo Qing the three freshmen were at the top, followed by two sophomores and one junior.

Zhu Manni chose a seat directly across from Cheng Huai. As she set down her backpack, she met Cheng Huai’s eyes with a smirk full of provocation, her arrogant confidence nearly overflowing.

In this high-tension countdown, the lab door pushed open again. Professor Gu Yutang walked in, and the lab immediately fell silent.

“Professor.” Fu Zheng stood up to give Gu Yutang his seat. Seeing this, the other students followed suit.

Gu Yutang waved them down. “Sit, sit. No need for formalities.” He glanced at Fu Zheng and asked, “How do you have time to come by today?”

Fu Zheng waited for the professor to sit before sitting down himself. “I heard this year’s new recruits are quite promising, so I came to observe and learn. Additionally, the Lingxi Phase III project is about to start its upgrade pre-research. I wanted to see if there’s any fresh blood suitable to join the project team as an assistant.”

Lu Jia’s eyes lit up. “Great God, the new project is confirmed?”

Fu Zheng nodded. “The core Lingxi algorithm is about to undergo a new round of architectural upgrades and scene expansions. Innovation requires friction. I believe the perspective and creativity of young people will bring unexpected breakthroughs.”

Professor Gu Yutang let out a huff through his nose, his white beard twitching. In front of the entire lab of students, he unceremoniously called him out: “The students haven’t even been selected yet, and you’ve already dug a hole for a project assistant? You’re just taking advantage of the fact that these kids are all here for your name, aren’t you?”

Lu Jia whispered under his breath, “Professor… isn’t that just the truth…”

“Shut up!” Professor Gu glared at Lu Jia, huffing. “I might as well retire early and get some peace! None of you listen to me anyway; you all have bigger ideas than I do!”

“Professor, please calm down,” Fu Zheng’s voice softened. “The old rules apply. The basic development and stress testing modules for Lingxi III will still be placed in the lab as core research topics. I know you intended this all along; otherwise, you wouldn’t have agreed to the topic for this entry exam.”

Gu Yutang waved his hand, his expression softening as he sighed. “Fine. As long as you remember to keep this lab in your heart and give these kids a place to actually learn and do things properly—the rest, you handle it.”

With that, he took the final list from Lu Jia, scanned the seated students, and asked, “Who is Cheng Huai?”

Cheng Huai raised his hand slightly. “Professor, that’s me.”

“Then let’s start with you. Come to the front. Explain your code logic, architectural design, and what you believe to be the most prominent optimization points to everyone.”

“Okay.”

Cheng Huai connected his laptop to the display. Before speaking, he cast a glance at Fu Zheng. Seeing that the other man wasn’t looking at him actually helped ease his tension significantly.

“I believe this problem has no single unique solution,” Cheng Huai began, striking at the heart of the matter. “From a mainstream perspective, classic and reliable model compression methods would be the choice for most pruning unimportant connections like branches of a tree, training a small model to mimic a large one, and then quantizing parameters to ‘slim down’ the model.”

He paused for a moment. “But with limited time and computing power, competing against excellent upperclassmen in pure algorithm optimization gives me slim odds. Therefore, my solution was to find the optimal path from the sources: data and structure.”

“I noticed the provided dataset was too singular and ‘clean,’ which makes models prone to ‘blindness’ in complex real-world scenarios. So, I specifically simulated the complex environment of low-altitude flight generating mist, simulating backlight glare, and synthesizing dynamic motion blur. This allows the model to learn under ‘hell-mode’ conditions, enhancing its generalization and robustness.”

Cheng Huai concluded confidently: “If my calculations are correct, the optimized model maintains accuracy on par with top-tier models but is 40% smaller in size. Furthermore, I performed interference tests, and the model’s performance was unexpectedly startling.”

“That is all.”

The moment he finished, Lu Jia immediately raised his hand. “I have a question.”

“The parameters for your motion blur simulation are they based on experience or theoretical evidence? If it encounters shaking more extreme than your presets, will the model fail?”

Cheng Huai scrolled his mouse to the specific section of code. “Senior, regarding the motion blur parameters, I indeed estimated them based on known aircraft motion models. I assumed the maximum angular and linear velocities a drone might experience during hovering and low-speed maneuvers. Then, based on camera frame rate and exposure time, I calculated the potential range of the blur kernel. That range is the basis for my parameters.”

Lu Jia didn’t interrupt; instead, he stared at Cheng Huai’s code, lost in thought.

Professor Gu Yutang nodded in appreciation. “Does anyone else have questions?”

Fu Zheng had remained silent until now. At this moment, his gaze locked onto a highlighted line of code on the screen. He asked, “You implemented a lightweight attention module yourself, but in line 45, you used a very unconventional normalization method. Why? That’s not how textbooks or mainstream papers do it.”

From the first glance at Cheng Huai’s code, he had noticed this “anomaly.”

Since childhood, many of Cheng Huai’s knowledge frameworks and even thinking habits had been subtly influenced by him. Seeing Cheng Huai not only veer off the track he had laid but actively step into unverified territory gave Fu Zheng not just surprise, but an indescribable sense of unease.

Cheng Huai’s heart began to thud uncontrollably the moment Fu Zheng spoke, nearly hammering through his chest.

He struggled to keep his voice steady. “Because I felt there was a balance point between computational cost and effectiveness in the textbook methods that hadn’t been found. I referenced normalization ideas for noisy data in signal processing and tried it out. I verified it locally with a small dataset; for this specific task, it allows the model to focus faster on key features like edges and textures rather than being distracted by lighting changes.”

He paused, then confessed honestly, “I know it’s unconventional and perhaps not robust enough, but I wanted to try.”

This was Cheng Huai’s first public act of rebellion; he didn’t try to hide the experimental nature or the risks involved.

Fu Zheng fell silent.

He didn’t offer an immediate critique. Instead, he slowly leaned back into his chair, his long fingers tapping rhythmically on the smooth tabletop. His expression was shielded by an invisible veil, revealing no sign of praise or disapproval.

The sense of satisfying defiance Cheng Huai had felt during his earlier argument with Fu Zheng vanished instantly. This uncertain silence left his heart hanging in his throat.

The other students in the lab sensed the unusual atmosphere. Fu Zheng’s prolonged silence carried immense weight. Zhu Manni, in particular, interpreted it as a precursor to dissatisfaction, her look toward Cheng Huai shifting from provocation to anticipation of a disaster.

Everyone held their breath, waiting for the “Great God” with absolute authority to pass his final judgment.

Just as almost everyone expected Fu Zheng to point out a flaw or raise a doubt, his tapping fingers stopped. He looked at Cheng Huai and said, “I think it’s very good. Quite unexpected.”

Professor Gu Yutang stepped in with a smile. “Good. Clear logic and original ideas. Please return to your seat and rest. Next student, please get ready.”

Cheng Huai’s tense spine suddenly relaxed, and he could almost feel the cold sweat sliding down his back.

He gave a near-exhausted response, closed his presentation, unplugged his data cable, and walked back to his seat with legs that felt like jelly.

Throughout the subsequent presentations, Fu Zheng didn’t speak again. Cheng Huai felt lost; he didn’t know if Fu Zheng had actually discovered a loophole in his code or was intentionally making things difficult for him.

At that moment, Cheng Huai felt his phone vibrate slightly in his pocket.

Taking advantage of the lack of attention, he lowered his gaze, dimmed his screen to the lowest setting, and checked it. It was a new WeChat notification the part-time job contact he had added earlier had accepted his friend request.

Cheng Huai opened the chat and habitually clicked on the person’s profile. Sure enough, the primary business was provocative lingerie; even the profile picture looked somewhat erotic.

It was a deliberately cropped photo focusing on the body, hiding the model’s face. The model wore a minimalist black lace three-point set, legs wrapped in matte black stockings up to the knees, a leather collar around the neck, arms raised high above the head, one leg stretched forward with toes pointed, and the other knee curled suggestively upward. The composition was dimly lit with strong color contrast, making no secret of its provocative and commercial nature.

The most recent posts in the Moments feed were all new arrivals, exclusively focusing on designs for men’s provocative wear from hollowed-out straps to leather harnesses, the style was bold and explicit.

The cover photo was a simple, targeted declaration: “Burning Focusing on male pleasure aesthetics, serving only the like-minded.” In the background, a corner of a studio was visible, with various unclassifiable garments and props hanging under dim lights.

Just as he was about to exit, the top of the chat box showed “The other party is typing…”

Seconds later, new messages popped up in quick succession:

Hello, Little Brother~ (≧▽≦)

I’m the brand owner of Burning, you can just call me Felix!

So happy to see your friend request! We’re actually having a small internal fitting and test-shoot event at the studio tonight. It’s mainly to find suitable models and creative inspiration for the new arrivals~

You should have seen the style from my Moments. I wonder if you’re interested in coming to the scene to check it out? It’s a rare opportunity!

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