He did not give up. He elevated himself professionally and studied like a man possessed. Since as far back as I can remember, Jin Zhao was either performing surgeries continuously or immersing himself in books and writing. In my childhood memories, he was always dressed in a white shirt with a white coat over it. His tall and slender figure, paired with his gentle and clean demeanor, made a lasting impression. He carried the comforting scent of disinfectant wherever he went. At noon, I would often bring him meals, and he was always working overtime. At home, he would bury himself in a mountain of books. On weekends, he took me out. The two of us would ride bicycles, fly kites, catch birds, and climb mountains. Standing atop a mountain, Jin Zhao once told me, 'Yichuan, one day, I will give you the whole world.'<br>Jin Zhao published two books on anesthesiology and contributed over a hundred research papers. He successfully applied for two personal patents. At that time, the department needed to appoint a director of the Anesthesiology Department. Based on his academic credentials, skills, age, and seniority, he was the most qualified. However, the hospital appointed someone far less competent. During that period, I noticed Jin Zhao stopped reading and instead organized all his manuscripts. He called a scrap collector. The manuscripts, stacked as high as half my height, were split into two piles and sold as wastepaper. He went through nine fountain pens writing them, all of which ended up in the trash.<br>That day, I saw how relaxed he seemed after selling his manuscripts. Then, he began cooking. He cracked two eggs, added flour, milk powder, sugar, and water, and mixed them thoroughly. Taking out an iron pan, he poured in vegetable oil. Once the oil was hot, he used a ladle to pour the batter into the pan, creating various shapes—sometimes like a chrysanthemum, other times as a dragon, or even a pig. His unique egg pancakes, soft inside and crispy outside, became my favorite food.<br>He placed the pancakes in front of me. Sitting at the table, I ate bite by bite under his watchful eyes. 'Do you like it? Eat more,' he said. Sipping a small glass of liquor with peanuts on the side, he looked content. That day, I remember he drank a bit too much. Lying on the sofa, he sang songs and seemed genuinely joyful. He muttered, 'I am Jin Zhao, the carpe diem with a drink Jin Zhao. What’s wrong with that? Hahaha!'<br>When he wasn’t trying to be a legendary figure, he was simply my father. He would hum little tunes, tell me stories, play chess with me, develop photos in his self-made darkroom, and engage in woodworking. During that period, he stopped working overtime and writing; instead, he spent time with me. In those materially impoverished times, he used old newspapers to cover the ceiling above my bed, painting the universe, Earth, Mars, and more on it. At night, we would lie on the bed, and he would use a flashlight to illuminate his artwork, sharing stories about the cosmos and planets.<br>In my world, he was my ceiling, my universe.<br>When God closed one door for him, He opened a window. At that moment, a benefactor appeared in Jin Zhao's life. That man, I recall, was someone with a strong political background—Mr. Zhang. Mr. Zhang came across Jin Zhao in an article about self-taught talents and learned about Jin Zhao’s personal patent: the CPR emergency kit. Seeing Jin Zhao’s scholarly aura and unyielding thirst for success, Mr. Zhang felt he had found someone capable of great achievements. This man was about to assume a city leadership position and needed Jin Zhao’s help to handle external affairs. He provided 2 million yuan—a massive sum in the early 1990s. A company was registered with Jin Zhao as the legal representative and general manager.<br>At this point, Jin Zhao rediscovered the sense of being a true legend. He bought a car—the latest Jeep Grand Cherokee—and the most fashionable early mobile phone. He resigned from the hospital, much to my mother’s vehement opposition. She cried and protested, but ultimately, the leadership approved his request for unpaid leave at his insistence. Thus began his first adventure.<br>Soon after, Mr. Zhang became preoccupied with his political ambitions, leaving Jin Zhao to handle the company. However, Jin Zhao was not a businessman. He was, at heart, a scholar. He didn’t aim to run a profitable venture; he wanted to create something revolutionary. He began working on a painless injection decal. He envisioned a product that could secure his place in history, potentially yielding tens of millions or even billions. The decal was meant to ease the pain for children receiving injections. After over a year of research with little progress and significant expenses, the company’s main business activities dwindled. Jin Zhao grew anxious. How could he sustain such an extravagant lifestyle without revenue? Around this time, he heard many people were speculating on steel. Allegedly, it was a quick way to double the capital.<br>It was the early 1990s, a time when the steel industry was transitioning from planned production to a two-tier system of state allocation and market economics. Opportunities abounded. The economy was booming, and steel demand was surging. The price of steel wire rods on the spot market was around 1,000 yuan per ton. Selling them on the open market could yield a profit of 400 to 600 yuan per ton, with prices continuously rising. Within months, prices soared to 2,000 yuan per ton. The massive profit margins drove many to acquire steel quotas and resell them for 40%-60% profits—or even more if they dared to hoard the stock.<br>Jin Zhao found himself with 1.3 million yuan. He decided to risk 500,000 yuan. At 1,800 yuan per ton, he acquired a quota for 26 tons of steel wire rods. The market price was around 2,000 yuan per ton at the time. Selling them immediately would yield a 50,000 yuan profit. But Jin Zhao chose to hoard. Like a seasoned gambler who bets everything without looking at his cards, he placed his wager with his signature smile. Within two weeks, the price skyrocketed to 3,200 yuan per ton. He sold everything, netting a 360,000 yuan profit in just half a month. In those days, earning such a fortune in a fortnight felt like the equivalent of making 3.6 million in half a month today.<br>That day, he took me to the Whispering Junction Pavilion by the river. The pavilion had nine levels. He asked me to close my eyes and led me to the top. When I opened them, I saw the majestic Yangtze River. Standing beside me, he said, 'Yichuan, if you want to see further, you must climb higher. Even when hope seems lost, press forward with courage. Sometimes, when faced with difficulties, just blindfold yourself and push through. Don’t trust your eyes or ears; trust your heart.'<br>The river breeze ruffled his coat. In that moment, Jin Zhao appeared so grand, so invincible. Success had indeed transformed him into a man radiating an extraordinary aura!")
