Yang Lihua knew that starting from her next shift, life at work was likely to become difficult.
And she had guessed correctly.
After observing her for a full day, Supervisor Sun Weixing realized that this young girl wasn’t as incompetent as Zhao Panlai had claimed.
Besides, Yang Lihua had truly earned her place in the textile factory through merit, unlike those who got in through connections.
However, out of respect for Master Zhao Panlai, no other senior master was assigned to mentor Yang Lihua.
The next morning, when Yang Lihua arrived early at the workshop, Supervisor Sun nodded with approval. At least her attitude toward learning was good. Looking around, he noticed Zhao Panlai had also arrived but wasn’t taking the lead as a master should.
“Master Zhao, you’re here! By the way, please give some guidance to the new recruit, Yang Lihua. Li Hongying is still young and doesn’t have your experience,” Supervisor Sun said quietly.
As the workshop head, he didn’t care much about interpersonal conflicts—he just needed the monthly quotas met. Since Zhao Panlai refused to mentor her personally, she should at least provide occasional guidance so that Yang Lihua wouldn’t slow down the team. If the tasks weren’t completed, Sun would be held accountable first.
Zhao Panlai glanced at Yang Lihua, standing a short distance away, and sneered. “Of course, as a master, I would never disobey the workshop head. You want me to guide a newcomer? Don’t worry—I’ll teach her thoroughly.”
As for whether Yang Lihua could handle it—who knew? If she didn’t like it, she could leave Workshop Three herself.
She had also heard from Song Xiao’e about this Yang Lihua—young but cunning. Look at her, twisting her body in such a coquettish way, who knows who she’s showing off to. Shameless.
Huh? Polite, am I? I’m just checking the machines properly, and you call me shameless?
Hmph! People are filthy. No matter what they see, it looks dirty.
Just like yesterday, Yang Lihua started work under Li Hongying’s guidance. But today, there was a difference—Zhao Panlai kept lingering longer at Yang Lihua’s machine.
Her gaze carried disdain, as if Yang Lihua were some dirty object. Her words were also condescending:
“Little Yang, our working class values honesty and diligence. Don’t try any clever tricks. You might fool someone naive elsewhere, but in our workshop, your little schemes won’t work. If a thread breaks, it breaks. If there’s a flaw, it’s a flaw. Right, Little Yang?”
The other women exchanged knowing glances and smirked at Yang Lihua, enjoying the show.
Everyone in Workshop Three knew Zhao Panlai, relying on her seniority and skills, often bullied women she didn’t like or newcomers. No one dared to confront her—they had no backing and feared challenging her.
Yang Lihua didn’t raise her head, eyes fixed on the machine, replying calmly, “Master Zhao is right. We working-class people must be honest and trustworthy. We cannot go back on our word.”
She was putting on a polite front, as anyone would.
The workers weren’t easily fired. Everyone was equal in the workshop; Zhao Panlai was just boasting about her decades of experience. That was all.
Decades of work, yet still just an ordinary workshop worker. What was there to be proud of?
Zhao Panlai didn’t expect Yang Lihua to talk back. For a moment, she froze. Seeing onlookers around her, she didn’t dare quarrel further.
Later, however, Zhao Panlai used her authority to make Yang Lihua’s tasks as difficult as possible.
Who said a new worker like Yang Lihua could get away with confronting her? Doing so might even please Zhu Yuanyuan’s father, Zhu Defu, the logistics supervisor—a high-ranking position.
“小杨, you’ll be responsible for the old machines at the back. You’re new, so you need the practice. This is for your own good. They say skill comes from experience, so work hard,” Zhao Panlai said, assigning the most troublesome machines to her with a teasing tone.
These old machines were known as the worst in the workshop—prone to breakage, difficult to clean, and troublesome to operate. All of them now belonged to Yang Lihua. Zhao Panlai was truly “considerate,” indeed.
Well, one never knows one’s limits until pushed.
Even though Yang Lihua had complained about the workshop’s hardship before, from now on, she never uttered a word of complaint, no matter how tough the work.
Luckily, she had her space and the spirit spring water within. Whether it was the high-intensity work or the daily dose of water, her body had adapted. She no longer felt drained after a shift.
She was always the first to arrive, preparing machines and practicing operation techniques. While others might check each machine once or twice, she patrolled four or five times, catching early signs of thread breaks.
Workshop Three wasn’t limited to just Zhao Panlai. Yang Lihua proactively helped other masters—fetching water, handing tools, even cleaning machines.
Even without Zhao Panlai’s guidance, she grew rapidly under the tutelage of other masters.
During this time, Zhao Panlai would still occasionally “check in” on Yang Lihua, but she no longer argued back.
Before gaining strength, any words were powerless.
Yang Lihua silently pushed herself forward. Her production output steadily rose—from barely meeting the standard to consistently hitting the average, and eventually surpassing it.
Her flawed fabric rate dropped from the highest among newcomers to the lowest.