Chapter 11 | First High-Level Income

Daylight broke, and Li Xing rode his repaired bicycle to the street corner.

Master Zhou was already waiting there, a smile playing on his lips.

“Xingzi, we have several bikes to repair today. Pick the most complicated one first.”

Li Xing glanced at the old bikes on the corner, his eyes lighting up slightly.

This time, he chose an old bike with severely worn gears, an aged chain, and brakes almost completely failed.

This was the most difficult bike to repair on the street, but also the most valuable job.

He crouched down, gesturing with his fingers along the chain.

Unlike last time, this time he could mentally rehearse the entire process: disassembling the chain, cleaning the gears, lubricating, and adjusting the brake and tire pressure.

His hands and mind were perfectly synchronized, his movements practiced and swift.

Passersby watched, stopping in their tracks.

“This kid… he’s got some skills,” someone whispered.

Half an hour later, the bike was repaired.

Master Zhou test-rode it, his face showing obvious surprise.

"Not bad, even smoother than mine."

He patted Li Xing on the shoulder. "This bicycle is worth three yuan and fifty cents."

In the 1980s, three yuan and fifty cents could buy half a bag of cornmeal, plus sorghum rice and a few daily necessities—enough to sustain a family for a few days.

Li Xing accepted the money, his fingers trembling slightly.

Not out of fear, but because he truly felt the weight of his abilities being transformed into real value.

This job made him realize—

The skills the space had given him, if used properly, could not only solve his basic needs but also generate income.

Afterward, he took on two more bicycle repair jobs, both of varying complexity.

By noon, he had seven yuan and eighty cents in his pocket.

His mother peeked out from the yard, seeing the black grease stains on Li Xing's hands and trousers, her eyes shining with surprise and relief.

"Xingzi...did you earn money today?"

Li Xing nodded and placed the money on the table.

His mother gently stroked his head, her voice choked with emotion, "Son... I'm relieved that you can rely on yourself."

His father silently stared at the money on the table, a complex expression in his eyes.

"Just... don't overwork yourself, don't rely solely on these two hands to make a living."

Li Xing lowered his head, remaining silent.

He understood—

His first pot of gold was in his hands, but with it came the weight of responsibility.

That afternoon, as he pushed his bicycle home, people on the street seemed to give him a second glance.

Not just because of his skills, but because the composure and confidence he exuded were more pronounced than any other bicycle on the street.

The setting sun cast its rays into the courtyard. He handed the money to his mother, sat on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed), and gazed at the faded slogan on the wall—

"Grasp revolution, promote production."

Li Xing silently vowed:

He could create his own life, and space was the support he was slowly accumulating.

But at the same time, he also vaguely sensed—

Each high-level replication brought an invisible price.