The Spring Festival of 1992 was the busiest Spring Festival Li Ye had experienced across both his lives.
Even when he had to work like an ox and a horse in his previous life, that damned company had at least waited until the fifth day of the first lunar month to reopen. Yet this year, in Moscow, thousands of miles from home, they had to keep working even on the first day of the Lunar New Year.
And no one in the inspection delegation complained. Every single one of them was bursting with excitement, faces glowing red, like sales elites decades later charging ahead as though pumped full of stimulants for commissions and performance bonuses.
"Little Li, we'll have to work overtime tonight. These blueprints and materials are far too disorganized. We need to sort them properly, so if anything is missing, we can coordinate with the Industrial Bureau. If we send everything back home in one big muddle, those old masters back there will definitely scold us for being incompetent."
"Huh? Overtime again?"
"Little Li! Among all of us, you're the one from an automobile plant. You're the expert in this field. If we put in a little more effort now, we'll save ourselves ten times the trouble later."
"Right, right, right. Okay, okay. Overtime, overtime."
Li Ye was truly helpless. Even with the physique granted by his transmigrator's perks, he was starting to feel he could not take much more. How were these men and women in their forties and fifties not tired?
Could it be that middle-aged people in the nineties did not need to drink goji berry tea?
But when Li Ye saw several older brothers and sisters staying up until midnight, then hobbling along while clutching their aching lower backs, he knew that after working