Boarding the plane, first class.
The moment Song He entered, he froze. There was a... hobo in first class!
The man had messy hair and an unshaven face, his cheeks as gaunt as a goat's. His black padded jacket and trousers were so filthy they gleamed with grease, and they gave off a faint, strange odor.
The man sat with his legs crossed, the toes of a pair of mud-spattered sneakers—unwashed for at least five years—swaying back and forth.
A thick stack of white paper rested on his lap. The hobo held a mechanical pencil and was intensely scribbling all over it.
Song He took his seat, still shaken. A hobo couldn't possibly have made it into first class, but this man's appearance was unbelievably rough. Could he be some kind of artist?
The plane roared into the air.
The hobo kept filling one sheet of paper after another, tearing each one off, crumpling it into a ball, and throwing it onto the floor.
The area around his seat soon filled with paper balls, like a huge pile of popcorn, all round and huddled together.
The plane turned, tilting slightly.
With a rustling sound, the mass of paper balls began to roll, like little animals chasing one another. Before long, they reached Song He's feet.
Song He had been scrolling through papers on his phone. Seeing the paper balls rolling toward him from the corner of his eye, he couldn't resist. Perhaps they were abandoned drafts from an artist?
He picked up one of the balls and unfolded it, then froze.
Formulas!
The entire sheet was covered in mathematical formulas from top to bottom. The handwriting was as wild as cursive written in a drunken frenzy, but he could still vaguely make out many familiar formulas.
*What the hell? Could