I closed my eyes.

"Haha, who are you acting all mysterious for?" A young worker taunted in a whisper.

"Exactly, does he think he's an expert? Just listen, and he'll know the problem."

Melody also frowned, clearly not understanding my actions.

I ignored them, and the entire world seemed to consist of me and this machine. I could hear the subtle sounds inside it—the almost inaudible, abnormal friction between the gears; the extremely subtle, sluggish jolts when the guide rails moved; the faint popping sound of bubbles breaking as lubricating oil flowed in the pipes.

These sounds were a jumble of noise to others, but they were a clear report filled with symptoms to me.

I remained motionless for a full ten minutes.

Then, I straightened up and took off my reading glasses. I repeatedly ran my rough hands over the cold seams of the guide rails, as if caressing a lover's skin. My fingertips could feel the micron-level misalignment and wear.

"How is it?" Melody finally could not help but ask. Her voice had lost its previous disdain, replaced by deep confusion.

I turned to look at her and at Bill and the group of workers who had gathered again at the sound of my voice. I calmly announced my diagnosis. "It's not a circuit problem. The XY-axis linkage transmission module of the machine tool suffered severe impact during transportation or installation, resulting in irreversible loss of mechanical accuracy. My preliminary assessment indicates that the loss is at least 50 micrometers or more."

These words caused an uproar in the workshop, as if a bomb had gone off.

Melody's eyes widened instantly. She strode to the nearby desk, pulled a report from a pile of documents, and held it up to me. "But... But the diagnostic report jointly issued by those eight experts concluded that the main control chip was overloaded and burned out, the driver circuit board was faulty, and they suggested that we replace the entire motherboard and servo system!"

The report highlighted 'Main control chip failure' in bold red, followed by a shocking repair quote of 1.2 million dollars.

My gaze swept over the report as I sneered. "They're wrong."

"How can you be so sure?" Melody pressed with an urgent tone.

I pointed to an inconspicuous hexagonal bolt on the machine tool base. "This bolt is one of the reference bolts that were calibrated horizontally before leaving the factory. Its tightening torque is strictly regulated; the tolerance cannot exceed 0.1 Nm."

I gently rubbed the bolt between my fingers. "But this bolt's torque is incorrect; there are signs of it being tightened twice. Moreover, the method was amateurish. Not only was it not calibrated, but it also disrupted the stress balance established at the factory for the entire base. This is the root cause of the loss of precision."

"As for the circuit alarm..." I paused.

"It was simply a mechanical malfunction that caused excessive load on the servo motor, triggering the system's self-protection mechanism."

The entire workshop fell silent. Everyone stared at me as if I were a monster.

A warehouse manager overturned the conclusions reached by experts using various precision instruments simply by listening and touching.

It was sheer nonsense!

Bill's expression changed constantly. He looked at me and then at the expert report, his eyes a mixture of doubt and shock.

Melody was completely stunned. She looked at me, and the last trace of contempt in her eyes vanished completely, replaced by an unconcealable shock and intense curiosity.

Bill remained grim as he broke the silence. "Talk is cheap. You said you can fix it, so do it. I don't care if you figured it out by hearing or touching. All I want is the result."

"Okay," I replied without any other comments, took off my coat, and wore only an old grey vest.

I took out several strangely-shaped tools from the brand-new Hoffman toolbox. Without a single blueprint or a maintenance manual, I began to disassemble the most crucial transmission component.

Every movement I made had a strange rhythm—loosening which screw, with what force, removing which component, and in what order.

Everything seemed to have been practiced countless times and had become integrated into my muscle memory.

My calloused and scarred hands were now moving nimbly, as if they were dancing.

The onlookers, initially just watching with amusement, pointed and whispered.

"Look at him pretending; it'll be funny when he takes it apart and can't put it back together."

"Exactly, this is Gorman-made. He messed with it without blueprints. He's asking for trouble."

However, the laughter gradually subsided. Everyone fell silent, their gazes shifting from mockery to silence, astonishment, and finally to a near-awe. My actions were utterly inconceivable to these experts.

Melody pulled out a thick, original Gorman repair manual from somewhere. She flipped through the pages rapidly, comparing them to my movements. Her mouth opened wider and wider, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"Gosh... Your operations..." she murmured, her voice trembling. "The manual's... emergency calibration method under extreme conditions... Even... Even our Gorman teachers said that this is only an optimal solution in theory; no one could do it in reality!"

This calibration method demanded an extreme level of skill, experience, and judgment from the operator; even the slightest mistake could render the entire core module unusable.

Without looking up, I focused on measuring the clearance of a ball screw using a special caliper.

I replied casually. "Theory? Twenty years ago in Honover, this is how the veteran DMG technicians taught me, step by step."

I paused as I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked up at Melody's shocked face before calmly revealing my identity. "20 years ago, at DMG headquarters in Honover, Gorman, I was among the first batch of trainees they invited from our country."

My thoughts were instantly transported back to that spirited era.

In my early 20s, I stood before the world's most advanced machine tool, dressed in brand-new blue overalls, my eyes gleaming with a thirst for knowledge.

Beside me were meticulous and rigid Gorman engineers and top technicians from all over the world.

With an unyielding spirit and extraordinary talent, I mastered all the technical points in the shortest time and could even discuss improvement plans with the Gorman masters.

Together, we drank beer, went through drawings, and stayed up all night. We gave each machine we debugged a name.

Back in the present moment, the blond and blue-eyed senior engineer named Klaus patted my shoulder in broken English and said, "Shaun! You're a genius! A true mechanical genius!"

I looked at the dusty machine in front of me, my eyes turning tender. "Back then, its model was still called DMC-60H. We all called it Ingrid. It was like an arrogant and precise Gorman girl. You must treat it with the gentlest and most understanding way, and it will show you its most perfect side. I just... met an old friend I hadn't seen for many years."

Melody was completely speechless. She looked at me, this middle-aged man with a slightly hunched back wearing an old vest, covered in grease stains.

She could not connect the person before her with the one she remembered—a former state-owned enterprise employee reduced to a lowly warehouse manager in a private company.

This stark difference left her mind blank.

"Who... Who are you?" she asked politely, her voice trembling slightly.

I smiled but did not answer. I turned and continued my work. I used a special and almost subtle technique to tap the locking pin of the calibration module. Each tap was executed with terrifying precision. The only sound in the workshop was the crisp, rhythmic tap.

This sound was like a series of heavy hammer blows, striking everyone's hearts. It also shattered the deep-seated arrogance within them that judged a person solely by their education and position.

Three hours later, the mechanical calibration was complete. I closed the last outer casing and tightened the last screw.

The whole process was seamless. After the hundreds of disassembled parts were put back together, there was not a single one left over or missing.

"It's done." I straightened up and let out a long breath.

The entire workshop fell silent. Everyone held their breath, waiting to witness a miracle.

Bill's fists were clenched tightly without him even realizing it, his palms sweaty and his face a mixture of anticipation, tension, and disbelief.

Melody looked at me, her eyes filled with undisguised admiration. She walked to the control panel, took a deep breath, and pressed the green start button with a slightly trembling hand.

Buzz... A steady, pleasant hum of electricity rang, and the machine tool's LCD screen lit up instantly. The various indicator lights flickered in sequence, indicating that the self-test program had begun.

"It's moving! It lit up!" A worker shouted excitedly.

Bill's face instantly showed an ecstatic smile.

It worked!

It really worked!

The piece of metal, condemned to failure by eight experts, had been resurrected by the unassuming warehouse manager!

However, this joy lasted less than ten seconds.

Beep... Beep... Beep...