A Confession Beneath the Galaxy — Getting Close to Wang Ji, Researcher at the College of Computer Science, National University of Defense Technology

A Confession Beneath the Galaxy — Getting Close to Wang Ji, Researcher at the College of Computer Science, National University of Defense Technology (Part II)

■ PLA Daily Correspondents Wang Tonghua, Zhang Lin, Wang Tianyi; Special Correspondent Xu Xin

Wang Ji attending a working discussion meeting. Photo by PLA Daily correspondent Luan Cheng.

Above, there is a Milky Way — countless stars forming a river, stretching across the vault of heaven, brilliant for ten thousand years.

Below, there is a "Galaxy" (银河) — on the banks of the Xiang River, at the National University of Defense Technology (NUDT), the "Galaxy" team has lit a beam of Eastern starlight on the global map of computing power.

In one lifetime, how many roads must a person walk before encountering a river that belongs to them?

Wang Ji, researcher at NUDT's College of Computer Science, was not yet 14 years old when he first encountered this "Galaxy." The young boy plunged headlong into it and became part of "Galaxy." From that moment on, his eyes were filled with nothing but the scattered starlight of the Galaxy.

Who would he meet? What would he most want to say? Beneath the Galaxy, every flicker of starlight seems to be his heartfelt confession.

From a Single Beam of Light to a River —

"I Am a Star in the Galaxy; the Galaxy Spirit Illuminates Me"

In the early hours of that morning in 2013, Wang Ji collapsed from illness. Those who came to visit him had prepared a stomach full of comforting words, but standing at his bedside, no one could get them out — because Wang Ji smiled first. Moving his fingers, he said: "My brain and my hands aren't broken. As long as I can type on a keyboard, I'm fine."

The seed of resilience had long been planted in his heart. In that moment, the past came flooding back.

The year Wang Ji walked through the gates of NUDT, he was not yet 14. That same year, the "Galaxy-I" (银河-Ⅰ) supercomputer burst onto the scene, making China the third country capable of independently designing and manufacturing a supercomputer.

During his graduate studies, his advisor Chen Huowang would always tell him stories about the "Galaxy" team. "Sitting on an old sofa at home, my advisor would talk while tracing the shape of punch cards in the air with his hands." At the time, Wang Ji was just over 20. His advisor's words fell into his heart one by one, like nails driven into wood.

Later, Wang Ji witnessed too many scenes like this: researchers staying up until dawn over a single line of parameters, arguing until their faces turned red over a single bug, then patting each other on the shoulder the next morning and saying "let's go again"; people collapsing from exhaustion in the computer room. He listened to the sound of keyboards merging into a continuous roar, like rain — "rain" that fell night after night — as the speed of China's supercomputers leaped from "hundreds of millions of operations" to "hundreds of trillions of operations."

Inside "Tianhe Tower" (天河楼) hangs a bronze plaque engraved with a sentence: "The Galaxy is connected to Zhongnanhai." This is also the voice of Wang Ji and his colleagues — every breakthrough made here carries the earnest expectations of the Party and the nation.

In 2008, Wang Ji's advisor Chen Huowang fell critically ill and kept calling Wang Ji's name in his final days. At the time, southern China was in the grip of an ice and snow disaster; flights were grounded and trains suspended. Wang Ji, away on a business trip, went to extraordinary lengths to make it back to Changsha and saw his advisor one last time.

The moment they met, his advisor asked: "Is the research project progressing smoothly?" In that instant, Wang Ji understood — for a "Galaxy person," even when breathing stops, the cause does not.

Here, certain sounds and certain images have diffused into the air and long since become part of the very act of breathing. Ci Yungui, the chief designer of "Galaxy-I," already past sixty, made a vow: "Even if it costs me this old life, I will get China's supercomputer built!" In the terminal stage of a fatal illness, Jian Xianfu continued working from his hospital bed; at 43, he passed away in the ward after writing the supercomputer's standard subroutines. Stricken by disease, Wang Yumin said not a word; at 41, he collapsed with a test pen still in his hand. Running a high fever that would not break, Yu Wulong held his post; at 36, he kept working for five days and five nights through illness before closing his eyes forever.

"The reason the Galaxy is brilliant is that every star is shining." Wang Ji said that after spending so long immersed in the "Galaxy" team, without anyone having to teach you, you know what must be relinquished and what must be held fast.

Two years after his illness, Wang Ji returned to his post. As the car drove into the campus and the three characters "Galaxy Building" (银河楼) struck his eyes, he sat in the car for a long time, composing himself. The scenes that had appeared countless times in his dreams became, in that moment, impossibly vivid.

During the time he was away, the "Galaxy people" had not stopped. In June 2013, Tianhe-2 was successfully developed; thereafter, the college won multiple National Science and Technology Progress Awards, and the team he belonged to also received a Second Prize National Teaching Achievement Award. "Even though I was temporarily off the track, I could always hear my comrades' running footsteps," he said.

During that period, colleague Chen Zhenbang led the charge on a national key laboratory project, taking the team through round after round of testing and parameter tuning, hitting every project milestone without fail. Colleague Chen Liqian led a team with an average age under 30, throwing themselves into a cutting-edge technology direction. They wrote code and built prototypes day and night. At the busiest times, the team was simultaneously pushing forward several major projects, and some people set up cots in the computer room.

A documentary left Wang Ji with an unforgettable image — a horse trapped in a swamp, impossible to pull out no matter what. A farmer brought a herd of horses to run circles around it; the trapped horse struggled and clawed its way out through the vibrations of its companions' galloping, and finally broke free.

"I was that horse," Wang Ji said. "After falling ill, the reason I was able to pull through was that the team was there beside me. It's like fighting in the same trench — everyone is moving forward, and everyone is also holding you up as you move forward."

After Wang Ji returned, his colleagues discussed whether to hold a welcome ceremony, but ultimately dropped the idea. "Because the best welcome ceremony is to produce worthy results and share them with him!"

Chen Zhenbang recalled that on that day in the conference room, colleagues competed to report on their project progress, and Wang Ji smiled with particular joy, as if he had never left.

Rejoining the ranks, setting out again. From then on, one more sleepless light was added to the night.

In countless late nights, gazing at the lights of "Galaxy Building" and "Tianhe Tower," Wang Ji thought of his advisor, his predecessors, and the many comrades who had marched forward at his side, and felt that he was not alone: "I am a star in the Galaxy; the Galaxy spirit (银河精神) illuminates me, and I too must strive to emit my own light."

From One Person to One Family —

"Eyes Fixed Forward, Walking Forward Together"

Wang Ji's wife Huang Chun had never imagined that signing her name could feel so heavy.

In the deep of that night in early 2013, the lights in the hospital corridor were a ghastly white, and the surgical consent form was dense with text. The doctor stood across from her, explaining the risks — "a mortality rate as high as 20%."

She gripped the pen, her fingertips ice-cold. "The tip of the pen pressed against the paper, but I couldn't summon any strength; my hand was shaking badly."

Back home, her daughter, just over two years old, was sleeping soundly. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the boundless darkness outside the window, thinking of her paralyzed father-in-law and her critically ill husband, and tears came flooding out.

That night, this "Tianhe" woman warrior (天河女将) forcefully wiped away her tears and told herself: "Let the grief come freely, but let it pass quickly. This family cannot fall."

From that point on, she never cried again. Over six months, more than ten surgeries, dozens of critical-condition notifications. Every risk disclosure form was signed by Huang Chun; her hand went from trembling to steady.

When Wang Ji came to, the first thing he saw was Huang Chun's gentle smile as she leaned over him. "Wang Ji, you're awake…" she called softly, as if he had merely slept a long sleep.

Wang Ji did not know how many cold notification forms his wife had signed during that time, how many sleepless nights she had endured on the long benches in the hospital corridor. All he saw was her warm smile.

Later, someone asked Huang Chun how she had gotten through those days. She smiled and said: "The difficulties were only temporary. My responsibility was to take good care of the family and do my work well."

Huang Chun — a core member of the "Tianhe" team and chief designer of the compiler system. Through those grueling days, she set up her laptop at her husband's bedside, keeping watch over Wang Ji while writing code.

After Wang Ji woke from the intensive care unit, bandages still wrapped around him, a laptop was already propped up at his bedside. The two of them each occupied a corner of the hospital room, heads down over their respective tasks, occasionally looking up to exchange a glance. There was no breakdown of "what do we do now," only the companionship of "thank goodness you're here." Through the posture of standing side by side, she told him: we are still on the same front line.

Wang Ji would sometimes stop and look at her from across the room. Huang Chun, head bent over her keyboard, her profile bleached white by the screen's glow, brow slightly furrowed. She was there, and he felt completely at ease.

Three months after his illness, Liu Guizhi — who had been at home caring for her paralyzed husband — called Wang Ji for the first time. She gripped the receiver tightly, took a deep breath, and said: "Son! There are plenty of people who are physically disabled but not in spirit! If you can't face this, people can only sigh and say, 'What a pity about that child.' If you can face it, everyone will reach out a hand and give you a push!"

"Mom, I'll do as you say." On the other end of the line, Wang Ji's voice was the same as always.

"If you listen to your mother, your mother can rest easy." She put down the phone and sat for a long time, tears streaming down her face. She knew that the breath of resolve in her son's heart had been drawn up.

Later, someone asked her where she found such confidence. Liu Guizhi said: "As long as his mind is intact, he will definitely stand back up." But she knew in her heart that her son's survival had not depended on him alone. That night, school leaders rushed to the hospital and earnestly told the doctors: "Save him at any cost!"

"Wang Ji's life was saved by the organization." She said this to everyone. "If the school and the hospital had not done everything in their power to treat him, my son would have been gone long ago."

"The only thing you can do is to do your work well. However you repay the organization, it is only right." His mother's words were carved into Wang Ji's heart from that moment on.

In 2021, Wang Ji was diagnosed with uremia and needed to go to Nanjing for treatment. At the time, the new-generation Tianhe supercomputer was entering its final critical push, and Huang Chun needed to go to Tianjin for integrated testing. She hesitated; before she could say a word, Wang Ji said: "Go without worry. I'll be fine."

Huang Chun arranged a leave of absence for their daughter, who was in primary school, and brought her along. Every day she worked from early morning until deep into the night; their daughter would sit alone in the Tianhe computer room doing homework and reading, and when she saw that everyone was too busy, she would proactively hand over screwdrivers and stick on labels. Everyone called her "Tianhe's little tail."

Over those two months, every time Wang Ji called, he said "I'm doing fine." Later, Huang Chun learned that on several occasions his blood pressure had dropped too low after dialysis, and he had to lie in bed for a long time before he could sit up.

This is the deepest unspoken understanding of this family: never let your own hardship become the other person's burden.

Colleagues said this couple truly had big hearts — "their hearts are filled entirely with big things." Wang Ji smiled and said: "People with big hearts are blessed."

In 1997, Wang Ji and Huang Chun took half a day off to go to the civil affairs bureau to register their marriage, then went back to work in the afternoon and continued working overtime in the evening. No wedding, no honeymoon. The couple felt that "the way to love your family is to do the nation's work well together." One month later, "Galaxy-III" (银河-Ⅲ) officially passed its acceptance review. Huang Chun later said that was their most precious wedding gift.

What is family? Wang Ji said: "Family means eyes fixed forward, walking forward together."

Today, Wang Ji sits and Huang Chun pushes; the silhouettes of the two of them are woven into the scenery of the campus and into the hearts of many more people. The morning light sometimes stretches the outlines of the wheelchair and its occupant very long — one tall, one low — yet always pointing in the same direction.

From a Pair of Hands to Countless Hearts —

"This World Is Beautiful; I Am Not Afraid to Go Out and Travel Far"

Professor Wang Ting's car trunk has a space permanently reserved in it, enough to hold a folding wheelchair.

Every morning, Wang Ting drives around to the foot of Wang Ji's building. Wang Ting gets out first, opens the passenger door, then helps Wang Ji into the car. At the end of the workday he drives him back, watches Wang Ji wheel himself into the elevator, and only then turns to leave.

Eight years. Nearly 3,000 mornings and evenings.

Someone asked Wang Ting how he had kept it up. His eyes grew moist: "Wang Ji has a kind of force about him — once you get close, you don't want to leave."

Around Wang Ji, there is more than one "Wang Ting."

After Wang Ji was hospitalized, colleagues spontaneously drew up a duty roster, taking turns delivering meals, providing care, and looking after his elderly parents. Some came straight to the hospital after a night shift; some brought homemade soup in insulated containers; some sat with Wang Ji's mother and talked, staying for an entire afternoon.

That duty roster is still posted on the cabinet by his front door. The paper has long since yellowed and curled at the edges, but every name and every time slot remains legible. Every time he passes it, Wang Ji's gaze lingers briefly. That single glance says more than a thousand words.

The night neighbor Liang Yan took Wang Ji's daughter away was the life-or-death moment of Wang Ji's surgery. The child, two years and seven months old, cried and fussed without stopping; Liang Yan held her tightly in her arms and sat through the entire night.

She cared for the child for a full year. When Liu Guizhi tried to give her a caretaking fee, Liang Yan held back tears and said: "Grandmother, if it were for money, I would not have taken this child, because the responsibility is too great. I cannot bear to watch such an outstanding family collapse because of this misfortune. Please never bring up money again." After that, Liang Yan's family also took over cooking meals for the elderly woman, and came monthly to cut hair, change light bulbs, and handle plumbing and electrical repairs.

"In five years, two major upheavals in the family were nothing short of a catastrophic blow to me… and the selfless dedication of Liang Yan's family let me feel the true warmth of humanity." Liu Guizhi wrote sincerely in a nomination letter; Liang Yan was consequently recognized as a "Changsha Good Person · Neighborhood Lei Feng."

On a snowy night in 2017, physician Yu Fang received a call from Wang Ji. The amputation wound had become red, swollen, and bleeding from prolonged pressure while sitting. After examining the wound, Yu Fang scolded Wang Ji for not taking care of himself. Wang Ji smiled faintly: "I have to work."

A person without both legs — not only working, but also traveling on business trips. In all her years working in orthopedics, Yu Fang had never seen anything like it. She silently and carefully debrided the wound, then proactively came to his home multiple times afterward to change the dressings: "I can't explain why — I just felt I had to come."

The first time community Party secretary Zhang Jinhua stepped into Liu Guizhi's home, the pile of instant noodles in the kitchen stung her. "From now on, one phone call and the food arrives!" For ten years without exception, hot meals have been delivered on time. The staff's words were plain and warm: "Your son and daughter-in-law are soldiers defending the homeland. They charge to the front; we take care of you — that is how we guard the rear."

Fate had taken some things away, yet at the deepest valley of his life, it let Wang Ji see the most brilliant light of the human constellation — the goodwill of those who, asking nothing in return, still bent down to draw close to him at his lowest point.

From a pair of hands to countless hearts, this goodwill continued to extend. During his treatment at the Eastern Theater Command General Hospital (东部战区总医院), Wang Ji worked whenever he could find a gap between dialysis sessions. The medical staff urged him to rest, but no one could persuade him. "Don't worry — it will get better." Faced with anxious medical personnel, he instead smiled and reassured them.

After Wang Ji was discharged, staff from the Eastern Theater Command General Hospital specifically sought out the school and insisted on writing a report about him: "We have treated many patients, but a person like Wang Ji is someone you encounter perhaps once in a lifetime. He taught us that a person's body can be confined by illness, but the spirit cannot."

This is a scene often visible at Changsha Huanghua Airport — Wang Ji, seated in his wheelchair, traveling on business trips just as before. That figure left a deep impression on airport worker Wang Dan: "Especially his smile — it is particularly healing."

"This world is beautiful; I am not afraid to go out and travel far." Wang Ji said that over the years he has encountered too many warm-hearted people who proactively lent a hand. "Without everyone's help, I could not manage on my own. My ability to continue taking on assignments after falling ill is in fact the trust of the organization and of everyone around me. My ability to travel to various places on business trips may look like one person going alone, but in reality it is the support of a collective, of a society."

From a Single Pen to a Blazing Fire —

"Every Step You Take Is Paving the Road for Those Who Come After"

What kind of teacher is a good teacher? Wang Ji answered without hesitation: a teacher like his advisor Chen Huowang.

From his advisor Chen Huowang's hands, Wang Ji received the mantle. He carried on his advisor's "whiteboard teaching method" (白板教学法): one pen, one whiteboard, guiding students to derive and prove step by step.

One weekend, a master's student complained in a group chat about the difficulty of the Mathematical Logic course. Wang Ji saw it and immediately replied: "Anyone who wants to learn — come to the small conference room."

That day, Wang Ji sat before the whiteboard, one hand braced on the wheelchair armrest to steady himself, the other hand sweeping the pen across the board to derive formulas. For a full two hours, dense formulas climbed across the whiteboard like vines; he did not take a single sip of water, and the students watched with their mouths agape.

"Writing by hand exposes gaps in thinking."

At the weekly academic discussions, students write on the board and explain; he sits in his wheelchair, pressing and guiding with questions, often leaving students feeling they have "shed a layer of skin" — yet also having "grown a backbone."

On one occasion, doctoral student Liu Xingpeng argued with Wang Ji for over an hour about a point in his thesis, and neither could convince the other. Wang Ji sighed: "How can you not see this — you're even more Yu Shiwen than Yu Shiwen." Yu Shiwen was Liu Xingpeng's senior fellow student, famously stubborn. Having said it, Wang Ji laughed first.

After the argument, it was time for a meal. Wang Ji sat in his wheelchair; Liu Xingpeng pushed him to the cafeteria. The two of them chatted idly, as if nothing had happened. "When we argue, neither gives an inch; when it's over, he's still my teacher and I'm still his student, and we eat our meal." Liu Xingpeng said with a smile.

Inheritance is not mere replication — it also requires collision. "Through collision, they grow faster." The gaze Wang Ji turns on his students is full of hope: "I want them to grow up as quickly as possible, to take over as quickly as possible."

Professor Liu Wanwei was one of Wang Ji's most outstanding students in those years. During his master's studies, Wang Ji noticed Liu Wanwei's talent in mathematics and directly pushed him onto the podium for the graduate problem-solving class. The large classroom was packed; Liu Wanwei walked to the podium with trepidation, but the more he taught, the steadier he became, and the better he got.

In his day, Wang Ji too had been pushed onto the podium by his advisor.

At a 1992 international academic symposium, advisor Chen Huowang pushed the fledgling Wang Ji onto an international stage to deliver a report in English. His palms were sweating with nerves. "You can do it — speak boldly!" His advisor's trust was an anchor. When the applause broke out, a Danish scholar remarked: "Huowang always wants to push his students to the very forefront."

Today, Wang Ji has become that kind of advisor himself, pushing his students one by one toward a broader world. Wang Ji encourages students to go out and attend conferences, broaden their horizons, and provides as many academic opportunities as possible. Student Wang Peijie said with longing that if she could one day stay in the research group and work with Professor Wang, it would be a very happy thing.

Today, Liu Wanwei's students have also stepped onto the podium. His doctoral student Yi Xin graduated and stayed at the school, and has grown into a backbone of the team. The way Liu Wanwei mentors Yi Xin is unmistakably a "replica" of Wang Ji — deriving at the whiteboard, pressing with questions, starting over.

One pen, one whiteboard, three generations of teachers and students, passing on the same rigor and passion, flame to flame.

As graduation approached, student Zhou Jingwen was anxious to publish papers and entertained the idea of "padding the numbers first and lowering the standard." When Wang Ji found out, he said only one thing: "Scholarship is a lifelong matter. When you one day have results that can stand on their own, and you look back at this paper written just to pad the count, you will feel it is not fit to be shown."

From that point on, this sentence was like a needle, puncturing every impulse Zhou Jingwen had to take the easy way out.

In July of this year, the teaching team Zhou Jingwen belongs to successively won the Grand Prize at the National Digital-Intelligent Education Innovation Competition (全国数智教育创新大赛) and the Grand Prize for Outstanding Teaching Courseware at the National Higher Education Computer Curriculum Conference (全国高等学校计算机课程教育大会). The course their team presented in competition, Introduction to University Computing (大学计算机基础), is the MOOC course Wang Ji originally created. That course was the one Wang Ji, after lying unconscious for days and finally waking, still kept thinking about — the course that "cannot stop."

After winning the award, Wang Ji sent his congratulations at the first opportunity. In that moment, Zhou Jingwen suddenly understood: "No matter how far I go, the teacher is always watching."

Wang Ji still has more than ten master's and doctoral students under his supervision. Whenever he is not receiving treatment, Wang Ji is always in the office. "Online is not the same as face to face. I want to be closer to the students, closer to 'Galaxy.'" That figure in the wheelchair has become a reassuring lighthouse for the teaching and research office.

In the memory of student Zhang Zhihang, Professor Wang Ji keeps his phone in the most visible spot on his desk at all times — not to check the time, but to wait for messages from students. "Whether it's late at night or on a weekend, as long as a student sends a question, he replies almost instantly." When students asked him why he responds so quickly, he said: "The fact that you are willing to ask me shows you trust me. If I don't answer right away, I might hold up your thinking."

One weekend, student Cai Yali walked out of the laboratory late at night and saw that the light in the adjacent office was still on: "Professor Wang was sitting in his wheelchair, body leaning slightly forward, fingers flying across the keyboard, the screen filled with dense lines of code."

"Professor Wang doesn't stand on the bank teaching swimming — he jumps into the water and paddles alongside the students." During one project push, Wang Ji worked overtime until the early hours for several consecutive days. Yet at the next day's group meeting, he was still full of energy, listening to every student's report. After the meeting, one student quietly said: "Professor, please get some rest." He waved it off and said: "You're all charging forward — I can't stop. The Galaxy spirit (银河精神) is not something you shout; it's something you do."

One person, a group of people, several generations of people. Light is passed on this way — never the burning of a single person, but one igniting another, one illuminating another.

When the reporter was conducting interviews, a new cohort of doctoral dissertation defenses happened to be underway, and Wang Ji, serving as a reviewer, was in back-to-back sessions nearly every day. During those days, no fatigue showed on his face — instead, there was excitement and gratification.

The way those young people defended their dissertations looked very much like the person who had once handed them the pen. In this moment, Wang Ji especially wanted to send them one sentence: "You have grown faster than I imagined. Every step you take is paving the road for those who come after."

Wheeling through the campus, looking at one young face after another, Wang Ji's heart is often stirred by a particular sense of mission and happiness — "the belonging of a drop of water merging into a great river, and the call of the wave ahead to the wave behind."

Above, the Milky Way flows on through the ages; below, the "Galaxy" surges ever forward.

"Every star is striving to shine; every beam of light is quietly passing on the torch." This silent brilliance is the deep and enduring confession of the "Galaxy people" and "Tianhe people" to their country, to their era, and to one another.