"Has he really decided to leave?"

Su Fangwen murmured, glancing back at an empty seat in the classroom's rear. A trace of loneliness flickered across her face. She’d sensed this yesterday during their parting, so it wasn’t a surprise. What annoyed her was Yan Lingxuan leaving without a word.

It was 8 a.m. The first Chinese class had begun. Head teacher Zhang Yuhua stood by the podium, having students watch an instructional video on the display board—Han Yu’s "On Teachers" by one of the Tang-Song Eight Masters. Hidden speakers flanked the board, reciting the text in a synthesized female voice. Mechanical yet human-like, rhythmic and rhyming.

Midway through the video, Zhang Yuhua leisurely surveyed the class, hands behind her back. She noticed the empty corner seat and Su Fangwen, the class monitor, repeatedly turning her head. To Zhang Yuhua, Yan Lingxuan was troublesome but never seriously broke rules. He submitted homework on time, grades average. Skipping class? A first. Compared to others, he wasn’t bad. She’d message him via Wearable Device after class to ask why.

*Ahem...*

The video cut abruptly. The display shifted to a red-haired man. Eastern European features, light blue eyes staring as if piercing through the screen.

"Hello hello hello..."

He repeated it, as if ensuring they heard.

"This foreign uncle’s here for comedy?"

Wang Dongping muttered. With Yan Lingxuan and two transfers missing today, jealousy gnawed at him.

"I’m sorry to bother you."

"You are now hostages."

His English accent was rough, but most understood. Hostages? What did that mean?

Before confusion settled, a violent crash echoed from the school gate. Three heavy trucks smashed through, speeding onto the playground, kicking up dust.

*Hiss...*

Air brakes screeched. Rear doors flew open. Over a hundred figures poured out like ants, rifles in hand.

"What’s happening?!"

"Guns! They’re holding guns—"

"They’re coming!"

Armed intruders flooded the campus. Panic spread. Not just Class E, Grade 1—every teacher and student at Second High froze in shock.

The red-haired man on-screen chuckled warmly. "Stay calm. Remain in your classrooms, and you won’t be harmed. Run? Bullets will turn you into sieves."

*So you speak Mandarin! Why start with that awful English?*

Unaware of their thoughts, he stepped off-screen. Returned dragging the white-haired principal by the scalp, limp as a dead fish.

"Don’t worry—he’s alive. Just said something I disliked. Now you know your place. Obey me. Resist? Come ready to die. I’d love to..."

He grinned maliciously. That look promised consequences.

*Crash!*

Window glass shattered. Shards scattered. Students near windows screamed—cut by glass, tripping in fright, trampled. Chaos erupted.

*Rat-tat-tat-tat...*

Gunfire followed a second later.

"Firepower’s solid..."

"Haha! Bet these spoiled brats are pissing themselves."

"Rifles handle great—recoil’s nothing."

"Oh yeah!"

"Let’s wreck this place!"

The 158 invaders were Sanjing Street residents—mostly thugs, some ordinary folk. All weary, desperate. Waste Law Society cadres had rallied them eagerly. Bernie promised membership if they succeeded.

Armed and snarling, they marched toward the teaching building.

A fine drizzle sprinkled their faces. Rain?

"Blood?!"

They wiped their cheeks—hands stained crimson. A torso-less body collapsed, flooding the ground red.

"Meng Bo! Control your men. Who authorized firing?"

Bernie Butterworth’s voice cut through, unseen by the 157.

Leading them was Meng Bo, Sanjing Street’s thug boss. Bald, burly, clad in tactical armor hung with bullets and three old detonators. He commanded the street’s criminals.

"Yes! Apologies, Mr. Bernie!"

Meng Bo bowed to empty air. Then whirled, snarling at his crew: "Heed Mr. Bernie! Disobey, and I’ll put a bullet in you first!"

"But boss—you shot first—"

A fist slammed the speaker’s face.

"I rule here. No backtalk!"

Thugs needed brutality to be heard. Yet these terrorists feared death little. They obeyed Meng Bo with cold, false smiles. Empty threats wouldn’t bind them.

"My apologies for the mistake. My men understand now. Students, return to your seats calmly."

Bernie’s on-screen smile oozed false kindness. Only wails answered—from the shot-up classroom.

"Late for introductions, but I’m Bernie Butterworth of the Waste Law Society. You’re our hostages now..."

Class E’s fifty-plus students and their teacher sat stunned, minds blank. Their classroom was untouched—no casualties.

"Yan Lingxuan, you bastard! Why skip class today? Hurry here..."

Su Fangwen’s fear-pale face tightened. She clung to a sliver of hope, praying desperately.

Second High spanned six grades—high and middle school—thirty classes total. Armed thugs soon stormed every room, herding students out.

"Line up! Follow orders! Move to the auditorium!"