"So you want to be a teacher at our school?"

The bald old man, round as a ball from head to toe, asked.

"Yes. This school is the only place I can turn to right now."

The old man sat in his swivel chair, leaning back as he examined the file in his hands.

Twenty years old. Zeming. Graduated from Central High School. No college records. His social history listed only three stints volunteering at nursing homes and orphanages. No strengths in combat or sports.

By any normal standard, he was just an ordinary guy—one of those without a college degree applying for a job these days.

"Mr. Zeming, let me be clear: our school isn’t some second-rate academy. We don’t accept just anyone."

The old man pursed his lips, blowing one side of his mustache upward. His wrinkled brow furrowed deeply as he set the flimsy file—thinner than a one-yuan coin—aside on his desk.

Zeming seemed to anticipate this. He took a deep breath.

"So it’s a no, then."

If that was the case, he had nothing left to hide.

Zeming yanked off his necktie with a careless tug. His white suit jacket hung half-on, half-off his shoulders. Ah, freedom—finally unshackled from that stifling outfit. Why couldn’t clothes have more breathable holes?

"What? Giving up already? At least be polite and hold out till the end."

"No need. I’m good at reading eyes. You could’ve rejected me right away. That firm disgust for an ordinary person? Crystal clear, no explanation needed."

Zeming crossed his legs, slouching deeper into his chair.

"Hmm. That’s actually a useful skill for a teacher... Second interview starts now. Tell me, what are you good at?"

A second interview? Was this a bonus chance? Zeming could hardly believe it.

The old man stroked his beard, eyes lifting to study Zeming.

"Eating, sleeping, and beating Bubble."

"Who’s Bubble?"

"My dog. I don’t enjoy hitting him—it’s just that he always looks thrilled afterward. Rubbing his neck isn’t enough; he prefers a good punch or two."

"And where’s your Bubble now?"

"Well... Two years ago, he lost all energy. Hitting him did nothing—he seemed unsatisfied. Then one day, he ran straight into a speeding truck. You know the rest. *Whoosh*—he flew up. When we collected his body, his face was... blissful."

What a bizarre dog breed.

"Never mind that. Why did you want to teach at our high school?"

"...Future Origin—that’s your school’s name, right? It’s got everything: living quarters, entertainment facilities, balanced teacher lunches prepared by chefs from around the world. Endless holidays, free five-star trips while students compete... Generous pay and prestige. Isn’t that what any teacher would want?"

"You’re not wrong. But we train Heroes here. It’s troublesome for ordinary people. I don’t recommend it for someone like you."

*Exactly my hidden identity—a nobody, even in society.*

"That’s what I thought."

"Your high school grades were consistently mid-to-upper tier across all subjects. No weaknesses. Even in our pre-interview survey, you ranked like that among everyone. Impressive."

The old man spoke slowly, a faint smile creeping onto his lips.

"There are plenty stronger than me."

"But they all have glaring weaknesses—lopsided skills, you might say. Besides, this class will be grueling. Most would avoid it."

"I get it. You think I’m great at enduring and can handle two teachers’ workloads alone? I’m just a cost-saving plan?!"

Zeming felt a job might be possible, but why did this sting so much?

"Congratulations, Mr. Zeming. You’ve got the job. Start tomorrow?"

The old man tossed Zeming’s file into the trash, stood up smiling, and offered a welcoming handshake.

"You refused me earlier. Now I’m hired?"

"Ordinary people like you are rare. And boring personalities? Absolute gems."

"This... makes me want to punch someone."

"Congratulations!" The old man shook Zeming’s hand vigorously, grinning like a different person. "You’re married? I never would’ve guessed."

"Most think I look unreliable—lazy, even. But I have a daughter to care for. Work’s unavoidable."

"Then enjoy this place. Do your best."

*Do my best?* His office and classroom were in that distant, overgrown building—swallowed by weeds and insects. Even the pioneers had forgotten it existed.

Just like him, nearly erased from memory.

"A battery has three parts: cells, a protection circuit, and a casing. A good battery hinges on cell quality and circuit safety. Faulty cells can explode. To prevent that, legit manufacturers add circuit protection against short circuits."

"Teacher, we’re not terrorists. Why learn this?"

The blue-haired girl in the front row raised her hand. Her delicate voice and elegant posture radiated curiosity—more than Zeming felt for cute animals.

He’d scolded her many times about that white beret. *Hats block the view for others during class.*

"Because I want to teach it. Problem?"

The classroom was eerily quiet.

"But Teacher, can’t we learn something useful? Lithium battery bombs sound terrifying."

The muscular guy in the back—brown-haired, buzz-cut, deceptively lean under his clothes—spoke up.

"Not scary at all! This is for your safety. Say you’re captured with just basic materials and two batteries. You could blast an escape route. Aim at people, not walls."

"Hmm... Your logic is... unmatched, Teacher."

"Batteries are easy to carry—walkmans, toys, flashlights..."

"Who even has those now?"

"I do."

Zeming pulled out a chunky vintage phone—thick enough to crack walnuts—and pried the back open with a *crack*. A square battery glinted inside.

"That’s a relic from half a century ago," Yunhu Li muttered, frowning.

*Teacher’s lessons really are useless.*

"Nonsense! Older things have more life. You think this is pointless?" Zeming gave up on Yunhu Li, turning to the obedient girl beside him. "Elifys, what do you think?"

"Low practicality."

Even his well-behaved student had turned against him!

"Damn it!"

*Where’s a teacher’s last shred of dignity?*

Just as he sighed, a phone rang and the classroom alarm blared. Zeming grinned. Perfect timing.

The two students perked up, eager. As newly registered D-rank Heroes, this was their chance to shine.

"It’s a minor alert—probably a fight or robbery. Perfect! I’ll prove my point!"

Zeming ripped open his suit jacket. Wires and tiny timers were taped to batteries on both sides, some stuffed into bubbling liquid-filled bottles.

Homemade mini-bombs. He’d waited ages for this moment.

"TEACHER! THAT’S ILLEGAL!!"