We soon reached the classroom. Lin Muke went in through the front door; I slipped in through the back—just to avoid trouble.

But after turning it over in my head, the real headache was Fang Liancheng.

This guy was a notorious blabbermouth. You just wanted to slap him silly.

All the way here, I kept thinking: *Surely nothing could’ve happened in such a short time? Fang Liancheng only got to class a little earlier than Lin Muke and me.*

But the moment I settled into my seat and set my satchel down… I finally understood true despair.

In an instant, nearly every boy in class locked eyes on me. Fang Liancheng led the pack, shooting me a look thick with disdain and envy. I could practically read the resentful words etched on their faces:

“Sneak!”

“Traitor to the cause! Traitor to the brotherhood!”

“Burn him at the stake! Chemical castration! Physical castration!”

“Waaah… my goddess…”

…

I silently clenched my fist. So Fang Liancheng was just like Xiao Xian—the type who’d climb onto the roof to tear off tiles if you didn’t keep him in line. I’d find a chance to teach him a lesson.

But the innocent have nothing to fear. I couldn’t actually punch him now, so I pulled out my textbook, buried myself in morning reading, and figured the rumor about Lin Muke and me would fade soon enough.

Seeing I ignored their glares—and realizing I’d already beaten them to the punch—a wave of frustration and dejection washed over the boys. Dejection won. With heavy hearts, they turned back to their desks and began reciting the Chinese textbook in utterly miserable tones.

That morning, Class 3, Grade 1 of Lanling High School filled the hallway with lament. The dean passing by kept glancing in, until he confirmed they were reciting *Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again* from the Grade 10 textbook.

Surprised by their advanced progress, he mused: *To think first-years already grasp the sorrow of parting with one’s alma mater… commendable, yet heartbreaking.*

*Such good kids. The pride of Lanling High!*

He strode off, hands clasped behind his back, walking with a spring in his step—his faith in teaching renewed.

As for me, distracted by Fang Liancheng’s mess, my eyes weren’t on the book. But thanks to my sharp memory, I’d long memorized the poem. So while my gaze wandered, the lines flowed smoothly:

“…I wave my sleeve, taking not a single cloud with me.”

Done. Time to slack off.

But my slacking wasn’t scrolling on phones.

I preferred grinding practice problems during reading—what we called “problem grinding.” My desk and drawer brimmed with subject drills: Huanggang study guides, even the infamous *Five Years of Gaokao, Three Years of Mock Exams*.

How else did I get into this school? My grades ranked among the top freshmen.

As the saying goes: I simply used others’ playtime to study.

Sure, my memory and aptitude were solid—but talent’s one thing; discipline’s another. No such thing as a little genius who knows astronomy and geography without effort.

Homework first, then my own drills. That’s why my assignments were always done before dismissal.

Leaving me free to game while others studied.

—What a little genius I am.