If parents in Donghai City voted for the high school they most wished their children to attend, Haide High School would top the list without question. Even nationwide, it would still rank firmly within the top ten.
What made Haide High School unique was this: stellar grades alone weren’t enough for admission. Every applicant needed at least one standout talent—music, sports, karate, taekwondo, anything—as proof of what set them apart.
They say when God closes a door, He opens a window. Perhaps to balance my short stature and physically frail frame, He gifted me a sharp mind. From childhood onward, my exam scores never dropped below third in my grade.
When Haide’s acceptance letter finally arrived, my parents were overjoyed. They celebrated with feasts for three whole days and nights, bursting with pride.
But joy is fleeting. At this school brimming with elites, my sole pride—academic excellence—had sunk to merely average class standing.
Before Haide, my grades made me stand out like a crane among chickens. Here? I was just a crane lost in a herd of giraffes.
Add my skinny, bean-sprout-like figure and awkward speech, and I’d made zero new friends. Only my middle school buddy remained by my side.
Next morning at 7 a.m., before I could savor the rare quiet comfort, the cheerful alarm pulled me up. I scrambled out of bed, threw on my uniform, washed quickly, slipped on my round glasses, shouldered my bag, bought a plain steamed bun from a street stall, and hurried toward school while nibbling it.
About the glasses: yes, I was slightly nearsighted—but going without them was fine. Ever since I noticed wearing them drastically reduced gender misunderstandings, I made sure to wear them daily.
After half a year, the route felt effortless: weaving through alleys, one or two subway transfers, arriving at the gate in roughly thirty minutes.
I lifted my gaze to the gleaming golden characters of “Haide High School” above the entrance. Pride swirled in my chest, tinged with subtle nervousness, as I stepped inside.
Student Council members stood at strict attention, checking every student ID before entry. Security guards nearby were fully armed—electric batons and air guns no mere props. In this country, personnel guarding nobles’ and elites’ children wield considerable authority.
Though just a high school, the campus rivaled universities. A ten-minute walk from gate to classroom building passed gymnasiums, pools, labs, admin offices, and competition-grade emerald soccer fields and tennis courts.
Most students carried quiet arrogance. Not all were locals; over half came from across the nation, housed in the eastern dorm district—a rare trait for a high school.
*Sigh…* How I envied those scions of wealthy families… while I still counted pennies over how many buns to buy for lunch.
Glancing west down the path, a glass building caught the sun like a giant rhombus-shaped crystal—unmistakable, dazzling. The Student Council Building.
Only Haide’s true elites could join: top grades, noble connections, exceptional ability. These members had been prodigies since childhood, running the school with flawless order.
Hence its nickname: the “Mini School Committee.”
Their authority neared the School Committee’s. Council officers stood equal with teachers on campus.
Someone like me—a nobody—could never dream of entering.
Yet thinking of the Council, I oddly recalled its current president: Xiao Qingqing, a second-year senior.
I’d never seen this elusive figure, but legends swirled endlessly.
Rumor said she was a Fortune 500 chairman’s daughter, with snow-pale skin and celestial beauty.
That she mastered both academics and martial arts—top grades, taekwondo black belt.
That she even ran a major company between studies and Council duties.
…
“Incomparable” barely covered it. A flawless goddess incarnate. Campus royalty. Gossip fodder over tea and meals.
And everyone knew: Xiao Qingqing despised rule-breaking. Violate her strict codes? The Council could expel you. School discipline was sacred. Any breach faced sanction.
At Haide, holding hands meant probation. A dirty joke could get you reported.
If the school or Council ever learned what I did yesterday…
*Expulsion.* A nightmare!
No! Absolutely no one can know! I must hide it!
Resolve hardened. I stared wide-eyed at the small pond beside me, at my faint reflection rippling in the water, and whispered fiercely:
“Xiao Xi, Xiao Mu— Oops! Xiao Xi… Xiao Xi, grit your teeth! Back at school now—just guard yesterday’s secret carefully. No one will ever know!”
Suddenly, strong arms wrapped firmly around my shoulders.
“Hm? Know what?”
