Xiangzhou’s Changli High School stood as the city’s most prestigious academy.

Under the iron rule of Principal Chen Zhiyi, it boasted a staggering 97.3% admission rate to top universities. Ruthless policy reigned: miss the cutoff by even one point, and the elite class remained closed.

Twenty-six classes. Seating strictly ranked by scores. Freshman year finals decided if you could even glimpse the heels of Grade 11’s elites.

Take Xinchi No.4 Middle School—where Chen Dao studied—as an example. For “Chen Xiaodao,” Xinchi was just his starting zone. Only after battling countless trials could one reach the foothills of legendary Changli.

Right now, Xia Jiuli sat at seat 11 in Class 4, Grade 11, frowning in quiet worry.

She wasn’t slow—but how *had* she solved those problems?

Right?

Oh, yes, yes, yes…

No, no, no!

Right?

Unlike Chen Dao—who coasted on extracurricular points to avoid failing—she’d studied in university only because nothing else remained.

Now, days after the funeral, she dove straight back into textbooks, scrambling to salvage her shaky knowledge.

Everyone urged rest. She insisted on returning.

Truth was, her drive to study had shattered long ago—back in sophomore year of her past life, and again two weeks ago in this one.

Only one thread held her: the dream of entering university *with* Chen Dao.

She still heard his voice: *“Let’s both crush 985 uni together—*gaga sha*!”* (delivered in that weird accent).

She’d replied then: *“I can’t dance… but I’ll learn.”*

Now she realized—it was “985 university.” Still puzzled by his odd phrasing.

At Chen Dao’s place, she’d skimmed his notes, mapping her own gaps. Slowly piecing knowledge back together.

But heavier than studies weighed another worry: news of her parents’ passing and her disappearance had swept the school.

She was now squarely in the spotlight.

What should’ve stayed within their class blew up after her aunt came searching for a boy named Li Hua.

Classmates offered understanding, sympathy… and confusion. They grasped her absence, mourned her loss—but couldn’t fathom how she calmly analyzed poetry now.

Her deskmate Yu Xin—once a close friend, scorer of a few extra points last exam—was the most baffled.

The cheerful girl she knew had turned quiet, composed.

“Jiuli…”

A gentle poke.

Xia Jiuli’s focus shifted from the *Ballad of Liangzhou* to the slender girl beside her. Hesitating, she murmured:

“Yu—Yu Xin? Something wrong?”

“Call me Xinxin. You used to…”

Yu Xin frowned, small eyes flickering behind thick glasses.

“Oh… what is it?”

Xia Jiuli couldn’t bring herself to say “Xinxin.” They’d drifted after Yu Xin’s early romance sent her to Class 10. Ten years apart—how could she pretend?

“Um… are you okay? Tired? Studying isn’t everything. Rest a bit?”

Her soft concern rippled through the room like a stone in still water. Pens stilled. Heads lifted.

“I’m fine, thanks. Hey—how many rhetorical devices are here?” Xia Jiuli slid the workbook between them, red pen circling her struggle.

Yu Xin froze. No tears. No tremor.

*Elders say: when grief brings eerie calm… something’s wrong.*

Was Jiuli forcing strength? Would she—

*Don’t even think it!*

Jiuli had nearly broken once.

“Um… your last answer, three weeks ago, was near-perfect. This one… barely two points. And your handwriting’s shaky.”

“Are you pushing too hard…?” Yu Xin bit her lip. *Shouldn’t have spoken.*

“Hmph… next time, just say it.”

Xia Jiuli let out a soft chuckle—a bright spring breeze sweeping across stagnant water, stirring the debris.

Her almond eyes settled on “Yumen Pass.” Slender fingers traced “spring breeze” in the final couplet.

*Her spring breeze had already arrived. Last night, he’d sent his buckwheat noodle and egg set meal.*

“I’m truly okay. Life goes on. Thank you… don’t worry.” She smiled, patting Yu Xin’s shoulder lightly.

Yu Xin couldn’t know: Xia Jiuli had lived two lives. Failed a decade-long search for meaning. Then found it—right beside her.

She’d long had her own spring breeze. Even if it couldn’t blow from Xinchi to Xiangzhou, her Yumen Pass already bore Chen Dao’s name.

…Though that friend had gone silent after asking her school yesterday.

*Hope he found a study partner to leech off. That knowledge vampire’s so thirsty even struggling students pay tolls.*

“Just walk me through this problem? I’ve cried so much these two weeks… all my knowledge drained away!”