If the mood of the classroom could be described in one word, it would be: dood.
"In addition to Wang Jingyua , who had the audacity to arrive late," she said, voice sharp and deadly, "There are still students who failed to submit their howork."
Even those who were dozing off a second ago were suddenly sitting upright, as if puppet strings had yanked them to attention.
"I think you’ve all been a little too relaxed lately," she continued, gaze sweeping over the class like a sniper looking for her next target.
Silence.
"You can’t even finish your howork properly? What are you even doing at ho? Watering your houseplants? Baking cookies?"
No one dared to laugh.
"This is, without a doubt," she pressed both hands on the podium, "the worst class I have ever taught. You’re all supposed to be geniuses. Do you think that gives you a free pass? That I’ll go easy on you just because of your test scores?"
Heads dropped lower, like flowers wilting in a storm.
She smiled. But it was the kind of smile villains wear before pressing the detonate button.
"In the future, can I even count on you to bring glory to this school? To win provincial awards?"
Everyone inwardly scread: Ma’am, we can’t even win rock-paper-scissors against Class 9. Please lower your expectations.
Zhao Minghua said with a sullen face, "Class Representative, go to my office and bring back the printed papers. For this class, we will work on these papers. Hand them in after class and I will grade them."
The mont she said that, the class rep practically teleported out the door. A flash of white uniform, the sound of skidding shoes, and he was gone—leaving behind only a slight breeze and a faint help in his wake.
anwhile, Lu Qingyan was experiencing a full spiritual collapse.
I’m dood. She stared blankly at her desk. I haven’t even finished yesterday’s howork, and now she’s adding a tid drill on top of it? Why not just ask to solve world peace while we’re at it?
At that mont, a familiar sigh ca from her right.
"Sister Hua must be really mad this ti," whispered Peng Jianda, her round and perpetually anxious deskmate. "Every ti she’s mad, she gives us more assignnts instead of yelling."
He paused dramatically. "She’s the type who seethes."
Lu Qingyan gave him a look full of silent camaraderie. We are fellow soldiers on a sinking ship.
When the practice papers arrived, the classroom went from tense to warzone. Pens scribbled like machine guns, papers flipped like gunfire shells, and even the quietest students were gritting their teeth as they solved integrals like their lives depended on it.
She took out a scratch paper and started calculating.
But heaven had other plans.
And as fate would have it—this pen chose today, of all days, to rebel.
It started skipping ink.
She scribbled a few tis. The lines ca out like ghost handwriting—half-visible, half-wishing-it-was-dead.
Panicking, she reached into her desk drawer to find... nothing.
No backups. No pencils. No markers. Not even a rogue crayon from art class.
As a high school student, she actually only had one pen!
Lu Qingyan took a deep breath and looked up at the clock in the classroom.
Not good, I need to borrow a pen.
She glanced at the clock. Ti was ticking.
I need to borrow a pen.
Her first target: Xiaohei, Tang Jie, the boy in front of her.
A known cheater-protection activist, he now had his pencil case up like a barrier wall, covering his paper with the urgency of a man guarding national secrets. When she leaned forward slightly, he turned his head and silently mouthed: I won’t show you.
Lu Qingyan: "..."
Why are you constantly guarding against ?
Do you think I want your answers??
Sir, I’m not trying to steal your answers. I’m trying to survive.
Fine. If Tang Jie was going to act like she was here to seduce him into committing academic fraud, she’d find soone else.
Lu Qingyan turned her head to the left instead.
Wang Jingyuan.
A.K.A. the school’s cold-faced God of Study, her seatmate, and unfortunately, the antagonist of this story.
Compared to Tang Jie, her seatmate Wang Jingyuan was far more magnanimous. Without concealing anything, he held a pen as he calculated before he filled in the answers.
He just wrote. Calm, precise, chanical. His pale hand glided across the page with cruel elegance. The black pen in his fingers seed to flow like a sword in a wuxia drama.
She stared for a mont, hypnotized.
Then caught a glimpse of the small band-aid on his hand.
Suddenly, all her bravery evaporated.
Nope. Not asking him. In the original novel, Wang Jingyuan was the reason why the original host "disappeared" (died). If I speak to him, he might just toss out the window.
Still, she tried her luck with the classmate in front of her—tapped their back gently.
No reaction.
She tapped again.
Nothing.
But the classmate seated in front of her was so imrsed in his writing that it seed like his life was at risk. Lu Qingyan gently patted his back, but he did not react at all.
Was he dead? ditating? Communing with the math gods?
Was this being so focused that it weakened one’s senses?
Forget it, I can’t rely on anyone, it seems like I can only rely on myself.
She began a sad, repetitive routine: scribble, shake pen, scribble, shake harder, scribble aggressively—until she looked like soone mid-exorcism.
If the ink is stuck, maybe a little shake will fix it.
Therefore, Lu Qingyan started the arduous journey of where she shook her pen one mont and answered questions the next. She felt like she was convulsing as she constantly shook her pen.
As she reached the more complex questions towards the end, the strength and power she needed in order to shake the ink out had increased.
When the class bell rang, the class representative stood up and said, "Turn in your papers."
Lu Qingyan still had one question left.
But the pen refused to cooperate and there was no ink even after she shook it for a while.
Her temper flared and she shook it twice with all her strength.
Cheap pen, are you lacking shakes?
Co on!!
We can mutually hurt each other!!
At this mont, a miracle happened—
After Lu Qingyan slamd the pen, there was suddenly liquid in this dried out pen.
Not only was there liquid, but the liquid ink also acted as if its soul was suddenly liberated after a long ti of imprisonnt.
Like a goddess scattering flowers—
Directly onto Wang Jingyuan’s pristine white school jacket.
It was like watching a cri in slow motion.
A thick splash of black ink bled across the fabric, like so kind of tragic inkblot test.
Clouds of black ink were sared onto the clean school uniform and the air suddenly beca very quiet.
Wang Jingyuan lowered his eyes and looked at the ink stains on his school jacket.
Lu Qingyan: "..."
The entire class went silent. Even the air molecules stopped moving.
Lu Qingyan stared at the ss.
Then at Wang Jingyuan.
Then back at the ink stain, which was now soaking into his sleeve like a guilt tattoo.
Wang Jingyuan slowly looked down.
His face was expressionless.
But his aura? Frosty. Like a nobleman whose wine was spilled by a peasant girl.
Oho.
It seems like she has already reached the point of no return on her journey to becoming the vicious female cannon fodder that offends the male lead.
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