[Seat assignments have been released. Students, please proceed to the examination hall and take your seats according to your assigned numbers. Your assigned seat is Number 45.]
[To ensure students remain energized for the exams, breakfast and lunch have been prepared. They have been sent to your inbox; please claim them promptly. These items will expire in three days.]
The pop-up vanished quickly, replaced by a classroom seating chart. There were forty-six seats in total, each corresponding to a candidate.
However, in this classroom, he was the only candidate. His seat was in the very last row of the middle column—truly at the back. Well, not the very last, but the second to last.
It was just like the exam he took in the restroom that day; back then, the system had ranked him second to last as well. Was the seating for this exam based on the performance of that previous one?
Lin Yuzhi looked at the chart and figured that must be it. Otherwise, there was no reason to put him at the back; the system didn’t actually know his real grades yet. This meant the first exam was exactly what the Scholar System had called it: a baseline test used to organize the classroom and seating for this official round.
Second to last was fine with him; he didn’t care because that was truly the only seat he was qualified for anyway.
He looked around. The room was a total mess. The only tidy desks were the few they had moved yesterday. Seat 45 was currently empty space. Lin Yuzhi dragged over the desk and chair he had used yesterday; as for the rest of the furniture, that wasn’t his problem.
He checked the window again, peering through the gap between the exam papers and the frame. There were still zombies outside, but not many—just a few wandering in small groups.
He withdrew his gaze, sat down, and pulled out Xu An’s notes. Whether he could memorize them or not, looking at them had to be worth something. As for the breakfast and lunch, he didn’t check those yet. Since the system said they wouldn’t expire for three days, he could look at them after the exam.
Time ticked by. The students sitting near the teacher’s podium saw Lin Yuzhi studying again. Remembering what he had said earlier, they didn’t disturb him. Watching him work made them wonder if they should pick up a book and read too. Ultimately, they didn’t, staying vigilant of the situation outside instead.
The more Lin Yuzhi read, the more nervous he became. He felt a rising sense of panic, just like he was back in high school for a real final. He didn’t know why he was so worked up—it wasn’t like his score was going to be high anyway—but the anxiety was real.
According to the Scholar System, this was the first official “Standardized Test.” Unable to help himself, he sent another message to Xu An.
Fish Cracker: Absorbing the luck of the God of Study!
XA: Sending it to you. [God of Study Grants You Power.jpg]
Lin Yuzhi looked at the image Xu An sent. It was a photo of Xu An himself, with the words “The God of Study Grants You Power” emblazoned across it. He actually recognized this photo; it was a meme that everyone in school used to circulate before every exam. He never expected Xu An to have it.
He couldn’t help but reply: “Legit.”
Xu An apparently thought Lin Yuzhi didn’t like that one, so he sent another.
XA: [May the God of Study Protect You.jpg]
Fish Cracker: Holy crap, how do you have all of these?!
XA: They used to post them in the class group chat all the time. I saw them and saved them.
Lin Yuzhi marveled at how hardcore Class 1 was—sharing memes of the subject right in the class chat. Back in his day, they always shared them secretly; after all, it would be awkward if the person in the photo saw them.
He had never shared them before because it wouldn’t have helped him anyway. But now, he suddenly felt like this stuff actually had some “metaphysical” power. He felt energized, as if he could get a perfect score in every subject.
He sent a thumbs-up emoji and closed the chat.
Exactly as the clock hit 8:00 AM, a new pop-up from the system appeared.
[It is now 8:00 AM, July 6, 2027. The first standardized test is about to begin. Candidates, please take your seats according to your assigned numbers and place your phones at the top right corner of your desks. This exam will be uninvigilated and managed by this device. Candidates must not cheat. Any detected cheating will result in disqualification, all earned points will be reset to zero, and the Scholar Leaderboard binding will be automatically terminated. We hope candidates take this exam seriously.]
[After the exam, a Growth Gift Box will be provided within ten minutes. Candidates, please claim it promptly.]
[Before the exam begins, please place your personal belongings on the teacher’s podium. The exam will officially begin in three minutes. The first subject is Chinese.]
Lin Yuzhi stood up, placed his backpack on the podium, and returned to his seat, setting his phone at the top right corner. The other students watched him move his bag and sit down; somehow, they got the sense that he was about to take a real test. They exchanged glances as Lin Yuzhi focused on the impending exam.
Next, a prompt appeared on his screen asking if he wanted to begin. After he clicked “Confirm,” another pop-up appeared:
[The exam has begun. Candidates, please answer the questions actively. Do not look around.]
The pop-up vanished, and in the next instant, an exam paper, a pen, and a sheet of blank scratch paper appeared on his desk. Lin Yuzhi glanced at the students by the podium. They weren’t looking at him; they were focused on the door, staying alert for any movement outside.
He put them out of his mind, turned back, and flipped through the test. This first look made his head spin. There were so many words—they looked like a swarm of ants, dense and crowded.
The essay topic was also strange: Living.
Living, living… Lin Yuzhi felt that his current situation was the very definition of “living.”
He scratched his head, wrote his name down, and looked at the first question. Chinese was the only subject where he “won” simply by understanding the language, though some of it relied on memorization. Even if he could read the words, it didn’t mean he knew the answers.
He stumbled his way through. When he reached one of the fill-in-the-blank questions, his groggy mind suddenly snapped awake. He actually knew this one! It was one of the questions Xu An had predicted.
Even though Xu An hadn’t predicted a huge percentage of the total test, he had given him a little something for every subject. Seeing this question made him incredibly excited. It was like an oasis in the middle of a desert—suddenly finding an answer he was certain of among a pile of unknowns. He filled it in with newfound confidence and continued.
Because of that one question, his confidence was bolstered significantly, making him feel like everything he wrote afterward was mostly correct. Later, he encountered another question he had memorized, making him even happier.
Xu An truly was a God of Study. Even after being graduated for so many years, his predictions were still spot on. For a moment, he regretted that Xu An had limited the predictions because he was worried Lin Yuzhi couldn’t memorize them all; he should have asked for more. But he quickly dismissed that thought—he had struggled just to memorize this much. Wanting more was just asking for a brain aneurysm.
He made it all the way through, and regardless of whether his answers were right or not, he filled every inch of the Chinese paper. Finally, he tackled the essay. He still had plenty of time, mostly because he didn’t know how to do many of the previous questions and had just written down the first things that came to mind.
The topic was Living. He thought about it and decided to write about his current circumstances. When he had dropped out of school, he had already started contemplating that word. Later, when he was left all alone, he continued to think about it. He never expected to be pondering it again now. It was fate.
Perhaps it was because he had been reading more lately, or because he was hanging around a genius and was blessed by the “God of Study,” but he felt like he actually had some “ink” in his belly. The essay flowed out of him quite smoothly.
After Chinese was Math. There was only a short break in between. If Chinese was a subject he could “fudge” a bit, Math was truly a wall.
As he worked, he started pulling at his hair again, his mind even wandering enough to blow at a stray strand of pink hair that had fallen. So hard.
Maybe he should just sleep. It was so hot, anyway.
The moment that thought appeared, Lin Yuzhi snapped back to reality. No. I fought like hell to get here. Even if I’m writing nonsense, I’m filling this paper.
Biting the tip of his pen, he rallied and started again. He didn’t understand most of it, but as Xu An and the system had advised: if you don’t know it, skip it. Don’t waste time.
So he skipped his way down the page, refusing to believe there wasn’t a single question he had memorized. Sure enough, he soon found a problem similar to a type Xu An had shown him. Even though it was just “similar,” it meant he could probably use the same method to solve it. His memory of the specific method was a bit fuzzy, but he’d done it three times, so he worked through it based on what he remembered and came up with an answer.
Because his memory was vague, it felt a little “off” as he wrote it down, but he didn’t care—as long as he had something on the page. He solved another similar one; he hadn’t done that type three times, but it was like one of the extra problems he’d asked Xu An for when he was grinding for points. He wrote it down following that logic.
He kept going, but he didn’t see any other solvable problems. As for the final big “challenge” questions at the end, he debated whether to even look at them. The earlier ones were hard enough; the ones at the back were bound to be impossible. He figured it was better to double-check the simpler questions in case he missed something familiar.
But if he didn’t look, he felt like he was missing out. Plus, he hadn’t encountered the specific “prediction” Xu An had given him for Math yet.
He decided to look, and he almost jumped out of his seat.
Holy crap!
The final big question was exactly the same as the one he had memorized—down to the very wording. He clutched the exam paper, feeling like the God of Study was truly watching over him. He carefully transcribed the steps Xu An had taught him, one by one. This was one of the few things he had memorized perfectly.
Safe! I’m safe! I’ve got some points!
Lin Yuzhi was thrilled. When he went back to try the other questions, he was in a great mood, though he quickly got a headache again when he realized he still didn’t understand them.
Sigh. Hard. So hard.
Gritting his teeth, he managed to write something for every question before the time ran out, even scribbling a few formulas on the big questions he didn’t know. By the time it ended, he felt like he was going to collapse.
English and the Science Comprehensive were still to come. His head truly ached.
As a result, he was quite mopey while eating lunch; his brain hadn’t recovered from the morning sessions.
The students saw him sighing one moment and looking overjoyed the next, and they couldn’t tell if the exam was hard or not.
Wang Rui asked curiously, “Senior, is the exam very difficult?”
“Hard,” Lin Yuzhi muttered. “Every question looks like it wants to eat me alive.” He clicked his tongue.
The others let out an “Ah,” though Qi Wenhuan nodded fervently in agreement. “I feel the same way! Questions are totally like people-eaters.”
The others glanced at Qi Wenhuan and then back to Lin Yuzhi. Hu Wangping asked, “What kind of test is it, Senior? Is it one of those competition-level ones?”
They all nodded, curious.
Lin Yuzhi gave a dry laugh. “Grade 11 stuff.”
They were surprised, but Qi Wenhuan kept nodding. “Grade 11 questions definitely eat people. Senior, I understand you. I pray to the God of Study every time—you know, the guy who was ranked number one in his year—but I still bomb every test.”
Lin Yuzhi looked at him and smiled. “Well, then we aren’t the same. The God of Study we pray to must be different. I pray to the Gaokao Top Scorer from my year.”
“Psh, I thought you were praying to someone else, Senior. Isn’t that just Senior Xu An? That’s who I pray to as well!” Qi Wenhuan exclaimed. It was the same person; what was the difference?
Lin Yuzhi froze. Why were people still praying to a Top Scorer from years ago? Hadn’t there been a new one?
Since he had finished his morning exams, he decided to relax and indulge in some gossip. “Why do you guys pray to Xu An?” he asked curiously.
Zhu Shan spoke up. “He’s the only Gaokao Top Scorer No. 5 High has ever produced, and he was the top scorer for the entire country! Senior, did you forget how insane the questions were for your year? I heard Senior Xu An actually fell asleep during the exam and missed some questions—and the ones he missed were the only easy ones. That means if he hadn’t fallen asleep, he would have had a perfect score!”