One evening, Jiang Lai returned to her dorm, took a shower, and curled up in a beanbag chair. She picked up her phone and casually browsed the school’s anonymous forum.
It had everything—complaints about the cafeteria’s overly salty dishes on certain days, questions about whether a particular teacher’s class was worth taking, second-hand textbook exchanges, and all sorts of nameless gossip.
She didn’t usually browse it much, but tonight she finished her homework early. Halfway through her yogurt, she clicked in to take a look.
A post floated on the homepage with the title: “Are Transfer Students Always Exceptionally Talented?” The poster mentioned that a new transfer student in the regular department had scored first in the grade on a physics exam and asked if anyone knew them. Over twenty replies piled up below—some marveling, “Transfer students are always tough,” others sourly commenting, “Probably just luck, wait for the next exam,” and a few IDs from the international department asking whether the transfer student was male or female and what they looked like.
Jiang Lai scraped the sides of her yogurt cup with a spoon as she scrolled through the replies one by one.
On the third page, a user with a default gray avatar posted: “Most transfer students probably switched schools because something happened at home. Who transfers in their second year of high school for no reason?”
Jiang Lai’s spoon froze mid-air.
The next second, that voice sounded in her mind.
[Keyword detected. Compensation triggered. WeChat transfer received: 15,000 yuan.]
She set the yogurt cup on the table and read the reply again. The comment itself wasn’t malicious—just speculation—but the System had directly maxed out the compensation.
Was it because it was a public discussion, so the amount increased?
Jiang Lai sat up straight. The forum was public, visible to the entire school. What did this mean? If someone else’s speculation could trigger 15,000 yuan, would more public discussions trigger even more?
An idea flashed through her mind. She tapped her fingers twice on her phone case.
Given that the trigger condition was her family background, what if she replied herself?
Jiang Lai unlocked her screen and typed a reply under the post:
“I’m that transfer student. It’s true that I switched schools due to family circumstances, but the exam result was just a lucky coincidence. Thanks for everyone’s concern.”
She leaned back in the beanbag chair, placed the yogurt cup on her knees, and waited for the results of her experiment.
Two minutes later, a like popped up under her reply. Anonymous user—no way to tell who it was.
[WeChat transfer received: 2,000 yuan.]
Three minutes. Four more likes appeared.
[WeChat transfer received: 3,500 yuan.]
[2,900 yuan.]
[3,700 yuan.]
[4,500 yuan.]
Transfer notifications on her phone screen jumped down one after another.
Jiang Lai perked up, set the yogurt cup on the floor, sat up straight, and refreshed the screen with her finger. With each refresh, the number of likes increased by a few, and the System’s notifications chimed one after another in her mind. The amounts ranged from two thousand to five thousand yuan, as if someone had turned on autoplay in the background.
Five minutes later, someone posted the first reply.
“Sending you a hug. Transferring schools isn’t easy.”
[Indirect mention detected. Compensation triggered. WeChat transfer received: 8,000 yuan.]
Another ID popped up: “I’m in the same class as the transfer student. She’s really nice and does well in her studies. No need to be sour.”
[WeChat transfer received: 12,000 yuan.]
“Transfer spots in the regular department are pretty rare these days, right? There must be a reason she got in. I get it.”
[Indirect mention detected. Compensation triggered. WeChat transfer received: 9,000 yuan.]
Then that default gray profile picture appeared again—the one that had initially said, “What happened at home?” He replied with an apology, essentially saying that he had also transferred schools when his parents divorced, knew it wasn’t easy, and hoped the transfer student would get better and better.
[Indirect mention detected, compensation triggered. WeChat transfer received: 15,000 yuan.]
Only the small bedside lamp was on in the dorm, and the light from the phone screen flickered across Jiang Lai’s excited face.
She stared at the new replies popping up on the screen, watching the number in her WeChat balance climb steadily.
When the likes surpassed two hundred, Jiang Lai opened her WeChat wallet—it had increased by over a hundred thousand yuan.
She raised her hand in front of her eyes, slowly opening and clenching it. Her fingertips felt slightly numb.
She took a deep breath, picked up her phone, and checked the balance again. Two hundred thirty-four thousand six hundred yuan.
There was one last sip of yogurt left. She picked it up, finished it, and tossed the empty cup into the trash.
Three yogurt cups had already piled up in the trash—she’d have to take it out tomorrow. She stood up and walked to the window, pulling the curtain open slightly. The campus streetlights were on, and a few classrooms in the distant teaching building were still lit. Occasionally, a food delivery rider would stop at the dorm entrance downstairs, their taillights blinking.
The System notification chimed:
[Host has received over 100,000 yuan in rewards within 24 hours. System upgraded. Single reward limit increased to 50,000 yuan.]
She laughed out loud in the quiet single dorm.
This time, she could really spend without worry.
After her savings reached 200,000 yuan, Jiang Lai’s first wish was to hire a coach at the school’s heated swimming pool to learn how to swim.
Truthfully, she wasn’t fond of exercise, but lately, she had been eating at night markets with Zhang Yue and ordering takeout in her dorm while binge-watching dramas. She hadn’t grown taller, but she had gained quite a bit of weight. Most teenage girls cared about their figures, and after much thought, she decided swimming was the least sweaty and strenuous sport.
Moreover, Mingde’s swimming pool was Olympic-level—the best in the entire city. Outsiders could only envy it, so of course, she had to make the most of this privilege.
The next evening during self-study, Jiang Lai skipped it as usual and took a solitary stroll to the swimming pool. The light from the floor-to-ceiling glass walls shone through, and from afar, she could see the shimmering reflections on the water’s surface.
The changing room was absurdly spacious, with rows of polished stone floors and clean, light-gray lockers. The air lacked the pungent chlorine smell typical of most swimming pools. Jiang Lai changed into the black one-piece swimsuit she had bought in advance and tied her hair into a bun in front of the mirror.
Under the light, her skin glowed pale. With her oval face and large eyes, she truly didn’t resemble Jiang Wei or Jiang Shan. Relatives had occasionally mentioned this during family gatherings when she was younger, and now she finally understood why—they weren’t related by blood at all.
The pool area was kept at a constant 28 degrees Celsius. Standing by the edge, she dipped her toes into the water to test the temperature, feeling so comfortable she almost sat down to soak her feet.
She had booked a young female coach in advance on the official website. The coach’s surname was Zhou, with the given name Meng. In her early twenties, with short hair just reaching her ears and sharp shoulder lines, she was a retired provincial swim team athlete. Jiang Lai had chosen her precisely because she was female—with less clothing in the pool and physical contact during lessons, the thought of a male coach made her uncomfortable.
Zhou Meng walked over carrying a training kickboard. “Are you Jiang Lai?”
“Hello, Coach Zhou.”
“Have you swum before?”
“No.”
“Alright, let’s start from the beginning.” Zhou Meng tossed the kickboard into the water, her tone straightforward. “First, practice floating and breathing rhythm. Breathing is what beginners fear most, but as long as you’re not afraid of the water, you’ll be able to swim on your own in three lessons.”
Jiang Lai was still a bit nervous as she entered the water, her fingers gripping the edge of the pool wall, unwilling to let go. Zhou Meng didn’t rush her, first letting her hold onto the poolside and walk back and forth in the shallow end to get used to the water pressure.
After practicing for forty minutes, Jiang Lai lay panting on the kickboard. Zhou Meng handed her a bottle of water and sat down by the pool.
“I haven’t seen you before. I basically know the names of all the Mingde students. Most of them have been swimming here since they were kids, and a few even started learning with me in elementary school.”
Jiang Lai took small sips of water. “I just transferred to Mingde this semester.”
Zhou Meng nodded, unscrewed her own water bottle, and took a sip. “Your family must have put in a lot of effort to get you into Mingde, right?”
[Keyword detected, triggering Compensation. WeChat payment received: 24,000 yuan.]
After exchanging a few pleasantries, the two added each other on WeChat and were about to leave when a boy walked over to the poolside.