But in private, his handwriting was freer, bold and sharp. The single character “Jiang” he had written was vigorous and full of power, as though the rivers, lakes, and seas had all been contained within it, waves and tides unfurling like a painting before her eyes.

Tao Zhi stared at that word for a long time and suddenly began to understand Li Sijia’s persistence.

When you like someone outstanding, it’s natural to feel a little inferior—to want to catch up to his pace, to stand beside him.

Even though she had done almost nothing else for an entire month—just practice papers, exercises, and vocabulary—she still felt it wasn’t enough.

She carried the book to her bed, thought for a moment, lifted her pillow, and slid the book underneath it. Lying down, she pulled up the blanket and closed her eyes.

High density flows toward low density—when she woke up, everything in the book would flow straight into her brain.

Yes.

Five hours later, Tao Zhi woke up before her alarm went off.

She squinted at the ceiling for a while, gathering her thoughts. Her first clear realization was—

“High density flows toward low density” was a lie. Her brain was clearly empty of any compositions.

Because her English and Chinese grades had pulled her total score up last month, Tao Zhi wasn’t in the last exam room this time. There were no familiar faces around her; even the noisy Ji Fan wasn’t there.

Tao Zhi sat at her desk, handed in her phone, and waited for the proctor to enter and distribute the papers.

The English exam was in the afternoon.

After finishing the morning tests, Tao Zhi didn’t bother to cram anymore—she returned to the exam room and lay on her desk to take a nap.

The room was quiet. She slept soundly, hearing nothing at all.

When Jiang Qihuai passed by after lunch, he happened to glance inside.

The girl was resting her head sideways on her desk, her cheek tucked into the crook of her arm. The soft flesh of her face was slightly squashed, her lips faintly pouting, long eyelashes casting shadows over her closed eyelids.

The window of the exam room was open, directly facing her seat. The draft paper pressed under her arm rustled as the wind blew. She seemed to feel a little cold, furrowing her brows and shrinking her neck before turning her head to the other side.

Tao Zhi was awakened by the preparatory bell for the exam.

When she lifted her head, the room was already full again. The boy sitting behind her had spent the noon break playing basketball, and now, with only his undershirt on, was shouting, “Who closed all the windows?”

Just as he bent down to reach for the window, the proctor walked in.

Tao Zhi sat up, patted her face a few times, and took a few sips of water to wake herself.

When the afternoon exam ended, the once-silent school came alive again.

As usual, everyone had to return to their classrooms to straighten the desks and chairs. When Tao Zhi entered, a crowd had already gathered around, comparing answers on a sheet of draft paper.

Ji Fan glanced at her, then automatically and very conscientiously dragged her desk and chair back into place, making a “please” gesture.

Tao Zhi raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so courteous today?”

“Just thought, after a whole day of exams, you must be tired,” Ji Fan said carefully, watching her face. “So, how do you feel?”

“How do I feel about what?” Tao Zhi pretended not to understand.

“You know—about how it went.” Ji Fan grinned. “You’re usually spot on with your instincts. Think you did okay?”

“Don’t know,” Tao Zhi yawned, tugging at his backpack strap as she walked out. “Going home, going home, starving to death.”

For the next few days, the morning English listening practice still played at home as usual—

the only difference was that Tao Zhi no longer did the listening exercises while eating breakfast.

Ji Fan was puzzled. “Wait, the exam’s over. Why are you still listening?”

“Habit,” Tao Zhi said, biting into her sandwich just as the listening tape switched to the next segment. “Learning never ends, understand?”

Ji Fan didn’t understand that. He only knew the sea of learning had shores—and every day he was painfully diving in, yet never reaching the end.

Tao Zhi didn’t look any different from usual; she went about everything the same. She returned all the borrowed notes and composition books, except for Jiang Qihuai’s. Out of selfishness, she kept his copy and went around the study supply store to find an identical one to return instead.

When she handed it back, Jiang Qihuai didn’t take it.

Tao Zhi waved the book in front of him. “Then I’ll just leave it here, okay?”

Jiang Qihuai lifted his eyes and suddenly, without any context, asked, “Did you return the one you got from Jiang Zhengxun?”

Tao Zhi tilted her head. “I did. Why?”

Jiang Qihuai withdrew his gaze, the corners of his lips curving faintly without awareness. “Nothing. Take this one back. I’ve finished reading it.”

Is your brain a machine?

Do you archive and back up everything so you never forget?

Tao Zhi rolled her eyes and placed the composition book on his desk.

Jiang Qihuai opened it, glanced inside, paused for a moment, and showed no expression.

Tao Zhi felt a little guilty.

This one was obviously brand-new—there wasn’t even his name on it.

But since Jiang Qihuai didn’t say anything, she didn’t ask either. Secretly keeping his original composition book, she pressed her lips together, and in her heart, the little person wearing a grass skirt started dancing with joy, as if she had taken advantage of something enormous.

The exam papers from Experimental were graded quickly. By the next day, the monthly exam results were already out.

That afternoon, during the last class, when Wang Zhezi came in holding the score sheet, he didn’t even bother to call for order like usual. The entire class immediately went quiet.

“This time the questions were harder than last time,” Wang Zhezi said. “Last exam, I let things slide a bit since you had just started the new term, gave you all a taste of sweetness—and sure enough, some of you started floating away, huh? Scored seven hundred points and thought you’d ascended to immortality?”

“Li Shuangjiang,” he said, “how does it feel to drop twenty points?”

Li Shuangjiang had already been called in for a talk that afternoon and knew his results. Scratching his head, he didn’t look too disappointed and said quietly, “Six-eighty’s not bad… that’s about my real level anyway.”

His deskmate chuckled beside him.

Wang Zhezi continued, “I won’t read the scores one by one. Overall, everyone’s scores are lower than last time. Our class only has one person above seven hundred this round. I don’t need to say who—you all know.”

Everyone turned to look at Jiang Qihuai.

The one being stared at sat motionless in his chair, showing no reaction at all.

Wang Zhezi went on, “But our class monitor—”

Both Jiang Qihuai and Tao Zhi looked up at the same time.

“The vice one,” Wang Zhezi said, looking straight at her. “Your homeroom teacher asked me to check if you have some opinion about him. Your math score last time still had room to go lower, huh?”

He smiled thinly. “And your physics—out of a hundred points total—you haven’t even hit your personal record low yet, have you?”

Ji Fan burst out laughing from the back. Tao Zhi tilted her head toward the ceiling, stood up obediently, and listened to the scolding.

“Alright, class rep, post the results after class. Everyone can check for themselves,” Wang Zhezi said, flipping open his book. “Let’s start the lesson.”

Tao Zhi sat back down and pulled out her physics textbook and workbook.

She spent the whole class daydreaming, as though her heart had sprouted grass—or maybe a tiny paw was scratching and tickling inside. One moment she was desperate for class to end so she could check her score, the next she wished the lesson would drag on forever so she’d never have to know how she did.

Finally, the bell rang.

But instead of the usual rush to pack up and go home, everyone swarmed toward the front of the room.

The study committee member glanced at the score sheet, froze for a second, then pinned it to the wall.

A crowd of heads leaned in to read, and from time to time, people’s gazes flicked back and forth between her and Li Sijia.

Tao Zhi slowly packed up her bag, hesitating—should she act cool and just go home to ask Ji Fan, or go take a look herself?

“Come on,” Fu Xiling couldn’t hold back anymore. She whispered, urging her forward, and when Tao Zhi didn’t respond, she stood up and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the posted score sheet.

Tao Zhi stood at the back of the crowd, lips pressed together, and glanced over.

The Experimental school’s score sheet was detailed—class ranking, individual subject scores, and after each subject, a column showing the grade-wide ranking.

The first line was still that same name.

Jiang Qihuai, standing firm at the very top like a mountain, with a neat line of Arabic numerals—1—lined up after every subject.

Tao Zhi lowered her eyes, scanning downward.

At sixth place, she saw Li Sijia—English: 141, tied with Jiang Qihuai for first place in the grade.

Her heart skipped sharply. Her gaze moved further down, and near the bottom, she found her own name.

She skipped over all other subjects and went straight to English.

139.

Subject grade ranking: 3.