A very overbearing word.

It wasn’t a discussion with him; there was no room for negotiation. It felt like she was merely informing him of something.

——I unilaterally refuse to stoop to your level.

Under normal circumstances, Jiang Qihuai thought that word should’ve irritated him.

But.

His gaze stopped at that clawing and ferocious “truce.” The girl’s fair and tender fingertip still rested there. She didn’t know whether he had seen it or not, and impatiently scratched at the surface twice more, as if urging him.

Jiang Qihuai’s knuckles unconsciously curled a little. For some reason, he suddenly felt as though something somewhere had also been scratched—it tickled slightly.

He didn’t know why, but leaning back in his chair, he began to laugh.

This was the first time Tao Zhi had heard him laugh since the school term started a week ago.

She had her back turned to him and couldn’t see what was going on behind her. He hadn’t made any sound, and after waiting a while, she grew irritated.

And then, after all that waiting, this person actually laughed.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Yesterday she had run to every subject’s office, explaining the situation to the teachers, asking for the extra textbooks left after distribution. She’d planned to secretly slip them into Jiang Qihuai’s desk after school, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

If she’d known, she might as well have shoved them in last night.

She finally managed to do a good deed—so why did she have to suffer such humiliation?

Tao Zhi couldn’t hold it in anymore. She jerked her hand back and turned around, glaring at him in annoyance. “What kind of reaction is that?”

The boy lounged in his chair, looking unusually relaxed, and asked her back, “Where did you get the textbooks?”

“None of your damn business.” Tao Zhi’s tone was foul.

Jiang Qihuai tapped a finger on the topmost English book. “Weren’t they for me? A welcome gift?”

“Our first meeting was in the office on Monday morning. You really did give me quite a gift,” Tao Zhi said with a blank face, still holding a grudge. “Top student Jiang must have too many admirers to remember.”

As she spoke, she secretly glanced at his paper—her gingerbread man note was gone.

The truce letter was gone!!!

What the hell did this bastard mean, was he trying to tear up the peace treaty?!

Tao Zhi wanted to ask, but after holding it in for a moment, she restrained herself.

She wasn’t someone who could hide her emotions; whatever she was thinking was written plainly across her face. The moment her eyes shifted, Jiang Qihuai knew what she wanted to ask.

He felt like laughing again.

Over the past week since school started, he’d already heard plenty about this “princess.” Wealthy family, mediocre grades, always at the bottom of the rankings—but first place in fighting, causing trouble, and dating.

A legendary figure who reigned supreme over Experimental High School, dominating everyone and everything. Very famous.

With that kind of intelligence, she could still be a campus legend?

Jiang Qihuai thought the school’s so-called troublemakers were really beyond saving.

He lowered his eyes, glancing at the papers and textbooks on the desk, and his impression of the little groundhog deepened a little more.

A rose that had been pampered since childhood, carefully nurtured within a glass dome.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Song Jiang’s constant teasing that their presence was like mouse droppings in porridge wasn’t entirely without basis. To be fair, Experimental No.1 High was indeed a pretty good school—if you squeezed it into the city rankings, it could barely make the top three.

The top spot was unshakably held by the Imperial Capital Affiliated High School, which produced college entrance exam champions and perfect scorers in math and science year after year. It was the kind of school where, if a family’s child managed to get in, the parents would set off firecrackers for seven days straight and knock on every neighbor’s door to announce the news.

And Jiang Qihuai had been the top student at that school.

During the previous semester’s joint mock exam for three top schools, the exam setters had deliberately made the questions extremely difficult to humble these children a bit—especially the math section. He still scored a perfect mark.

With such a person transferring in, the Experimental High administration was highly attentive. On the very first day of school, the leadership team had already visited Class One twice, and Teacher Wang, whose nickname was “Wrinkles Wang,” had been called out for multiple meetings.

As a result, all the teachers and students of Experimental were fired up, believing the school’s future was limitless. If they worked hard enough, this year’s “academic GDP” could secure third place—maybe even fight for second.

Although it wasn’t openly stated, Class One undeniably had the best faculty—its teachers were either grade directors or subject heads. The academic atmosphere was intense. Even Li Shuangjiang, who usually fooled around and joked all day, became fully focused during lessons.

Tao Zhi was the only exception in the entire class.

Yet she remained utterly unaffected, a salted fish to the core. Her disregard for others had reached a point where, no matter the environment, she could be completely oblivious to everything around her. It seemed hopeless.

Wang Zhezi didn’t think so.

He’d been a homeroom teacher for ten years, and every class he’d led could stand proudly on record. Since the start of term, he had made it a point to learn about every single student.

Before the second year of middle school, Tao Zhi’s grades had always been among the top few in the school.

He had even contacted Tao Xiuping privately; the two spoke on the phone for quite a while.

Tao Xiuping was an unusually open-minded parent. In all his years of teaching, Wang had rarely seen any like him. Tao Xiuping believed that since his daughter didn’t want to study now, forcing her every day would be useless—nothing was more important than letting her grow up happy. But if Wang Zhezi had any suitable method to help Tao Zhi take her studies seriously again, he’d gladly cooperate.

Wang’s impression of Tao Xiuping was excellent, which made him pay more attention to Tao Zhi as well.

The girl was actually sharp, with a bit of cleverness.

Even when she got caught having someone else do her homework, she could instantly make up a plausible excuse. If he woke her up in class to answer questions, just giving her a hint was enough for her to stammer out a few coherent lines along that direction.

Wang had also reviewed the math papers she’d submitted that week. For the later large problems and advanced questions, her auxiliary lines in geometry were actually correct—but she couldn’t finish the calculations.

Her geometric sense was strong; her algebra was a complete mess.

Wang sighed, thinking hard about how to make this girl realize she needed to start studying again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Tao Zhi didn’t know that her act of having someone else do her summer homework had already been exposed. She still believed her performance was flawless enough to deceive everyone. She also didn’t know that the fierce old turtle, Wang, was currently sitting in the office, worrying over her grades.

That day, for once, she didn’t sleep through class—leaning her cheek on one hand, staring blankly ahead in a daze.

This was math class. Fu Xiling’s test paper was spread open between them, covered in dense, neat notes written in delicate handwriting.

Yesterday, Tao Zhi had only managed to get new textbooks, but not many test papers were left. Too lazy to ask around again, she simply pulled out her own paper and handed it to Jiang Qihuai.

After all, it was useless to her anyway.

The teacher on the podium had just finished explaining the key points and an example question from the paper. The remaining problems were to be solved through group discussion.

Group discussions were usually done with front and back desks—four people to a group—but their group was a little unusual.

Class One had an odd number of students, so Jiang Qihuai didn’t have a deskmate. Tao Zhi was essentially useless, so in their group, only Fu Xiling and Jiang Qihuai really counted.

Fu Xiling quietly let out a breath of relief. Fortunately, Jiang Qihuai was a genius—his problem-solving speed was astonishing. Otherwise, their group would have fallen far behind the others.

The two of them turned their heads slightly. Jiang Qihuai was bent over his paper, writing swiftly and with total focus. When Fu Xiling encountered a question she didn’t understand, he would explain it to her. His explanations were calm and unhurried, his tone level, his words concise and precise. He was remarkably efficient.

After they finished an entire set of questions, the group discussion was still ongoing.

Jiang Qihuai finally lifted his head, taking a moment to glance at them, and only then noticed that the two of them shared just one test paper.

He turned to look at Tao Zhi. “Where’s your paper?”

Tao Zhi’s mouth was quicker than her brain. Without thinking, she replied, “Fed it to the dog.”

“……”

It took Jiang Qihuai a second to realize—he was the dog.

He looked at the girl sprawled across his desk, her loose posture like a fluffy ball of cotton, occupying nearly two-thirds of his table, and for a moment, he was speechless.

Tao Zhi lay there and said, “I’m so bored.”

She flipped over. “Class is so boring.”

“Class One is terrible. No one plays with me,” she said gloomily. “I miss Timely Rain.”

Jiang Qihuai watched as she obliviously monopolized his desk, still rolling around on it.

He suddenly felt that, because of this set of textbooks and papers, his tolerance for her had increased far, far too much.

Uninterested in responding, Jiang Qihuai flipped to the next page and continued writing the advanced questions.

Fu Xiling finished her work too and, wanting to slack off a bit, said softly, “You could study with everyone, you know.”

“Studying’s even more boring—and useless,” Tao Zhi muttered.

“How can it be useless?” Fu Xiling thought for a moment and decided to offer her some motivational chicken soup. “If we study hard, we can take control of our own lives in the future.”

Tao Zhi didn’t buy it; she’d heard the same line for years. “No matter how hard you study, life won’t be in your control.”

Jiang Qihuai’s pen tip paused.

Fu Xiling blinked twice.

The ones you love still leave, and those who matter still abandon you.

“You can’t hold on to your own life. Studying or not makes no difference. Studying is just harder,” Tao Zhi said, countering her with poisonous chicken soup. “So you might as well start being happy now. Be happy one day at a time.”

Fu Xiling reminded her, “But you’re not happy now. You’re bored.”

“Because no one’s playing with you in class,” Jiang Qihuai suddenly spoke up from beside them, his tone slow and unhurried as he wrote. “Not a single person plays with you.”

“…Shut up.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

If someone’s a dog, then whether there’s a truce or not, he’s still a dog.

Tao Zhi couldn’t be bothered to talk to Jiang Qihuai for the rest of the day.

When the last self-study session on Friday evening had just begun, Wang Zhezi entered the classroom and told everyone to put down their pens.

After a week, the class had mostly gotten familiar with each other. Wang decided to use his old method to elect the class committee: everyone would write the name of the person they thought most suitable on a slip of paper, submit it, and then the votes would be read aloud.

The classroom instantly buzzed with energy. At sixteen or seventeen, it was the best of times—each person glowing in their own youth, filled with competitiveness, and that shy duplicity that came with it.

First were the subject representatives and the study committee members.

Finally, it came down to the class monitors—one main and one deputy.

Li Shuangjiang hadn’t been elected to any of the previous positions, but he didn’t seem the least bit discouraged. With a grin, he turned around and said, “What do you think about me being class monitor? I’m perfect for it, right? Who could be more suitable than me? I’m so full of passion for studying!”

His deskmate snorted. “Dream on. Have you looked at your trash English score? If you became monitor, our class’s English average would plummet straight to the bottom.”

Li Shuangjiang shoved his deskmate’s head down to shut him up, then turned to Tao Zhi. “Boss, give me a hint—who are you voting for?”

Tao Zhi grandly wrote the three characters for “Jiang Qihuai (江起淮)” on her paper, then held it up openly for him to see. “I’ll vote for the dog.”

Li Shuangjiang: “…”

The slips were collected from the back row, and Wang Zhezi began opening them one by one, reading out the names.

Each time a name was called, another tally mark was added under it on the blackboard. As the count neared its end, the tally marks under “Jiang Qihuai” were far ahead—he had left all the others several rows behind.

That one was settled without suspense. Only the second spot remained uncertain.

There were just three or four names left, neck and neck, each separated by only one or two votes.

Halfway through counting, Wang suddenly said, “Ah, right—forgot to tell everyone. For the two monitors, one will be the person with the most votes,” he tapped the blackboard, “and the other will be the person with the fewest votes.”

The whole class: ?????

Someone couldn’t help but shout, “Teacher Wang, why?!”

“I know every one of you thinks you’re great and refuses to accept anyone else,” Wang said leisurely, tearing open another slip. “The votes for vice monitor are all bunched together, right? The difference’s just one or two votes—so if someone wins by luck, would the rest of you accept it?”

Of course they wouldn’t. They’d just think the other person got lucky.

“Then there’d be conflict… Li Shuangjiang, one vote,” Wang continued reading while speaking. “And being a class monitor isn’t only about grades. I already have a study committee for academics, and subject reps for those who excel in specific areas. As for monitor—if your name’s even up here, it means at least one person thinks you’re worth something. Since no one else seems to see what that is, then you might as well stand up and let everyone find out, right?”

As he spoke, Wang unfolded the last slip of paper. He paused for a second, then chuckled. “Tao Zhi.”

In an instant, the previously noisy classroom fell silent.

Tao Zhi hadn’t been paying any attention to the election. This kind of time-wasting, troublesome task wasn’t worth doing even if someone handed it to her for free. She was already packing up her bag, ready to enjoy her weekend, when she suddenly heard her name and looked up in confusion.

Then she saw dozens of heads in the classroom turn toward her in unison, all staring straight at her.

Tao Zhi: “What?”

“Class monitor. Someone voted for you,” Fu Xiling whispered beside her.

It took Tao Zhi a moment to process that. She frowned and muttered under her breath, “Are they out of their damn mind? Who voted for me?”

“No idea. You got one vote,” Fu Xiling said after glancing up at the blackboard to confirm. “The others all have at least two. Teacher Wang just said the vice monitor will be the one with the fewest votes.”

Even Wang Zhezi seemed surprised by this outcome. Standing at the podium, he tapped the blackboard with a triangle ruler. “No one’s got any objections now, right?”

Accepted.

Who would dare not to accept it.

Accepted completely.

“Convinced from the bottom of my heart,” Li Shuangjiang said first, clasping his hands in mock respect. “I’ll just kneel right now.”

“All right, then—no objections?” Wang Zhezi said, holding back a laugh. “Come on, the main and deputy monitors, step up and let everyone get familiar with you. You’ll officially start on Monday.”

Tao Zhi began to panic.

She stood up like a robot, moving stiffly and reluctantly forward, one slow step at a time. Her mind held only one thought—who.

Who had the guts.

Behind her came the sound of a chair scraping back. Someone was also walking toward the front.

Tao Zhi: “……”

The answer was painfully obvious.

She suddenly turned around sharply. Her abrupt stop made Jiang Qihuai nearly bump into her—they stood a little too close.

The tip of her nose almost brushed the collar of his school uniform, and she caught a faint scent of laundry detergent.

Just as she was about to lift her head, Jiang Qihuai said quietly, “Go.”

Everyone was watching them. Tao Zhi turned back reluctantly and continued walking forward, the two of them stepping up onto the podium one after the other.

Wang Zhezi was still talking, but Tao Zhi couldn’t hear a single word. Leaning back against the blackboard, she tilted her head slightly and murmured just loud enough for him to hear, “You wrote my name?”

“You wrote mine too,” Jiang Qihuai replied in a low voice.

“…How the hell did you know?”

“I collected them.”

“You peeked at mine! Old Turtle Wang said it was anonymous!” Tao Zhi accused bitterly. “You’re despicable.”

“……”

Jiang Qihuai recalled her overbearing handwriting—so distinctive it was recognizable at a glance. He didn’t really see where any “peeking” had been necessary.

He didn’t bother explaining. Tao Zhi took his silence as guilt and pressed on, “But it’s not the same! You had so—many—votes.” She dragged out the words. “You didn’t need mine anyway. And you study freaks all like being monitors, don’t you? You’re the biggest freak of them all.”

Then she said, eyes wide with false sincerity, “I didn’t have any selfish motive. I just thought you were suitable.”

You’re the biggest freak of them all.

Jiang Qihuai turned that line over once in his mind, then nodded. “I think you’re suitable too.”

Tao Zhi: “?”

Jiang Qihuai said with deliberate meaning, “You’re the kind of person who’s good at tormenting others. Very fitting for a class monitor.”

Tao Zhi: “……”