Li Mu had already lived through high school once. He knew all too well the authoritarian tendencies of early-2000s teachers, especially in a media-undersaturated era where oversight of educators was minimal. Verbal abuse, corporal punishment—these were still commonplace from elementary to high school.
His current exam venue, Haizhou Fifth High, was notorious as the city's worst school. Its students ranked lowest academically, its faculty even lower. Most teachers here graduated from a local teacher-training college—an institution Li Mu knew well. It accepted anyone above the minimum college admission score, yet still struggled to fill seats annually.
Hearing the male teacher's snide remarks didn't surprise Li Mu. But reborn with a thirty-something's mindset, he had zero patience for this bullshit.
"You're allowed a thirty-minute grace period," the teacher said, feigning concern while checking his watch. "You could still go home and change."
Li Mu narrowed his eyes. "What about the listening section?"
The teacher shrugged theatrically. "Not my problem. In this state, I can't let you in."
Gasps rippled through the classroom. Even the other examinees recognized this as career sabotage.
Li Mu smirked. Brushing his soaked bangs aside to reveal his bloody temple, he jabbed a finger at the wound. "Listen—I just got hit by a car on my way here. Feel like passing out any second. If you don't let me sit down in ten seconds, I might just collapse right now. And if I do?" He leaned in, voice dripping with menace. "Your three years' salary won't cover the fallout. Believe me."
The room froze.
In 2001, concepts like "insurance scams" were barely known, let alone a student threatening a teacher. To the class, Li Mu might as well have grown tentacles.
Yet shock tactics worked. Had Li Mu begged tearfully, the teacher might've doubled down. But faced with a bloodied teen invoking legal liability, the twenty-something instructor crumbled.
Li Mu's injuries were real. If he collapsed inside, the teacher could feign innocence. But if he barred entry and Li Mu dropped at the doorway? That was a career-ending lawsuit waiting to happen.
"F-fine!" The teacher spat through gritted teeth. "Get in!"
The classroom erupted in laughter—a chorus the red-faced instructor couldn't punish.
After a female invigilator verified his documents, Li Mu strode to his seat under awed gazes. A chubby boy behind him poked his back with a pencil. "Dude, you're a legend!"
Li Mu flashed a distracted smile. His mind was already dissecting the impending English test.
The humiliated teacher seized the chance to bark at the boy: "No talking! That's cheating!"
"Screw you!" Emboldened by Li Mu's example, the kid shot back. "Papers aren't even out yet! Slander much? I'll report you to the education bureau!"
The teacher turned purple. The female invigilator hurriedly intervened: "Enough, Mr. Wang. Distribute the papers—we're behind schedule."
As the trio handed out test booklets, students began passing Li Mu tissues—crumpled notebook pages from boys, dainty branded packets from girls. He dabbed his face and arms dry, resigning to his soaked clothes.
Studying his exam ticket, Li Mu traced the faint mustache fuzz on his teenage photo. His fingers brushed the desk's scarred surface, recognizing carvings left by generations of students. The desk had been flipped—a classic anti-cheating measure hiding its storage compartment.
Nostalgia washed over him: the splintered benches, the lower back pain from hunching… sensations absent for fifteen years.
In his first life, Li Mu had been a science whiz—strong in math, physics, chemistry, biology. His literary father gave him decent Chinese scores too. Only English dragged him down. Normally scoring around 100/150, his mock exams hovered above 560 total—comfortably first-tier university material.
But that accident had stolen everything.
Now, doing mental math: his previous total was 535. Minus the disastrous English 49, his other subjects had earned 486. Today, even a modest 90 in English would rocket him past elite university thresholds.
As the female invigilator announced the listening test's imminent start, Li Mu scanned the paper.
Every word leaped out familiar.
After his second-tier college forced him to confront programming's English-dependent reality—untranslated software, code syntax—he'd crammed English relentlessly. CET-6 certification. Endless self-study.
Fifteen years later, high school Chinese poems and calculus formulas had evaporated from his mind. Had he needed to retake those exams now, he'd struggle to break 150 total.
But fate had tossed him this one mercy: he'd returned after finishing Chinese, math, and science tests. Only English remained—the subject he'd mastered through adult desperation.
Not a single vocabulary word on this paper daunted him now.
Li Mu gripped his pencil. Time to rewrite destiny.