BTO CH10

Class 7’s Chinese teacher was Old Meng himself. Meng Guowei entered the room carrying a stack of pop-quiz worksheets, plopping them onto his lectern. “Class is in session! Put away whatever you’re supposed to put away.”

His gaze swept over the students below, pausing slightly at the back row when he discovered that Xu Sheng and Shao Zhan had indeed already switched seats.

Meng Guowei: “Here’s the plan for today’s lesson: first, we’ll finish up the ancient poetry we didn’t get through last period. After that, I’ve meticulously prepared a few poetry appreciation questions. If time permits, we’ll go ahead and cover those as well…”

Chinese class was always dry and tedious.

On top of that, Meng Guowei was exceptionally earnest during lectures, racing against the clock and focusing solely on key knowledge points. For an underachieving student like Xu Sheng—who could only barely perk up and listen when a teacher went off on a tangent telling jokes—sitting through this kind of class was sheer torture.

At first, he forced his heavy eyelids open to listen to Meng Guowei go on about “central themes” and “artistic techniques,” but as time dragged on, everything turned to static.

Shao Zhan rapped his knuckles against Xu Sheng’s desk, jolting him awake, and reminded him, “Pay attention. Take notes.”

Xu Sheng ruffled his hair, having a hard time prying his eyes open. Operating on the principle that if I’m suffering, you shouldn’t have it easy either, he fished his phone out of his pants pocket and gave his own reminder: “Don’t look up at the blackboard. I never look at the board in class. Sleep or play games—pick one.”

“…”

Xu Sheng tossed the phone in front of Shao Zhan. “Find something you want to play in the games folder.”

Even though the two had swapped bodies, their dorm rooms, phones, and other personal belongings had temporarily stayed with their original owners.

Neither of them knew when this bizarre state of affairs would end. Humans are creatures remarkably adept at giving themselves subconscious hope; both felt this situation wouldn’t drag on for too long.

The phone didn’t need a password; Shao Zhan unlocked it directly with his fingerprint.

He swiped open Xu Sheng’s screen lock. Before he could locate the games folder, however, he was caught by a very unusual wallpaper.

It was a quick street sketch.

The entire drawing depicted a night street scene: a streetlight and a corner storefront. Inside, facing away from the entrance, two clerks were chatting with a customer. But these elements were sketched with only a few sparse strokes; the bulk of the detail was dedicated to a cat squinting as it napped beneath the corner lamppost.

The sleeping cat looked remarkably obedient, claws retracted and tail curled tight.

The surrounding areas had been shaded with light layers of pencil to evoke the feeling of nightfall, leaving only a pool of light cast by the streetlamp. From there, the linework extended into the opposite side, dissolving into a stark, hollow emptiness.

The human touch in this drawing was prominent; it didn’t look like an image sourced online.

Furthermore, the resolution was low. The phone’s camera hadn’t captured it well, leaving the sketch slightly blurry and grayish.

Seeing no reaction from him for a while, Xu Sheng finished copying the theme off the blackboard, spun his pen, and turned his head. “…Don’t tell me you’ve never played a video game in your entire life.”

Once Xu Sheng said it, he realized it might actually be true. Bored out of his skull by the lecture, his interest was instantly piqued: “How about this: I’ll teach you.”

Shao Zhan swiped to the next page and tapped into the games folder. “Turn your head back.”

Xu Sheng shrugged, spinning his pen once more. Up front, Meng Guowei held his rolled-up textbook in one hand, writing on the blackboard: “So what we just discussed was merely the surface meaning. As for the deeper layer…”

Xu Sheng’s phone lacked many things, but it had an endless collection of games—from tile-matching and Dou Dizhu to Honor of Kings. If you could think of it, he had played it.

Shao Zhan couldn’t be bothered to pick, casually tapping into one.

Just as he logged in, before even finding a match, a friend with the screen name “Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly” bombarded him with several messages.

Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly: Boss, you and the Study God. You two, desk mates?

Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly: Blink if you’ve been kidnapped.

Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly: Just a few days ago, you told me that someone like him was…

Since it was someone else’s gaming account, Shao Zhan had intended to ignore it. But at the words “someone like him,” he paused.

S: ?

Xu Sheng’s gaming ID was very simple—just a single letter.

After that question mark was sent, half a minute passed before a long string of text came back.

Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly: Sanctimonious, totally devoid of conscience, an inhuman menace to society, practically a psycho. Let me think of the other one… oh, right: worse than a beast.

“‘Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly’ is Zhang Feng,” Xu Sheng remembered just in time; whenever he came online, Zhang Feng tracked him down nine times out of ten. “He’s in Class 1. He might message me. Whatever he says, just hit him with an ‘oh.'”

As Xu Sheng spoke, out of the corner of his eye he saw the name “Raging Peak and Wild Butterfly” pop up repeatedly across the screen. “What’d he send?”

Shao Zhan turned the phone screen toward him.

Xu Sheng: “…………”

Shao Zhan seemed to let out a cold chuckle. The word “chuckle” wasn’t quite accurate because the “cold” component accounted for ninety-nine point nine percent of it. “For someone who scores so poorly in Chinese, you sure know how to use your idioms.”

Xu Sheng stiffened, dutifully turning his head back around to continue listening to the lesson.

Zhang Feng had no idea he had just sold Xu Sheng out.

Over in Class 1, he watched with utter confusion as “Xu Sheng” queued into a solo match without inviting him.

Zhang Feng had actually harbored a good deal of respect for the Study God before this. Having grades so good they practically defied heaven made it impossible not to admire the guy. You couldn’t help but yield, which was why he had dropped by Class 7 time and again just to catch a glimpse of the legend.

Xu Sheng, however, after writing a reflection and being reined in at every turn, was thoroughly sick of Shao Zhan. Hearing Zhang Feng say “Study God” grated on his nerves: “Do you want your bro, or do you want the Study God?”

Zhang Feng had slapped his own thigh: “My bro, obviously!”

While Shao Zhan was gaming, Meng Guowei had already handed down the pop-quiz worksheets.

Xu Sheng smoothed out the paper and looked down at the first question.

Xu Sheng figured that impersonating “Shao Zhan” in Chinese class wouldn’t be terribly difficult. Chinese characters could be read by anyone, and he had miraculously forced himself to stay awake through half the period.

He had picked up at least a few basic key points.

Carrying full confidence, Xu Sheng began writing out the answer to question one.

“Wrong,” Shao Zhan said suddenly, midway through his match.

“Which one’s wrong?” Xu Sheng looked up.

“You should be asking: which one did you get right?”

“…”

Xu Sheng had no idea where Shao Zhan was finding the spare bandwidth to watch him solve problems while playing a game. “Out of all these, not a single one is right?”

Once again, Xu Sheng came face to face with the creature known as a Study God.

Shao Zhan genuinely didn’t seem to game often, but after just one round, he had already figured out the basic controls and skills. By the second round, he was already showing the chops of a veteran player. Compared to Zhang Feng, who had played for an entire year and remained absolute trash, the contrast was brutal.

The most infuriating part was that he truly could monitor the questions while playing.

Shao Zhan dictated, Xu Sheng wrote, and they wrapped up the better part of the worksheet in short order.

By this point, less than five minutes remained before the bell.

Meng Guowei rarely collected the in-class worksheets, essentially treating them as extra practice, so neither boy had worried about waiting for Shao Zhan to finish a copy before swapping papers.

Today, however, Meng Guowei was in high spirits. He began fiddling with the projector on the podium: “We’re running short on time, so I’ll project the correct answers onto the board for everyone. Just check and correct your work as we go. These questions aren’t difficult.”

Having already fulfilled his duties for the period, Xu Sheng leaned back and narrowed his eyes toward the projection screen, waiting for the dismissal bell.

The very next second, Meng Guowei spoke up: “Shao Zhan, bring your paper up.”

Hearing that the Study God’s answer sheet was being projected, the classmates sat up straight, wearing expressions identical to Gao Zhibo’s across the aisle.

“…”

Never did Xu Sheng imagine that Meng Guowei’s idea of “correct answers” meant this.

Shao Zhan couldn’t continue his match either, quitting straight to the home screen.

Having adjusted the projector, Meng Guowei beamed and strolled down the aisle. “Come on, show everyone.”

Meng Guowei went to slide the paper right off Xu Sheng’s desk.

One tug—it didn’t budge.

Xu Sheng was pinning the paper down. He stole a glance at the handwriting on it: flamboyant, scribbled, and bursting with untamed wildness. In that fraction of a second, he honestly considered scarfing down the entire sheet of paper in one bite.

Meng Guowei pulled harder; the other held on tighter.

Meng Guowei tried to pull a third time.

“Sir,” in a moment of sheer desperation, lightning-fast thoughts fired through Xu Sheng’s brain. He suddenly slammed his hand against the desk and said, “Shouldn’t you give other students a chance to show what they can do?”

Meng Guowei blinked, startled by the desk slam.

“Standard answers are important, but I think your focus should be on the areas where students are most prone to slipping up,” Xu Sheng said, using Meng Guowei’s momentary hesitation to yank the worksheet back into his own hands. He pressed on: “…Finding where everyone is losing points and drilling those areas is what will truly help them.”

That actually makes sense!

It was as if a bolt of lightning struck Meng Guowei’s brain, plunging him into deep thought.

He was always eager to show off Shao Zhan’s model answers, but were model answers really the end-all, be-all?!

Xu Sheng pressed his advantage: “Gao Zhibo mentioned to me earlier that he’s always wanted a chance to show his work, but just never had the opportunity.”

Meng Guowei pondered for a moment and indeed turned around. “Gao Zhibo, the teacher had no idea you had such ambitions.”

Meng Guowei held out his hand. “Come, give me your paper.”

Gao Zhibo, who had never said anything of the sort: “…?”

Every day, Shao Zhan’s mood was hoisted up into the air only to plunge back down through some mind-boggling, clutch maneuver by Xu Sheng.

Aside from that minor hiccup in Chinese class, both gained enough experience for the subsequent periods: whether homework was collected or not, Shao Zhan solved the problems ahead of time and handed them over.

Besides, the semester had just started. Most academic subjects were simply covering baseline textbook material without branching into advanced extensions, leaving few opportunities to solve problems on the spot. And since Shao Zhan knew everything anyway, the content was far too elementary for teachers to bother singling him out for questions.

They finally powered through to dismissal. Xu Sheng had never felt school to be so exhausting. Without needing any reminders from Shao Zhan, he lost all desire to sneak off campus. After dinner in the cafeteria, he went straight back to his dorm to catch up on sleep.

His phone showed a few unread messages from Zhang Feng, sent during class earlier in the day.

Zhang Feng: Why didn’t you queue with me?

Zhang Feng: I invited you and you rejected me?!

Lying in bed, Xu Sheng had no idea how to explain it. Just as he was about to toss out a couple of perfunctory replies, someone knocked twice on his dorm door. It was likely Shao Zhan coming to collect the homework.

Sure enough, Shao Zhan was there for the assignments. He didn’t step inside, standing at the doorway instead. “Give me the homework.”

“It’s all here,” Xu Sheng said, opening the door and grabbing his backpack from the desk, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t know which subject is which, but whatever they handed out got shoved in there.”

As Xu Sheng spoke, he noticed Shao Zhan holding a plastic bag.

Before he could ask what was inside, Shao Zhan tossed the bag straight at him.

“Start practicing tonight,” Shao Zhan said in a tone that brooked no negotiation. “Twenty pages a day. I’ll inspect them tomorrow morning.”

Caught off guard by the toss, Xu Sheng blurted out, “Fuck, what the hell is this?”

He looked down as he cursed. Through the thin plastic bag, a line of bold print hit him right in the face:

Do you want to master beautiful handwriting in 30 days? Are you still troubled by losing neatness points on your exams?

This copybook features vigorous, powerful strokes and a well-structured curriculum, offering detailed breakdowns of stroke orders to guide students through progressive, step-by-step practice.

Xu Sheng’s gaze shifted up two inches.

The title read: 30-Day Crash Course: Running Script Copybook.