BTO CH11

Xu Sheng freed up a hand and held the bag with one arm, flipping through the remaining books underneath: There Is No Handwriting That Cannot Be Fixed: Semi-Cursive Crash Course, Handwriting Reflects the Man: Huaxia Wanjuan Fountain Pen Copybook 5-Pack…

…All copybooks.

Xu Sheng couldn’t bring himself to flip any further.

Judging by the sheer thickness and weight of this bag, Shao Zhan had bought no fewer than ten copybooks. The script styles were fully comprehensive, ranging from introductory primers to advanced volumes, offering an extraordinary amount of variety.

Perhaps because Shao Zhan had purchased an absurdly large stack, the bag even included a complimentary pen thrown in by the bookstore owner out of good will.

Xu Sheng had barely endured the school day until dismissal, genuinely hoping he could temporarily escape the curse named “Shao Zhan” and holding on to the fantasy that they might switch back the moment he woke up tomorrow morning. “You went out of your way to buy copybooks? What the f—” He cut himself off, swallowing his curses under Shao Zhan’s tepid stare. “What is your problem?”

For Shao Zhan, stepping into a bookstore to buy copybooks was an ordeal in its own right.

A few students had originally been browsing study guides inside. The moment Shao Zhan walked in, he cleared the store in under ten seconds, instantly treating himself to a private shopping experience.

Buying so many copybooks was simply because he didn’t have the time to pick and choose. The bookstore owner had hovered nearby, sighing, “Young man, please hurry your purchase along; we still have a business to run.”

Xu Sheng had managed to snatch the worksheet back from Meng Guowei during class today, but there was no guaranteeing he could pull that off every time. If a teacher felt inspired and called him up to solve a problem on the blackboard, the moment Xu Sheng wrote a single word, not even jumping into the Yellow River could clear up the confusion.

Shao Zhan: “Your handwriting is too ugly.”

Xu Sheng stared at his own face in front of him, radiating an icy glaze: “…” He desperately wanted to curse, but had zero counterarguments.

Shao Zhan slung his backpack over one shoulder and offered an alternative. Leaning in slightly as he spoke, he exerted an invisible sense of pressure, his bangs brushing over his eyes: “You don’t have to practice. I’ll switch back to using my right hand during class tomorrow.”

Now Xu Sheng didn’t just want to curse; he felt the distinct urge to throw a punch.

If Shao Zhan went back to using his right hand, subject teachers would suddenly realize Xu Sheng’s penmanship had evolved at lightspeed, rivaling the Study God himself. The ensuing shockwave would be infinitely worse.

Two options, and choosing either meant death. The only difference was which death would be more gruesome.

Xu Sheng refused both.

Having delivered his ultimatum, Shao Zhan had no interest in lingering on the topic. Just as he turned to leave, Xu Sheng reacted swiftly, grabbing hold of him: “Wait a second.”

Xu Sheng tightened his grip around Shao Zhan’s wrist. As long as he prepared himself mentally and occasionally discarded his bottom line, there was nothing he couldn’t bring himself to say. Bargaining, he ventured, “Twenty pages is too much. All the words I’ve written this entire semester combined wouldn’t add up to that. Let’s make a deal: ten pages.”

Shao Zhan looked at him without saying a word.

Xu Sheng began lying through his teeth: “Every beginning is difficult, and nothing can be accomplished overnight. You should understand this principle. I trust you wouldn’t be so heartless toward a classmate…”

Yet before Xu Sheng could get rolling, he was instantly shut down.

“‘Sanctimonious, totally devoid of conscience, an inhuman menace to society,'” Shao Zhan recited flatly. Pausing for a beat, he added, “‘Oh, right: worse than a beast.'”

“…”

Shao Zhan: “Let go.”

Xu Sheng released his grip, watching Shao Zhan walk into the opposite dorm room and firmly shut the door.

Xu Sheng’s handwriting had always been untamed; he scribbled however he pleased.

It wasn’t that no teacher had tried handing him a copybook before. Back in their freshman year, King of Hell Gu had tried talking sense into him: “Look at your handwriting! What kind of chicken scratch is this? If I pulled a random person off the street, they could write more legibly with their foot! Your scores are abysmal to begin with, and you can’t even secure the neatness points? Take a right outside the school gates to the Xinhua Bookstore, get the hell over there, and buy a few copybooks to practice! Beat it, right now!”

Xu Sheng had simply acted deaf, tossing out a “Goodbye, Director Gu” as he strolled out the door.

Practice penmanship?

What a joke. Even in his dreams, Xu Sheng would never encounter such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, Xu Sheng sat at his study desk, swallowing his humiliation as he flipped open a page of the copybook.

Before touching pen to paper, a sentence flashed across his mind: I will definitely regret my actions tonight.

On the very first page of the copybook, three grid boxes lined the left margin containing three basic strokes: the horizontal stroke, the hanging-dew vertical stroke, and the suspended-needle vertical stroke.

Tiny characters beneath the grid detailed techniques and key focus areas: Horizontal stroke: touch down lightly, follow the flow to the right, keep the left lower and the right higher, with a gentle curve on longer strokes…

Xu Sheng held down the translucent tracing paper overlaid on the copybook, forcing down his irritation, and traced a row of the character “三” across the practice grid on the right.

Zhang Feng’s WeChat barrage was still ongoing.

Zhang Feng: By the way, Boss, why did you bolt so fast after school today?

Because I was afraid you’d hunt me down.

Zhang Feng: I was planning to ask if you wanted to go play basketball.

Playing ball is exactly what I was terrified you’d ask for.

Zhang Feng: What are you up to right now?

Xu Sheng glanced at his copybook and replied with three words: Playing video games.

Zhang Feng: Wanna duo?

Xu Sheng: Play on your own. I need to practice my positioning.

Xu Sheng: A person can’t rely on their teammates forever. Learn to carry by yourself.

Zhang Feng: …

When Xu Sheng finally lifted his head from the copybook, total darkness blanketed the outside window. The cicadas’ droning was faint, and a sultry breeze drifted through the shifting silhouettes of the trees. Only then did he realize he had actually spent nearly an hour practicing calligraphy.

Xu Sheng dropped the pen. Completely abandoning any proper posture, he propped one foot up on the edge of the chair, bent his leg, and rolled his neck back. Habitually, he reached for the mineral water bottle on the desk.

He unscrewed the cap and raised the rim to his lips, but snapped it shut before taking a single sip.

Even more mortifying than taking a shower was going to the bathroom.

He hadn’t exchanged a single detail about it with Shao Zhan, silently pretending the issue didn’t exist, but both had tacitly slashed their water intake. Thinking of this, a deep wave of embarrassment washed over him.

He truly couldn’t fathom why attending school and coasting through life had to be this agonizing.

Ruffling his hair, Xu Sheng fished out his phone, opened the browser, and clicked into the Q&A section, hoping to find someone with a similar experience. The search results turned out to be nothing but novel recommendations.

Left with no choice, he became the very first person to ask the question, typing it out character by character: I am a sophomore in high school. My academic performance… has some room for improvement.

Perhaps out of embarrassment, or simply unable to find the right angle, Xu Sheng rambled on for a while—even spouting nonsense detailing his own handsome looks—before finally cutting to the chase: My classmate and I swapped bodies. What should I do?

Xu Sheng chose the category “Difficult & Bizarre Medical Conditions.” Very quickly, a doctor surnamed Li responded: Recommend going to the hospital for an examination as soon as possible.

Doctor Li’s avatar featured a white coat and a solemn, authoritative expression, appearing remarkably professional.

Xu Sheng perked up. There was hope after all. He replied: Could you be more specific?

Doctor Li: Please visit the psychiatric department as soon as you can. Cooperate actively with the doctor’s treatment plan. Wishing you a speedy recovery.

“…”

Xu Sheng abruptly felt that compared to consulting unreliable doctors, continuing his calligraphy practice might actually be a solid alternative.

Xu Sheng powered through all twenty pages until he was dizzy and seeing stars. The characters on the page shifted from familiar to alien, then back to familiar again. As he wrote, he sank into profound skepticism toward life and human society.

Earlier, when he told Shao Zhan that all the words he’d written this semester didn’t add up to this much, he had been speaking the truth. Now, he wanted to revise that statement—not just this semester; he hadn’t written this many words across the entire previous semester either.

He didn’t hand in homework, didn’t take notes, and never took exams seriously.

Whenever essays offered a choice, he exclusively selected the “Poetry” genre purely for its low word count. King of Hell Gu had dragged him out for a vicious tongue-lashing over that: “You think you’re a poet?! Huh?! Writing poetry? With these few garbage lines of yours, you call this poetry?! Even writing a completely off-topic essay would be better than this! How on earth did you pass your high school entrance exams?!”

Xu Sheng didn’t dwell on it any longer. Shaking out his hand, another thought unexpectedly surfaced in his mind: Does Shao Zhan not have any friends?

Before, he only knew the guy looked cold. But after spending a full day as Shao Zhan, he realized that while the guy had countless fanboys and fangirls, he didn’t seem to have a single person he could call a friend.

That was convenient for Xu Sheng, at least; he didn’t need to deal with any sudden “genius scholar friends” popping up.

If a character like that really existed, they’d probably want to dissect exam questions together, meeting up at the library at every free moment to cultivate their minds and expand their knowledge. He’d choose death.

Yet after enjoying the convenience of it all day, the question marks buried in his mind only grew larger. Did this person’s entire life consist solely of Huanggang test sheets and the Five-Year College Entrance Exam, Three-Year Simulation? Were all Study Gods this unhinged?

After finishing his shower, another question mark popped up.

This time, Xu Sheng wiped away the fog on the mirror. The reflection showed a bare-chested boy, damp hair dripping onto his shoulders. Xu Sheng turned sideways, craning his neck, and finally got a closer look at the tattoo—it was a wing that looked like fire, flame-like patterns unfurling across skin and bone into the shape of a wing.

It was an ordinary tattoo, so generic it looked like the most popular design in any flash book you’d flip through at a walk-in parlor.

It sat at the complete opposite extreme of Shao Zhan’s ice-cold demeanor.

Xu Sheng stared for a second, then felt that scrutinizing someone else like this was practically perverted. Grabbing the towel nearby, he shook away all the question marks, draped it over his head, and pushed open the door to walk out.

Before going to sleep, both held onto the exact same thought: Maybe we’ll switch back tomorrow.

If they didn’t switch back soon, this life was going to be unlivable.

The next morning, Xu Sheng was jolted awake by a knock on the door. Pulling it open, standing outside with his backpack—and ready to inspect twenty pages of copybook—was “himself.”

The heavens had clearly not received their cries. Beyond that ambiguous clap of thunder, no response ever came.