"Silence!" the Elder barked. "Today, we study the Theory of Qi Condensation and Moral Superiority. Open your scrolls!"

Wangchen opened his scroll. He stared at the words.

’Qi is the breath of the universe...’

Boring.

His mind drifted.

’Is the Young Master warm? Is the Class 9 building drafty? Did he eat the second bun? Is anyone bullying him? If someone bullies him, can I freeze the building from this distance?’

He began to subconsciously trace formation patterns on his desk with his finger. They weren’t Qi gathering patterns. They were long-distance surveillance patterns.

.

.

.

Across the campus, down a winding path that hadn’t been swept in a week, stood the lecture hall for Class 9.

It was... rustic.

The roof had a few missing tiles. The desks were mismatched, some tall, some short, some covered in graffiti that said things like "Elder Zhang smells like old cheese" and "I want to go home."

The students were a motley crew. There were disciples with weak roots, disciples who had bribed their way in, and disciples who were just there for the free housing.

In the back row, Lin Ji’an had constructed a fortress.

She had pushed two desks together. She had placed her Black Iron Spatula on the table as a paperweight.

And she was currently unpacking a spread of snacks: dried plum, spicy jerky, and a thermos of tea.

"Yo," the guy next to her said. He was leaning back in his chair, balancing a brush on his nose. He had messy brown hair and looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. "Nice spatula. You planning to cook the textbook?"

"If the lecture is dry enough, maybe," Ji’an replied, offering him a piece of jerky. "Lin Ji’an. Chaotic Root. Here for the attendance credit."

"Tang Bo," the guy said, accepting the jerky. "Five-Element Impure Root. Here because my dad threatened to cut off my allowance. Nice to meet you."

Ji’an looked around. A girl in the front row was applying rouge. Two guys in the corner were arm-wrestling.

Another guy was sleeping with his eyes open, a skill Ji’an admired.

"This," Ji’an sighed happily, "is my tribe."

The door creaked open. The Instructor for Class 9 shuffled in. He was an old man with a gourd of wine hanging from his belt and a beard that looked like a bird’s nest.

"Alright, settle down, you little brats," the Instructor grumbled, slumping into his chair. "I am Elder Mo. I’m supposed to teach you... uh..." He squinted at a crumpled piece of paper. "...Basic Breathing 101."

He tossed the paper away.

"But breathing is boring. You’re all breathing right now, aren’t you? Congratulations, you pass. Study hall. Wake me up if the Sect Leader comes."

He put his head on the desk and began to snore immediately.

The class cheered silently. The arm-wrestling resumed. The rouge girl started doing her nails.

Ji’an grinned.

"System," she thought. "This is a literary paradise. No pressure, no death flags. Just me and my snacks."

She leaned back, propping her feet up on the empty chair.

"I wonder how Little Puddle is doing," she mused. "Probably listening to some high-concept lecture about the Dao of Clouds. Poor guy. He hates abstract theory."

The bells rang across the peaks, signaling the midday break.

In Class 1, the disciples rose with dignity.

"Brother Xie," Wen Shiru said, approaching Wangchen’s desk. "The Direct Disciples usually gather at the Sky Pavilion for lunch. The spiritual energy there aids digestion. Would you care to join us? We can discuss the upcoming tournament."

Gu Zhiwei nodded eagerly. "Yes! Brother Lu is coming too! It’s a tradition!"

Wangchen stood up. He packed his scroll. He picked up Winter’s Sigh.

"No," he said.

"No?" Wen Shiru blinked. "But... it is where the elite gather. It is important for networking."

"I have a prior engagement," Wangchen said.

He didn’t wait for a response. He walked out of the elite classroom, ignored the stunned looks of the other "dragons," and marched straight toward the "Hall of Dust."

The courtyard outside Class 9 was a chaotic mess of students eating packed lunches and gambling with spirit stones.

Lin Ji’an was sitting on a low stone wall, sharing her spicy jerky with Tang Bo and the Rouge Girl, whose name turned out to be Liu Liu.

"So I told him," Ji’an was saying, recounting a heavily edited version of her encounter with the boar, "if you want the meat to be tender, you have to massage it first."

"No way," Tang Bo laughed. "You massaged a boar?"

"Pre-mortem," Ji’an winked.

Suddenly, the chatter in the courtyard died.

It started at the gate and spread like a wave of silence. The gambling stopped. The eating stopped.

Walking through the rusty gate of the Class 9 courtyard was a figure that didn’t belong.

He was dressed in shimmering Ice-Silk robes that cost more than the entire Class 9 building.

His face was cold, beautiful, and terrifying. The air around him dropped twenty degrees, causing frost to form on the weeds.

It was Xie Wangchen.

The Ice Monster. The Genius of Class 1.

He walked through the crowd of commoners like a king walking through a pigsty. He didn’t look at anyone. His eyes were scanning the area with laser focus.

"Who is that?" Tang Bo whispered, his jerky falling from his mouth. "Is he here to kill us?"

"That’s the famous Elder Qin’s Disciple," Liu Liu gasped, hiding her rouge. "Why is he here? Did we offend Class 1?"

Wangchen’s eyes locked onto the stone wall.

His expression softened instantly. The frost evaporated.

He walked straight up to Lin Ji’an.

Ji’an looked up, a piece of jerky hanging from her mouth.

"Oh. Hey, Wangchen. Class over?"

Wangchen stopped in front of her. He ignored the terrified stares of her new friends.

"The lecture was useless," Wangchen stated. "He talked about morality for two hours."

He reached into his expensive spatial bag and pulled out a sleek, heated bento box, which was a high-tier artifact meant for storing pills, which he was using for lunch.