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Chapter 2 - Chapter 1: Face Hurts Hurts Hurts Really Bad

"Hello everyone, I'm Du Miao, ssssss——" 

The moment I spoke, facial muscles twitched, sending sharp pain that made me gasp. Staring at the stunned crowd below the podium, I'd never felt so utterly mortified. 

Amidst the sea of unfamiliar faces, one stood out—a face I knew well, currently twisted into a gleeful smirk. Yet that familiar expression strangely eased my anxiety. 

"Classmate, is your face okay?" A girl in the front row asked with concern. 

I forced an awkward smile and waved her off. "It's fine, just minor injuries, sssss—" 

Multiple mishaps had made me late. On the first day of school... I was the last to arrive, crashing headfirst into our stone-faced homeroom teacher. This excruciating self-introduction was his "brilliant" idea. 

"I'm from ssss—Dongsha District in Qiongkong City, Dongsha Third ssss—" 

"Enough." The teacher waved a dismissive hand. "Du Miao, was it? Go to the infirmary later." 

And so, my inaugural self-introduction ended in humiliating defeat. 

As the last arrival, I got stuck in the back row—not that I minded. After three years in the "resort zone" (as we called the last three rows), the window seat felt oddly comforting. True to its name, the vacation vibe settled in the moment I slumped into the chair. 

"Bro, what happened to your face?" A guy with mischievous eyes spun around, leaning on my desk. 

Between the throbbing pain and simmering resentment, I ignored him. 

"Hey bro! Answer me! Give the new guy some face!" 

"What's it to you?" I shot him a sidelong glare. His black-rimmed glasses failed to lend scholarly charm, instead amplifying his sleazy aura. 

"Based on years of research, your injuries were caused by blunt force trauma—fists or knees, most likely." 

I couldn't even muster a comeback. *Years of research? Researching how to get beaten up?* And since when were fists "blunt weapons"? Though... he wasn't wrong about the cause. 

It all started last night—a tragedy born from a mis-set alarm. 

Sleepless and late, I missed the school bus (hooray!). For once, I thanked the chaotic bike-sharing system. 

Pedaling frantically through shortcuts, I passed a two-meter wall near campus when—*WHAM!* A white-haired girl vaulted over, knee-first into my face. Bike and body hit the pavement. 

By the time I staggered up, she'd vanished. 

*Two meters—thirty centimeters taller than me. She didn't even touch the wall...* Was she some white-haired kangaroo? No, too small—more like a white-haired monkey! 

*Damn white-haired she-monkey! Next time, you're dead!* 

Maybe I should buy a fortune-telling almanac? Old Blind Yang under the overpass probably sold them... I buried my face in my arms. *Need to recover.* 

Seeing me "asleep," the chatterbox finally turned away. 

Fake sleep became real sleep—only to plunge into a nightmare loop of that flying knee. Again. And again. 

*Pure knee-strike hell!* 

Until—"Miaomiao!" A knuckle rapped my skull. 

I jolted awake, nearly flipping the desk. My glare met the offender. 

"Ah~ I woke at 6:30 just to bring you breakfast! No love? No care? At least appreciate my thoughtfulness! And you repay me with glares? Wounding my... my... my..." 

I snatched the steamed bun she offered. Still warm. 

This "young master" was my childhood friend—Wu Yanxin. No, my orientation wasn't messed up. She just... lacked curves where it counted. 

**Name:** Wu Yanxin 

**Gender:** Female 

**Personality:** Force of nature 

**Traits:** Delicate features, husky voice; cooks like a chef, fixes lightbulbs, subdues thugs single-handedly. 

With her Tracer-from-Overwatch pixie cut, strangers often mistook her for a boy. Years of this charade might've convinced even her. 

Watching her stammer, I smirked. "Your nonexistent girlish heart?" 

"Vanity! You should kneel and sing 'Conquer' to me." She ripped a chunk off my bun. "Or give back my meat bun." 

"Seriously? Fighting over one bun? And why would I sing 'Conquer'?" 

"For breakfast delivery gratitude!" Her claw shot toward my bun again. Anticipating this, I devoured three-quarters in one bite. 

I dangled the remnant before her. "Want it? A few buns won't conquer me. Bring a Manchu-Han Imperial Feast next time—maybe then I'll consider it, ssss—" 

*Damn it.* Forgot about my swollen face. 

"I do want it!" 

In that split second, the last morsel vanished into her mouth. Then—*poke!* Her finger jabbed my cheek. Another gasp escaped me. 

"What *happened* to your face?" 

"Fell." No way I'd tell the truth. She'd laugh at me for *years*. 

"Stay put. I'll buy you oranges... wait no, get ice." She plopped two plastic-wrapped buns on my desk—pulled from her chest. "These are your real breakfast. That was my leftover." 

She strode out, leaving me dumbfounded. *So that's why she looked different today...* 

*Do I eat buns that came from her chest?* I agonized until an ice-cold water bottle appeared. 

Following the arm up, I saw the concerned girl from earlier. 

"This should help." She draped a handkerchief over the bottle. "Wrap it to avoid frostbite." 

Stunned by her kindness, I stammered, "Classmate, you—" 

"No need for thanks. We've got three years together." With that, she returned to her seat. 

I didn't need an introduction—her name was embroidered on the handkerchief: *Shu Tong*. Soon, Wu Yanxin returned with a two-liter ice block. Between these glaciers, the infirmary became optional. 

Tianlan High—Qiongkong City's most obscure school. Online info was sparse, mostly useless official blurbs. All I knew: it was legit. 

Probably mediocre, considering they accepted *me*... but Wu Yanxin? With her grades, she could've attended any elite school. Yet she chose Tianlan—and her family approved! 

*Could it be... she likes me?* 

I shook my head violently. *Impossible. We're bros. Even if she "likes" me, it's strictly platonic. I know her too well.* 

Soon, the stone-faced teacher returned with a twenty-something man. After brief introductions, this young man became our new homeroom teacher. 

No poetic dreamer, this one. 

Tall, lean, suited with a buzz cut—his chiseled model features clashed with the formal wear. *Should be in sportswear*, I mused. *Probably the gym teacher.* 

"I'm Liu Yifeng." He scrawled his name across the whiteboard in bold strokes. True to his name's "sharp" character, an intangible edge radiated from him. 

"Never been a homeroom teacher before. You're my first class—make it my best. Cooperate, and we'll sail through three years." His phone rang mid-sentence, fumbling desperately through his suit. 

*Does he even wear suits often?* 

Finally retrieving it from an inner pocket, he glanced and stuffed it back. 

"No formal classes these two days. Get to know each other." He rushed out like a gust of wind. *Bet he'd have sprinted without the suit.* 

True to its reputation, Tianlan's teachers vanished—even Liu Yifeng. Surprisingly, classmates self-organized, forming a temporary committee. Bizarrely orderly. 

On day three, Liu Yifeng reappeared—exhausted. His tie sat crooked, shoes dulled, shirt stained. Though he praised our "good behavior," his frosty expression never thawed. 

Other teachers trickled in afterward. All young—none over thirty. My doubts surged: *Was this a mistake?* 

But... it wasn't like I had options. Tianlan was my only acceptance letter. 

*Don't want my student life ending yet. Any school'll do—just need somewhere to be.* Like it or not, Du Miao's high school saga had officially begun. 

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