Post-exam score estimation was a ritual where students matched their answers against official keys. For science students like Li Mu, accuracy was highest in math and physics. Chinese and English posed challenges—essays lacked definitive answers. But with English's multiple-choice dominance, Li Mu could nail most sections.
By eleven a.m., the English teacher rushed through the answer key. Li Mu tallied silently:
Listening: perfect.
Grammar: flawless.
Cloze, reading comprehension, error correction: all correct.
125 points secured before essays. His borrowed Olympic slogan "One World, One Dream" would surely snag at least 15/25. Total: 140+.
Quick math: 486 (previous subjects) + 140 = 626.
In Jiangsu Province, 626 guaranteed top-tier universities. Renmin University's cutoff last year was 615. Perfect.
The class buzzed with whispered plans. Li Mu ignored them, mentally drafting his application: Economics at Renmin. Backup: Finance, International Law. Adjustments accepted.
At the podium, class monitor Lu Gengyu proposed: "Monday after submitting applications—farewell dinner! Fifty yuan each. Dinner plus KTV!"
A wave of teenage melancholy swept the room. Girls hugged, sniffling. Boys blinked hard. Li Mu, twice their emotional age, felt only anticipation. Beijing awaited.
He signed the list—Su Yingxue's elegant script already there—then fled to a payphone.
"Mom? Estimated 626 to 630."
A gasp, then tears. His father's voice thickened: "Dinner tonight. We'll drink."
Hanging up, Li Mu bought a cola from a sidewalk vendor. The icy sweetness grounded him. Around him, classmates drifted past familiar storefronts—stationery shops, hole-in-the-wall eateries, a tinny piano drifting from a music store. Everything unchanged.
Except me.
He crushed the empty bottle. Stone Age Overlord beckoned. Time to build an empire.