Sunshine Orphanage Academy—the name was a saccharine shell, wrapped around a machine of precisely interlocking gears.
The morning light on the placement test day was unnaturally pale.
In the intelligence testing room, Shan Jue faced the shifting patterns and number sequences on the screen. His fingers moved across the touchpad, swift and steady—this wasn't answering questions; it was deconstruction. Deconstructing the question-setter's logic, deconstructing the intent behind the rules. The formulas he'd mentally calculated on those nights folding spirit money, the theorems memorized by streetlamp light, became his silent weapons. When his score flashed, the proctor glanced at him twice.
In the adjacent room, Qian Hui was undergoing an emotional recognition test. Faces flashed on the screen, their expressions subtle: suppressed anger, calculated friendliness, fragile disguise. She watched quietly, a sense of familiarity washing over her—she had taken this class early, in the evasive look in her mother's eyes when she returned late, in the muddled stare of her father after he drank.
The results were announced on the spot.
"Intelligence Index: 158. Emotional Quotient Index: A+." The proctor stamped a red seal. "Exceptional Admission. Elite Class."
When they entered the top-floor classroom, every gaze was fixed on the grey manual in the instructor's hands.
The instructor, around forty, had a sharpness in his eyes worn dull by time. Instead of immediately reciting rules, he asked first:
"Do you know the difference between those who graduate from here and those who graduate from universities outside?"
Silence from the students. He answered himself:
"Regular Class graduates at 15, goes to factories, construction sites, service jobs. Elite Class graduates at 18, can become junior managers, chefs, technicians—sounds good, right?" He paused, his gaze needling each face. "But the ceiling is right there. Some doors are only open to 'university graduates.'"
"Every year, during graduation, three spots open up from the Regular Class for promotion to the Elite Class," he added, his tone devoid of encouragement, purely factual. "That's another kind of competition, trading three years of labor for a harder test. But to the system, this is 'resource reallocation'—giving those who failed once a second chance to be useful." He paused, letting the next words land with clarity. "The price is: during your time in the Regular Class, accumulating any single demerit point immediately disqualifies you from Elite Class candidacy. This is ironclad."
He opened the manual, his voice turning cold and procedural:
"Remember, these are the blades that will break your future:
• Deception, defiance of instructors: 3 demerits.
• Any form of cheating: 2.
• Late homework, lost textbooks: 1.
• No subject scoring above 44 in a single week: 1.
• Vandalism, theft: 3.
• Fighting: 2 demerits; 3 for the one who strikes first.
• Leaving the dormitory without permission at night: 2.
• Spreading rumors, isolating others: 1 demerit; 2 if severe consequences result.
• Failing dormitory inspections three consecutive days: 1.
• Forming unauthorized groups: 2.
• Concealing or falsifying personal health status: 2."
He looked up, letting the weight of the final line settle:
"**Accumulate one demerit, and you permanently forfeit university eligibility.**"
"**Accumulate twenty-seven, and after graduation, you are transferred to the monastic system—that is another, longer, darker road.**"
Then, he read out the single path that made everyone hold their breath:
"The selected candidates will be fully sponsored by the Central System for university—tuition, housing, living expenses, all covered, plus a monthly stipend." He paused deliberately, letting the words seep into every mind. "Upon graduation, the Central System will facilitate entry into the administrative apparatus, research institutions, or provide certification for official positions such as civil servants, doctors, lawyers, engineers."
The words 'civil servant' landed, stirring a faint ripple in the classroom. That wasn't just a job; it was the system's insignia, a guarantee of a future, the closest shore to 'power' and 'security' someone of their origins could imagine.
"I graduated from here, and I stayed to work here." The instructor closed the manual, a thread of something complex seeping into his voice. "Of all the students I've taught, two have made it to university. One works as an official in the Central Administrative City, the other teaches in the north—in a real school, with a playground, a school song, parents waiting at the gate after class."
What he didn't say was: they never came back.
He continued, his tone unreadable—a reminder or a warning:
"The monastic path isn't an end either. Besides orphans, there are reformed offenders, the unemployed there. The discipline is severe, but if one rises to become monastic staff... a very narrow channel still leads to university. Only, that road is longer, darker than the one beneath your feet."
"Sixty-eight people. Two spots." He said finally. "This isn't an exam; it's survival. The system uses this narrow ladder to tell us: some forms of worth must be proven this way."
When the manuals were handed out, Shan Jue ran his fingers over the cover, tracing the cold clauses. Qian Hui whispered, "Brother, what if we…"
"No 'what if'," Shan Jue cut her off, his gaze nailed to the first page with its sixty-eight names and the following list of 'Thou Shalt Nots'. "We will get the spots. We will leave. And then—"
He lifted his head, looking out the window at the sky that didn't belong to this place.
"—then, we will become the ones who make the rules for ourselves."