You have overstepped your bounds.

Page 1 of 3

The two of them found their assigned lockers, marked with numbers, along the first-floor corridor.

It’s worth noting that at American High, the modular system was in place: teachers stayed in one classroom, while students had no fixed class, classroom, or classmates but instead moved from room to room according to their schedules.

A personal locker for books and miscellaneous items was therefore essential.

Dean carefully inspected his locker, but aside from neatly stacked textbooks and stationery, found no clues.

He glanced at the timetable taped inside the door, then followed Rust, arriving at a small classroom for twenty-five students just as the bell rang.

“Morning, Ms. Kader.”

A woman in a business suit, with deep lines around her mouth and thick glasses on her thin face, smiled kindly.

“Morning, Rust, Dean.” She took a pile of quizzes from the drawer and asked the two to pass them around.

Dean received an A+, which translated to a score of about 97 to 100.

“Finishing all the homework meticulously even before ‘leaving’—the former me must have been a perfectionist!” he thought.

He flipped through old assignments: algebra, trigonometry, geometry—all A’s and A+’s.

But no one else seemed to care about grades. The classroom was in chaos: wild chatter about late-night adult shows, girls touching up their makeup in mirrors, sneaking bites of burgers, dozing off, staring blankly out the window—the attentive ones made up less than a quarter.

But this was normal. Most public school students just aimed to get a high school diploma before joining the workforce. Even after graduation, many couldn’t manage basic arithmetic.

Dean felt he had quite the advantage.

“If the investigation leads nowhere or the system’s reward is lousy, I’ll plagiarize some songs to make my first pot of gold, get into a good university, study something chip-related, and preemptively block the path of that future tyrant mining king in the yellow leather jacket—bring happiness to all the future gamers,” he plotted.

…

Midway through class, Dean was called to the board. He strode up confidently and wrote rapidly.

“Do these Chinese sneak calculators into their brains? Why are they so good at math?” grumbled a freckled boy in the back, glaring at the board. The dense numbers and formulas were gibberish to him; how could that guy solve them so easily?

“Dude, cut them some slack,” joked the plump boy, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “If they don’t get good at math, they won’t even make it as supermarket cashiers, casino dealers, or cooks.”

“Moron! You think those jobs need math? Even the bums by the dumpster can do them,” someone scoffed.

A round of laughter erupted.

Dean’s hand, moving across the board, suddenly paused. He took a deep breath.

“Silence!” Ms. Kader smacked her pointer hard against the desk, glaring at the troublemakers in the back. “Anyone who speaks again, I guarantee your parents will be in my office!”

The fat boy’s face flickered with panic, then he grinned slyly at Dean. “We were just joking around with a friend. Right, man? You’re not that petty, are you?”

Dean’s face remained blank. In his previous life, he’d lived nineteen years; when it came to fighting, he’d never feared anyone.

But as a newcomer, he chose discretion and restraint.

“Just don’t mess with me again.”

After math, Dean rushed to three classrooms in a row—social studies, English, reading—without further blatant mockery.

Still, he noticed another difference from his old country: here, there were only three minutes between classes, hardly enough to catch your breath. Utterly unreasonable.

Lunch break.

In the far corner of the cafeteria.

Rust bit into a tuna burger, stuffed a ketchup-soaked fry into his mouth, sipped yogurt, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel.

“Dude, are you still mad about those idiots earlier?”

Dean shook his head, listlessly picking a licorice-like Twizzler from his tray. He didn’t understand why candy counted as a staple here, but carefully put it in his mouth.

Hiss—

Strawberry flavor—so sweet it hurt his teeth.

The only upside to cafeteria food was that it was free.

But apart from the black kids in the corner and penniless types like him, most students brought food from home or bought tastier options: pasta, bacon, omelets, tacos…

“I’ve been thinking about what you mentioned this morning—Bob Lowell.”

“You really don’t remember? Did you get knocked on the head and lose your memory?” Rust eyed his friend suspiciously.

Dean didn’t deny it. “Tell me straight.”

“Yesterday afternoon, that rich kid brought two teammates from the baseball team, grabbed you, and forced you into his car.”

Dean’s heart skipped. So after this punk took him, the former him killed himself?

As he thought this, the progress bar in his system suddenly jumped ahead by ten percent, to twenty!

“That’s it!” Dean’s spirits soared.

But he’d checked—no obvious injuries, not even a sore backside. So what had happened to break him psychologically?

“Sorry, man. I’m small and weak—I couldn’t help you. Otherwise, Bob Lowell would’ve hung me on the baseball field’s wire fence for everyone to see. You know what that’s like, right?” Rust apologized, raising his yogurt.

“And his family is filthy rich—casinos, hotels, movie theaters. No one dares cross him.”

“I’ve been hung on the baseball fence too?” Dean was curious.

“Let’s see… once, twice—five times. But honestly, it’s not so bad if you ignore the pointing and laughing. It’s actually pretty breezy up there.”

Rust casually shook his light brown hair, but there was still a glint of sadness in his eyes.

“That bastard—an adult, filthy rich—why does he always pick on nobodies like us?”

“I’m short and scrawny, born to be bullied. As for you, it’s because you’ve got Chinese blood. He’s always targeted you. I thought you’d be used to it by now.”

“And no one does anything?”

“Nope. His connections are too deep, and we’re nobodies. Anyone smart knows which side to pick. Plus, he’s sly—usually just mouths off in front of people, but when no one’s watching, he really works us over.”

Rust paused.

“He especially likes to harass Chinese kids.”

Dean nodded. He’d heard many versions of this in his time—Chinese families were known for saving money, avoiding trouble, and not calling the cops.

Seeing Dean’s gloomy face, Rust tore off a piece of his burger and handed it over.

Page 2 of 3

“Not your taste? Here, try my mom’s cooking.”

“Mmm, it’s great… as good as a five-star hotel chef.” Dean looked at his friend’s concerned face, and his irritation eased a bit. At least his former self had made a good friend at school.

“Dean, just hang in there one more year… Your grades are awesome. Once you get your SAT scores in the spring, you can get into a good college… Ivy League’s a stretch, but PAC-9 is no problem—no, PAC-10 now. Arizona just joined, and it’s not far from Las Vegas. Maybe we’ll still be classmates.”

A sincere smile spread over that handsome face.

Dean shook his head. Such a naïve, pure kid.

He was thinking this when he looked up and froze.

A muscular arm suddenly clamped down on Rust’s shoulder and yanked him back before he could react.

Rust landed hard on the floor, his burger rolling to a stop at the foot of a hulking figure. He winced in pain, his face flushed, ready to curse, but when he saw who was responsible, he shrank into silence.

Three men in blue baseball jerseys stood by the table: a wiry second baseman, a thick-necked center fielder, and a hulking first baseman whose muscles bulged beneath his shirt.

They had just finished practice, sweat beading their foreheads, their eyes under short hair sharp and aggressive as they turned to Dean.

“Didn’t your parents teach you manners? I’m in a good mood—so get lost!”

The biggest one plopped into Rust’s seat, sprawled back, and crooked his finger. His two cronies set yogurt and a tray before him.

He smiled, silently mouthing a word at Dean.

Chink.

Then, with utter contempt, he patted Dean’s cheek.

Dean’s smile vanished.

That round-faced brute was the same Bob Lowell who’d been in the red sports car.

Without those huge sunglasses, his hook nose dominated his face—his whole presence gloomy and overbearing.

This was the second time now—an insult to his face.

And the baseball field was next door; what was an outsider doing in the cafeteria?

Dean’s face went chalk white, his whole body trembling uncontrollably, his fingers clutching the plastic knife. A wave of heat surged up his spine, setting his hair on end.

Fear. Deep, instinctive fear.

He didn’t know what Bob had done to his predecessor, but it had left scars to the bone.

“Come on, Dean!” Rust hurriedly pulled his shell-shocked friend from his seat.

“Get out of here! Don’t let us see you again. Ha!”

“Cowards, weaklings. Get lost—this isn’t your place!”

A wave of laughter rippled around them. Some looked on with sympathy, but most just enjoyed the spectacle, pointing and snickering as the two “brothers” stumbled away, supporting each other awkwardly like clumsy clowns.

“Let’s go to the lawn, Dean. It’s quieter there—much nicer for lunch,” Rust comforted, holding his friend’s shaking arm—until he suddenly felt a surge of strength.

He almost lost his grip, eyes wide in alarm as a shadow streaked away toward the corner!

No one saw it coming—no one expected it.

Crash!

Dean rushed behind Bob, snatched a glass bowl of creamy mushroom pasta from the table, and smashed it on the back of Bob’s head.

Crack.

The sharp sound of shattering glass, the pasta arcing through the air like a painter’s stroke, cream sauce splattering across brown hair, streaked with a vivid splash of red.

Ding!

Combat log activated.

A strange message flashed before his eyes.

But Dean, consumed by fury, had no time to check. He wanted only to vent his frustration and rage!

One way ticket. One way ticket!

At that moment, disco music started on the cafeteria speakers.

“One way ticket, one way ticket to the blue!”

Dean moved like lightning, his arms like steel traps around Bob’s neck, yanking him backwards. Bob, still dazed from the blow, couldn’t react.

His powerful upper body crashed down, even more awkwardly than Rust had earlier—legs tangled in the chairs, back slamming hard against the floor in a twisted heap.

At the same time, a strangled curse rang out—

“Fuck you!”

Dean’s roar, raw and furious.

“Choo choo train, chuggin’ down the track…”

Dean crouched, his left knee pinning Bob’s belly, left fist pounding his windpipe, right fist raised over that round face.

Bang!

Page 3 of 3

Blood exploded from Bob’s nose, splattering half his face and Dean’s knuckles.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh was sickening.

“Gotta travel on, ain’t never coming back…”

Dean’s fist blurred—a left hook, a right cross.

Bob’s left eye swelled purple and red, tears streaming, his expression dazed.

“Oh oh, got a one way ticket to the blue…”

Dean threw punches with both hands, raising a third.

But the baseball team was no longer caught off guard.

Bob’s cronies vaulted the table, one landing a kick to Dean’s side, sending him flying with brute strength.

Dean scrambled up and, wolf-like, lunged at the man checking Bob’s wounds. Caught off guard, the man took a kick to the kidney, crashing into a pile of trays.

“Holy shit!”

“Oh my god!”

The cafeteria descended into chaos, a tide of students surging toward the fight.

“Bye my love, my baby is leavin’ me…”

A hulking black kid grabbed Dean from behind, using his size to lift him off the ground, then slammed him face-first into the cold floor.

The brawl was over.

Two tall students hauled Dean up by the arms. Compared to the battered Bob, Dean looked equally wrecked after just moments.

His back and waist were scraped raw, pain burning like fire; a lump swelled on his forehead, and blood oozed from his lips.

But his eyes, bloodshot, never left the battered, bleeding Bob, his mouth curled in a bright grin.

All the earlier fear had vanished.

This spoiled rich bastard was just another ordinary guy who could bleed.

Why should he be afraid?

“Did that kid smoke something today? Got real guts all of a sudden,” a Latino marveled.

“Anyone who throws a punch at Bob is a hero!” a black student saluted him with a grin.

All eyes in the cafeteria were wide with disbelief.

This poor kid, orphaned early, always meek and obedient—a lamb to everyone—had snapped, gone wild, and ambushed the school’s golden boy, leaving him bloodied and unrecognizable.

Bob was clutching a white handkerchief to his swollen, battered nose, his face a mess of red and purple, all arrogance gone.

He spat blood.

Bang!

A fist slammed into Dean’s stomach.

The force doubled him up like a boiled shrimp.

“Idiot… I admit, I underestimated you. Didn’t think you’d have the guts,” Bob sneered, malice and hatred in his voice. “But you’re finished. So many witnesses—get ready to pack your bags!”

“Shut up!” Dean glared at him.

“You racist bastard! You filthy, stinking pig—did you eat too much in the bathroom? Every time you see me, you spew garbage! Especially yesterday—what did you do to me? Don’t you remember?”

“You think I’ll keep putting up with this?”

Dean’s voice was icy, the blood at the corner of his eye making him look almost manic.

“If you’re going to accuse me, bring proof. Don’t throw out wild accusations!” Bob replied coolly.

The crowd’s faces twisted awkwardly.

Everyone knew racism was alive and well, with Chinese students at the bottom of the food chain. But no one ever broke that unspoken rule in public—no one cared.

Otherwise, he’d be totally isolated.

But Dean didn’t care. He was himself, no longer the timid boy who’d come before. From now on, he’d never hide again.

…

“Back to your seats! Eat your lunch! What are you all staring at?!”

A stern voice rang out, and the crowd dispersed, pretending to eat while their eyes stayed glued to the scene.

Principal Ulysses, in a sharp suit, swept his gaze over the two battered boys.

“You two—my office, now.”

“Dude, that was cool!” Rust, the short kid who’d fetched help, gave Dean a heartfelt thumbs-up.