Chapter 7: The Gap Between People
On the bus.
After acquiring the Feather Scroll, Zhang Yu had imagined his future would be something like: Feather Scroll! Let me see how far you can push me!
But now, in an instant, it had twisted into: Zhang Yu! Let me see how far you can push yourself!
Now that the situation had already unfolded, Zhang Yu knew there was no going back. The only way forward was to grow stronger.
So he focused on cultivating his body and spirit.
With each breath, threads of spiritual energy from the world seeped into his body, gathering in his dantian, slowly refined into mana, layer by layer solidifying his foundation on the path to immortality.
But recalling the previous night’s training with the Jianti Thirty-Six Forms, Zhang Yu decided to try the same method—see if he could rapidly level up the Basic Qi Circulation Method using the Feather Scroll.
He mentally summoned the scroll. It unfurled in his mind’s eye. Then, with a flicker of intent, he directed his attention toward the entry labeled Basic Qi Circulation Method – Level 1.
Instantly, the skill icon shifted under his will.
But just as he pulled it toward his character portrait, a sudden flash of insight surged from the Feather Scroll.
"You can only focus on enhancing one skill at a time."
"Switching skills requires a full day of waiting before the next switch is allowed."
Zhang Yu mentally named this mechanism Specialization.
In that moment, he understood: a skill under Specialization could be advanced rapidly, but only one could be prioritized at a time. Switching would require a full day of cooldown.
"So if I switch Specialization from Jianti Thirty-Six Forms to Basic Qi Circulation Method, then the latter will level up fast through practice… but the former will revert to its normal, slow progression."
"Unless I wait a full day, then switch back…"
Recalling the scene from yesterday’s PE class, Zhang Yu decided to hold off. He’d keep focusing on Jianti Thirty-Six Forms for now.
Time passed in silence.
Zhang Yu remained in the flow of the Basic Qi Circulation Method until the very moment he stepped off the bus.
……
In the school cafeteria.
Bai Zhenzhen carried her tray and sat down in front of Zhang Yu, who looked like a zombie on autopilot. She glanced at him with mild curiosity.
“Stayed up all night training?” she asked, voice flat.
Zhang Yu wolfed down a large meat bun. “I was grinding hard until late.”
Bai Zhenzhen remained expressionless, but her words cut through. “Honestly, you’re the only one in the whole school who hasn’t gotten sterilized. I told you ages ago—just spend the two grand. Look at how much time, energy, and protein you’ve wasted.”
Zhang Yu downed another egg. He grinned confidently. “Bai Zhenzhen, I’ll tell you something: my self-discipline and potential are scaring even me. That top spot in the grade rankings won’t be yours for long.”
Bai Zhenzhen rolled her eyes. “Yu, don’t even try that nonsense in front of me. If anyone else heard you, they’d probably laugh so hard they’d wet themselves.”
She paused, then added, “You’re not competing for class rank. You’re fighting for overall academic supremacy. Without sterilization, your advantage is meaningless.”
Zhang Yu sighed, shaking his head. This girl acts cold all the time, but she’s got no filter when it comes to saying the cruelest things.
The fact that he hadn’t undergone sterilization wasn’t shocking anymore. He’d grown used to the absurdity of this world, this school.
But it remained a quiet secret—one he’d only shared with Bai Zhenzhen.
Yet now, a question surfaced in his mind: Why was I even allowed to enroll without getting sterilized?
At that moment, Zhou Tianyi arrived with his tray, sitting beside them. He glanced at Zhang Yu. “You look exhausted. Stayed up all night studying?”
Zhang Yu shook his head. “Just did a bit of Jianti Thirty-Six Forms. Had a sudden breakthrough.”
As they ate, Zhang Yu noticed something odd: ever since Zhou Tianyi arrived, Bai Zhenzhen had grown quieter—back to her usual cold, reserved self.
After breakfast, the three walked together toward the classroom.
Zhang Yu occasionally opened his palm, watching the Feather Scroll flicker into existence and vanish again.
So no one else can see it. Just like I thought.
Then—BANG!
A loud crash echoed from the direction of the main teaching building, followed by a chorus of shouts and gasps.
A crowd had already gathered at the front entrance.
People murmured in hushed tones, trading rumors.
“Look—Lü Chao from Class 3, Grade 12. He used to be in the Model Class. His grades have been slipping. Looks like he’s about to get demoted.”
“Lü Chao? He was top ten in Grade 11.”
A voice from the back spat out a cruel stereotype. “Good grades in Grade 11? So what? Poor people stay poor. How many poor kids do you think are still in the Model Class this year? Poor folks just don’t belong in cultivation.”
Another voice, dripping with score-obsession, scoffed. “Hmph. Jumped from the sixth floor and died? Typical failure. If a Model Class genius jumped, he’d need at least ten floors to make a decent impact.”
Bai Zhenzhen watched the scene, sighing. “Another Grade 12 suicide?”
Zhou Tianyi nodded. “Third one this year. This batch of seniors is really under pressure.”
Zhang Yu suddenly asked, “Was he poor?”
Bai Zhenzhen shot him a sideways glance—whether it was warning or pity, she didn’t say. “He took out loans. Anyone who needs to borrow money to study isn’t wealthy.”
“Most of them start strong when they first enter Songyang High. But by Grade 12, they can’t keep up with the rich kids. Eventually, they end up at second- or third-tier universities.”
“Top Ten?” She paused. “In fact, I think it’s been over a decade since a non-wealthy student made it into the Top Ten.”
Zhang Yu froze.
The Top Ten—the ten most elite universities directly under the ten strongest sects. The dream schools of countless students.
But he hadn’t known that for over ten years, no ordinary student had cracked the Top Ten.
His mind raced: Is it lack of resources? Not enough money?
He remembered the rumors—how elite tutors, secret cultivation manuals, high-tier techniques, and experimental drugs from the lab were all locked behind closed doors, accessible only to the rich.
If I hadn’t awakened my potential… I might’ve ended up like them.
The incident sparked a brief wave of discussion, but for most students, it was just another story to gossip about during breaks.
Soon, everyone returned to their routines—endless cultivation, endless study, endless grinding for a future that depended on a single number: their score.
They were all still young. But they all knew the brutal truth:
Your score determined your university.
Your university determined your sect.
Your sect determined your life.
No matter how close friends they were, if their grades diverged, their paths would split.
……
Time flew.
It was time for three consecutive PE classes.
Zhang Yu once again refused Wang Hai’s sales pitch.
But this time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Wang Hai’s gaze had changed—slightly colder, more calculating.
Still, Zhang Yu had no choice. Money was out of the question. Health was too precious to risk.
So he ignored it, kept training.
Jianti Thirty-Six Forms – Level 2 (1/20)
Including the session on the bus, he needed just 19 more full rounds to reach Level 3.
That gave him extra motivation. He pushed every muscle, drained every ounce of mana, driving himself beyond limits.
Even when his body begged to stop, the ritual force within him would snap him back into focus.
Pain. Danger. Near-death.
Each repetition was agony—but also ecstasy.
After over two class periods, Zhang Yu collapsed onto the ground, utterly spent.
Jianti Thirty-Six Forms – Level 2 (17/20)
“I’ve hit my limit.”
The ritual force didn’t push him further. It seemed to agree—he’d reached his peak.
But Zhang Yu wasn’t disappointed.
In just two days, he’d gone from Level 1 to Level 2 in a foundational technique. That was impossible for his old self.
If I hadn’t added extra practice last night… I could’ve finished all three classes.
But with this damn ritual forcing me to train nonstop… I might end up too exhausted in class to train at all. Then I’ll just rest. That’ll become the norm.
He thought of his past life—where people stayed up all night cramming, then slept through class the next day.
This is just another version of that. But it’s not healthy.
Stupid ritual. Can’t even tell time or place.
Just then, a shadow fell over him.
Like a mountain had risen above his body.
Wang Hai stood over him, cold and unamused. “What are you doing during PE?”
Zhang Yu scrambled up. “Teacher, I trained hard last night. I’m just… worn out.”
Sensing the frost in Wang Hai’s voice, he added quickly, “I broke through to Level 2 last night. Jianti Thirty-Six Forms is now Level 2.”
He knew the game. In this school, where grades ruled everything, teachers rarely punished top students.
If Wang Hai knew he’d made progress, he’d probably let it slide.
Zhang Yu had already noticed the shift in attitude—this was his way of adapting.
But he was wrong.
There were many kinds of teachers.
Some favored high achievers—students who learned easily, gave them teaching satisfaction, and earned their loyalty.
Others focused on the struggling—because their progress was more visible, more rewarding.
And then there were the indifferent ones—just clock in, clock out. No extra effort.
But there was another kind: teachers who cared less about grades, and more about obedience.
They demanded respect. Authority.
In their classrooms, they were gods.
No defiance. No alternative methods. If you used a technique they didn’t teach, they’d mock you—publicly, painfully.
And Wang Hai?
He was one of them.
PE was his fiefdom. Students were his customers.
Zhang Yu refusing the injections had already annoyed him.
Now, seeing him lying there—slacking—was the perfect chance to make an example.
To teach the class that no one could skip the needles.
But then Zhang Yu spoke.
“I broke through to Level 2.”
Wang Hai’s scolding words froze in his throat.
To him, that wasn’t progress.
It was a challenge.
“Level 2 of Jianti Thirty-Six Forms? So what?” Wang Hai pointed at Bai Zhenzhen. “Look at her. She’s Level 2 too. Does she skip the needles? Does she skip class?”
Zhang Yu sighed. “Teacher, I didn’t mean it like that…”
Wang Hai’s voice dropped, icy. “Zhang Yu, I’ve seen your kind before. Think you’ve got a little talent, so you ignore the teachers. You ignore school policy.”
“You think you broke through because of your own effort?”
“Let me remind you—your progress is because you’ve attended every class, every needle session, for the past three months. That’s the foundation.”
“Everything else—self-study, private tutoring, extra training—those are just desserts.”
“The real meal is what happens here. In class.”
“You’re not getting away with this. I’ll report you to your homeroom teacher.”
“Think about your future. Carefully.”
(End of Chapter
(End of Chapter)
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