The day before school officially started, Song Cong was called to the school. The guidance counselor surnamed Fu, was in his forties with a round belly and an amiable appearance. There were two topics to discuss: first, preparing a speech for the new student representative at the opening ceremony; second, although he hadn’t registered for the Olympic class exam, the school still recommended he participate.
“The top ten students in the city get direct admission to the Olympic class, and this selection test isn’t mandatory for them. But everyone except you has registered. Since you’ll get in anyway, it’s good to test the waters, right?”
He thought the city’s top scorer was too proud to participate.
But Song Cong had assumed not registering would naturally place him in a regular class. Now he was puzzled, “How can I avoid getting into the Olympic class?”
The Olympic class at Tianzhong was renowned far and wide, producing abundant results in mathematics, physics, and chemistry competitions every year. Entering this class meant guaranteed admission, reduced score requirements, and impressive honors on overseas applications – each a golden key to the future. This elite unit had only ever rejected those knocking at its door; how could it be rejected?
Principal Fu was quite curious, “Why don’t you want to join?”
Song Cong lowered his eyes, “Personal reasons.”
The Olympic class wasn’t the best choice for medical studies, and there were other opportunities for guaranteed admission without competitions. He’d had enough of living differently from others.
Song Cong had thought through each point.
“Do your parents know?”
“Yes.” Song Cong’s reason for his parents was that he didn’t want to be too tired, and the Song parents’ response was surprisingly unified – then don’t go.
Principal Fu, having taught for over ten decades, had seen all kinds of students. Occasionally he’d encounter some with strong personalities. He made no judgment, only smiled and said, “Take the test first, you might not even pass.”
Now it was Song Cong’s turn to be amused. He guessed this might be reverse psychology, but decided to play along and then break free. He pointed at the pen holder on the desk, “Then may I borrow a pen?”
He had come empty-handed.
The test venue was in the gymnasium. What surprised Song Cong was that there were hundreds of registered students. When the central tables weren’t enough, late arrivals sat in the stands. The test papers were already distributed – three subjects: math, physics, and chemistry, each on double-sided A3 paper, with a three-hour time limit.
He was led into the exam venue by Principal Fu, who whispered to the approaching proctor, “Arrange a seat.”
“Who’s this?”
“The top scorer.” Principal Fu exchanged a knowing look with them.
All registered students were present, filling the venue. Song Cong took his test papers and pointed to the stands, “I’ll go up there.”
The proctor silently shook his head, and then called over another colleague. Together they moved the proctor’s desk to a corner, set up a chair, and gestured for Song Cong to come over.
The commotion caused a subtle stir, but order quickly restored naturally, leaving only the sound of pens scratching paper.
After sitting down, his phone vibrated with a message from Jing Xiqi: “We’re going to buy computers first, come find us when you’re done.”
Chen Huan’er’s college entrance gift was a laptop, funded by Chen’s mother, with them as consultants. Jing Xiqi was enviously starry-eyed, but Jing’s mother firmly refused, fearing he’d only play games, so he could only secretly live vicariously by helping Chen Huan’er choose.
After all, if they bought a good one, he might get to borrow it.
Song Cong hadn’t prepared for the test and didn’t want to keep them waiting, so he quickly replied “OK.”
The proctor tapped the desk in warning, and Song Cong hurriedly put away his phone.
He needed to answer quickly. It was rare for him to feel rushed before an exam.
Still, he didn’t make it to the computer mall. The questions were difficult, and it seemed like he was just calculating when suddenly it was time to hand in the papers – three hours had passed in a flash. This quality of Song Cong’s was pointed out by his middle school homeroom teacher, summed up in two words – focus. Since childhood, when his mother took him to the emergency room and adults were too busy to mind him, he would watch those doctors slowly pick out glass shards from bloody wounds, then suture the flesh from start to finish, stitch by stitch. Song Cong had many such memories: their gazes, the forceps in their hands, their deep and shallow breaths. No matter what crying or shouting surrounded them, no matter what expressions patients made, no matter what urgency pressed from behind, those in white coats remained unmoved – in his vision, they were still. These scenes took root in Song Cong’s heart. Whether through imitation or learning, he had unconsciously absorbed what he saw as part of himself, becoming what teachers jokingly described as “someone who could solve problems even in a bustling supermarket.”
He was often asked how he studied. Teachers, classmates, uncles, and aunts in the residential compound – out of politeness, Song Cong usually answered seriously, “Pay attention in class, do more practice problems.” In truth, he couldn’t explain how his mind worked. Hearing something once let him grasp the general idea, and seeing something once imprinted it in his mind. Taking tests and solving problems was like pushing a boat with the current, advancing step by step. It was just that sometimes during these moments, his surroundings would occasionally fall still, and besides the task at hand, he couldn’t perceive anything else.
On the first day of school, class assignments were posted on the bulletin board outside the auditorium. Unsurprisingly, Huan’er, Qi Qi, and Jing Xiqi were all assigned to Class 5. Song Cong’s name appeared first in Class 24 – by tradition at Tianzhong, the elite unit always had the highest class number.
Qi Qi quietly told Huan’er that the Olympic class had separate records, and her father couldn’t easily approach the principal.
Jing Xiqi was the happiest, praising Qi Qi as “beautiful” all morning, and now chanting “fate, fate” like Tang Sanzang. Qi Qi couldn’t help but retort, “You’re just riding on Huan’er’s coattails.”
Jing Xiqi didn’t think much of it, “Later she’ll be the one riding on mine.”
“Song Cong, you…” Huan’er turned around but couldn’t see him, muttering softly, “He was just here.”
In the academic affairs office, Principal Fu was quietly observing the youth before him.
On the desk lay the Olympic class selection test papers. He was undoubtedly first place, thirty-some points above second place. In this extraordinary competition, this score represented far more than just effort – it demonstrated mentality and intelligence under high pressure.
Moreover, he had no preparation and was even fifteen minutes late.
Yet now the youth had come with only one request – to change classes.
Principal Fu tapped the test papers, “Do you know this year’s guaranteed admission rate for the Olympic class graduates and which schools these seniors got into?”
Song Cong frowned, “Principal, I didn’t want to take the test in the first place.”
“But the fact proves,” Principal Fu looked at him, “Song Cong, you’re more suited for such a group.”
An elite unit equipped with the strongest teaching resources, unleashing unlimited potential under pressure, where everyone harbored lofty ambitions to soar high.
“I…” Song Cong suddenly smiled, “I know what I want.”
“Go back and think it over,” Principal Fu was reluctant to give up, “After all, this affects your life for the next three years, even your future.”
When one approach failed, Song Cong changed tactics and began playing pitifully, “Principal, please just let me change classes. If I’m there in body but not in spirit, wouldn’t that just cause trouble for you and the teachers?”
“We’re least afraid of trouble.”
“But I am,” Song Cong said with utmost sincerity, “What if things get chaotic? Wouldn’t that shake the troops’ morale?”
Principal Fu was stumped and simply waved his hand, “Go back to class first and prepare for your afternoon speech. We’ll discuss the rest later.”
Song Cong thanked him and left.
He had no choice but to go to Class 24. The smallest class, on the top floor, is an undisturbed quiet zone.