The afternoon homeroom class came, and the teacher once again brought up the matter of registering for the Martial Arts Exam (Wǔkē).
Yangcheng No.1 High wasn't exactly a failing school. In past years, they had produced a few Martial Exam passers. Just last year, there had been a sudden "explosion"—five students made it through in a single year.
Class 3-4 might have been just a regular class, but out of those five, two had come from the so-called "ordinary" stream.
Because of this, even the school leaders who normally placed little hope in the ordinary classes were now paying close attention to Martial Exam registration.
Whether or not you passed didn't matter—what mattered was signing up. If you didn't register, then you had zero chance at all.
But the high registration fee was the very first hurdle, cutting off 99.9% of students right there.
Ten thousand yuan, just to apply. Unless you had confidence in yourself—or your family was wealthy—few were willing to throw money into the water.
So when the homeroom teacher brought it up, few responded. Only the handful of students who had some faint chance went along with him.
After talking about registration, the teacher added one last reminder:
"Students applying for the Martial Exam, next Wednesday afternoon, the school will be holding a pre-exam Q&A session.
This time, the school went to great lengths and invited Wang Jinyang, a student from Nanjing Martial University, to come back and give a lecture. Make sure you cherish this opportunity.
Those registered will be notified by the school. Remember to dress properly…"
The teacher emphasized the point again and again, trying to make the students show respect for the occasion.
As for Wang Jinyang, he was only a first-year martial student, admitted to Nanjing Martial University last year from this very school.
Yet even a freshman at a Martial University was treated with great importance by the teachers of Yangcheng No.1.
At that moment, Fang Ping was once again struck by the sheer gap in status between ordinary people and martial artists.
Beside him, Chen Fan's focus was entirely different. He muttered under his breath:
"The school's really bleeding for this one. His appearance fee has to be at least fifty or sixty thousand…"
Fang Ping's brow twitched. He couldn't help but ask: "Just to come back to his old school, share some experience with younger students, and he still charges?"
Chen Fan chuckled. "Of course. You think martial artists are so easy to invite?
Martial students' schedules are way tougher than ours. While we at least have winter and summer breaks, they spend even those training—or making money.
No pay, and who would waste their time giving others free pointers?
Even if Senior Wang didn't ask for it, the school would still offer.
Favors get used up. If you asked these martial seniors to come every year for free, after two or three times, that goodwill would run dry.
Pay them now, and it leaves a good impression. When they rise to prominence later, they'll still remember their roots."
Hearing this, Fang Ping finally understood.
Then he gave Chen Fan a strange look. "Didn't expect it—you actually see through things pretty clearly."
Chen Fan was, after all, just a high school student. Some things Fang Ping himself hadn't thought of, given the difference from his past life. Yet this guy had it down pat.
"What's so strange about that…"
Chen Fan laughed self-deprecatingly, shook his head, and didn't continue.
Fang Ping didn't press him either. Instead, he began calculating in his head—martial artists really did make money so much easier.
A first-year student at Martial University, speaking for two or three hours, and walking away with fifty or sixty thousand yuan.
Meanwhile, his parents labored all year and still didn't make that much.
…
When homeroom ended, Fang Ping dragged himself through a few more classes until the dismissal bell finally rang.
It was Saturday—no evening study session.
At this time of year, with the exams drawing near, martial exam candidates could skip evening classes entirely if they wanted. The school valued them far more than liberal arts students, even if only a handful passed each year.
Fang Ping left the gates with Chen Fan and a few familiar classmates. At the entrance, they split off in different directions.
Following the route etched into memory, Fang Ping walked home.
But as he went, hesitation stirred in his chest. This world resembled his old one in many ways, but also had its differences.
Was his family home still in the same place?
Even if the house was, what about his parents—had they changed?
At nearly thirty in mental age, the thought of suddenly having "new" parents made his throat tighten. What would he even call them?
"They shouldn't have changed… right?" Fang Ping tried to reassure himself.
His classmates hadn't changed. His teachers hadn't changed. Why would his parents be different?
Of course, it would be nice if they had changed—so long as they'd leveled up.
Like walking home to find out he was the son of Yangcheng's richest man—that would be perfect!
Or maybe his parents were top-tier martial powerhouses—now that would be even better!
…But those were just fantasies.
Fang Ping had long since stopped expecting favors from fate.
…
Twenty minutes later, Fang Ping arrived at his neighborhood.
Jinghu Garden.
The name sounded pleasant, but in truth, it was one of the few remaining old complexes in Yangcheng, with buildings over thirty years old.
The sight of the crumbling apartments immediately crushed any lingering hopes that his family were secret millionaires.
He remembered that he'd always had one bitter regret: he never got to be a "demolition heir."
Ever since the early 2000s, rumors said Jinghu Garden would be torn down.
Year after year, the rumors came. By 2018, Jinghu Garden was still stubbornly standing.
There was no dramatic "return home" feeling. He had just visited a few days before, after all.
The only difference was that now his parents were younger. That was a good thing—no reason to overcomplicate it.
Building 6, Apartment 101.
Standing at the door, Fang Ping didn't knock. He pulled out a key, unlocked it, and walked in.
The cramped living room greeted him.
These old apartments were small. Though technically "two-bedroom," the total area was only about sixty square meters.
With years of clutter, the already-small living room looked even more cramped.
Still, it was neat. His mother always kept it clean.
Living on the ground floor had its downsides—dampness, pests, constant dust, and noisy upstairs neighbors.
But there was one benefit: a small courtyard you could claim for yourself.
And in this old complex, with no functioning property management, no one bothered you about it.
The Fang family's courtyard was just like that. Beyond the living room, a door led directly into it.
The kitchen and bathroom had been built out in the yard.
The original kitchen and bathroom? Converted into another bedroom—the one Fang Ping lived in now.
Technically, the family didn't need that extra room, with two bedrooms already.
But Fang Ping also had a younger sister in middle school. Four people in sixty square meters was tight. The courtyard conversion was necessary.
And right on cue—his sister appeared.
Fang Ping was changing shoes at the entrance when her sharp little voice rang from the right-hand bedroom.
"Fang Ping! You actually dare to come home!"
Her voice was high-pitched, but at thirteen she still had baby fat in her cheeks, and her anger came across more cute than scary.
A moment later, she burst out, round-cheeked and fuming.
Fang Ping's fingers twitched. Without asking why she was mad, he stepped forward with the ease of habit, grabbed her soft cheeks, and pulled them outward.
Enjoying her glare, he sighed in bliss. "Finally, I get to pinch them again. Haven't had the chance in ages."
Soon enough, she'd grow out of her round face into a sharp chin, and that wonderful softness would be gone forever.
It was one of Fang Ping's greatest regrets in life!
Little Fang Yuan was livid. She swatted away his "devilish claws" and shouted, "Mom! Fang Ping's bullying me again!"
Out in the courtyard, their mother, Li Yuying, was busy cooking. She called back cheerfully without turning her head:
"Don't fight, dinner will be ready when your dad gets back. I made something good today."
"Mom!"
Fang Yuan stomped her foot, furious that her mother didn't back her up. She shot her brother a death glare—then suddenly remembered something more important.
She jabbed a finger at him. "Fang Ping, give back my money!"
"What?"
"Don't play dumb! Mom gave us fifty yuan—half for you, half for me. But there's only five yuan left on my desk! Where's the rest?"
Fang Ping froze. Wait… that 28 yuan in my pocket earlier—besides the lunch money—was actually hers?!
But he was broke. Utterly broke. And all that remained in his pocket was fifteen yuan. He couldn't just hand over everything—what kind of man walked around penniless?
Shamelessly, he shook his head. "No idea. Maybe you spent it yourself. Go look again."
"Fang Ping!"
"Call me brother."
"Brother my ass! You just bully girls. Mom, say something!"
…
The sibling squabble dragged on until Fang Yuan sulked and fell silent, defeated.
Fang Ping chuckled, though he also felt a stab of guilt. His life really had sunk low—fighting his little sister for pocket money.
In the end, he promised her all kinds of nonsense benefits until she, reluctantly, let it go.
Otherwise, he thought, he probably could have conned the last five yuan out of her too.
Afterward, he went to the kitchen to greet his mother.
On his way out, the thought gnawed at him: A penny really can trip up a hero.
From their brief chat, he recalled that his mother only worked half-days now, just to take care of him and Fang Yuan.
But it wasn't skilled work, and Yangcheng wasn't prosperous. Half a month's wage came to only 800 yuan.
Barely 10,000 a year.
He had been about to bring up the Martial Exam, but after realizing this, the words stuck in his throat.
Rubbing his face, Fang Ping muttered bitterly: Turns out, there's never a time when money isn't tight.
(End of Chapter)