The dry, suffocating smell of chalk dust mingled with the woody scent of old desks and chairs. It was the smell of a thousand afternoons of study—familiar yet distant, like a half-remembered dream.
Yogan opened his eyes and sucked in the murky but vibrant air as though he had been drowning. The scent startled him. This was not disinfectant. This was not the bitter, sterile smell of a hospital room in which hope had already died. This was life—warm, loud, and dusty.
Gone was the monotonous, death-knelling "beep… beep…" of the heart monitor. Gone was the cold, hopeless smell that had lingered in the last moments of his previous life. In its place, a chorus of faint chalk squeaks and rustling pages echoed in a room filled with young hearts and future dreams.
Before his eyes hung faded blue curtains, gently fluttering in the autumn wind. The window frame was mottled and peeling, revealing dark wood beneath. Outside, the familiar red brick wall of the teaching building rose like an old friend. Bare branches of a few plane trees scratched at the gray sky, and fallen leaves skittered across the courtyard like tiny brown boats.
On the blackboard, dense trigonometric formulas sprawled across the surface, like some cryptic script from an alien world. On the podium, math teacher Wang Jianguo gestured and spoke with such force that flecks of spit leapt into the air. Everything was so real, yet so misleading.
Yogan's head throbbed as if two souls were colliding violently inside his skull—one the soul of a warrior who had died in a hospital bed in 2025, heavy with endless regret; the other the soul of a seventeen-year-old high school senior named Yogan. Two lives, two sets of memories, two burning wills. They slammed together inside him, forging something new.
He glanced down. On his desk lay a test-prep book emblazoned with the words "Five-Year College Entrance Exams, Three-Year Simulation Papers." The desk calendar showed October 28, 2012.
"Damn it…" The words exploded in his heart without sound. Could this be real?
"Yogan!"
The thunderous roar shattered his thoughts. Teacher Wang Jianguo's face had flushed crimson. Fifty-odd pairs of eyes turned toward him, curiosity and amusement flickering in them.
"Can you get into Tsinghua or Peking University by staring out the window? Your soul is blown away!" Wang Jianguo's voice cracked like a whip. He snatched the old wooden-framed blackboard eraser from the podium, his knuckles whitening. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he launched it.
With a loud whoosh, the eraser hurtled through the air like a cannonball aimed at Yogan's head.
And at that instant, the world changed.
In Yogan's eyes, the rotating blackboard eraser slowed until it seemed to spin lazily, like a child's toy tossed into the air. He could see every crack in the rough wooden frame, every tiny particle of chalk dust spiraling around it. The rushing sound of the air stretched into a low, drawn-out hum. Time itself appeared to crawl.
His body reacted before his mind did. Without thinking, without wasted movement, his neck tilted just enough. The eraser passed so close it grazed a few hairs by his ear, then slammed into the desk behind him in an explosion of chalk dust.
A stunned hush gripped the classroom. Then a ripple of laughter and whispers surged like a tide. Even Wang Jianguo blinked in shock. He had perfected the "flying eraser" trick over decades; no student had ever dodged it before.
Yogan's heart hammered against his ribs. What had just happened? That feeling… it was as if the world had slowed down while he remained at normal speed. Or had he sped up?
"You dare to dodge?!" Teacher Wang's initial astonishment hardened into fury. To him this was outright provocation. He snapped a piece of chalk in half with a loud click, his eyes narrowing. "Let's see you avoid this!"
His fingers pinched the chalk like a dart; his wrist snapped. The white missile shot out like a bullet.
This time Yogan didn't even fully look at the podium. His brain still reeled, but his body had entered a state of uncanny clarity. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the chalk's white streak. Again, it was too slow.
His right hand rose, almost of its own accord, fingers flicking as casually as if swatting a mosquito.
"Pop!"
A crisp sound rang out. The chalk ricocheted into the corridor and clattered to the floor. He had deflected it with a single fingertip.
This time the silence was absolute. Even the rustle of pages stopped. Then suppressed laughter bubbled up, incredulous and giddy. "Oh my God! He blocked it with his finger!"
Teacher Wang's face drained from red to ashen, his lips trembling with disbelief. Yogan slowly lowered his hand, staring at his slender fingers. That strange feeling still tingled at his fingertips. The world had not slowed down—he had become fast. Unbelievably, impossibly fast.
He shut his eyes. Fragments of his past life flooded in like a broken dam: blinding lights of massive arenas, the cold iron mesh of the Octagon, his trainer's frantic shouts, the brutal rhythm of combat, and finally the endless darkness of his hospital bed. When he opened his eyes again it was 2012. He was seventeen. He had been reborn.
And he had gained a gift—superhumanly fast neural reaction speed. Godlike reflexes.
Ding-ding-ding…
The class bell rang, sweet as a choir of angels. Wang Jianguo, lips pressed tight, dismissed the lesson with a stiff gesture. His glare promised retribution later. Yogan ignored the stares of his classmates. The moment the bell finished ringing he sprang from his seat like a released spring, grabbed his backpack, and bolted from the room.
He needed somewhere quiet to think, to test, to confirm this miracle.
He dashed down the noisy corridor, heart racing. Students stared as he passed, a blur among the crowd. He turned into a deserted side street, lined with crumbling brick walls and shuttered shops. The world smelled of dust, dry leaves, and faint cooking oil from distant food stalls.
Panting, he stopped. First he had to test his vision.
A yellow leaf drifted down from a tree branch above. He locked onto it. In his eyes every detail magnified: the serrated edges, the web of veins, the tiny folds shaped by air currents. It was like watching a high-frame-rate slow-motion movie. He could even predict its landing spot. Three seconds later it touched the ground exactly where he had foreseen.
Next, his hearing. Yogan closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Car horns, street vendors shouting, shoes scraping pavement—all separated, distinct. He focused harder and could make out a couple arguing fifty meters away, each word crisp. He felt like he could reach out and pluck sounds from the air.
Then his touch. He brushed his fingers along the rough brick wall. The sensation intensified until he could feel every grain of sand under his skin. Even the slight moisture between mortar lines stood out like ridges on a map.
Finally, movement. He took a fighting stance. At 1.85 meters and about sixty kilograms, he was lean, almost wiry—a typical high-school body. In his past life he had honed his strength, stamina, and technique to a professional edge. This body lacked that power, but the knowledge remained etched into his muscles and nervous system.
He slid a foot forward. A miracle unfolded. Slides, side steps, twists, pivots—moves ingrained by years of training—flowed out seamlessly, only faster, smoother, more precise. His body reacted ahead of his conscious thought. He felt like a ghost gliding across the street.
He stopped, eyes shut, summoning a memory of a rival from his past life: a powerful wrestler's double-leg takedown. In his mind the opponent's movements slowed to a crawl. He saw the angle of the dive, the trajectory of the arms, every sign of exertion. Dozens of counterattacks bloomed in his thoughts—knee strikes, uppercuts, guillotine chokes. Even his muscles twitched with conditioned reflexes.
Unable to contain himself, Yogan let out a shaky laugh. Real. Everything was real. His reaction speed had surpassed human limits. This was his golden finger, his cheat code for life.
The regrets of his past life—the lost championship, the unfulfilled dream—erupted like a volcano. A crystal-clear thought carved itself into his soul: "Octagon. UFC. Champion." This lifetime he would reach the peak.
Excitement slowly gave way to calm. The world of 2012 unfurled in his mind like a map. Tencent and Maotai stocks would skyrocket. Tesla would become a legend. Bitcoin… Financial freedom was within easy reach.
But he shook his head and chuckled. "Money?" he murmured. "If buying stocks and coins can solve the problem, is it even a problem?" Wealth was never his true desire. What he wanted was the fight—the feeling of fist meeting flesh, of strategy meeting willpower. To defeat one powerful foe after another until he stood at the center of the Octagon, golden belt around his waist, crowd roaring his name. Wealth would only be a stepping stone back to the peak.
Fighting was the only meaning of his life, the ultimate goal of his soul.
Yogan tilted his head back, breathing the cool autumn air. A hawk wheeled far above, a dark speck against the pale sky. Its wings cut the wind with effortless grace. He felt the same freedom coursing through his veins.
He flexed his fingers. They tingled with restless energy. This gift of speed was not just an advantage; it was responsibility. He could squander it chasing quick money or petty revenge—or he could forge himself into the greatest fighter the world had ever seen. His lips curled into a determined smile.
From this moment on, his second life began.
He imagined stepping into a future Octagon, lights blazing, cameras flashing. Opponents lunging at him only to find themselves caught in a storm of counters too quick to follow. Commentators shouting his name. The crowd's roar rolling over him like thunder. And at the end, the championship belt—gleaming gold, heavy with history—strapped around his waist. That was the true summit he sought.
A gust of wind stirred the street, swirling dry leaves at his feet. Yogan inhaled deeply, every sense alive. Seventeen years old, reborn, armed with knowledge of the future and godlike reflexes—his journey back to the peak started now.
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