At 6:15 a.m., thanks to the body's built-in biological clock, Chen Junqian woke up naturally. By the time his mom knocked on the door to yell at him to get up, he was already pulling on his school uniform.
Their family rarely cooked breakfast on weekdays. With three people heading out at different times for work and school, and all sorts of street food stalls just a short walk away, it wasn't worth the hassle. After squeezing some toothpaste onto his brush—still flashy and over-the-top in its packaging—Chen Junqian scrubbed his teeth and splashed water on his face at the tiny sink in the bathroom. He grabbed the four one-yuan coins his mom had left on the living room table, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed out.
That was his bus fare and breakfast money. She'd tucked the cash for his new elementary school textbook inside the outer pocket of his bag, worried he'd lose it if it was in his pants pocket.
He glanced at the coins out of habit. Three lotuses and one national emblem. The emblem one got to stick around in his pocket a little longer.
The morning reading class at his experimental elementary school didn't start until 7:30, but there was no way around it. Factoring in time for breakfast and the bus ride, 6:15 was the absolute latest he could roll out of bed.
Even though he'd crashed early last night, kids this age were always sleepyheads. It wasn't until he stepped outside and the cool morning breeze smacked him in the face that Chen Junqian finally felt awake. He started mulling over his breakfast options.
Prices were dirt cheap back then. Three bucks was plenty for a kid like him to chow down on something hearty. The most expensive thing on the stall right in front of him—an old duck soup with puffed rice—was only three yuan.
"Hey—Chen Junqian, let's hit up instant noodles at the school gate."
He was lost in thought when Duan Xin's voice piped up from behind. They were in the same grade but different classes, and since they lived close by, they usually walked to school together. Decent friends, all things considered. But Chen Junqian wasn't thrilled about the suggestion.
Joke's on him—he'd scarfed down instant noodles at his desk while pulling his hair out over deadlines in his past life. Now that he'd been reborn, sticking with that junk would basically mean the whole rebirth was a waste. Round it off, and poof—back to square one.
He got why Duan Xin was pushing it, though. When he'd been this age, he'd been hooked on the stuff too. Not quite at the "wish I could eat it every day" level, but he'd definitely grabbed it a few times a week from the noodle stalls by school.
The shops had popped up right near the elementary school, cashing in on kids' obsession with instant ramen. Chen Junqian remembered the two stalls getting into a full-on business war later on. One expanded its space to give students a spot to cram homework on the fly. The other tried free kelp soup with every bowl. Guess which one tanked? The soup one.
Homework was sacred to elementary kids, after all. And honestly, who cared about kelp when you were slurping down that spicy broth like it was going out of style?
"Nah, I'll just grab a couple of stuffed pancakes today."
"Alright, catch you later then."
Different breakfast picks meant they split up for now.
Staring at the ring of food stalls around him, Chen Junqian rubbed his chin, feeling a bit dazed.
Just like he'd thought in his previous life, in this backwater little county in southern Anhui, neither the Tujia sauce pancakes nor the Taiwanese hand-grabbed ones had hit the scene yet. But from what he remembered, both had blown up big time around here. If the chance came up, that could be his ticket to the first pot of gold.
Munching on two stuffed pancakes and a steamed bun he'd snagged on the way to the bus stop, Chen Junqian saved himself a buck. First real chunk of startup capital in this life? Nailed it. He hopped the bus and rolled up to the experimental elementary school gates.
The morning buzz at school was just as chaotic as dismissal time. Kids everywhere clutched foam bowls and disposable chopsticks, inhaling instant noodles like pros. With the pre-reading bell about to ring, the latecomers who'd skipped breakfast had to settle for shoving a purple rice bun or a burger roll from the shop into their pockets to sneak inside.
Almost as popular as the buns? Red scarves. The ultimate elementary school must-have, enforced by the school like it was law. Two rows of "discipline committee" kids stood guard at the gate, basically hall monitors on steroids. Under their eagle eyes, any forgetful kid had to buy a replacement on the spot.
To save cash, everyone went for the cheapest ones—fifty cents a pop. Chen Junqian had grabbed a few in his time. Quality? Let's just say it was memorable. Total junk: thin as tissue paper, rough as sandpaper, and you could rip it into shreds with barely a tug.
Lucky for him, he'd remembered his today. No drama. He shouldered his bag and strode right into the campus.
He wasn't too early or too late. His desk mate, Zhong Yu, hadn't shown up yet.
Funny how it worked out. The school wasn't one of those super strict no-boy-girl-desk-buddies types—hey, it was just elementary. But their class had more boys than girls, so a few guys got stuck pairing up. Him and Zhong Yu were two of the casualties.
Zhong Yu had the same name curse as that Three Kingdoms guy—Xun Yu. He'd basically given the whole class a crash course on how to pronounce "Yu" before Three Kingdoms Kill even blew up. No more awkward mix-ups with "Gou" or whatever.
Thinking about names, Chen Junqian's eyes drifted to the two seats in front of him. If memory served, there was another kid in class whose name had left a lasting mark—for all the wrong reasons.
He spotted her quick. Back to him, all he could see was a swishing ponytail and a smaller-than-average silhouette compared to the other girls.
Girls usually hit growth spurts before boys, so at this age, they towered over the guys, all sturdy and tall. But Lin Mu was the exception. Chen Junqian remembered that even at graduation, when they swapped yearbooks for notes, she was shorter than him—and he hadn't even started sprouting yet.
Height wasn't the real hook, though. Besides being in the same after-school care group, it was her name that stuck with him.
Kids' sense of humor in elementary was basic as hell. Super simple and mean. During reading class, if a word in the text sounded anything like a classmate's name, boom—giggles, snickers, full-on laughs. Lin Mu got hit the most.
Her name sounded fine at first. Easy to write, not too many strokes— the kind you could copy a hundred times as punishment without whining. But it clashed with too many homophones. "Lin Mu" like forest wood, or that nasal "ling mu" for tomb.
The tomb one was killer. Chen Junqian vividly recalled a language arts lesson loaded with it. By the end, the teacher would say the word, and the whole class would stifle laughs like clockwork.
Lost in the memory, Chen Junqian propped his head on one hand and watched her a bit longer. That's when he noticed she was rummaging through her bag like a maniac, flipping stuff around in a panic. She nearly knocked over her carton of Weigang milk on the desk.
His first thought? Forgot her homework. Classic. But after a frantic search, she paused, then handed over her assignment smooth as silk when the group leader came around to collect.
"What're you staring at?"
Zhong Yu sauntered in a minute later, backpack swinging. His desk pocket was a disaster zone as always. After some serious digging, he cleared a spot for his bag. He yawned mid-question.
"Nothin'. What time'd you crash last night?"
"Twelve... My bro dragged me into bomb defusal. Wiped out."
Zhong Yu rubbed his eyes, passed his homework to the group leader, and face-planted on the desk.
"Wake me when the homeroom teacher's coming. Gonna catch some Z's."
Chen Junqian knew "bomb defusal" meant the mode in CrossFire—CF for short. Half the boys in class were obsessed with that mouse-clicking gunfest dream. But Zhong Yu was next level. For one, he actually had his own PC. For two, the dude was a straight-up internet addict.
The "bro" wasn't blood—some online buddy from the game. Zhong Yu had a whole roster: bros, sisters, a swarm of little bros and sis. Later, he even started a clan or squad or whatever.
They stayed in touch through middle school, but by then Zhong Yu was deep into online dating. Chen Junqian remembered hearing about him grinding for golden M249s in some Giant City ruins map, pulling all-nighters for his virtual girlfriend. Made his teeth hurt just thinking about it.
A few more minutes, and the class filled up. Group leaders collected the last of the homework. Spotting the homeroom teacher incoming, Chen Junqian slapped Zhong Yu awake. The guy jolted up, cracked open his language book, and belted out the required passage with all the drama of a soap opera star.
Teacher dipped out quick. Zhong Yu fished a candy from his pocket, popped it in, winced as the sour hit, then sighed in relief. He shoved one at Chen Junqian too.
It was that mouth-puckering Xiudou sour bomb. No need to share the pain—Chen Junqian pocketed it.
As the reigning king of late nights, Zhong Yu's desk was a candy pharmacy. He swore they kept him sharp, but Chen Junqian figured the guy just loved sweets. In class, candy was the perfect stealth snack—easy to hide from teachers.
And cheap? A bag cost fifty cents or a yuan and lasted forever. Plus, sharing was a breeze.
One peek in his desk, and you'd find piles: Xiudou, dried tangerine peels, haw flakes, fizzy sour fruits—the whole bargain-bin lineup.
Besides sucking on candy to kill time, the kid had stocked up on "study" tools for slacking. First period kicked off, and he was already shaking that toy ruler with the twisty maze inside, guiding the little ball from one end to the other and back. Totally zoned in, having a blast.
Elementary classes were a breeze for Chen Junqian now. He zoned out through two periods just like yesterday before big break hit. Under the teacher's lead, the class filed out to the playground for exercises.
No Monday, so no flag-raising or speeches. Straight to the calisthenics. Chen Junqian chuckled watching Zhong Yu sneak a kick at the kid in front during the leg swings. Copying the leader up front, he stretched out, soaking in the warm nine a.m. sun.
Before third period, it was eye exercises. Zhong Yu muttered through his routine:
"Sigh, man, I should run for eye exercise monitor. You get to roam free while everyone's stuck doing it. Junqian, wanna ask the teacher with me? They rotate every year at the start."
"You just hate the exercises..."
They'd barely chatted when two crisp "Reporting to the teacher!" voices hit from the door. Eye exercise checkers—time to zip it. No points off for their class.
"Thanks, teacher!"
The two monitors patrolled, scribbled scores on their notepad like pros, and bounced. Zhong Yu eyed them enviously.
But Chen Junqian knew it was just a flash in the pan. Over the next couple years, with his addiction worsening, Zhong Yu mastered sleeping through eye exercises—pressing his Jingming points while dozing. That time became prime nap hour. No more wandering fantasies.
Blink, and the last two morning classes wrapped.
Like most latchkey kids with working parents, Chen Junqian was signed up for noon care. Basically, scarf lunch, watch TV, nap, or head out with buddies for tag or blind man's bluff.
Heading back to care after all these years, he spotted Lin Mu still at her desk, alone. She was at it again—lips pursed, digging through her desk pocket and bag like her life depended on it. Now she was flipping through every textbook page by page.
"Looking for something?"
Same class, same care group, kinda familiar—Chen Junqian paused and tossed the question her way.
"...Money."
She hesitated, then tilted her small face up to him. Quick as a whip, she added, all pitiful:
"Two... two hundred bucks."