Zhǐ Ruò stood at the edge of the central clearing of thousand fang, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, her heart hammering against her ribs.
You're going to start a school.
The Goddess's words echoed in her mind. You're going to teach them things. Useful things. Modern things. You're going to make yourself indispensable.
She had spent the night tossing and turning, her mind racing with plans and fears and the overwhelming weight of what she was about to do. She was twenty-one years old. She was dead. She was in a world of beastmen and dragons and magic. And she was supposed to be a teacher.
I can't do this, she thought. I can't. I'm not a teacher. I'm just a student. A dead student.
But as she looked across the clearing at the children who had gathered, curious, chaotic, she realized she didn't have a choice.
