The process of getting fired was simpler than I imagined.
That afternoon back at headquarters, I received three documents: a Notice of Adaptoid Delisting, a Synchronization Rate Overlimit Risk Notification, and a Temporary Observation Subject Agreement Termination Letter. Sign, fingerprint, hand over ID tag—the whole process took less than fifteen minutes. The clerk in gray uniform never looked at me once, her eyes like she was processing a batch of expired protein blocks.
"What about my student status?" I asked.
"Retained." she said, "The Administration keeps its promises. But your adaptoid identity is terminated. You'll return to society as a 'chemical competition training accident survivor.'"
"What about my stuff..."
"Personal items packed. B-07 Squad holding them for safekeeping." She handed me a small cardboard box. Inside was a single HB pencil—not my original one, but brand new, no name carved on it, "Rift Zone items confiscated."
Clutching the new pencil, I stood in the headquarters lobby. The silver hall was emptier than the universe's womb, the Mobius strip emblem on the ceiling gleaming coldly. B-07's four members stood at the second-floor railing, watching me, not coming down.
Shen Xingyao's silvery-white pupils were prominent in the shadows. Her lips moved, like she wanted to say something, but ultimately just nodded. Zhou Fang tried to wave, but Gu Yan stopped him. Tang Lan turned and left, her oscillating blade making a muffled thud against its scabbard.
Per regulations, delisted adaptoids must leave Administration facilities within 24 hours, with no private contact with active-duty members.
I walked out the main doors with my cardboard box. The setting sun made the silver flying saucer look like melting ice cream. A black sedan was parked outside, license plate showing internal Administration white codes. The driver was an old man in a duck-billed cap, brim pulled low.
"Get in." he said, "Taking you to the station."
I didn't move: "Where's my pencil?"
"Sacrificed." the old man said, "To save you. Rift Zone items will be properly handled by the Administration. Get in, don't dawdle."
I got in. The moment the door closed, the rearview mirror reflected the second-floor window where B-07 stood—the curtains were being drawn shut.
"You won't see them again." the old man said, "That's the rule."
The car didn't go to the station.
It looped around the entire industrial district, drove into an old residential area, and stopped before a shop called "Old Wang's Stationery Store." The old man killed the engine, removed his cap, revealing silvery-white pupils—same as Shen Xingyao's, but paler, like faded moonlight.
"Let me introduce myself." He lit a cigarette. The smoke was purple, "Administration Special Operations, codename 'White Gloves.' I signed your dismissal paperwork. Now, I'm here to officially welcome you aboard."
"Welcome aboard?" I clutched the cardboard box, thinking I'd misheard.
"Fired on paper, trained in secret." He exhaled a smoke ring that formed a Mobius strip in the air, "The Original Faction marked you. If you stayed with B-07, the whole squad would be flagged high-risk. That Narrator brat loves playing infiltration. Letting him think you're a discarded piece is good for you, good for B-07."
He pulled a new ID tag from his coat and tossed it to me. The tag was black, stone-like material, ice-cold to the touch.
"Shadow Adaptoid, designation S-07." he said, "Your new identity—no system entry, no benefits, no reviews. Your only mission: survive, and become strong enough that next time you meet the Narrator, you can personally rip his mask off."
I gripped the tag. Beneath the S-07 designation was a line of small text: [Extra-legal Entity, Unobservable, Unpredictable]
"What about my training..."
"It'll be ten times worse than B-07." White Gloves grinned, showing two gold teeth, "They taught you 'how to control rules.' I teach you 'how to become rules.' 20% sync rate is the starting line, 40% is passing, 60% is graduation. There's only one graduation standard: Solo-clear a Level-B Rift Zone—no anchor, no teammates, no plan."
He pushed open the car door: "Get out. Your new dorm is on the stationery shop's second floor. From now on, you're a regular high schooler—go to school, come home, do homework, take exams, have puppy love—the Administration will arrange everything. But from 22:00 to 04:00 daily, you're mine."
I got out, looked up at the second-floor windows. Warm yellow light glowed through blue curtains, a cactus pot on the windowsill.
"Oh right." White Gloves said from the car, "Your HB pencil—it's with me."
He tossed something. I caught it. My pencil, cracks extending to the tip, silvery-white light flowing through the fissures like blood vessels.
"The Narrator's mark remains on it." he said, "Perfect teaching material."
The car drove away, scattering fallen leaves in its wake.
I climbed the stairs, each step creaking. The second floor was a single room. The desk was stacked with full sets of senior-year review materials. A poster on the wall: "40 Days Until Gaokao." Under the bed was a hidden compartment—open it to find a tactical tablet, jammer, shield generator—all parting gifts from B-07.
And a handwritten training manual on top, Gu Yan's handwriting on the cover:
[Jin's Chaos Training Log—White Gloves Special Edition]
[Page 1: The Proper Way to Open 20% Sync Rate]
I opened it. The first line read:
[Welcome to the real hell, Homework Guy]
Meanwhile, B-07 returned to work.
Not "resumed"—"returned to." Shen Xingyao stated at briefing: "Lin Jin's dismissal follows proper procedure. Squad position temporarily vacant. Zhou Fang, you act as rule observer; Gu Yan, recalculate squad power model; Tang Lan, you're main assault next mission."
"Will he come back?" Zhou Fang asked.
"No." Shen Xingyao said, "99% of dismissed adaptoids reintegrate into society. The Administration doesn't waste resources on unstable individuals."
She said it calmly, like reciting regulations. But only Gu Yan noticed—on her tactical board, the "Jin's Chaos" zone wasn't deleted, just marked [SEALED].
Tang Lan said nothing, but her oscillating blade gained a new scratch—shallow, like fingernail marks. The hardness of a pencil had left its trace.
Zhou Fang fixed the jammer. After repairs, he habitually tried tossing it to the spot beside him, hand halfway out before withdrawing. That spot had been empty for 47 days. Now it would stay empty.
Gu Yan ran his model again. B-07's overall rating dropped from S- to A+. He wrote in the notes: [Variable lost, prediction accuracy下降至67%]
But for the variable's value, he didn't input zero—he drew a question mark.
Day 55, they received a new mission: Level-B2 Rift Zone "Causality Station," requiring stable anchors. Shen Xingyao led the team out without hesitation. Tang Lan charged ahead without looking back. Zhou Fang activated his jammer without humming. Gu Yan modeled deductions without sighing.
They operated like a precision machine, missing a part, but functioning regardless.
Only occasionally, Shen Xingyao would drop an extra coordinate when marking—pointing at an empty spot. Tang Lan would leave a gap when deploying her shield, sized just right for a pencil. Zhou Fang would disassemble one extra module during maintenance, originally reserved for rule stabilizers. Gu Yan would leave a light on for the "Jin's Chaos" zone on his tactical board.
They never spoke of it, but everyone knew—that spot was reserved for Homework Guy.
My new training began Day 56.
At exactly 22:00, White Gloves appeared on the second floor in a Tang suit, spinning two iron walnuts.
"Tonight's first lesson:" he said, "The price of 20% sync rate."
He snapped his fingers. The pencil in my hand flew out of control, writing on the wall:
[Lin Jin's left leg breaks in the next second]
"Rewrite it," White Gloves said, "With your mind, not your hand."
I stared at the text, desperately thinking "this is wrong," but sudden agony shot through my left leg—the bone really began cracking. I screamed and collapsed, sweat instantly soaking my uniform.
"Too slow," White Gloves said, "The Narrator won't give you three seconds to think. Rule rewriting is instinct, breathing, heartbeat. You must rewrite before the rule takes effect."
He snapped again. The text changed:
[Lin Jin's ribs, three broken]
Agony struck again. I coughed silvery-white blood.
"Continue," he said, "Until you can rewrite my rule into [Lin Jin's entire body, intact] before my pen finishes."
That night, I broke bones seventeen times, vomited blood four times, sync rate spiking from 17.8% to 22.3%. At 04:00, when White Gloves left, I lay on the floor—body intact, but memory holding seventeen fractures' worth of pain.
"Not bad," he said, "Continue tomorrow."
Day 2, he left homework: Using rule rewriting, prove the Pythagorean theorem does not hold in Rift Zones. Word count: 3,000.
Day 3, he threw me into a micro-Rift Zone—just a toilet stall size, only one rule: [Lin Jin must remain inside for three hours, otherwise sync rate resets to zero]
I stayed 2 hours 59 minutes, filling the walls with formulas, finally rewriting the rule to [Three hours equals three minutes], crawling out alive.
Day 4, he had me carve my name—on a grain of rice, a complete Rift Zone model. When finished, the rice exploded, revealing a micro-core inside.
Sync rate: 25.7%.
Day 5, he gave me a bottle of ink: "Drink this."
"What is it?"
"The Narrator's blood." he said, "Extracted from your pencil. Drink it—make his mark part of you, then rewrite it."
I drank. Tasted like molten metal. Sync rate instantly jumped to 28.1%. I hallucinated—the Narrator's mask floating before me, asking: "Want to join us?"
I stabbed the hallucination with my pencil, writing: [Fuck your mom]
The illusion shattered.
Day 6, White Gloves didn't show. I attended school normally, in uniform, backpack, walking into Changzheng High School. The guard didn't stop me, the teacher didn't question, my deskmate Li Ming's first words were: "Lin Jin, how's the chemistry competition going?"
"Not bad." I said, "Scored 95."
"Badass!" He gave a thumbs-up, "Hitting the internet cafe tonight?"
"Can't, gotta do homework."
At 22:00, I returned to the stationery shop's second floor. White Gloves sat by the window, smoking a purple cigarette.
"Today at school, someone tailed you." he said, "Original Faction scouts. You performed well, like a normal senior."
"They're still watching?"
"Always will be." he said, "Until you're strong enough they don't dare."
He tossed me a box. Inside were new HB pencils, every one cracked like mine.
"The Narrator's mark can be replicated." he said, "Now, use these pencils to write me a story. Protagonist: Lin Jin. Ending: He kills the Narrator. Can't sleep until finished."
That night, I filled three hundred manuscript pages, used twelve pencils, sync rate rising 0.01% per word.
At 04:00, I wrote the final period. White Gloves collected the pages, didn't read them, threw them straight into the furnace.
"Remember this feeling." he said, "When you can kill an apostle with one pencil, you'll graduate."
Sync rate: 31.4%.
I began hearing rules whispering.
Day 90. White Gloves gave me my first real mission.
"Suburbs have a Level-C2 Rift Zone, 'Forgotten Bookstore.'" he said, "Administration has no manpower. B-07's busy with Level-B4 missions. You go, solo."
"Graduation exam?"
"No." he smiled, "It's to see you die once."
I brought no equipment, just my cracked HB pencil in my pocket, wearing my school uniform like going to the library to borrow books.
The bookstore was on an old street, small storefront, sign letters long gone. Pushing the door, the bell chimed—but the sound played backward. No books inside, just rows of Rift Zone cores, jammed in glass jars like preserves.
Three Rule Echoes wandered between bookshelves. Seeing me, they froze, then collectively lunged.
I drew a circle in the air with my pencil, writing: [Bookstore Rule: Customer is God]
The Echoes halted midair, then bowed and retreated.
I walked to the counter. The shopkeeper was an old man, wearing the same Tang suit as White Gloves, writing with a fountain pen.
"Here?" He didn't look up.
"Here." I said.
"What are you buying?"
"The Narrator's life."
He smiled, pushed the paper to me. It read: [Lin Jin, Sync Rate 40%, Graduated]
"Take it." he said, "Show White Gloves, he'll tell you the next step."
I took the paper. At that moment, my pencil's cracks贯通 entirely, the whole pen turning silvery-white, like cast from moonlight.
"Oh right." The old man said behind me, "On B-07's side, Tang Lan's blade broke, Zhou Fang's jammer needs upgrading, Gu Yan's model can't calculate your location—he's going crazy. Shen Xingyao... she added an emergency contact to your student file."
"Who?"
"Herself." The old man said, "She's afraid if you really die, no one will collect your corpse."
I left the bookstore. Outside, the sun shone perfectly. Afternoon first period at Changzheng High was chemistry. Teacher Zhang was explaining redox reactions.
I pulled out my phone, messaged White Gloves: [Graduated, what's next?]
He replied instantly: [Covert Training Phase Two: Return to B-07, pretend nothing happened.]
[How?]
[They'll come find you] he said, [Because the Rift Zone Original Faction issued the Administration a challenge. Target isn't you, it's B-07's entire squad.]
[A challenge?]
[Yes.] White Gloves' text carried a smile, [They want to fight a rule battle with your cheat-level teammates on the Narrator's home turf. And you, are the only one who can write the word 'undefeated' within the Narrator's rules.]
I gripped the pencil, standing in sunlight, silvery-white pupils reflecting two worlds.
One was Senior Class 3's classroom, where Teacher Zhang was calling roll: "Lin Jin? Where did Lin Jin go again?"
The other was deep within the Rift Zone, where the Narrator's mask smiled in the darkness: "Been waiting long, Pencil Boy."
I took a deep breath, sent Shen Xingyao a text from my normal number. Only three words:
[I didn't die]
She replied instantly, also three words:
[Come back]
I smiled, pocketed the pencil, walked toward school.
Sync rate 40%—just right. Strong enough, but not making the metallic pupils too conspicuous.
And, my Specialized Derivative Training Set 5 must be finished tonight.
Because White Gloves said the next training phase is "doing homework during combat."
That's the real hell.