1: Chapter 1: Hell Mode from the Start, All I Want Is to Quit

(Gathering place for the handsome ^v^)

(Gathering place for the beauties ^v^)

(Fictional brain-teaser story, just read it)

September in Nanqiao City was scorching hot.

Fang Jiming stood at the intersection, dragging a black suitcase and panting heavily; the back of his white short-sleeved shirt was already soaked through.

Before him lay a potholed concrete road, with small carts selling fried dough sticks and grilled cold noodles piled up on both sides.

At the end of the road was a rusty iron gate with peeling paint.

Hanging on the door frame was a rusty bronze plaque, on which one could vaguely make out the words "Nanqiao No. 19 Middle School."

Fang Jiming cursed "Damn it" in his heart.

He took out his phone to glance at the electronic admission letter on the screen, then looked up again at the dilapidated school gate.

Confirmed.

He had truly been assigned to the worst-ranked high school in the city.

As a normal university graduate who had spent four years lying in his dorm playing video games, he didn't actually have high demands for his work environment, as long as he could get his 3,500 salary on time and there was a Cafeteria and a dormitory.

But the level of dilapidation here clearly exceeded his bottom line.

Fang Jiming dragged his suitcase inside, the wheels making a huge racket as they rolled over the potholed concrete road.

The glass window of the security booth was half-open, and inside sat an old man in a white undershirt, eyes closed, fanning himself with a tattered cattail-leaf fan.

A radio was playing some incomprehensible opera.

Fang Jiming walked over and knocked on the glass.

"Grandpa, I'm here to report for duty," he shouted loudly.

The old man ignored him and continued to fan himself with his eyes closed.

Fang Jiming raised his voice and shouted again.

Only then did the old man slowly lift his eyelids and size him up.

"Which class is this repeater from? Bringing luggage and bedding on the first day of school," the old man muttered, complaining.

"I'm a newly assigned teacher."

He slapped his admission letter onto the window sill.

The old man was stunned for a long while, then reached out to turn down the radio and poked his head out to look at Fang Jiming again.

"Oh my, what a tragedy."

The old man shook his head and sighed.

The tone made Fang Jiming's scalp tingle; he thought to himself, 'What the hell kind of tragedy?'

"How do I get to the Academic Affairs Office?"

The old man pointed to the grey, five-story apartment-style building behind him.

"The room on the far left of the third floor. Go up and find Director He yourself."

After saying that, the old man turned the radio back on.

Fang Jiming carried his suitcase and stepped across the cracked playground toward the teaching building. A basketball hoop leaned crookedly to the side, lacking even a net. This place didn't look like a high school; it looked like an abandoned factory.

When he reached the third floor, the door to the Academic Affairs Office was ajar.

Fang Jiming knocked on the door. "Excuse me, is Director He in the office?"

The person inside heard the knock and shouted, "Come in."

Fang Jiming pushed the door open and walked in; the air conditioning in the office hit him in the face.

Three middle-aged teachers were sitting around on the sofa, eating sunflower seeds and chatting. Behind the desk in the back sat a pot-bellied, bald man.

The man was wearing a grey polo shirt and holding a thermos cup, blowing on the hot steam.

Fang Jiming walked up to the desk.

"Excuse me, are you Director He? I'm Fang Jiming, here to report for duty today."

The chatter in the room stopped immediately. The old teachers eating sunflower seeds all turned their heads in unison, their gazes landing on Fang Jiming.

Several people looked at him with curiosity, and a female teacher wearing glasses covered her mouth and giggled.

Fang Jiming felt a chill down his back.

"Oh, Mr. Fang."

"I am Director He Rencai, nice to meet you!"

Director He Rencai put down his thermos and leaned back in his leather chair, squeezing out a smile.

"I've already looked at your file. You're young and promising, a fine talent indeed."

Director He Rencai spoke in bureaucratic jargon.

Fang Jiming forced a smile.

"Director He, please just tell me which class I've been assigned to, so I can go put my luggage down."

Director He Rencai coughed twice, pulled open a drawer, and began rummaging through it unhurriedly.

"Mr. Fang, our school's conditions are indeed not as good as those prestigious schools like No. 1 Middle School."

"However, the tougher the environment, the better it can train young people."

"The organization has high hopes for you."

As he spoke, Director He Rencai pulled out a printed form and pushed it in front of Fang Jiming.

Fang Jiming looked down. At the top of the form, the words "Class 18 Head Teacher and Mathematics Teacher" were written in large characters.

A sharp intake of breath came from the sofa. The female teacher wearing glasses couldn't help herself, and her sunflower seed shells fell to the floor.

"Director He, this Class 18 is..."

The female teacher didn't finish her sentence.

Director He Rencai turned his head and glared at her.

The female teacher quickly shut her mouth and lowered her head to continue eating sunflower seeds.

Fang Jiming picked up the form.

"You want me to lead the senior year?"

He frowned.

This wasn't according to the rules. Normally, new teachers would first teach the first year to get familiar with the work, or serve as an assistant head teacher under an experienced teacher.

Being thrown directly into a graduating class as the head teacher was clearly bullying.

Moreover, No. 19 Middle School was already the worst-ranked school, and the number "Class 18" clearly indicated it was a "trash class" where all the bad students were dumped.

"What, are there difficulties?"

Director He Rencai put away his smile.

"I have no experience; I'm afraid of misleading the students."

Fang Jiming put the form back on the table.

"Young people should be brave enough to take on burdens."

"Then what about last month's head teacher?"

Fang Jiming asked back.

"Transferred."

"What about the one from the month before?"

Fang Jiming continued to press.

The female teacher on the sofa couldn't help but chime in again.

"Got so angry they had a heart attack; they're still in the hospital on an IV drip," the female teacher whispered.

Fang Jiming's eye twitched; he cursed in his heart that this was truly a deadly position.

Why should he be the scapegoat for a 3,500 monthly salary?

"Director, I can't do this job. Please find someone else more capable."

Fang Jiming turned to grab his suitcase.

"You can choose not to do it."

Director He Rencai sneered and tapped his fingers on the table.

"If you leave, it counts as absenteeism, and I will report it truthfully to the Education Bureau."

"With a stain on your file, which public school in the entire province would dare hire you in the future?"

Fang Jiming's hand, which was gripping the suitcase handle, froze. He turned around to look at Director He Rencai.

On Director He Rencai's fat face was an expression that suggested he had him cornered.

No. 19 Middle School couldn't recruit good teachers, and those with connections had all transferred away. This kind of mess was left to be forced upon newcomers with no social connections through unspoken rules.

This was workplace bullying.

Fang Jiming cursed Director He Rencai's ancestors for eighteen generations in his heart.

But he knew he couldn't just walk away; his parents had spent all their savings to put him through university.

Although this job was terrible, at least it was a permanent position. If he were truly blacklisted from the entire industry, he wouldn't even be able to pay next month's rent.

"Fine, I'll do it."

Fang Jiming said through gritted teeth.

He grabbed the form from the table and strode out of the office, dragging his suitcase.

The moment he closed the door, he clearly heard the whispering coming from inside.

"This young man looks so clean-cut, but he has such a stubborn temper."

"Even Old Li couldn't handle it and was sent to the hospital in a rage. How many days can he last?"

"I bet three days. In three days, he'll definitely be crying and begging Director Yang for a transfer."

"Sigh, let's just consider it giving him some social experience."

These voices swirled around Fang Jiming's ears.

He walked through the dim corridor, feeling a tightness in his chest.

The paint on the walls of the teaching building was peeling off in large patches, revealing the grey concrete underneath. On every floor, he could see graffiti scrawled with black markers.

Fang Jiming climbed the stairs to the top floor, the fifth floor. In the deepest corner of the fifth floor was Class 18.

Still a dozen meters away from the classroom, he heard a deafening noise.

It was a mix of various shouts; there was no sign of morning reading at all.

"A pair of twos, beat that."

"Damn it, you're cheating! Show me the cards."

"This round is mine. Pay up, pay up."

Then came a loud crash as a chair was kicked over onto the floor.

Fang Jiming stopped in the corridor, thinking that this place was noisier than a wet market or a casino.

He walked to the back door of the classroom. The wooden board on the back door had a large hole broken in it, and even the doorknob had fallen off halfway.

Fang Jiming looked inside through the hole, and the sight in the classroom made his brain throb.

The blackboard was covered in messy cartoon characters, and the desks were shoved together crookedly.

Several boys were huddled in the back row playing poker, and the floor was covered in crushed cigarette butts and leftover sunflower seed shells.

In the front row, several girls were gathered together, applying nail polish and comparing colors.

Out of more than thirty people, not a single person had a textbook on their desk.

Fang Jiming felt like he couldn't breathe.

He was just an ordinary person who wanted to drift through life, and it was completely unreasonable to manage this group of students—whom even their parents had given up on—for a monthly salary of 3,500.

Quit.

He shouted in his heart.

To hell with a stained file; at worst, he could deliver food, move bricks, or be a security guard.

He would absolutely not suffer this kind of crap in this dump.

He didn't even put down his suitcase and turned directly to head downstairs.

As long as he walked out now, he would never have to worry about this mess again.

But the moment he turned around, his back accidentally bumped into that dilapidated back door.

The long-neglected door hinges let out a shrill screech of friction, a sound that was exceptionally loud in the corridor.

The noise in the classroom stopped for a second, and everyone froze in their tracks.

Dozens of eyes stared in unison through the glass and the hole in the back door at Fang Jiming outside.