26: Chapter 26 Don't Let Your Mom Feel Humble at the School Gate

The third period in the afternoon was the physical activity class for Class 18, Grade 12.

Following the custom of a crappy school like No. 19 Middle School, the so-called physical activity class was just free time; the P.E. teacher would take attendance and then go to the office to drink tea and chat.

The fans in the classroom made a creaking, dilapidated sound, and the air they blew was hot.

Thirty-some students gathered in small groups, lying on their desks playing mobile games or huddling together to read comic books.

There were also a few girls sitting on the window ledges, chattering away about gossip.

The entire classroom was as chaotic as a wet market.

Lu Zihao sat in the dead corner of the last row of the classroom, where the sun never reached.

He zipped his school uniform jacket all the way up, wore a black baseball cap, and lay on the desk, pretending to sleep.

A vacuum zone had formed around him; no one dared to get close to him, and even the chubby boy sitting next to him wished he could move his chair out into the hallway.

His right hand was hidden under the desk, and the bruises on his knuckles from the fight yesterday were still throbbing with pain.

It was at this moment that Fang Jiming walked into the classroom.

He was carrying a black mesh bag containing a pair of brand-new boxing gloves that smelled of high-quality cowhide.

His canvas shoes made a slight friction sound as they stepped on the terrazzo floor.

The noisy classroom quieted down for a few seconds the moment they saw the homeroom teacher enter.

Afterward, everyone realized he wasn't angry, so they lowered their heads and continued doing their own things.

Fang Jiming didn't stop at the podium; he walked straight through the narrow aisle between the two rows of desks all the way to the back of the classroom.

He stopped in front of Lu Zihao's desk.

He looked at the boy lying on the desk and, without saying a word of nonsense, directly lifted the black mesh bag in his hand and let go.

That heavy pair of top-tier genuine leather boxing gloves crashed onto Lu Zihao's desk under the force of gravity, making a dull thud.

This impact shook several pens on the desk, causing them to bounce up and fall to the floor.

The loud noise startled several students who were playing games, and they all looked up toward the back row.

Lu Zihao's shoulders jolted from the shock, and he lifted his head; beneath the brim of his baseball cap, a pair of eyes full of hostility and defensiveness were revealed.

He looked at the brand-new boxing gloves on the desk, then looked up at Fang Jiming, his jaw muscles tensed.

"What do you mean by this?"

Lu Zihao's voice was hoarse, carrying a roughness peculiar to the voice-changing stage.

Fang Jiming, with his hands in his hoodie pockets, looked down at him and curled the corners of his mouth.

"Aren't you quite a fighter?"

"You broke the nasal bone of a thug from the vocational high school next door with one punch. You think you're pretty impressive, don't you?"

"What kind of skill is it to fight outside? After causing trouble, you have to make your mother come to the school gate, begging and crying, acting like a subservient coward to plead for mercy."

Upon hearing the words 'your mother,' Lu Zihao's eyes instantly turned red; he clenched his fists tightly under the desk, the veins on the back of his hands bulging.

He stared at Fang Jiming like a lone wolf whose tail had been stepped on, ready to pounce and bite at any moment.

Fang Jiming completely ignored his man-eating expression and continued to speak.

"I've set up a private session for you at the back playground today, with international competition-grade punching bags, top-tier focus mitts, and a full set of impact-resistant mats."

"If you have fire in your heart, if you feel the world has wronged you, or if you think you're the best in the world, then go there and fight."

Fang Jiming bent down, resting his hands on Lu Zihao's desk, which was carved with all sorts of profanities, and leaned in to look at the prickly teenager.

"Every time you fight on the street, your mother comes to school crying; her eyes are almost blinded from crying."

"If you go to the back playground and hit the punching bag, even if you punch a hole through it, your mother won't have to shed a single tear."

"If you want to prove that you're a man who can pee standing up, then show me some manly methods."

"Don't always do those spineless things that make a woman have to clean up after you."

The classroom was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared blankly at the homeroom teacher in the last row, who usually appeared so lazy.

Lu Zihao's chest heaved violently, his gaze shifting back and forth between the boxing gloves and Fang Jiming's face.

The deep fear that had been suppressed in his heart for years because he lacked a father's support had always been tightly wrapped in a shell of violence.

No one had ever seen through his disguise, and no one had ever spoken to him like this.

Adults would either curse him as a hopeless piece of trash or pity him as a bastard without a father.

This was the first time an older male, representing authority, had given him an outlet within the bounds of the rules in such a crude but direct way.

He bit his lip, and the layer of defensiveness in his eyes began to show a tiny crack under Fang Jiming's gaze.

Lu Zihao grabbed the heavy pair of boxing gloves from the desk and stood up, pushing his chair away.

The chair legs made a harsh, grating sound against the terrazzo floor.

He didn't glance at Fang Jiming, nor did he speak; he simply tucked the boxing gloves under his arm and walked out the back door of the classroom with his head down.

Fang Jiming straightened up, watching his slightly thin but straight back, and let out a soft huff from his nose.

This kid's bones were a bit harder than he had imagined; he was a talent worth molding.

The afterglow of the setting sun dyed the sky of Nanqiao City a blood-tinged orange-red.

The fighting corner that had just been cleared at the back playground of No. 19 Middle School seemed exceptionally quiet in the twilight.

All that remained here was the dull thudding sound of flesh constantly striking leather.

Lu Zihao, shirtless, threw his washed-out, yellowing school uniform t-shirt onto the edge of the shock-absorbing mat.

Wearing the black genuine leather boxing gloves, he launched a frantic attack against the punching bag that weighed over a hundred jin.

There was no method, no technique, only pure venting.

He swung his arms fully for every punch, as if he wanted to smash all the cold looks he had endured for the past seventeen years, the panic brought about by his father's absence, and the humiliation of his mother begging others into this black leather bag.

Sweat flowed down his lean but well-defined muscle lines, running into his eyes, stinging them so he couldn't open them.

But he didn't stop; the sound of the boxing gloves hitting the punching bag changed from the initial dull thuds to a later, slightly exhausted slapping sound.

Fang Jiming sat on a rusty horizontal bar ten meters away from him.

In his hand, he held a stack of math quiz papers that Class 18, Grade 12 had just finished taking yesterday, and on his lap was a piece of broken wood he had picked up from somewhere.

He chewed on the cap of his red pen, looking at the horrifying single-digit scores on the papers while marking large red crosses on them.

He paid absolutely no attention to Lu Zihao, who was going crazy over there.

He didn't call a halt, didn't give instructions, and didn't go over to instill any chicken soup for the soul about how a man must be strong.

He just sat there, providing a safe backdrop in the least annoying way possible at the moment when the boy most needed to release his emotions.

This was a man's silent understanding; those who know, know.