4: Chapter 4 The Iceberg Female Teacher, A Desperate Attempt to Persuade Her to Quit

The bell for the end of class rang.

When Fang Jiming stepped down from the podium, his legs felt a bit weak. He had been relying on pure adrenaline for the past ten minutes or so, and now that the tension had dissipated, he felt exhausted, as if his strength had been completely drained.

As he walked out of the classroom, he caught a glimpse of Lu Zihao lying motionless on his desk; he couldn't tell if the boy was sulking or asleep.

The other students were much quieter; at least no one was throwing things at him anymore.

Fang Jiming dragged his feet as he walked downstairs. The wall plaster in the corridor had mostly fallen off, revealing the gray cement underneath. He needed to find the office at the end of the east side of the fifth floor that he shared with the head teacher of Class 17.

Fang Jiming figured sharing was fine, as long as there was a desk to sit at.

He turned the corner of the fourth-floor corridor and almost collided with someone walking towards him. The person stopped half a step away from him.

Fang Jiming looked up to examine the young woman in the white shirt standing before him. She was holding a stack of lesson plans and a kraft paper envelope.

Her white shirt was tucked into black trousers, and her cuffs were neatly buttoned at her wrists. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, without any unnecessary accessories. The way she stood there, looking neat and crisp, felt completely out of place in this dilapidated corridor.

Fang Jiming's first reaction was that she was very beautiful, and his second was that her gaze toward him was filled with undisguised disdain.

"Are you the new head teacher of Class 18?"

The woman's voice carried a sense of aloofness that kept people at a distance.

"Yes, my name is Fang Jiming."

He nodded politely to give an affirmative answer.

"I know your name."

The woman raised the kraft paper envelope in her hand, shook it in front of him, and continued her self-introduction.

"Teacher Wen Ruyan, head teacher of Class 17 and teacher of Chinese Language. I'm your colleague at the desk next to yours."

Fang Jiming quickly reached out to shake her hand as a gesture of friendliness, but Teacher Wen Ruyan glanced at his hand hanging in mid-air and did not shake it. Instead, she shoved the kraft paper envelope into Fang Jiming's arms.

"This is the summary of disciplinary records for Class 18 from last semester. Director He asked me to pass it on to you."

Fang Jiming lowered his head to open the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. He scanned the dense table, which recorded 63 fights, 217 instances of truancy, 41 cases of intentional damage to public property, and 92 instances of being caught smoking at school.

Looking at that final figure of 92, Fang Jiming felt a headache coming on.

"Teacher Wen, is this data real?"

"It's real."

Teacher Wen Ruyan leaned against the corridor wall, arms crossed, watching him, and added.

"That's just what's been recorded. The number of incidents that weren't discovered is at least three times that."

Fang Jiming tucked the envelope under his arm and grimaced, starting to mock himself.

"That's actually quite good. It at least shows that the Academic Affairs Office of our school is very thorough, recording every metric in such detail."

Teacher Wen Ruyan didn't play along with his joke. She looked Fang Jiming up and down, her gaze lingering on the traces of chalk dust left on his forehead.

"The white mark on your forehead hasn't been wiped off yet."

Fang Jiming reached up and rubbed it twice, his palm covered in white dust.

"I got this from interacting with the students just now."

"Interacting?"

Teacher Wen Ruyan raised an eyebrow, exposing his lie to his face.

"I heard you shouting 'shut up, yellow-hair' in the classroom. The whole floor heard that yell."

Fang Jiming touched his nose awkwardly and didn't respond.

Teacher Wen Ruyan didn't dwell on the topic; her expression returned to that professional aloofness.

"Teacher Fang, I've been at No. 19 Middle School for two years, and I know the situation in Class 18 better than you do. The previous head teacher, Teacher Li, had been teaching for twenty years, but after holding on in this class for four months, Teacher Li was driven to a heart condition by anger."

"The one before that was a PE teacher, two sizes bigger than you, and in the first week, the students cornered him in the men's restroom and doused him in ink."

Fang Jiming winced as he listened and asked half-jokingly.

"Teacher Wen, are you trying to comfort me or scare me?"

"I'm advising you."

She took the envelope back from Fang Jiming's arms, flipped to the last page, and pointed to a line of text at the bottom, motioning for Fang Jiming to lean in and look. The paper read: Estimated number of dropouts for Class 18 this semester: 8 to 12.

"This is the estimate made by the Academic Affairs Office at the end of last semester."

Teacher Wen Ruyan closed the envelope and shoved it back to Fang Jiming.

"Class 18 loses seven or eight students every year, and the rest just muddle through their days. Every year, they fail completely in the college entrance exams."

Fang Jiming held the envelope without speaking. He quickly did the math in his head.

Thirty-eight students minus twelve is thirty-one percent. This number would directly trigger the system's execution red line.

Seeing him silent, Teacher Wen Ruyan thought her words had taken effect. She turned slightly to make way in the corridor, her tone softening slightly.

"Teacher Fang, you must feel very helpless being thrown into this pit right after graduation."

"The students' families basically leave them to their own devices. As a newcomer from out of town, you can't change anything."

"My advice is to take advantage of the fact that classes haven't officially started and go talk to Director He about transferring positions. As long as you say a few nice words, there's a good chance you can become an assistant head teacher for Grade 10."

After speaking, Teacher Wen Ruyan didn't wait for Fang Jiming's answer and walked past him with her lesson plans. After a few steps, she stopped and added, with her back to Fang Jiming.

"By the way, that disciplinary record is useless; you might as well just throw it away. No one is going to do anything about it anyway, no matter how many times it's recorded."

The sound of Teacher Wen Ruyan's footsteps faded at the end of the corridor.

Fang Jiming stood where he was, clutching the kraft paper envelope, countless thoughts flashing through his mind.

This Teacher Wen Ruyan was indeed very beautiful, with delicate features and a well-proportioned figure. Standing in this dilapidated building, she looked exactly like a beautiful vase exiled to the countryside.

Her way of speaking was very direct, like a cold, temperatureless stone thrown at someone.

You could be standing on the deck sunbathing, doing absolutely nothing, and she would drift over and sink your ship right in front of you.

Fang Jiming looked down at the estimated dropout number in the envelope again, finding it rather jarring.

Eight to twelve people.

The system's notification sound rang in his mind at the right moment.

[Current class size: 38 students.]

[Dropout red line: 12 students.]

[Current number of dropouts: 0.]

[Host, please be sure to closely monitor student activity.]

Fang Jiming tucked the envelope under his arm and strode toward the office. He knew Teacher Wen Ruyan was right about one thing: Class 18 was indeed a bottomless pit.

But he didn't even have the room to choose. The system was bound to him like a stubborn plaster that he couldn't shake off.

Let alone transferring positions, he didn't even have the qualifications to resign.

Walking into the office, Fang Jiming saw his workstation. In the corner against the wall stood a dilapidated tin desk, with most of the paint worn off the surface, revealing the rusted metal underneath.

On the desk sat a dusty desktop computer, and on the screen was a sticky note left by the previous head teacher.

Fang Jiming leaned in to look, and it read four large characters: "Don't come, run away."

He tore off the sticky note, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the trash can, then pulled out the chair that was falling apart and sat down.

The chair creaked with a harsh sound of metal grating. The plastic covering on the armrests was cracked and peeling, and the cushion was so thin he could feel the wires underneath.

Fang Jiming cursed silently, thinking that sitting on this broken chair for a day would ruin his back.

He took out his phone and checked his balance. The screen showed 10,125.5 yuan.

The system had said before that as long as he survived today, 100,000 in funds would arrive tomorrow.

Once that 100,000 arrived, the first thing he would do was buy himself a top-tier boss chair.

He leaned back in the chair, looking at a large patch of yellow water stains on the ceiling.

In the middle of the stain, water was still dripping, one drop at a time, collecting into a small puddle on the floor.

Fang Jiming closed his eyes and shouted the phrase he had said most in his life in his heart once again.

"I want to resign."

[No.]

The system's notification was rigid, leaving no room for negotiation.

Fang Jiming opened his eyes, stared at the water stain on the ceiling, and turned to look at Teacher Wen Ruyan's desk next to his.

That desk was neatly stacked with lesson plans and teaching materials. On the corner of the desk sat a white ceramic cup with text printed on it—although he couldn't see the words clearly, it was likely some kind of chicken soup for the soul quote.

Anyone who could stay at No. 19 Middle School for two years and not leave must be a stubborn person who still held some hope for the cause of education.

Although Teacher Wen Ruyan was impolite when she spoke, there was a glimmer of light in her eyes. She was probably the type of person with a conflicted personality who was disappointed in education but hadn't completely given up yet.

Fang Jiming placed his phone on the desk and opened the class roster for Class 18. Thirty-eight names were listed on the screen.

He scanned it from top to bottom and didn't recognize a single person.

Every one of these thirty-eight names was tied to his life; for every person lost, he would be one step closer to the crematorium.

Fang Jiming turned off his phone screen and, smelling the scent of fried dough sticks drifting in from outside, cheered himself up.

Before that 100,000 arrives tomorrow, he had to survive today first.