Chapter Twenty-Seven: Time Fleeting in a Blink

Li Daoran’s choice to use ten wristwatches wasn’t because he intended to watch ten courses at once. That would be far too chaotic for any human to learn from, and besides, his field of vision was only so large—he couldn’t possibly take in ten images simultaneously. Instead, he opted to watch two courses at ten times the normal speed. In truth, this method was even more astounding and difficult to accept than watching ten courses at once, but he chose a more easily believable cover. Whether the others believed it or not didn’t matter; at least Aquamarine provided an explanation—after all, geniuses could do as they pleased.

As for Li Daoran himself, he certainly wasn’t studying these things. He had been assigned a different task: to train his fingers until he could perform movements unconsciously. Chen Ming and the others had specially prepared a comprehensive set of exercises for him, which they named the Phantom Demon Hand.

Ancient acrobatics, modern magic, yoga, piano, and martial arts from Aquamarine—all skills that could possibly enhance finger dexterity—were synthesized, refined, and distilled into the Phantom Demon Hand.

Li Daoran was required to perform these movements constantly, without looking, until they became second nature. The set of movements ranged from simple to complex. After a month, he had just reached the novice level on Aquamarine, able to perform some basic movements with proficiency.

Yet his body in the Daoran world seemed unusually suited to the Phantom Demon Hand. Many movements he couldn’t manage on Aquamarine, his Daoran-world body executed effortlessly.

There, his skills with the Phantom Demon Hand had already reached the stage of minor accomplishment—five fingers controlling five coins, flipping and turning ceaselessly between them. According to Chen Ming, the stage of mastery was to have ten coins spinning like the wind in one hand, completely invisible to anyone watching.

Today was the day of the grand examination. Li Daoran’s internal network account still showed a negative score. Since the day he fainted, he hadn’t returned to the basement. Instead, each day, after a genetic injection and completing increasingly grueling physical tasks, he would open his course modules in his room and practice finger dexterity.

Li Daoran registered for eighty-three exam subjects. Excluding those requiring practical operation—such as mecha piloting, mecha repair, and sniper artillery—he signed up for every theoretical course, stunning the entire base. Because he rarely stepped outside, he didn’t realize he’d become something of a celebrity.

“Did you hear? Someone signed up for eighty-three exams.” In a small group of a dozen or so, one person sparked the conversation.

“He’s just showing off. Let’s see how many he actually passes. Signing up is nothing; passing is what counts. I’ve registered for six courses, three of which I’ve studied before, and I’m still not sure I’ll pass them all. What makes him think he can?” A tall youth with a rooster-comb hairstyle declared.

A chorus of agreement and flattery followed, revealing him as the group’s leader.

Li Daoran merely passed by, catching their words. He glanced over.

“What are you looking at?” The rooster-combed youth, noticing Li Daoran was alone, spoke harshly.

The others half-encircled Li Daoran.

Li Daoran licked his lips. After a month indoors, had the base really grown this restless?

His hands moved rapidly at his sides, as if playing an invisible piano—this was the result of his month of unconscious training.

“Speak up! Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear Brother Guang ask you what you’re staring at? Were you eavesdropping? Which class are you from?” A slightly shorter, purple-haired youth with a flamboyant style stepped forward, trying to intimidate him.

Had this group not been so garishly dressed in that typical Aquamarine counterculture fashion, Li Daoran wouldn’t have given them a second glance, and this confrontation wouldn’t have occurred. Now, he found himself in a dilemma.

He was here for the exam, not a fight. Chen Ming had warned him: even with some fighting skills, numbers mattered when weapons weren’t involved. It was best to avoid injury whenever possible. If he tangled with these people now, it simply wasn’t worth it. Yet it was clear they were spoiling for trouble, and there would be no easy way out.

Li Daoran tilted his head, eyeing the rooster-combed youth, weighing whether to strike first and take out the leader.

“Hey, big bro, this guy’s an idiot—he’s too scared to talk,” the purple-haired youth said, glancing back at his leader.

The rooster-combed youth, however, suddenly felt a chill. He was about to call it off when, unexpectedly, the purple-haired youth attacked—his signature move, a sudden knee and kick, the usual opening salvo in their fights, always effective in catching others off-guard.

But today, he’d chosen the wrong opponent. Li Daoran, ever alert and trained by Chen Ming, sidestepped the kick and punched straight at the groin. The blow was precise. The purple-haired youth crumpled instantly, curling up on the ground in silent agony, his face twisted in pain. The others reflexively stepped back, shaken.

From the ground, the purple-haired youth managed to gasp, “Kill him! What are you waiting for? Are you even brothers?”

All eyes turned to the rooster-combed youth. He looked at his fallen comrade, gritted his teeth, and shouted, “Get him! Don’t let our brother get hurt for nothing!”

Yet he didn’t rush in himself, waiting instead for the others to move with him.

Li Daoran scanned the group and decided to run. Even the best fighter couldn’t take on more than a few at once, let alone a dozen.

Before they closed in, he darted out the side and sprinted away.

At first, the rooster-combed group hesitated, but seeing him flee, they let out triumphant shouts and gave chase, hurling insults.

“Class leader, look—those guys are bullying someone again. Disgusting.”

Xu Xingxing was leading Class Ten’s twenty-eight students from the other side. The ruckus quickly caught their attention.

Xu Xingxing was a highly capable vice class leader, keeping the twenty-eight tightly knit—a rarity, as most classes split into several cliques. In Class Ten, there were only two groups: Li Daoran, and Xu Xingxing with the rest.

Xu Xingxing squinted—wasn’t that Li Daoran, unseen for a whole month, running ahead? He’d tried to get Li Daoran to return and lead the class, knocking on his door and sending messages to no avail. He’d almost assumed Li Daoran had left, or he wouldn’t have kept the title of class leader so comfortably—after all, he’d accepted Li Daoran as his superior.

Now, he quickly called to those behind him, “I’m not the class leader—Li Daoran is.”

The others were baffled by his sudden declaration.

One quick-witted student, thinking Xu Xingxing wanted them to show loyalty, immediately said, “Brother Xing, if you’re not our class leader, who is? We only recognize you—right, everyone?”

A chorus of exaggerated affirmation followed.

Xu Xingxing grew anxious. Most of them had only seen Li Daoran once and didn’t remember him—it was understandable. He had no time to explain; Li Daoran was in real trouble.

He made a snap decision. “Let’s go—save the class leader! Let’s take down that rooster-combed gang and show them who we are. How dare they mess with Class Ten!”

With that, he charged toward the fray.

The others, not entirely clear on the situation, didn’t care who was being chased. What mattered was taking on the rooster-combed group—something they were more than happy to do. So, all twenty-nine of them charged in, howling with excitement.