Thank You for Forcing Me to Become a God

“Hey, ‘Mr. Nobody,’ our shoes are dirty. You know what to do, right?”

A greasy voice rang out above him. Lu Ren, an eighteen-year-old boy who lived up to his name and blended into the background like a prop, was being prodded in the shoulder with a shoe tip.

Under the restroom's dim yellow lights, water stains snaked across the floor. This was the most secluded boys' restroom at Jiangcheng No. 1 High School, and the “private torture chamber” that Zhang Qiang and his cronies had set up just for him.

The ninety-ninth time.

Lu Ren counted silently. The number was etched into his bones like a chisel mark. Head lowered, his thin back slightly hunched, he struck the textbook pose of the weak. He had practiced it for three years, until it had almost become instinct.