On the day of the Hundred-Day Oath Rally, I was the director of studies for the schools of Shanhe's four provinces. I shouted so hard that I couldn't catch my breath,
then keeled over.
When I opened my eyes again, I'd transmigrated into a novel where no students were ever taken in,
and become the stepmother
of a pair of villainous fraternal twins.
One of them clung desperately to the male lead, while the other pined for the female lead without a chance.
I looked at the bright red single-digit scores on their report cards, and my fists clenched.
From then on, this household was up at six for morning roll call and lights-out at midnight. Meals could only be eaten at a run,
blankets had to be folded into perfect tofu blocks, and during morning reading, you had to read loud enough to see your throat vibrate.
The 800-square-meter villa was covered in bold slogans:
"300 Days to Prepare for the College Entrance Exam"
"Why sleep so long in life? You'll rest forever after death."
"Raise your score by one point, beat a thousand people!"
