Although a rather serious Campus Shooting Incident had occurred that morning, to my surprise, the school had not suspended classes or gone into lockdown. All teaching activities continued as usual, which was utterly baffling. Canglan Private High School across the street, where the shooting had taken place, had been swiftly sealed off, and its students had been promptly moved to a safe location. Compared to our school, which acted as though nothing had happened, it was like heaven and earth.
Senior year classes were incredibly dull. You had to desperately cram all sorts of things that seemed completely unrelated to the world into your head over the course of a year, just so you could write them all down on a stack of papers every July, then forget every last bit of them over the next four years.
Our English teacher was a very kind old lady. Apparently, she had once taught Chinese to foreigners at a private school in Britain. This had given our lovable teacher a rather distinctive habit: every class, she would rattle off long passages in English at lightning speed, then slow way down when translating them into Chinese, enunciating every stressed syllable with perfect clarity as though she were terrified we would not understand.
In short, it was a rather speechless situation.
I narrowed my eyes slightly, trying my hardest to pick out the parts I could understand from the authentic London accents around me and piece them together into comprehensible sentences. This was quite challenging. I estimated it was no easier than figuring out what Ancient Egyptian pharaohs ate for breakfast based on half a stone tablet. Then a little paper ball suddenly flew over from the side and hit me squarely on the head.
I caught the paper ball and quickly calculated its