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Chen Mo had been fretting over the "traditional subjects"—Chinese, math, English, politics, history, and geography—wondering whether a middle-aged man's memory and comprehension could save his grades. But as he continued sifting through the original owner's chaotic memories, a jarring subject name, completely out of place, struck him like a sledgehammer—

Martial Arts Class.

Worth: 45% of the total score.

Second only to the combined weight of all the Cultural Classes, it sat at the top of the report card, radiating an undeniable air of dominance.

"Martial... Martial Arts Class?" Chen Mo muttered inwardly, nearly tying his tongue in knots. "What kind of newfangled thing is this? Radio calisthenics, but with extra power? Or a youth edition of military combat exercises?"

He forced himself to calm down and carefully sorted through the original owner's meager memories, as if untangling a mess of yarn.

Blue Star... East Asia Federation... Guangming District, Huihe City, Songjiang Province...

Place names surfaced one after another, each strange enough to make his heart pound. This definitely wasn't Earth. It wasn't even a parallel world—at most, it was some kind of "distant cousin"!

As he delved deeper into the memories, a picture gradually took shape—this was a world with Martial Arts!

Not the health-preserving tai chi practiced by Old Men in the park, nor the choreographed routines of competitive sports, but real Martial Arts that could temper the body, unleash potential, and even... transcend the ordinary! Martial Artists held a lofty position in society and were widely admired. Martial Arts leagues and championships were everywhere. The visceral spectacle of fists pounding flesh, powerful gusts sweeping through the air, and arenas collapsing at the drop of a hat was far more popular than soccer or basketball in his world. It was the undisputed top sport.

Many household-name stars weren't singers, dancers, or rappers, but genuine Martial Arts celebrities! Even entertainers needed some Martial Arts credentials to be considered "properly established."

What left Chen Mo even more dumbfounded was this world's modern history. At a glance, the course of history had been much like Earth's a little over a century ago: the Industrial Revolution, World War I... But in the later stages of the war, a mysterious force that later generations called "Psionic Particles" or the "Qi Tide" swept across the globe. The environment changed quietly, and Martial Arts began to flourish in earnest.

Several decades ago, when the first top Martial Artist withstood a nuclear bomb and survived with only serious injuries, then announced to the cameras of the world, "Martial Arts is the ultimate form of military power," the old order and its beliefs were overturned completely. And that wasn't all. The invasion that followed, by the Antaya, pushed Martial Arts into the role of humanity's savior. They were an alien race that had also developed a Martial Arts Civilization. If Blue Star's predecessors hadn't held back the invasion through their powerful bodies and blood-burning techniques, combined with the technological weapons that hadn't yet been phased out, Blue Star would probably have become a colony long ago.

"A high-level martial civilization! This damn world really is a high-level martial civilization!" Chen Mo's heart pounded against his will, stirring a man's romantic ideals and fighting spirit within him. Who hadn't dreamed as a youngster of roaming the world with a sword and settling everything with a single punch?

But that excitement came and went as quickly as if someone had poured a bucket of ice water over his head.

There was no other reason. The original "Chen Mo" was an idiot... No, the young man who shared his name was terrible at school, like a ball of yarn a cat had torn apart. And his Martial Arts talent was so mediocre it was downright appalling! His Martial Arts Class grades had long been hovering below the passing line. He was the kind of student who got winded just practicing basic punches and couldn't sense "qi" even when he circulated the basic cultivation method.

He was no good at either the pen or the fist. A complete double failure!

Chen Mo's back teeth practically itched. He wanted to drag the original owner's soul out and give him a good beating. "Buddy! Whether you transmigrated or started over, you could've at least left me with a character who had some potential! What've you got besides a body twenty years younger, with a tragically high hairline? Huh? What else?"

His family background? An ordinary wage-earning household, about the same as his own on Earth. They couldn't provide secret techniques or spirit stones.

Then there was this world's technology tree... Smartphones, e-commerce—with something called "Bao Tao"—instant messaging, with "Wei Yan" and "Q Liao," ride-hailing with "Di Da Chuxing," food delivery... Apart from some different names, the functions and how widespread they were were almost exactly like those in the 2020s before he transmigrated.

Well, so much for using his foresight to launch an internet startup, copy a business model, and rise to the top. That road was basically blocked. The ideas he knew were not only already in this world, but had gone even further because of Martial Arts Civilization. Every major company and corporation needed a Martial Artist on its side, or Martial Arts credentials and connections, or it simply couldn't compete. The industries related to Martial Arts—pills, equipment, Training Halls, event management, and so on—were already incredibly well-developed.

The conclusion was harsh: in this world, without Martial Arts connections or ability, an ordinary person had a very low ceiling. At best, he could become a senior wage slave; middle management was the limit.

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"Sigh..." Chen Mo let out a long, heartfelt sigh, full of the helpless acceptance of a wage slave who had faced reality.

Fine. Look on the bright side. He'd gotten a body twenty years younger for free. Just think of all the money he'd save on skincare and hair transplants! Both parents were alive, and the family was harmonious. Compared with those transmigrators who woke up as orphans, live-in son-in-laws, or men about to be dumped by their fiancées, his was practically a beginner-friendly setup.

"My hardware might be lacking, but my software's strong!" Chen Mo began consoling himself, his eyes darting about as he searched for a glimmer of hope. "The literary and artistic scene in this world has been heavily 'infiltrated' by Martial Arts culture, but the foundations are still there. Those classic songs, novels, and movies... They don't seem to have them here?"

Become a plagiarist! This classic path to wealth for transmigrators might still be open! He could copy Jin Yong and Gu Long's wuxia novels? No. Martial Arts in this world could really split mountains and shatter rocks. People would probably treat those "low-martial" settings like fairy tales. How about copying popular songs? Writing online novels? Developing a blockbuster movie script?

Hmm... It seemed possible. He probably couldn't become a literary master, but living comfortably, with milk tea and barbecue whenever he wanted, shouldn't be too difficult, right?

That thought immediately put him at ease. He turned his attention back to his desk and picked up his Chinese textbook. Not bad. It was his native language, so with comprehension and a lot of rote memorization, he could still scrape together a few points. Politics, history, and geography were much the same—they were "the more you memorize, the more you score" subjects. With more than two hundred days left, he still had a chance if he crammed.

As for math and English...

Chen Mo looked at the densely packed formulas and English words that might as well have been from another world, and shut his eyes in pain.

"Forget it. Let it be..." he murmured in a tone that suggested he'd seen through the world. "Some things just aren't meant to be. Like my departed hairline, and calculus, which I'll never understand."

This sigh, so full of philosophical resignation, drew the attention of the girl in front of him.

She turned around, revealing a face that wasn't stunning, but was pleasant to look at. She had a little baby fat, fair skin, and bright eyes, with the clear gaze of a high school student and a hint of curiosity.

"What's wrong, Chen Mo? Why all the sighing? Did you fail your Martial Arts test again?" The girl was Zhang Yuxi, a member of the small circle Chen Mo shared with Zhang Shun. Her grades were average too, but she was cheerful and easygoing. She was one of the few girls Chen Mo and Zhang Shun—two taciturn guys who could barely get a word out around pretty girls—could talk to normally.

"Nothing," Chen Mo said, waving a hand. He forced a world-weary look onto his face, one that didn't match his real age but suited the moment perfectly. "I just suddenly realized that these three years of high school are almost over. Youth is like sand slipping through your fingers. You can't hold on to it or keep it..."

Hearing that, Zhang Yuxi shot him an undisguised look of contempt. "Oh, give me a break! Stop acting like you're suffering some great tragedy! I can't wait for this lousy high school to be over. I'm exhausted every day, and then I go home and have to listen to my parents nagging me to 'study hard so I can become a respected Martial Artist one day.' I'm sick of it!"

Watching her look so ungrateful for what she had, Chen Mo opened his mouth, then finally let out a complicated, bitter smile instead.

Life could be so ironic.

Only an "old soul" like him, who had truly lost his youth, had his spirit worn down by life, and spent more than a decade struggling through everyday necessities, could understand the preciousness of this time filled with exams and sweat, this seemingly stifling yet utterly pure school, and the noisy, simple-minded classmates around him.

When we're young, we can't wait to rush toward the distance, believing freedom lies there. Only after we arrive do we discover that what we miss most is the starting point we once wanted so badly to leave behind.

Zhang Yuxi couldn't understand this profound feeling just yet, and neither could Zhang Shun. Perhaps only after they'd traveled a long way through life and looked back one day would they taste that mingled sweetness and bitterness.

For now, this "old youngster," Chen Mo, could only carry his premature wisdom with him, plan how to achieve modest prosperity through "plagiarism," and grit his teeth as he picked up that headache-inducing book, Principles of Basic Qi and Blood Circulation...

The future was bright (probably), the road was bumpy (definitely), and the Gaokao was terrifying (without a doubt). But life had to go on, didn't it?

At least he didn't have to write next week's work report anymore—isn't that progress?

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