School Begins

The autumn wind in Tower City's middle ring was crisp but not cold. Morning light slanted through gaps between old buildings to the east, tinting the street and school gate pale gold. The elementary school's entrance was modest: a three-story building enclosed by gray-white brick walls. Beside the iron gate stood a simple noticeboard bearing the "202X New Student List for Beginning Classes."

Ryan stood at the gate and scanned the pages on the board. He found his name near the lower left corner of the second page:

"Class D · Ryan Hertz"

He showed little emotion. Nearby, several parents were straightening their children's collars and repeatedly telling them not to fight, not to run off, and to remember to raise their hands. His father stood outside a corner shop down the street, a toothpick in his mouth, and gave him a casual wave of encouragement.

"Shouldn't I go in with him?" his mother asked, a little uncertain.

"Let him get used to it from day one. With his personality, having someone tag along would only make him uncomfortable." His father sounded lazy, but certain.

Ryan heard their exchange as he walked into the school building on his own.

Class D's room was at the far end of the second floor. It was simply furnished: phonetic cards above the blackboard, a chart of the changing seasons by the window, and a bookshelf and potted plants in the corner. A few children were already seated by the windows, reading or looking around. He quietly chose a seat toward the middle on the right, sat down, and hung his backpack on the chair.

The first lesson was reading, covering letters, numbers, and the structure of basic words.

Ryan had taught himself all of it by the age of three. He did not rush to answer or volunteer his thoughts. When the teacher called on him, he occasionally answered with precision, speaking steadily and clearly, in an orderly way, neither flustered nor overeager.

The teacher was a young woman surnamed Tower, with a gentle voice. She soon noticed the child who was "ahead of the class but never showed off."

"Ryan, can you read the word 'distinguish'?"

"Qū—fēn. It can be a noun or a verb. It refers to the difference or dividing line between two kinds of things." His voice was even.

The teacher paused for a second, then smiled and nodded. "Very good."

After class, a few children glanced at him curiously, but none came over. He had not tried to show off, nor had he made any effort to befriend them. He simply took a new textbook the teacher had handed out from his backpack and began reading the later sections, which were meant to be read with a parent's help.

The teacher noticed. At noon, she took a moment in the office to look over Ryan's entrance assessment. He had earned full marks in word comprehension, arithmetic reasoning, and shape recognition. His scores for spatial construction and concentration, in particular, were far above average.

"It would be such a waste if a child like this didn't pursue his studies," she said with a sigh.

Ryan himself took no pride in it. He merely concluded that his "cognitive input" at this stage was too slow. He needed to find more challenging material to study outside class.

He began paying attention to the books on the shelf.

The low bookcase stood at just the right height for a child. The top shelf held phonetic readers; the second held illustrated fairy tales. On the third were several reference-style books: Basic Geography Cognition Atlas, Animals' Combat Instincts, and a battered copy of Selected Folk Martial Arts Stories.

He pulled books from the third shelf and flipped through them, sorting their purposes into three categories in his mind:

Geography: build an understanding of "the world's layout and the distribution of environmental resources" in preparation for future journeys as a Hunter;

Animal reference: understand "the structure of species' abilities" and "the limits of the body and instinct";

Martial arts stories: extract "tactical thinking," "the rhythm of attacks," and "the conditions for judging friend from foe."

While the other children fussed over lunch toys or fought for picture-book time, he quietly built the beginnings of a knowledge base for his path to becoming a Hunter.

He was not dreaming of becoming a Hunter. He was planning how to do it.

School followed a steady rhythm. Most lessons centered on literacy, basic arithmetic, listening to stories, reading, and hands-on activities. To most five-year-olds, they were both new and challenging. To Ryan, school was more like a long-term social simulation.

He arrived on time every day and completed every task as instructed, but never joined in pointless group activities of his own accord. He was not cold, merely "not overly enthusiastic." He did not dislike children his age, but neither did he seek their company.

Before long, the teachers described him as "quiet and sensible," "diligent and bright," and "a little mature for his age."

Most of his classmates called him "a bit strange" or "no fun," but none truly excluded him. Ryan never made mistakes, started conflicts, or caused trouble. More importantly, whenever help or an answer was needed, he never pushed forward, yet his answer was always the most accurate.

He knew relationships between children were far more blunt than those between adults. He was not the one who drew the most attention, but he was also the one who could least easily be replaced. That middle ground suited the role of "observer" he currently needed.

Over a little more than a week, he quietly built a "map of social relationships" in his memory, arranging it as follows:

Name | Personality type | Behavior | Teacher's impression | Potential social risk — Yuanyuan | Extroverted | Takes the lead, emotional | "Helpful" | May spark conflict when emotions run high; Lin Xiaocheng | Observant | Quiet, remembers things, slow to respond | "A little timid" | May be excluded; needs protection; Du Nan | Controlling | Often invents little rules | "Has ideas of his own" | Tries to control the group's social structure; Yezi | Emotional | Cries easily, clings to others | "Needs guidance" | May sway a small group's moods

He did not see these children as enemies, but he knew they might become variables at certain moments in the future. He treated the information as valuable samples for an early model of social behavior.

One afternoon during crafts class, a small incident put his "modeling system" to its first practical test.

The task was to cut and fold paper into a puzzle-like building model. While the groups were being formed, Du Nan grabbed several cardboard pieces first, then told the other children, "I took these first. You can't touch them."

One of the corner pieces should have gone to Lin Xiaocheng. She tried to protest, but Du Nan cut her off before she could finish. She lowered her head, her eyes filling with tears, and did not dare reach for it.

The teacher was away. A low murmur spread through the classroom.

Ryan watched without speaking. He walked over slowly, placed a spare piece from his desk within Lin Xiaocheng's reach, then turned to Du Nan.

"You took one too many. It's for the whole group." His voice was quiet but steady. "The one you're holding is a duplicate. You won't need it later."

Du Nan was about to snap back, but Ryan's face was blank and his tone held no challenge. He had simply stated the facts. Du Nan froze instead.

For two seconds, no one spoke.

"...Fine, she can have it," Du Nan muttered. He tossed the piece back and turned away.

The matter was settled, and the atmosphere returned to normal.

Ryan said nothing more and showed no particular expression. He simply went back to assembling his model. When the teacher returned and saw that the problem had been resolved, she did not ask about it.

After class that day, Lin Xiaocheng said softly, "Thank you."

"It was a problem with how the pieces fit, not with anyone," Ryan replied calmly.

From that day on, quite a few children saw him differently. He had not started a fight to defend anyone or put on a show by telling the teacher. But his judgment was precise, his timing calm, and his solution free of emotion. Compared with most of them, he seemed like a student from an older grade sitting in on their class.

To Ryan, the small incident mattered for another reason: it confirmed a core principle of his approach. Silence did not mean inaction.

He made a new entry in his mind:

[Limited intervention]: Act only when order is clearly disrupted. Remain within the rules and show no emotion.

[Goal]: Reinforce an image of trustworthiness without seeming dangerously superior or completely invisible.

[Result]: Minimal disruption, maximum benefit. Maintain the observer role.

That night, he read the copy of Selected Folk Martial Arts Stories he had brought home. One story told of a traveling martial artist who, as a boy, watched people practice boxing at a temple. He said nothing and never joined in for three years. Then one day, a thief entered the temple and everyone fell into chaos. The boy stood up and knocked the thief down with one punch.

He gently turned the page.

He understood that becoming strong did not mean hiding one's abilities at every turn. It meant staying calm enough to see the situation clearly before acting—and always knowing exactly why one was acting.

And today, he had taken that lesson to heart.