When I woke up, the plane tree leaves outside the window were suspended mid-air.
Sunlight cut through those motionless leaves, casting a straight golden line across my desk. Chalk dust floated in front of the podium like tiny satellites, locked in eternal orbit around chemistry teacher's open mouth. His spit had congealed into pearls, suspended in the air, reflecting the dull faces of the entire class.
I glanced down at my watch—3:17 PM. The second hand had stopped moving.
"...Lin Jin! Lin Jin, you're sleeping again!" Teacher Zhang's voice should've exploded like thunder, but now he was frozen mid-roar, his vocal cords halted at the tail end of the word "sleeping." The sound wave looked like an insect trapped in amber—visible, but inaudible.
I waved a hand in front of his face. No reaction. Poked my deskmate Li Ming's arm—my finger passed straight through his uniform, the sensation like jabbing into warm jelly. When I pulled back, not even a wrinkle remained on his arm.
On the back blackboard, the red chalk words "87 Days Until Gaokao" were slowly fading—no, not fading. They were being erased from reality by some invisible eraser. I watched as the character for "day" lost its first stroke, then its second, until the entire character vanished, leaving behind a ragged, dog-eaten rectangular blank space.
"Holy shit," I muttered to myself.
This was the first time in my life I genuinely wanted to hear Teacher Zhang finish explaining that redox balancing problem.
Rift Zone onset signs were crystal clear in Administration textbooks: reality stability dropping to critical values, localized time flow anomalies, rule text manifestation, cognitive contamination beginning.
But the textbooks never said what to do when a C-3 level Rift Zone directly enveloped your classroom, and you happened to be the only unlucky bastard who didn't get hit.
I stood in the center of the classroom like I'd stumbled into some performance art installation. The clock hands on the wall began rotating counterclockwise, each tick becoming viscous, every sound dragging out into a long tail. The classroom door vanished, replaced by a line of text suspended in midair:
[Exit Condition: Prove the existence of observable variables within this space]
Typical Rift Zone naming logic—wrapping "why don't you just die already" into a philosophical thought experiment.
I searched my entire body and only found an HB pencil—the one on my desk, bought at the start of the semester for geometry problems. I'd carved "Lin Jin" on the barrel with a pocket knife, the letters crooked like a primary schooler's handwriting.
I hesitated for three seconds with the pencil tip aimed at that rule text.
The Administration's public warnings stated that any "interference behavior" within a Rift Zone would cause synchronization rate to increase. What's synchronization rate? Simply put, it's the conversion ratio between your humanity and the Rift Zone's erosiveness. Above 30% and you start seeing hallucinations, 50% lets you hear the rules whispering, above 80%... you can basically forget about remaining a carbon-based lifeform.
But the problem was, I didn't even have the right to choose not to be a carbon-based lifeform right now.
The pencil tip touched the final stroke of the text.
No resistance. The pencil glided across the rule like scraping water's surface, leaving a gray lead trail. The text twisted as if the living thing felt pain and curled up. I continued—horizontal, vertical, left-falling, right-falling strokes—circling the word "variable," writing "me" beside it.
[Exit Condition: Prove the space contains observable Lin Jin]
The entire classroom violently convulsed.
Everything frozen began rewinding—chalk dust returned to the chalk, spit pearls flew back into Teacher Zhang's mouth, Li Ming's jelly-like arm texture vanished. He blinked confusedly, then continued staring at his chemistry worksheet like nothing had happened.
But the classroom door didn't return.
The text on the wall began bleeding crimson fluid, like tears or error corrections. A new exit condition emerged:
[Exit Condition: Are you sure?]
Staring at those words, I suddenly felt something—the Rift Zone was talking to me.
"Not really," I said. "But I don't have other options."
I drew a question mark after "Are you sure," then a massive X. Then I walked to the back row and wrote "Lin Jin was here" on the "87 Days Until Gaokao" blackboard with all my strength.
The moment the letters landed, the world burst like a soap bubble.
The sound of Administration helicopter propellers was the ugliest noise I'd ever heard in my life.
I stumbled out through the classroom's back door into evening. The setting sun stained the teaching building orange, but the air reeked of rusted metal. I looked back—Class 3 of Grade 10 was perfectly normal. Li Ming's head remained buried in his chemistry worksheet. Teacher Zhang passionately explained electron transfer at the podium.
Like the Rift Zone descent had just been a nightmare from my afternoon nap.
If not for the HB pencil still clutched in my hand, its barrel now bearing three hairline cracks like lightning veins.
"Lin Jin?" A woman in black approached, a silver badge pinned to her left chest—the Administration's emblem, a Mobius strip cut by geometric lines. "Come with us."
Her tone was like a bank teller calling numbers.
The helicopter was painted all black. When the cabin door opened, the smell of climate control wafted out. I took one last look at the classroom window. My reflection stared back—seventeen, high school senior, dark eye circles from chronic all-nighters, hair like a bird's nest.
And pupils that had somehow turned silvery-white.
"My math homework's still in there," I said.
The woman froze: "What?"
"Specialized derivative training, Set 3. Due tomorrow." I said seriously. "Can I finish it first?"
She looked at me with an expression reserved for endangered species for three seconds, then spoke into her radio: "Confirmed adaptoid. Cognition temporarily normal, but brain seems... special."
The Administration Headquarters perched on the city's edge, looking like a massive silver flying saucer wedged between an industrial park and a landfill—perfectly illustrating "hiding in plain sight."
They brought me into an interrogation room—no, they called it a "First Contact Room." The walls were made of some light-absorbing material that made you feel swallowed by the cosmos. A contract lay on the table, cover reading: Temporary Observation Subject Employment Agreement.
"According to Article 7 of the National Rift Zone Management Law, as an unregistered adaptoid, you have the right to sign this agreement or accept mandatory containment." The man across from me was around forty, his hairline strategically retreating, voice like a CCTV news anchor. "Of course, we recommend signing. Mandatory containment has terrible food."
I flipped through the contract. The terms read like an indenture: voluntarily participate in Rift Zone cleanup missions, accept 24/7 Administration surveillance, immediately report if synchronization rate exceeds warning thresholds, obey all commands during wartime, including suicide missions.
"I have a question," I said.
"Go ahead."
"What's an adaptoid?"
The man adjusted his glasses: "Rift Zones erode ordinary people, but a tiny minority can maintain consciousness during erosion, even gaining the ability to interfere with Rift Zone rules. These people are adaptoids." He paused. "You used a pencil to slash through a C-3 level Rift Zone this afternoon. According to surveillance footage, your synchronization rate peaked at 14.7%, already placing you in the secondary adaptoid category."
"Oh." I continued reading. "What about Gaokao?"
"What?"
"I'm a senior. Gaokao's in June." I said. "Can I keep my student status?"
The man fell silent for a few seconds, probably judging whether I was joking. Then he pressed his radio: "Get Shen Xingyao here. This newcomer's brain is... special."
Ten minutes later, the door opened.
The girl who walked in looked about my age. The black uniform fit her like haute couture. Shoulder-length black hair, eyes sharp as scalpels. Her left-chest badge was gold with three horizontal bars.
"Shen Xingyao, B-07 Squad Spatial Interference Specialist." She introduced herself, voice cold. "Also your temporary guardian."
"Guardian?"
"Adaptoids are classified as high-risk items within the Administration and require designated supervision." She opened her folder. "Lin Jin, 17, Grade 12 Class 3 of Changzheng High School. Encountered Rift Zone descent during chemistry class nap, escaped by rewriting rules with a pencil. Initial synchronization rate 8%, peak 14.7%, current stable value 11.3%."
She closed the folder, looking at me: "Do you know what 11.3% synchronization rate means?"
"Means my math homework's still not done?"
Expressionless, she rapped my head with the folder.
"Means you'll die." She said. "Not Gaokao death, but physical, literal death. Become part of the Rift Zone, or explode into rule fragments. Hand over the pencil. From now on, any interference requires reporting."
I rubbed my forehead and placed the pencil on the table.
The cracks on its barrel gleamed silver under the lights, like blood vessels.
"Can I finish my math homework first?" I said. "Before dying, at least turn in Specialized Derivative Training Set 3."
Shen Xingyao stared at me for a solid ten seconds.
Then she signed her name on the contract's last page, pen strokes fierce: "Welcome to the Rift Zone Administration, Homework Guy."
At 2 AM, they dragged me into B-07 Squad's briefing room.
The room wasn't large. Walls were plastered with Rift Zone maps and rule deduction formulas. Zhou Fang was dozing on the table, drool dribbling onto his keyboard; Gu Yan wore gold-rimmed glasses, drawing Venn diagrams on a tactical board I couldn't understand; Tang Lan leaned against the wall, eyes closed, muscle definition stretching her uniform taut.
Shen Xingyao slammed the folder on the table: "Newcomer, Lin Jin. Adaptoid, ability is rewriting rules with a pencil—stop laughing, Zhou Fang!"
Zhou Fang jolted awake, wiping drool: "I wasn't laughing, I just remembered something happy."
"You were laughing at him." Gu Yan adjusted his glasses. "Jin's Chaos—I've reserved a special zone for him in my model. Current prediction accuracy... 0%."
"What does that mean?"
"Means you're a variable." Gu Yan turned to look at me for the first time. "In my calculations, the survival rate for your type of secondary adaptoid in a C-3 level Rift Zone is 73%, but you didn't just survive—you changed the exit condition. In mathematics, that's called a miracle. In the Administration, that's called trouble."
Tang Lan opened her eyes, sized me up for three seconds, then closed them again: "Weak."
"No problem. He rewrites rules, we keep him alive." Shen Xingyao tapped the tactical board. "First mission tomorrow, C-3 level Rift Zone 'Inverted Classroom'—he knows the environment."
I raised my hand: "Can I ask something first?"
"Speak."
"My math homework..."
Shen Xingyao's folder connected with the back of my head with pinpoint accuracy again.
"Homework Guy." Zhou Fang chuckled. "Welcome to the squad."
I rubbed my head, looking at the four of them. The white fluorescent tubes on the ceiling hummed, casting pale light. On Gu Yan's tactical board, the area marked "Jin's Chaos" held a crooked stick figure with tiny text floating above its head:
[Observation Subject Synchronization Rate: 11.3%]
[Predicted Survival Time: Unknown]
[Optimal Solution: Sacrifice Protocol Not Yet Unlocked]
I patted my pocket. That HB pencil was still there—Shen Xingyao had confiscated it but secretly slipped it back. The cracks on its barrel had grown longer, like a net about to shatter.
Outside the window, the Administration's silver building gleamed coldly in the night. The distant city glittered with lights—those other seniors were probably still grinding practice tests for Gaokao 87 days away.
Meanwhile, I'd signed an indenture, joined B-07 Squad, earned the nickname "Homework Guy," had 11.3% synchronization, and my first mission was returning to the classroom that nearly killed me.
Plus, my Specialized Derivative Training Set 3 genuinely wasn't finished.
At 3 AM, lying in my assigned dormitory bed, the single mattress hard as a coffin lid.
I used the pencil to draw a crooked five-pointed star on the wall, then wrote a line beneath it:
[Lin Jin, 17, high school senior, Rift Zone Administration temp, homework not done.]
The letters were silvery-white, glowing faintly in the dark.
My synchronization rate had risen another 0.1%—I could feel it. Something inside me was slowly dissolving, like sugar in water.
But it was fine, I thought.
At least for now, I could still move, still write, still remember Teacher Zhang's face of utter disappointment.
And when Shen Xingyao said "you'll die," the force of the folder hitting my head wasn't heavy, but enough to keep me awake.
I closed my eyes, hearing the Rift Zone whisper from somewhere far away, like a teacher nagging about homework.