I spent my Thursday morning in the back row of "Structural Integrity 301," staring at a holographic projection of a cantilever bridge and thinking about a very specific Patek Philippe watch.
In the old world, as the Sovereign, I had a crown made of starlight. Now, I'd settle for a 5711 in rose gold. I leaned back in my plastic chair—which creaked in a way that insulted my ancient dignity—and sighed. My "Maintenance" quests earned me 0.02% Dao Stability, but they didn't pay for the Lamborghini Revuelto I saw in a digital catalog this morning.
"I literally saved this district from a reality-sinkhole last night," I whispered to myself, "and I'm still eating instant noodles for lunch. The Dao is a cruel landlord."
Next to me, my roommate Zhang "Fatty" Bo was snoring softly. Bo was a guy whose only spiritual connection was to the campus delivery app. He was the perfect "Normalcy" shield; no one suspected a guy associated with Bo of being a celestial janitor.
"Ren," Bo mumbled, waking up as the professor droned on about stress-strain curves. "Did you see the news? Some billionaire's daughter is doing an 'observational tour' of our department. Probably looking for a tax write-off or a boyfriend with a high IQ."
"Billionaires don't come to Sector 4, Bo. The air is too 'middle-class' for them."
At that exact moment, the door to the lecture hall didn't just open; it glided.
The professor, a man who usually feared nothing but tenure reviews, dropped his stylus. The entire room went silent, save for the collective intake of breath from three hundred engineering students.
Lin Yue walked in.
She wasn't wearing the iridescent silk from the ruins. She was wearing a "student" outfit—a white crisp shirt and a navy pleated skirt—but the fabric had a sheen that screamed bespoke. Behind her walked a man who looked like he was carved out of granite, wearing a suit that cost more than the university's library. This was clearly her "assistant," but he had the eyes of a man who knew forty ways to kill a person with a ballpoint pen.
"Students," the professor stammered, "this is Lin Yue of the Lin-Gong Group. She will be joining our seminar for the remainder of the semester to... ah... observe the practical application of harmonic theory."
Bo nearly fell off his chair. "Ren! That's her! That's the Apex Princess! Look at that watch on her wrist... is that a custom Richard Mille?"
I didn't look at the watch. I looked at the System notification that was currently flashing blood-red in my eyes.
[WARNING: PROXIMITY ALERT]
[TARGET 'OBSERVER' HAS ENTERED YOUR IMMEDIATE SPHERE]
[ADVICE: MAINTAIN MAXIMUM MEDIOCRITY]
Lin Yue scanned the room. Her eyes skipped over the front-row sycophants and the middle-row overachievers. They locked onto the back row. Onto me.
She walked up the stairs, the clicking of her heels sounding like a countdown. She stopped right in front of our desk.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked, gesturing to the empty spot next to me.
"Actually, my bag was—" Bo started, but one look from the granite-faced assistant made him swallow his words. "I mean, please! Take it! I'll just... sit on the floor. Or in the trash. Wherever is convenient for the GDP!"
She sat down. The scent of jasmine and high-end server rooms filled my personal space. She didn't look at me; she just opened a jade-glass tablet that was thinner than a credit card.
"Nice bridge sketch, Li Ren," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the professor's frantic resuming of the lecture. "But your load-bearing calculations are a bit... conservative. It's almost as if you're afraid of putting too much pressure on the earth."
I didn't turn my head. "I like things stable, Miss Lin. It's a boring preference, I know."
"Oh, I don't think you're boring at all," she said, her violet eyes glinting with a predatory amusement. "In fact, I've spent the last seventy-two hours looking at your transcripts. Did you know you've had a perfect 3.5 GPA since primary school? Not a 3.4. Not a 4.0. Exactly 3.5. Every. Single. Year."
She leaned closer, her "Observer" gaze making my skin prickle. "That's not talent, Li Ren. That's effort. You're working very hard to be 'Average,' aren't you?"
I gripped my stylus so hard I felt the plastic groan. My fantasy of the Lamborghini slipped away, replaced by the very real possibility of being dissected in a Lin-Gong lab.
"I just don't like to stand out," I muttered.
"Too late," she smiled. "Class is over in an hour. We're going to lunch. My treat. And don't worry—I brought my own car. I hear you have a thing for Italian engines."