Flawless Execution

English and Chinese exams differed sharply from science subjects. While the latter tested only textbook material, the former often threw curveballs—unseen classical texts in Chinese, unfamiliar vocabulary in English. Success required either preemptive study or sharp intuition. Without these challenges, language exams would devolve into rote memorization.

Mixed with advanced content and subjective essay grading, perfect scores in these subjects were rare.

Staring at his English paper, Li Mu could confidently say—without a hint of arrogance—that he'd clear the passing mark blindfolded. With luck, he might breach 120/150.

As the crackling PA system began the listening test, Li Mu focused. Every syllable mattered here. Nail this section, and the rest was smooth sailing.

To his 30-year-old ears, the recording sounded comically slow. Years of Hollywood movies binge-watched without subtitles had honed his skills. When the audio ended, he grinned inwardly: Locked in. Full marks guaranteed for the 30-point section.

Next came multiple-choice questions—115 points' worth, split into grammar, cloze tests, reading comprehension. Child's play for someone who'd tackled CET-6 and coded in English daily.

Li Mu breezed through them. If he lost more than three points here, he'd consider it divine injustice.

The final 35 points included a 10-point error-correction exercise (free points) and a 25-point essay. The prompt oozed 2001 zeitgeist: As an Olympic bid committee member, how would you introduce Beijing to the world?

China's Olympic dream still hung in the balance that July. Drawing from future knowledge, Li Mu penned Beijing's historical grandeur, cultural richness, and openness. He even plagiarized—from the future—the 2008 slogan: "One World, One Dream."

Two hours allotted. Li Mu finished in 75 minutes.

Throughout, the spiteful Mr. Wang glared, desperate to catch him cheating. But Li Mu's hands never left the desk, eyes glued to the paper.

After two meticulous checks, Li Mu strode forward to submit his work. The classroom buzzed—part awe, part envy. A bloodied underdog waltzing out early? Legendary flex.

Confident of at least 120, Li Mu washed his face in the restroom. The rain had stopped. Exiting the building, he froze: his bike was still at the crash site.

Digging out a soggy 10-yuan bill, he headed for the gates. A taxi ride home it'd be.

"Li Mu!"

He turned. Chen Wan—the driver who'd hit him—sprinted over, face flushed with worry. "Are you okay? You vanished so fast! I tracked your bike's school tag to get your info. The guards wouldn't let me in—"

She produced a plastic plate labeled Haizhou No.1 High, #1307—the bike registration tag.

"I called your parents at Xiling Coal Mine," she pressed. "Come to the hospital for a proper check-up."

Li Mu waved it off. "Really, I'm fine."

"That's for doctors to decide!" Her concern hardened into insistence. "Your parents can't get here quickly—Xiling's thirty kilometers out. Rural roads, slow buses…"

Li Mu hesitated. Xiling Mine, his parents' workplace, was indeed remote. Their combined income—barely 1,500 yuan monthly—would soon vanish when the depleted mine laid them off. Without Chen's secret tuition payments in his original timeline, he'd never have graduated college.

Now, facing the woman whose tragic death he'd once mourned, Li Mu softened. He had fourteen years to divert her from ruin. Step one: build trust.

"Alright," he relented. "Let's go."