“Yesterday I passed by the instructors’ office and heard that some of the new freshmen this year are incredibly strong. They might even get picked up by military bigshots right at the opening ceremony.”

“No way! Even last year’s freshman president didn’t get scooped up on the spot, and this year we’ve got several?!”

“He scored 89—that’s already impressive. But this year’s freshman president got a perfect score. A perfect score! They’re not even on the same level.”

The metal hallway outside the auditorium was packed with people. Three Alpha students in military academy uniforms walked along, chatting about gossip.

The opening ceremony for the new students was scheduled for the afternoon, and as upperclassmen, they were required to attend and observe.

This was the Central Military Academy on the academic star—a.k.a. the Central Military School, the Empire’s top military institution.

“What does he look like?”

The Alpha who spoke first shook his head. “Didn’t see him. Just heard his name—Rong something. Oh right, Rong Shi!”

As he looked up, his gaze collided with a pair of deep black eyes. The person walking toward him had clean, refined features and wore a black military uniform trimmed with gold. His collar was buttoned up meticulously, and a leather tactical belt perfectly outlined a tall, upright figure.

Though the newcomer only gave them a brief glance before looking away, the Alpha felt a tightness in his chest and instinctively took half a step back.

As the two passed each other, all three turned quietly to sneak a glance behind them.

“Scared the hell out of me—he’s only got one stripe on his pocket. Is that Alpha really a freshman?”

“Damn, that face is stupidly handsome!”

Rong Shi continued walking toward the Dean’s office. On the sofa by the window, two people were chatting. The older one stood up immediately with a beaming smile when he saw him.

“The ceremony’s about to start—what took you so long? Got your speech ready? Let me take a look.”

Rong Shi briefly spaced out as he walked closer and handed over the paper.

At the same time, a slight electric pulse buzzed at his wrist, and a mechanical voice rang in his mind:

[Qian Fan, Omega, 76 years old, 301st President of the Central Military Academy. Awarded the rank of General for outstanding contributions to education — System error, updating database — Unable to connect to network, update failed —]

The old man looked much younger than he remembered—dark at the temples, no trace of sorrow in his features. He still had the same kind, friendly demeanor as the first time they met.

Qian Fan quickly flipped through the paper, then walked over to his desk, picked up a pen, and began editing while mumbling, “Not bad, but too honest. The self-introduction can be down-to-earth, but the flattery? Go all in. The old fogies in the military love that crap—the more outrageous the praise, the more they eat it up.”

Rong Shi pulled out a chair and sat across from the desk, his long legs barely fitting under it. He watched as the paper was altered beyond recognition and said in his usual indifferent tone, “No need for flattery.”

“It’s absolutely necessary!” Qian Fan wrote the final word, then reviewed everything from the top. “With your scores and looks, if you deliver a good three-minute speech, you can pick whichever mentor you want. Not everyone gets this chance. People would kill for it. Don’t blow it.”

Every year, the day after freshmen enroll, the academy holds its opening ceremony. The top ten scorers get to speak on stage.

Aside from students and faculty, military personnel also attend. Ostensibly to observe—but really, they’re scouting talent. That’s why the opening ceremony is nicknamed “The Talent Scramble.” Whoever snatches the best recruits fastest wins.

The empire’s military is vast and not unified—its internal factions are complex and murky. When a student chooses a mentor, it’s tantamount to picking a side. Along with resources comes the burden of allegiance and restriction.

For most freshmen, getting picked by a high-ranking officer is like leaping over the dragon gate. Even knowing how dangerous the waters are, they’ll still dive in headfirst.

“Teacher Qian, who’s this?”

The man sitting on the sofa walked over, his gaze sweeping over Rong Shi before turning to Qian Fan.

“Ah, my memory!” Qian Fan smacked his head. “Almost forgot. Rong Shi, this is Lu Ming—your fellow freshman. You two only differ by three points in your scores, ranked first and second. Both of you should bring your A-game today. Go win that spot!”

Rong Shi turned politely toward Lu Ming, and again the mechanical voice sounded in his mind:

[Lu Ming, Alpha, 33 years old, Deputy Commander of the 9th Legion, only son of General Lu Youqi, rank: Colonel — System error, updating database — Unable to connect to network, update failed —]

Lu Ming’s face darkened slightly at the mention of being second place, though he quickly covered it up. When Rong Shi raised a hand, Lu Ming also extended his. “Looking forward to working with you, President Rong.”

But Rong Shi merely loosened his tie a little and pulled his hand back—clearly not intending to shake.

Lu Ming’s smile froze. His gaze flicked to Rong Shi’s wrist as he tried to save face: “Nice terminal accessory you’ve got there—where’d you buy it?”

On Rong Shi’s right wrist was a metallic bracelet—the standard personal terminal for every citizen of the Empire.

The market sold all sorts of decorative accessories for terminals, popular with the younger crowd. Most were flashy, but his was a simple silver claw cradling a deep blue gem—elegant and understated, with a masculine edge.

[Armor Unit KL001, crippled but unyielding, refuses to be sold. Beep—Armor Unit KL001, crippled but unyielding, refuses to be sold. Beep—]

The noise in Rong Shi’s mind wouldn’t stop. He swiped a finger across the accessory, and the world finally went quiet.

“A kid at home made it,” he said flatly, ending the topic and picking up his speech. “Teacher Qian, I’ll head over now.”

After Rong Shi left, Qian Fan patted Lu Ming’s shoulder. “Geniuses tend to be a little aloof. Don’t take it personally. Come on, let’s go to the auditorium.”

Lu Ming’s expression twisted briefly: “Sure.”

Opening ceremonies at any school follow the same general flow. Speeches by school leadership lasted under 30 minutes, and the crowd of thousands of students quickly entered auto-pilot mode: clapping mechanically, yawning constantly.

“Same crap every year, and we’re forced to attend. That’s three precious hours of my life wasted.”

“Keep your voice down. If the monitors catch you, that’s another 10,000-word self-criticism.”

“I’m only here for the freshman president.”

“Lu Ming was supposed to get the spot, but then this guy with a perfect score came out of nowhere. I heard Lu was raging in the dorm hallway this morning—seemed like he was fighting with his dad.”

At the hint of gossip, a few people huddled together, their drowsiness instantly gone.

Military school wasn’t like regular universities—by sophomore year, students were out on missions regularly and barely had time for student council duties. By tradition, the top scorer became the student council president; second place became vice president.

But that one-word difference meant a world of disparity in power.

“Lu Ming didn’t come first? I thought he was a genius since childhood?”

“He beat last year’s top score by eight points. Just unlucky to run into someone even better.”

“Who the hell is better than him?!”

After all the speeches wrapped up, it was finally time for the top ten freshmen to speak—starting from tenth place, ending with first.

When Lu Ming took the stage, the applause was thunderous. Though a freshman, his father—General Lu Youqi—was a well-known name in the military, and Lu Ming had been in the spotlight since childhood.

When he stepped down, the AI host spoke in a perfectly modulated voice:
“Now let us welcome this year’s Freshman President—Rong Shi—to deliver the matriculation address. Please give a warm round of applause!”

No one had heard of this name before, so the applause was sparse—nothing like what Lu Ming had received.

A tall figure strolled calmly onto the stage. The massive floating screen above the auditorium zoomed in on his face.

When the audience caught a glimpse of his profile, the Omega students started whistling. When he turned to face the crowd, every Omega was hooting and hollering. The room was losing control.

Rong Shi swept his gaze across the crowd. In his peripheral vision, he locked in on each of the military officials seated in the front row.

[Lin Feng, Alpha, 55 years old, Commander of the 7th Legion, Major General…]

[Qin Zhao, Beta, 60 years old, Commander of the Rescue Headquarters, Lieutenant General…]

[Xu Kesong, Alpha, 68 years old, Military Procurement Liaison Officer, Major General…]

[Zhao Ji, Alpha, 62 years old, Deputy Commander of the 5th Legion, Major General…]

…

The mechanical voice continued to recite the future profiles of each one. And as each name was called, Rong Shi saw in his mind’s eye the terrified faces they wore at death, the blood that sprayed, the feeling of a long blade slicing through flesh, still lingering faintly in his fingers.

Just one day ago, every one of them had died by his hand.

Yet fate played a cruel joke—it sent him back fifteen years.

Rong Shi’s hand, resting on the podium, slowly lifted. The auditorium fell silent.

His slender fingers glowed pale under the spotlight, and his deep voice rang through the microphone, reaching every ear in the hall.

“My name is Rong Shi. I’m just here to kill time—”