On the ruins of the 13th Street, the sunlight was filtered into a bleak gray by the heavy industrial smog. Although John Doe had patted his chest and promised the neighbors he would "run a school himself," when the hopeful parents and bewildered children actually gathered in front of the clinic, the cold water of reality came pouring down.

  "So, the plan is..."

  John stood on a large slab of concrete that served as a podium, looking at the dozens of children before him. He swallowed nervously.

  "The plan is: First, we convert the ground floor of this building into a classroom. Desks and chairs can be pooled together from everyone's homes. Textbooks... Grace can download digital versions."

  "What about the teacher?"

  Uncle George raised his hand, asking the most fatal question.

  "John, we all trust you. But teaching and nurturing people is delicate work. You can't let your skeleton butler teach the kids how to dismantle human bodies, right? Or let that little girl (Grace) teach them how to hack into the banking system?"

  "Cough... of course not." John wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What about the teachers from the original school?"

  "They all left," Auntie Mary sighed. "The Guild didn't just close the school; they sent 'High Salary Offer Letters' to the teachers. As long as they were willing to teach in the Upper Sector, their salaries would double, and they'd get residency permits. Those teachers already hated how poor this place was, so they ran faster than rabbits."

  This was the Guild's Extinction Strategy. Not only did they tear down the temple, but they also poached all the monks.

  "It's okay, I have a plan," John feigned confidence. "I have connections."

  He pulled Bone and Grace aside for an emergency huddle.

  "Situation is critical," John whispered. "Which one of us knows education?"

  "Me?" Bone pointed to himself. "I know anatomy, combat techniques, and how to boil bone broth. If you want to open a Butcher Training Camp, I'm qualified."

  John rolled his eyes. "Next."

  "I know a lot of data," Grace's data stream flickered. "But I haven't taught humans before. My database has 10,000 tutorials on 'From Beginner to Master,' but I only know force-feed transmission. If these kids had Neural Links, I could upload the knowledge directly into their brains. But they don't."

  "Me..." John pointed to himself. "I'm a dropout. My major is dealing with dead people. You want me to teach the living? I'm afraid I'd accidentally send them to the afterlife while lecturing."

  The three looked at each other. Their skill trees were completely crooked. This wasn't running a school; it was running a cult.

  "Then... let's summon someone?" Bone suggested. "Boss, didn't you say you could contact experts from the East? That [Cross-Realm Support] function still works, right? Isn't there some 'Hengshui Mode' over there? Can we find a famous teacher for remote classes?"

  "Right!" John's eyes lit up. "Grace, connect us!"

  Grace operated quickly, paying the consultation fee with New Currency and connecting to the Education Channel of the Eastern Plane.

  A middle-aged male teacher with thick glasses and a stern face appeared on the screen.

  "Hello, I'd like to consult about..." John started.

  "Cut the chit-chat, let's do a placement test first," the teacher on the other side was blunt, throwing a test paper onto the screen. "Let's see the foundation of your student source."

  John took the paper and looked at the first question:

  [Given function $f(x) = \ln x + \frac{a}{x}$, find the monotonic interval of $f(x)$.]

  John: "..."

  He handed the paper to a little boy with a runny nose next to him. "Can you read this?"

  The boy stuffed the paper into his mouth and tasted it. "No flavor."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "Teacher, the... foundation might be a little weak," John said awkwardly. "Do you have anything starting from... recognizing characters?"

  "Recognizing characters?" The teacher frowned. "That's too basic, isn't it? Kids over here start reciting Tang poetry at age three. With your progress, they won't even get into vocational school. And if we need to build the foundation from scratch, that's a huge project. My private tutoring fee is very expensive—2,000 New Currency per hour, no bargaining."

  2,000 New Currency. John touched his pocket, which contained only a few hundred in loose change from selling scrap metal. That money was barely enough for a few packs of cigarettes.

  "This..." John blushed. "Um... can we get a discount? We're in a slum here..."

  "A slum?" The teacher pushed up his glasses. "Then you need to spend money even more. Knowledge changes destiny; you can't skimp on this investment. If you have no money, I can't help you. I have a class, hanging up."

  BEEP—

  The video cut off.

  "It seems... the education system over there is completely disconnected from ours," John sighed. And most importantly, he couldn't afford the tuition.

  "Then we can only... go scavenging again." John opened the [Flea Market / Bargain Bin] of the Hell Connect app again. "Since we can't afford living teachers, let's find a dead one. Heroic Spirits don't need New Currency, just a little... token of appreciation."

  He entered keywords into the search bar:

  [Keywords: Educator, Patient, Low Cost (or even free), Teach Anyone]

  The screen scrolled. Countless names flashed by. Finally, John's gaze stopped on one name.

  [Responder: Kong Qiu (Confucius)]

  [Titles: Supreme Sage / Teacher of Ten Thousand Ages / Retired Veteran Cadre]

  [Occupation: Teacher / Etiquette Expert / Occasional Strongman (according to historical records)]

  [Cost: Extremely Low (Requires 'Shu Xiu', i.e., Ten Fried Chickens).]

  [Special Requirements: Education for all, without discrimination. As long as they want to learn, he teaches. Note: He has a bit of a temper and a hardcore teaching style.]

  "Confucius?" Grace exclaimed. "Boss, this is a Sage! But why fried chicken?"

  "Maybe because... he's keeping up with the times?" John wasn't sure either. "Whatever, we can afford ten fried chickens. Bone, go heat up the leftovers from last night!"

  "Huh? That was mine..." Bone looked reluctant.

  "Shut up, it's for the children!"

  John placed a plate of steaming hot fried chicken on the table and respectfully pressed the summon button.

  HUM—

  A burst of white light flashed.

  When the light faded, an old man appeared who made everyone's jaw drop.

  He wasn't wearing ancient robes, nor a scholar's cap.

  He was wearing a loose, green athletic tracksuit (the kind common in Eastern schools, with "XX Middle School" printed on the chest), flip-flops on his feet, and holding a large palm-leaf fan he'd picked up from somewhere.

  He stood two meters tall, the tracksuit stretched tight by his rock-hard muscles. His white beard stuck out messily, making him look like a violent old man who had just returned from morning exercises in the park.

  "This is... Confucius?" Grace's mouth formed an 'O' shape. "Is this style a bit broken?"

  "This isn't a sage; this is the security guard grandpa at the gate, right?" Bone whispered a complaint.

  Confucius ignored the two idiots completely. His nose twitched, and his gaze locked instantly onto the fried chicken on the table.

  "Oho, it really is fried chicken! The smell is authentic!"

  Confucius took a large stride forward, his flip-flops smacking the ground pa-pa. He grabbed a drumstick, didn't stand on ceremony, and shoved it into his mouth. CRUNCH, he bit through the bone and all.

  "Mm... not bad, just a little light on the cumin." Confucius critiqued while chewing, then turned to look at John. His eyes were old but frighteningly bright. "Kid, you summoned me?"

  "Uh... yes, yes, Master (Fuzi)," John stammered, intimidated by the aura.

  "Don't call me Master, call me Teacher Kong!" Confucius waved his fan. "Speak, who am I teaching? Let me say this first, I have a bad temper. If the students are stupid, I will scold people."

  "Just... just them." John pointed to the group of dumbfounded children nearby.

  Confucius turned around and looked at the ragged children with runny noses that hadn't been wiped.

  He frowned, an expression like he was looking at something disappointing.

  "Tsk, why are you all slouching like you haven't eaten? Straighten your backs!" Confucius suddenly roared.

  The kids shuddered and immediately stood at attention.

  "That's better!" Confucius walked over. He extended that greasy, massive hand—not to hit anyone, but to gently pat the head of the little boy with the runny nose. The movement was surprisingly tender.

  "Want to study?" Confucius asked.

  The little boy looked timidly at this fierce-looking but candy-giving (though he didn't give any) grandpa and nodded.

  "Want... want to read words. Don't want to be illiterate."

  "Good!" Confucius laughed loudly. "Having the heart is enough! Better than those bookworms who only know how to study!"

  He pulled a rolled-up book (not the Analects, but a handwritten textbook made by John) from his chest pocket and slammed it onto the table.

  "From today on, I am your homeroom teacher."

  "I only have three rules: First, no being late. Second, no lying. Third, if anyone dares to bully you, tell me. Teacher will go... reason with them."

  As he spoke, Confucius cracked his knuckles. The popping sound was crisper than Bone's joints.

  "John." Confucius turned and shouted.

  "Here!"

  "Go get some water for the kids, wash their faces clean first. If you're going to study, you have to look like a student." Confucius waved his fan to shoo him away. "Also, go buy ten more fried chickens. This isn't enough to fill a tooth gap."

  John, Bone, and Grace stood aside, watching the "Sage" wearing a tracksuit and flip-flops, gnawing on a drumstick while wiping the children's faces. All three were messy in the wind.

  "Boss..." Bone swallowed (phantom) saliva. "This teacher... looks more like a triad boss than I do."

  "Yeah..." Grace's data stream was trembling. "This isn't teaching and nurturing; this is simply... the violent aesthetic version of Les Choristes."

  John gave a wry smile, looking at the children who were scared but had a new light in their eyes.

  "Whatever," John shrugged. "As long as he can hold the fort, flip-flops are fine. Our school... was wild enough to begin with."

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