Chapter Thirty-Two: The Challenges of Compulsory Education

The conversation with his parents did not last long; ten minutes later, Chen Ming knocked on the door and called Li Daoran away.

Yet Li Daoran’s gaze had grown more resolute. He would stand vigil for humanity, if only for the sake of those he cherished most.

Chen Ming led the way, chatting casually as they walked. “Don’t worry about your parents. Pretty much everyone connected to you has been put under protection. The Utopia isn’t complete yet, but once it’s finished, they’ll be settled together—your parents’ friends, some of your classmates, all of them. When you have free time, you can visit. Things will get better.”

Li Daoran looked at him in surprise. “Were you eavesdropping outside?”

“What do you mean, ‘eavesdropping’? That’s harsh. Who am I? The King of Soldiers, the Devourer—get it? I was just standing by the door, and your voices carried out. Didn’t want to listen, but you made me. Understand?” Chen Ming defended himself.

Li Daoran scoffed. “Whatever, listen if you want. I didn’t say anything worth hiding. Why are you so agitated?”

Chen Ming didn’t mind at all; a mischievous smile played at his lips. “Aren’t you the least bit curious why your dad said you can’t pass on your family line?”

“Get lost,” was Li Daoran’s only reply.

“Think about it—if you get too into things, and someone grabs or scratches or bites you, who knows what damage that could do? Most importantly, if you accidentally, uh, synchronize certain things, wouldn’t that be awkward? So, best stay away from Natasha in the future.”

Li Daoran was too furious to speak.

“Imagine it,” Chen Ming went on, smacking his lips as if he truly felt the loss. “You’re probably doomed to bachelorhood in Daoran World, too. After all, who’d want their private life broadcast live? Such a shame, so young, destined to be single for life. Tragic, truly tragic.”

Li Daoran turned on his heel and walked away, refusing to follow Chen Ming any further.

“What’s wrong? Mad at me? Come on, don’t be like that. I was just joking. I won’t let you stay a virgin forever—your good brother will come up with something, just don’t worry.”

Li Daoran stopped, turned around, stared at Chen Ming for a long moment, then said, “Fine. You said it. I’ll remember.”

Chen Ming was stunned. After a while, he slapped himself—his mouth always got him in trouble.

They arrived at the same sterile medical room where Li Daoran had been sedated before.

Once Li Daoran was lying down and hooked up to various machines, David brought over something that looked like a radio and placed it beside his head.

David patted the device. “We’re relying on this. Go ahead and sleep. I can hardly wait.”

“Can’t you sedate me? I’m having trouble falling asleep,” Li Daoran said.

Natasha, dressed in a nurse’s uniform, shook her head. “No. This time, you may need to wake up on your own. If we sedate you and you come back before the drugs wear off, no one knows what might happen. The risk’s too great.”

“The most likely outcome,” Charles added, standing by in his white coat, “is that you could get trapped in the folds of time and space. Your body here would be asleep, and if you couldn’t wake up, you wouldn’t be able to return. Most likely you wouldn’t come back, or you’d fall into a paradox, stuck between worlds. It’s too dangerous. We can’t take that risk.”

“Oh, I see. Could you all stop staring at me? I can’t sleep with everyone watching,” Li Daoran said, grasping the general idea, as it wasn’t that complicated.

Everyone turned their backs to him, even stepping a little farther away.

“Can you turn off the lights above my head? It’s too bright,” he requested.

David went to the console and clicked off every light, plunging the room into darkness—he had actually cut the power, planning to restore it once Li Daoran fell asleep.

“Maybe leave a little light on? I’m scared. I can’t see a thing, and with you five lurking like ghosts, not making a sound, it feels like I’m the only one left in the room.”

“So fussy. Just sleep already,” Chen Ming’s disembodied voice replied, impossible to tell from which direction.

Li Daoran pouted, closed his eyes, and began to let himself drift.

The world reassembled itself. Li Daoran finished the stretch he hadn’t completed before, looked around, and took a deep breath.

“I’m ready. Let’s begin.”

“Hello—every—one—” Chen Ming’s voice, speaking Chinese, came through, each word separated by a two-second pause.

Li Daoran frowned. “There’s a delay. Adjust it—there’s over two seconds between each word.”

“How about now?”

“It’s fine now. I’m heading out.”

“Okay.”

Li Daoran opened the door and walked out. The playground was unchanged.

Xu Xingxing waved at him.

He walked over and asked, “Did you just hear anything strange?”

Xu Xingxing looked at him strangely. “No, did you? Didn’t sleep well, did you? I couldn’t sleep either, spent the whole night reviewing. Look, do I have dark circles under my eyes?”

“Xu Xingxing—Xu Xingxing—Xu Xingxing—” This time, it was Natasha’s enchanting voice, speaking in Daoranese.

Seeing Xu Xingxing unmoved, Li Daoran realized he truly couldn’t hear it—the voice was for him alone. He clenched his fist in silent celebration.

“It’s nothing, probably just tired. Hahaha, come on, let’s go take the exam.” Li Daoran gave Xu Xingxing a hearty smack on the shoulder and strode ahead in high spirits.

Xu Xingxing, utterly bewildered, scratched his head, unable to figure out what Li Daoran was getting at.

On Azure Blue Star, countless people witnessing this scene cheered and embraced, sharing their joy.

Soon, order was restored, for the real challenge was only beginning.

“The best possible outcome has happened—Daoran World isn’t affected at all. Only you can hear the voice. From here, it’s time to show our true skills.”

“And now our test begins. For us, it’s an open-book exam. The right answers aren’t a problem—the issue is time. We only have four or five minutes per paper to get the right answers. But that’s not your task; leave it to us.”

“What you need to do is: first, write quickly; second, run fast; third, come back immediately when we tell you.”

Li Daoran nodded to show he understood.

The first subject: Starship Command.

The exam was in Room 2035, with only twenty seats and a single examiner. The moment he entered, his watch went into standby mode, the screen dimming.

He sat at the first desk by the door, perhaps another arrangement by Liu Meng; for every exam, his seat was always at the entrance.

As he sat down, he realized he hadn’t gone to Liu Meng for his shot today. He’d meant to thank her, but oh well—he’d do it after the exam. No grueling physical tests today anyway.

The test paper was handed out. Li Daoran laid it flat, scanning it from left to right in one sweep without reading closely. Then he flipped it over, so quickly it took only five seconds from start to finish. He flipped it back and began writing at lightning speed.