003 The Mark of the King of Earth and Hidden Spirits

“Alright, just give me the same food as yours, and I’ll pay you later.”
“No problem.”
When the food was brought back, Duan Yibin kept Yang Tang company for a while before heading to the classroom. Tang Xun and Chen Song had already eaten in the cafeteria and gone straight to class, never returning to the dorm.
Just as Duan Yibin was about to leave, Yang Tang suddenly called out, “Old Duan...”
“Hm... Something else?”
“No, you go ahead and study.”
“Alright, have a good rest.”
Once Duan Yibin was completely gone, Yang Tang let out a deep sigh. He had wanted to tell Duan Yibin that when it was time to fill in college preferences in a couple of months, he should aim for the prestigious Mist City University. But then he thought about it again—his own porridge hadn’t even cooled yet, and now the currency used was Huabi instead of the old RMB. Many things might be different, so he held back from bringing up the topic.
Swallowing still tugged at the burn on his chest, so after forcing down his meal, Yang Tang fell into a deep sleep. He had no idea when Tang Xun and the other two returned to the dorm, nor when they went off to their morning self-study.
But when Yang Tang woke up the next morning, he realized that the dull pain in his chest from yesterday was gone—not the kind of absence from healing, but as if nothing had happened at all.
He pressed gently through the gauze, still feeling no pain, which left him astonished. “Could it be completely healed?” Carefully, he lifted a corner of the gauze and found that the wound was fully scabbed over.
“This isn’t possible! It’s not scientific!”
“The doctor clearly told me this kind of injury would take days to heal...”
He muttered to himself, then removed the gauze entirely. Sure enough, it was all scabbed over.
“Should I go to the classroom to review?”
He considered it, but dismissed the idea. He understood the importance of the college entrance exam, but having been reborn from nearly forty back to his high school days, if he could actually recall what was in the textbook, it would be a miracle.
Let alone high school knowledge—even university material had faded, except for English.
Thanks to his previous work, Yang Tang’s spoken English was quite good. Not exactly native, but he could communicate easily with Brits and Americans.
The trouble was, high school English—especially in Yang Tang’s era—tested more than practical use. Out of a total score of 150, he might not even reach the passing mark of 90.
“Forget it. Without connections, those who succeed through academics usually have two paths: entering politics or starting a business. True pioneers in scientific research are rare, and recipients of the highest scientific honors are one in a million... Since I have no interest in politics, I should focus on finding ways to make a living!”
“Right, where’s that tangka?”
While pondering the future, Yang Tang suddenly remembered the tangka and began searching. He soon found the burned T-shirt by the sink on the balcony. Reaching into the chest pocket, the tangka wasn’t there—only some unknown residue.
“No way! One scald and the card’s gone?!”
He found it hard to believe, but didn’t dwell on it. After all, he’d already been compensated two thousand Huabi. As long as the burn healed, that cheap tangka wasn’t worth worrying about.
He lay back in bed, staring at the upper bunk, and before he knew it, drifted off again.

And then he dreamed.
In a white, misty dreamscape, a voice kept repeating, “Merit, sin—gain one and you may achieve great fortune... Merit, sin—gain one and you may achieve great fortune...”
“How do you obtain merit or sin?” Dreaming, Yang Tang instinctively asked the question.
The voice replied, “Change the course of a life, and you will gain merit or sin!”
“Change the course of a life—what does that mean?!”
Yang Tang suddenly woke, discovering it was already evening, the city lights shining outside. Checking the time, it was almost eight o’clock. He’d slept away most of the day—enough was enough!
Judging the school cafeteria would be closed, and that Tang Xun and the others had gone off to evening study after dinner, Yang Tang grabbed a hundred coins and left the dorm, climbing over the wall as usual to go look for food outside.
His stomach growled as soon as he hit the ground. Hesitating, he decided to take the shortcut to New Street for food. The hesitation came from the fact that the shortcut was pitch black and carried a high risk of running into delinquent students from other schools.
He wasn’t afraid of street thugs, but preferred not to get involved. But when it came to delinquent students—especially junior high kids—he was wary.
Junior high students, particularly those under fourteen, often moved in mobs. They’d block your way, demand money, and if you refused, gang up and beat you—without knowing how hard was too hard. It was truly exasperating.
Fortunately, the name “Big Fei from Shi Zhong” carried weight among the local delinquents. With that backing, Yang Tang dared to take the shortcut to New Street.
“You—what are you doing... Help, help!”
He’d barely entered the alley when he faintly heard a woman’s voice crying for help.
“No way... Just my luck to stumble on a robbery or worse?”
Yang Tang was speechless. In his experience, he believed in helping others avoid disaster, but never at the cost of bringing trouble on himself. He was just hesitating over whether to intervene when he heard sirens approaching. Inspiration struck, and he shouted, “The cops are coming!”
The cries for help abruptly stopped, followed by chaos and scrambling.
Yang Tang waited in the shadows for about a minute. The sirens faded into the distance, and quiet settled in. He was about to retrace his steps and take the main road, when a sudden understanding dawned in his mind: “Gained 0.5 merit.”
Damn!
Yang Tang froze as if spellbound, trying to figure out where this insight came from, but couldn’t find the source.
“I guess that shout was my reward?” he murmured, feeling somewhat certain. “But I helped save a woman from being assaulted—why only half a merit?”
As soon as he voiced the question, another understanding appeared: “The arrival of the police would have stopped the incident anyway.”
Yang Tang immediately understood. Even if he hadn’t shouted, nothing would have happened to the woman, so he only earned a paltry half merit. But the real question was: where did this insight come from, and what was the use of the merit he’d gained?
Luckily, both answers lay within him. There was no rush to figure them out. Pressing his growling stomach, Yang Tang left the alley, took the main road to New Street, found a noodle shop, and ordered a large bowl of beef noodles.
After eating his fill and paying, Yang Tang returned to the dorm and lay down to rest, worrying about the college entrance exam.
As someone of “uncle” status, he wasn’t one to give up before even facing the exam, but he knew his foundation was weak. The history of the country had been overturned, famous figures unknown, and the humanities subjects—history and language—were very different from his previous life. The second foreign language was French, which he was unfamiliar with. How was he supposed to pass?

Therefore, Yang Tang considered whether to focus on strengthening English and math—his more reliable subjects—up to around 110 points each (out of a possible 150 for each of the five subjects: language, math, history, and two foreign languages). Then, he’d work on the other three subjects, aiming for a total of around 200 points across them. That way, his overall score for the exam could reach 450 (including 30 points for physical education), enough to give his parents an explanation.
With these calculations spinning in his mind, Yang Tang once again drifted into sleep.
When he woke in the morning, he was surprised to find that the scab on his chest had fallen off, leaving only a strange mark behind.
“That symbol... Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva?!”
Yang Tang confirmed in the mirror that the scar resembled the Buddhist deity, just as he was about to look closer, Tang Xun’s voice interrupted, “Hey, where’s my undershirt?”
Old Tang shouted this every morning. Yang Tang, used to it, rolled his eyes, dropped his shirt, and began brushing his teeth.
After breakfast, the four roommates went to the classroom together.
After the morning study period came consecutive language classes. As soon as class began, Liu Xinren, the language class representative, began handing out last week’s quiz papers.
Everyone around received their papers, but Yang Tang didn’t. “Liu, where’s mine?”
“No paper for you? I don’t know,” Liu Xinren replied noncommittally and sat down.
If it had been the original Yang Tang, he would have lost his temper at being slighted by “dog-eyed” Liu Xinren. But the “uncle” Yang Tang had no such desire—no paper, no problem. He’d rather review English and math.
Just as Yang Tang pulled out his English textbook from the pile, Old Wang entered.
The language teacher, Wang Zaidong, was known as Old Wang by the students.
Old Wang stood beside the podium, wearing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, scanning the room. Suddenly, he called out, “Yang Tang, come up and recite the poem from your quiz paper for everyone to appreciate!”
Laughter erupted below.
The poetry question—yes, a question specifically on poetry—was the second-to-last on this year’s language paper, worth twenty-five points. The highest-scoring “essay” question had dropped from sixty to forty-five points compared to Yang Tang’s previous life.
Hearing Old Wang call his name, Yang Tang hesitated but went up to the podium. He glanced at “his” quiz paper and nearly fainted.
The poetry prompt was to “write a poem about love,” form and length unrestricted, within three hundred words.
Yang Tang had written: “Love you for ten thousand years, exaggerated! Love you for a thousand years, absurd! Love you for a hundred years, too long! Love you for sixty years, as long as I’m healthy, that’s my strong suit.”
Damn, ambiguous—so many double meanings!
“What are you waiting for? Recite it!” Old Wang urged.
“Cough, cough!” In a flash of inspiration, Yang Tang recalled several classic love poems from his previous world—famous lines that didn’t exist in this world’s memory. He picked half a poem and recited over the paper, telling a bold lie:
“Last night’s stars, last night’s breeze, music hall to the west, ceremony hall to the east. No wings to fly together, but our hearts connect in silent understanding.”
The noisy classroom instantly fell silent.
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