Chapter One: Just Turned Eighteen

Zhou Ziyang, twenty-nine years old, woke up to find himself back in 2015.

That year, Zhou Ziyang had just turned eighteen and was a senior in Class One at the No. 1 County High School.

The summer that year was especially hot, the plane trees by the playground lush and verdant. Cicadas hid beneath the branches, crying tirelessly. The plastic track lay empty, but the heatwaves could be seen distorting the air.

Inside the classroom, students plastered completed math tests and English newspapers all over the windows, desperate for a bit of shade. Spirits were low; students sprawled over their desks, slumping this way and that. Yet the English teacher, microphone buzzing at her collar, remained diligent and poised, her "Class begin" delivered in crisp, precise tones.

Throughout the long morning, Zhou Ziyang drifted as though his spirit had wandered to some distant realm. Everything before him was achingly familiar, like a movie playing on repeat. He was present, yet felt like a spectator, not truly part of this world.

The homeroom teacher also taught Chinese. He was a middle-aged man with a square face and a commanding voice. Despite the heat, he wore a deep blue striped mandarin-collared shirt. Noticing Zhou Ziyang sitting impossibly straight, lost in thought, the teacher waved a hand before his eyes.

Zhou Ziyang didn’t respond, gazing vacantly at some indeterminate point. The rest of the class stifled their laughter. The homeroom teacher joined in, teasing that Zhou Ziyang must be traveling through some fantastical dreamscape.

A boy in the back muttered, “He’s off on a date with Qin Keqing.” Laughter erupted, echoing louder than before.

Only then did Zhou Ziyang come back to himself, glancing at the teacher. The man didn’t pursue the matter, but turned back to the textbook. “Alright, let’s continue. ‘Having picked through all the cold branches, still unwilling to settle, lonely on a cold sandbar’—who can explain the meaning of these lines?”

Four classes filled the morning: two periods of Chinese, one of math, and one of English.

The math teacher was a small-eyed, round, and plump man who, as usual, looked down on the humanities students. Every lesson, he spent a good ten minutes flaunting his sense of superiority.

“Let me be frank: give it five years, not even ten. You humanities students won’t earn as much as the science majors out there. Your brains just don’t work as well.”

The English teacher was as flamboyant as ever—one meter sixty-five, a white mini-skirt paired with high heels, and a pair of shapely legs sheathed in nude polka-dotted stockings.

When the lunch bell finally rang, students surged toward the cafeteria like a whirlwind.

“Hey, Ziyang! What are you spacing out for? If you don’t hurry, there’ll be nothing left to eat!” someone called. Seeing Zhou Ziyang unmoved, they didn’t press further. After all, seniors only had fifty minutes to eat—starting at noon, and by twelve fifty, they had to be back for self-study.

Those who ate in the cafeteria had twenty to thirty minutes to chat with friends, or sneak a look at novels and gossip on their phones. But those who went home for lunch truly raced against the clock.

Yet, to Zhou Ziyang, all these scenes felt oddly unreal—until, at last, the classroom emptied and only he remained. It was then that the truth struck him: he had been reborn.

But why? Why had he returned?

Minutes passed. Gradually, his classmates returned from lunch, filling the room with laughter and chatter.

Some students furtively played on their phones. In the back, a boy and girl hid together, the boy covering the girl’s legs with his uniform, hands fidgeting beneath, the girl’s feverish expression betraying the rest.

“Zhou Ziyang!” someone called from outside.

The newcomer was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing the previous year’s tracksuit uniform. Starting with Zhou Ziyang’s class, the school had updated their uniforms: the old ones had been black-and-white tracksuits, the school’s logo emblazoned on the chest; now, the new uniform was a white shirt with a British flair, black slacks for boys, pleated skirts with over-the-knee white socks for girls.

Since the seniors were due to graduate in a year, the school hadn’t made the new uniforms compulsory, but most chose to order them anyway.

The boy was Li Dongfeng, a middle school classmate of Zhou Ziyang’s—a burly youth with thick brows and small eyes, always sporting a buzz cut and his old, dark tracksuit, shoes blackened with wear.

Though tall and strong, Li Dongfeng was slow-witted—or, more accurately, just honest. When he transferred to Zhou Ziyang’s class in seventh grade, his rural background and awkward attire made him a target for bullies. Even though he was already big and tough, the boys in class ganged up on him, harassing him during every break. He often wiped away tears, but with poor grades and no connections, teachers barely noticed him; some even made him the butt of jokes, which only encouraged the others.

Nearly every boy and girl in that class had bullied Li Dongfeng at some point, whether physically or with words. For them, it became a badge of honor.

Zhou Ziyang was the only one who never took part—not out of kindness, but because he saw nothing worth boasting about in ganging up on a classmate.

Zhou Ziyang’s parents had divorced when he was three. Before starting school, he’d spent a year with his father, two with his grandparents, and then moved in with his mother, whose life was itself unsettled, forcing him to move homes several times. Each new environment meant new people and new groups, so Zhou Ziyang quickly grew used to solitude and felt no attachment to any collective. He treated everyone the same.

Ironically, this even-handedness made Li Dongfeng feel that Zhou Ziyang was the only one who showed him kindness. From high school onward, Li Dongfeng liked hanging out with him, even buying him spicy snacks—which Zhou Ziyang always declined, just as he politely refused everyone’s kindness.

Time passed quickly, and by senior year, Zhou Ziyang had matured further, never having had close friends, nor seeing the point of them. But Li Dongfeng always regarded him as a true friend.

He remembered the first day of high school. Before the bell rang, Li Dongfeng was already at his classroom window, hollering, “Zhou Ziyang! Zhou Ziyang! We’re in the same school again!”

It was a momentous occasion for Li Dongfeng—if only for him.

High school changed Li Dongfeng a lot; he became content with himself.

But that day, their homeroom teacher caught them at it. The next morning, in front of the whole class, the teacher said with biting irony, “Well, well, Zhou Ziyang! You look so well-behaved, but outside you’re quite the character!”

It was mortifying for Zhou Ziyang. He protested that he didn’t know them. The teacher retorted, “If you didn’t, why would they call you ‘Brother Zhou’?” Zhou Ziyang replied that people could call him whatever they liked—what could he do about it? The teacher, amused by this nonchalance, gave a thumbs up. “Good—no wonder you’re ‘Brother Zhou.’ Bring your mother to school tomorrow.”

Zhou Ziyang felt wronged. He and Li Dongfeng were never that close. Early in high school, Li Dongfeng often invited him to drink or play pool. For a while, Zhou Ziyang, wrestling with adolescent angst, went along. But after a few words from the homeroom teacher, he tried to distance himself. Unfortunately, Li Dongfeng, oblivious as ever, never noticed. He only remembered that Zhou Ziyang had been his friend when he first arrived in town, so now that he was doing well, he wouldn’t forget his buddy.

Thus, Li Dongfeng’s warmth remained constant, while Zhou Ziyang kept his distance—all the way to senior year.

“Zhou Ziyang! Zhou Ziyang!” Li Dongfeng called out again. When Zhou Ziyang didn’t respond, Li Dongfeng grew impatient.

Now a senior, Li Dongfeng still dressed a bit awkwardly, but having gained confidence from his experiences outside of school, his old insecurities had faded. Perhaps some girls in Zhou Ziyang’s class even nursed crushes on him.

He shouted, “What are you doing, Zhou Ziyang? Stop staring at Xia Wei!”

The words were bold, perhaps even offensive, and the class fell silent, eyes turning toward Zhou Ziyang.

Zhou Ziyang, too, was startled. He realized he’d been lost in thought, eyes fixed on Xia Wei.

Xia Wei was the class monitor, one of the school’s renowned beauties—tall, one sixty-eight, just over one hundred pounds, with an oval face, arched brows, a straight nose, and rosy lips. Years of dance practice had given her a graceful figure and a swan-like neck. She wore the white shirt and pleated skirt like everyone else, yet looked uniquely elegant—a high ponytail and a hint of coolness in her eyes. Her waist was slender, her figure youthful but well-developed, the school uniform only accentuating her charm.

Li Dongfeng’s voice was loud; Xia Wei heard him, looked up instinctively, and for a moment, their eyes met before they quickly looked away.

“Heh, what are you blushing for? You’re not the only one with a crush on Xia Wei!” Li Dongfeng had come over to Zhou Ziyang’s side, chuckling as he patted his shoulder.