The rope suspended in midair slowly descended, stopping before the crowd.
"Please sit upright and place the rope around your neck," invigilator A said flatly.
With no room for resistance, everyone complied, slipping the noose that could claim their lives around their own necks.
The rope was rougher than it appeared, its coarse inner surface scraping against tender skin, causing faint stings of pain.
Once all examinees had fastened the noose, a rustling sound came from the ceiling—then, with a sudden jerk, the ropes tightened. A collective gasp escaped the room as the cords locked firmly around their throats.
"Damn it…"
A low curse drifted from the back row.
Tong Yang, seated in the fourth row of the second column, was the only examinee not wearing the symbolic death collar. Yet her expression was far from relieved—instead, it was graver than anyone else's.
Passing this exam, regardless of the outcome, would allow her to return to the real world. But how could she afford to relax even for a moment under such circumstances?
"Begin answering the questions."
Tong Yang took a deep breath. Science was her strongest subject—unlike Chinese and English, where she often lost points. With caution, a perfect score wasn’t out of reach. If she stayed meticulous, she could pass the exam alongside everyone else and return to their lives.
For Tong Yang, this exam meant rebirth.
Completing it, meeting the school’s benchmarks, and securing a tuition waiver with a full scholarship for university would finally free her and her younger brother from their parasitic existence.
They lived in Dongyang Community, a former water plant’s housing allocation. After the plant shut down, the government requisitioned the area, sheltering residents who had nowhere else to go.
But as time passed and the buildings deteriorated, most residents moved on to better accommodations. The government issued a demolition plan, originally set for last year. Yet Tong Yang and a few others stubbornly refused to leave. Attempts to forcibly evict them failed, earning those still in Dongyang Community the scornful label of "parasites."
They were merely accepting government aid, yet now clung shamelessly to a place that was never theirs.
Tong Yang and her brother were among them. Though she scraped by with odd jobs and meager earnings to support them, leaving Dongyang would leave them homeless. Her brother would likely end up in an orphanage—something she would never allow.
So she waited for her chance, the turning point that would break their cycle of dependency: the college entrance exam.
Whether this exam involved others’ lives or not, she would give it her all.
The pen scratched against paper, a soft white noise. Tong Yang steadied her breathing, pushing aside distractions to focus entirely on the test.
She saved the biology section—her most error-prone—for last and began working through the questions.
The exam hall was silent, save for the sound of pens on paper.
Tong Yang followed her usual method: confirming each answer in her mind before writing, minimizing corrections. She aimed not just for the highest score but also a flawless, pristine answer sheet—as if printed.
Gradually, she lost herself in the rhythm, momentarily forgetting the weight pressing on her.
Time slipped by unnoticed. Nearly fifty minutes later, she reviewed the physics section, finding no mistakes or omissions. The answers were immaculate, without a single correction.
Nerves must have slowed her slightly—under normal conditions, she’d have finished physics in forty minutes.
She rolled her stiff shoulders and glanced around. The taut ropes yanked other examinees’ heads upward, evoking the ancient "hang hair, stab thigh" determination. Cold sweat trickled down their temples, whether from the unnatural posture or the gnawing fear of the unknown.
Two seconds later, Tong Yang lowered her gaze and resumed writing.
Truthfully, most exam questions were simpler than her usual practice problems—many multiple-choice answers came almost instinctively.
Of course, that was also thanks to her relentless drilling over the past year.
She’d spent her final high school year buried in practice tests, sparing little time for anything else—all for these two days.
The chemistry section took slightly less time than physics, including review—about forty-five minutes.
Her approach remained unchanged: no errors, no corrections.
She was certain physics and chemistry would be perfect. Only biology stood between her and the finish line.
"Do not look around."
Invigilator A’s icy voice cut through the silence.
Unlike humanities exams, science left no room for bluffing. Most examinees had already written all they could and now sat waiting for their fate.
Tong Yang felt multiple eyes flickering toward her.
She checked the clock at the front: exactly fifty minutes remained.
Fifty minutes… more than enough.
As time passed, the others gradually stopped writing.
The rough ropes around their necks made even resting their heads impossible. Prolonged strain left their shoulders aching, their necks chafed raw, dotted with blood that stained the cords.
Soon, Tong Yang was the only one still writing, her pen’s scratching stark against the ticking clock that seemed to echo their heartbeats.
Finally, with fifteen minutes left, only one biology question remained.
She read it carefully, deliberated briefly, and began answering.
The words flowed smoothly—easier than expected.
But as she neared the end, Tong Yang froze. Rereading the prompt, she realized she’d repeated an old mistake: weaving her own interpretations beyond the textbook’s scope.
Descriptive answers had no single right version. Sometimes, this earned her full marks; other times, it cost her a point or two. Normally, she wouldn’t obsess over minor deviations—but here, there was no margin for error.
So she struck out the latter half of her answer with a line and started anew.
It was a bit of a pity, though—throughout the previous exams, Tong Yang had maintained flawless handwriting on her papers, without a single correction mark.
After answering the final question, Tong Yang let out a slow breath, set down the pen she had been gripping until it grew warm, and quickly flipped through the pages of her exam to check her answers. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead, and her palms were damp.
There were seven minutes left until the end of the exam.
"Exam candidate number twelve, please submit your paper before the exam concludes. All other candidates, close your exam booklets and move away from your desks."
Three minutes later, with only four minutes remaining, Tong Yang set down her paper, raised her right hand, and said firmly, "I'm done."
The room collectively held its breath, all eyes turning toward her.
"Please submit your exam."
Tong Yang stood, carried her science exam to the front, and handed it over.
As she turned back, she saw the tense expressions, red-rimmed eyes, and trembling shoulders of her fellow examinees. Silently, she lowered her gaze.
She couldn’t guarantee the final outcome—she had done her absolute best.
If there were one or two mistakes, even she could do nothing about it.
"Return to your seat."
Tong Yang walked back to her desk and noticed the boy sitting behind her—whose name she still didn’t know—forcing a weak, reassuring smile in her direction.
She bowed her head, picked up the still-warm pen, and began scribbling meaningless shapes on her scratch paper.
Even though she had just finished the most important exam of her life, her mood couldn’t have been worse.
Proctor A bent over to quickly review her exam. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixed on those few thin sheets of paper—except for Tong Yang’s. She rested her chin on one hand, staring blankly at the chaotic patterns on her scratch paper, her lips pressed into a tight line.
"Physics—perfect score. No errors or omissions."
Proctor A’s icy voice echoed through the classroom. Tong Yang faintly heard a collective sigh of relief.
The examinees widened their eyes, holding their breath.
"Chemistry—perfect score. No errors or omissions."
The sound of heavy breathing gradually filled the room. Hearts that had been suspended in midair now climbed into throats.
If biology turned out to be just like the first two subjects—another perfect score—then every one of them would make it safely back to the real world. They could all go eat the hotpot they’d promised each other, and celebrate Tong Yang’s birthday properly this time.
This time, they could buy a real cake!
Even if there were one or two mistakes, it would be unavoidable—but at least everyone could accept that.
After a brief pause, Proctor A set down the exam, looked up at the crowd, and announced coldly:
"Biology—perfect score."
The gazes fixed on Proctor A instantly erupted with fervor and joy the moment those words were spoken.
Tong Yang had done it?!
She’d gotten the highest possible score?!
They could go back? Everyone could go back?!
Was it all really over?!
The pen clenched tightly in Tong Yang’s fingers suddenly slipped, rolled across the desk with a clatter, and fell to the floor with a sharp click.
"First, congratulations to candidate number twelve for achieving a perfect score in the science exam."
Tong Yang’s heart pounded uneasily as she bent down to pick up the pen that had fallen in the aisle.
"Second, congratulations to candidate number twelve for successfully passing all sections of the Independent College Entrance Examination."
"Finally, due to candidate number twelve’s omission of more than thirty-two characters in the final question of the biology section, all other candidates have failed the exam. Punishment will now commence."
"Wha—?"
The room froze in stunned disbelief.
"But it was a perfect score…?"
"Why would—?"
Before anyone could finish, the silent classroom was filled with the screech of chairs being violently dragged.
Tong Yang, still bent over, jerked her head up in shock—only to see every single person in the exam hall hoisted into the air by nooses tightening around their throats. Not one of them had time to utter a single cry for help.
They dangled midair, legs kicking desperately, veins bulging in their necks and faces from suffocation, tears streaming down their cheeks.
Outside, the sunlight vanished behind dark clouds. Countless suffocating shadows enveloped Tong Yang.
The suspended bodies thrashed with all their strength, struggling to save themselves—until, gradually, their movements weakened. Limbs hung limp in the air. The creaking of ropes against the ceiling faded. Dozens of bodies swayed back and forth, lifeless. A single shoe dropped with a thud.
Their eyes remained wide open, bloodshot, expressions frozen in horror and despair—as if they had died with grievances unspoken.
Desks and chairs toppled to the floor. Exam papers bearing names scattered everywhere.
Tong Yang sat alone at her desk, unharmed. Slowly, she straightened, staring blankly at the lifeless bodies swaying from inertia overhead—each face twisted in agony, every one of them familiar.
Through them, she saw the three proctors. Their lips curled into triumphant, deranged smiles, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement as they watched her—as if savoring the look on her face right now.
As if, compared to the others writhing in despair midair, they had been far more eager to see Tong Yang’s shock and devastation.
"Didn’t the teachers tell you?" A cold, mocking voice reached Tong Yang’s ears. "Neatness counts."
"...Is that so?"
Tong Yang’s face was deathly pale. Her fingers clenched around the pen so tightly that it snapped, the broken edges piercing her skin. Her lips moved soundlessly.
Suddenly, she remembered the rule Proctor A had stated before the exam began.
He had said, "One mistake, one death"—not "One point lost, one death."
Just as Tong Yang had exploited a loophole in the wording of the rules during the math exam, they too had exploited a loophole—hiding the true rules from everyone.
At the same time, the clock’s hands came to a perfect stop at 5:30.
The bell rang, sharp and clear.
Proctor A smiled.
"Congratulations to candidate number twelve for passing the exam. We’ll meet again."
Tong Yang stared at that ghastly face, her nails digging deep into her palms.
