Chapter 7: Spook High (7)
No one had imagined that in what was clearly an inescapable death trap, Qin Fu’an could calmly, methodically lay out a case point by point.
To anyone listening, every single one of his four arguments was grounded, sound, and irrefutable, practically nailing Teacher Zhang into his coffin time and time again.
One needed only to look at Teacher Zhang’s face, which grew paler and more wretched with every accusation, to grasp just how devastatingly lethal these four indictments were.
Not to mention that right from the very beginning, Qin Fu’an had subtly heaped praise upon the Dean’s “flawless transformation.”
The Dean did not take Qin Fu’an’s charges at face value right away.
Outside the doorway, his arms—previously dangling at his sides—suddenly twisted and elongated, sliding straight into the classroom.
Before long, the Dean took the blank test paper, lowering his head to examine the contents of the questions with meticulous care.
As he inspected the sheet, Teacher Zhang’s wide, paper-thin frame huddled beside his elongated neck began to curl inward, shrinking as he attempted to slip away from this suffocating room.
He had already sidestepped the Dean and reached the doorway, looking as though he was a single step away from escaping alive, when right before his eyes, a familiar blank test paper fluttered down once more.
That sheet of black ink on white paper became the final sight of his unnatural existence.
Warm, crimson blood sprayed across the blank exam, blooming into mottled flowers of gore beneath each unanswered question.
This test paper, which no student had answered, was ultimately completed with the life of its author.
The piercing, unsettling sound of wet crunching and chewing amplified continuously within the vast, hushed classroom. Yet this time, even in the eyes of the timid novice players, a bright gleam of vindication involuntarily shone through.
None of them felt a shred of pity for the dead creature. Had this monster lived, there was no telling how many twisted schemes it would have concocted to torment the students to death.
As for the student NPCs, it was as if an invisible shot of adrenaline had been pumped into their veins. Their hollow, vacant stares snapped toward the unruffled Qin Fu’an standing by the podium, and the long-extinguished spark in the depths of their eyes quietly rekindled.
It felt as though… something had fundamentally shifted the moment Teacher Zhang died.
They couldn’t put into words what had changed, yet inexplicably, the hope of passing the Gaokao and finally escaping Spook High seemed to have materialized at long last.
Surrounded by countless gazes—some subdued, some feverish, and others burning with intensity—Qin Fu’an walked to the classroom doorway, bent down, and picked up the paper, now heavy with the weight of fresh blood.
“Dean, thank you for upholding justice on our behalf. It was only your appearance that made me truly appreciate why Spook High reigns as the premier institution. Aside from pests like Teacher Zhang, there are principled, exceptional leaders like yourself. I firmly believe that under your supervision and guardianship, our school and its students will carry the renown of Spook High to every corner of the world.”
Folding the blood-spattered paper, Qin Fu’an addressed the Dean—who had retracted his limbs and head—with an easy, flowing smile.
His praise rang so pure and sincere, his sentiments so warming to a ghastly heart, that when looking straight into his clear, pale-green eyes, the Dean saw only the youth’s delight and admiration, as if gazing upon the brilliant, luminous future painted by his words.
Even an inhuman abomination could not refuse praise so heartfelt, nor a vision of tomorrow so grand.
The gaze the Dean directed at Qin Fu’an softened until it carried a distinct hint of an approving smile. Having just gorged on a hearty feast, he was at his most relaxed and agreeable.
Seizing the opportune moment, Qin Fu’an extended an earnest invitation: “Dean, I hope I might have the distinct honor of inviting you to sit in on a riveting lecture, if only to serve as living proof that you did not act out of favoritism when removing that pest. Would you be willing to grant me this opportunity?”
Every word, on the surface and beneath, considered the Dean’s interests, even anticipating any potential backlash he might face later. Coupled with the perfect scores Qin Fu’an claimed to hold, such a stellar student would make not just the Dean, but even the Principal himself, beam with pride.
And so, the Dean extended his elongated neck from the corridor window and rested it across Qin Fu’an’s desk.
His neck lay draped right across the surface in front of Xie Yunhuai.
Standing on the podium, Qin Fu’an caught sight of this, a flicker of playful anticipation flashing in his eyes.
Regrettably, right up until the moment he reached for a piece of chalk, Xie Yunhuai merely knitted his brows at the Dean’s brazen intrusion, showing no inclination to strike.
A touch disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.
Qin Fu’an drew a piece from the chalk box, but the split second his skin made contact, he caught the anomaly.
The texture was wrong.
Smooth, rounded, and warm to the touch—this was definitely not chalk.
He cast a silent downward glance, letting out a soft sneer once he saw what the “chalk” inside the box actually looked like.
Slender phalanges. Finger bones stripped from the skeletons of deceased adolescents, every single one polished until it gleamed like white jade—supple, glossy, and pristine, each resembling an exquisite piece of art crafted by the hand of Death.
Without batting an eye, Qin Fu’an picked one up, rolling it between his fingertips before tapping it against the wooden lectern.
The classroom was already quiet, and though everyone was bewildered, they still harbored an instinctive dread toward anyone standing behind that podium.
Even if Qin Fu’an had been a student sitting among them just minutes earlier.
“Throw away your test papers. We won’t be covering those tedious, barren question types this period.”
Qin Fu’an flipped through the lesson plans and textbooks on the lectern that had belonged to Teacher Zhang, then looked up at the class below: “There are only five days left until the Gaokao, yet the potential problem formats are endless. Rather than repeating those so-called focus areas day in and day out, you’d be better off listening to me review all the core knowledge points for Grade Twelve.”
His tone carried such outrageous bravado that a hushed murmur broke out among the students. Nan Zhu and the other players stared at him in sheer disbelief, unable to fathom where he found the nerve to make such a declaration.
Even the livestream chat exploded with waves of skeptical, mocking messages, propelling Qin Fu’an—a newcomer who was still blissfully unaware of the broadcast’s existence—into the top three of the rookie popularity charts within mere minutes, with his numbers continuing a steady, upward climb.
Ignoring the grotesque neck sprawled across his desk, Xie Yunhuai lifted his eyes to quietly watch Qin Fu’an command the podium with wild, effortless swagger.
He had never encountered someone like this before.
Like a blaze burning with fierce intensity, the moment one laid eyes on him, his heat and radiance became undeniable.
Yet warmth and light were the very things Xie Yunhuai despised most. They always seemed capable of scorching him with ease, sending waves of agony rippling through his flesh and deep into his very soul—resembling licking tongues of flame, yet acting more like a rancid rot clinging to the bone.
Never had there been a moment where he so intensely yearned to witness someone’s death.
Unbeknownst to him, the candy he had been gripping had long since been crushed into powder, fine crumbs leaking through the tears in its wrapper. The jagged granules felt like shards of shattered glass or needles, yet he swept them into a bundle with his discarded test paper and shoved the whole mess into his desk compartment like trash.
Once class ended, it would all be dumped straight into the wastebasket, never to offend his sight again.
Twenty minutes later.
The dismissal bell rang out with a cheerful chime.
Inside the classroom of Grade 12, Class 4, Qin Fu’an finally brought his brief lecture to a close.
Sweeping his gaze over the quiet students, he tossed the bone chalk—he had lost track of which one he was on—back into the box. Turning to the silent room, he announced, “Take down the homework for this period.”
They were to synthesize all the concepts he had just covered in those twenty minutes and memorize them thoroughly over the coming five days.
It was an extraordinarily demanding assignment.
That is, for any student who hadn’t actually paid attention.
In truth, for the students sitting before him, completing this homework was now almost as natural as breathing.
He had stated that the palest ink was better than the best memory, so throughout the lecture, he had already demanded that everyone copy down each concept as he explained it.
Even if someone had missed a part, they could simply approach this “classmate” after class to ensure not a single point was left behind.
As for the memorization, everyone—including Nan Zhu and the players—had already resolved to commit it to memory through sheer rote force, no matter what it took.
If one were to ask why they were so obedient…
It was because Qin Fu’an wasn’t just putting on an act—he genuinely knew how to teach!
![Raising a Wife in a Supernatural World [Infinite]](https://i3.wp.com/panda-translations.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/10/20240601132922_300_420.jpg?resize=151,215 "Raising a Wife in a Supernatural World [Infinite]")
