Dead silence dropped over the thousand seats of Classroom #1.
Up in the third row, Sophomore Boss Long Batian choked on the spirit-fruit pit he was chewing. Meanwhile, Beside him, senior bully Zhao Hu stared at the fourteen-year-old boy in the yellow bunny apron as if he had just watched a rabbit slap a tiger across the whiskers.
Down in the front row, merchant-born freshman Lin Wan forgot to wipe her tears, her eyes wide with shock. In the four hundred years since Professor Ao Man had founded the Auction Provocation Department, not a single student. Teaching assistant, or visiting elder had ever dared tell him to his face that his math couldn’t pass a first-grade village quiz.
On the stage, the cash-register chimes on Professor Ao Man’s silver silk robes stopped ringing.
A thick, purple vein pulsed across the center of Ao Man’s forehead.
“You... you little four-eyed insect,” Ao Man hissed, his voice dropping an octave as his Rank 8 Early cultivation flared like an overheated stove.
“You dare stand in my lecture hall and call my thirty-million-stone Face-Slapping Formula bankrupt?!”
Ao Man did not waste time arguing with a child. Instead, he slammed his right palm flat onto the master rune of the mahogany lectern.
