Chapter 45
Chapter 45: God-Tier Chat Group—Why Pick a Fight with Her?
What kind of school was River City’s No. 7 High School?
It wasn’t even a top high school. It sat way out in the suburbs, far from the city’s best resources, and no one bothered to funnel support its way.
The only ones who went there were students with terrible grades—along with a handful of out-of-control rich kids who’d burned through every respectable school willing to take them.
“And she thinks she can get into No. 1 High School?” Sheng Song scoffed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Even my parents couldn’t get me into No. 1 High School. They’re strict as hell. She should stop dreaming.”
Sheng Yun Yi only smiled. “People should still have dreams.”
“Sister Yun Yi, I heard she keeps causing you trouble. She’s bad news.” A hard glint flashed in Sheng Song’s eyes. “I’m your brother. I’m not going to sit back and watch her bully you. Since she’s come to No. 7 High School, I won’t let her have it easy.”
“Little Song.” Sheng Yun Yi sighed softly. “Your job is to study. Don’t get involved. Don’t worry—I’ll just ignore her.”
“How is that okay?” Sheng Song’s temper flared. “Sister Yun Yi, she only dares because you’re too easy to push around. She’s the type who bullies the weak and fears the strong. I’m going to help you.”
Sheng Yun Yi’s smile didn’t change. “Little Song is a good kid. Stay for dinner.”
The compliment went straight to Sheng Song’s head. He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “It’s not like that, Sister Yun Yi. You’re flattering me.”
“Steward.”
At Sheng Yun Yi’s gesture, Steward Sheng stepped forward to escort Sheng Song to the dining room.
Sheng Song could barely contain his excitement. If he could latch onto Sheng Yun Yi, he’d have access to better resources—better connections, too.
He couldn’t wait.
—
At the Lin Family residence, Cheng Qing Li had been reporting on work when she heard Ye Wan Lan had enrolled in No. 7 High School. She went pale. “Sister Lan, you’re managing the company and going back to school. Can you really handle that kind of schedule?”
Ye Wan Lan held a pen, sketching without looking up. “Do I seem busy?”
Cheng Qing Li fell silent.
What kind of monster-level time management was this?
“Sister Lan, we also reached a cooperation agreement with President Quan—about the film and TV project for Thousand Autumn Years,” Cheng Qing Li said quickly, as if racing to keep up. “The costumes will be fully handled by us. She won’t be able to interfere.”
“Good,” Ye Wan Lan said. “On Saturday, call Jiang Xu Lin. Come with me to negotiate.”
Thousand Autumn Years was adapted from a political-intrigue novel set in ancient times. It was a massive IP—already wildly popular before filming even started. Companies everywhere were fighting to get a bite of it.
If Wan Tian Qing could land this partnership, it would be their first real step onto the national stage.
After that, they’d finally have the qualifications to be invited to major shows—standing shoulder to shoulder with other brands. One day, maybe they’d even share a runway with the world’s top three luxury houses.
“That’s everything.” Cheng Qing Li waved. “Sister Lan, I’ll head out.”
“Wait.”
Ye Wan Lan finished the last stroke, then blew gently to dry the ink. “Your painting.”
Cheng Qing Li accepted it like it was fragile treasure. She studied it, then made a small sound of surprise. “Sister Lan… this style is different from the one Fang Qing Han bought that day.”
Ye Wan Lan’s eyebrow lifted. “Oh?”
Cheng Qing Li had been forced to work early because of family problems. She didn’t even finish high school. But her artistic instincts were sharp—unnervingly sharp.
“No, no, I’m not saying it’s bad!” Cheng Qing Li blurted out. “It’s great. It’s just… I’m curious.”
That day, she’d only gotten a quick glimpse of the painting. The brushwork—especially the flowers and birds—had reminded her more and more of a celebratory piece Princess Yong Ning once presented to Emperor Zhaozong of Ning: Spring Mountain Hundred Birds Painting.
She’d planned to take a closer look later, but Fang Qing Han had bought it first.
Cheng Qing Li ground her teeth.
Fine. She’d remember him.
“That one was meant for the trash,” Ye Wan Lan said, unhurried. “This one, I painted properly. How could you compare the two?”
She could even change her handwriting if she wanted. Compared to that, a painting style was nothing.
Cheng Qing Li’s eyes went watery. “Sister Lan… I love you.”
The next second, she hugged the painting to her chest and left the Lin Family residence practically skipping.
Other people paid three million for one.
She got hers for free.
—
Ye Wan Lan opened the history worksheet the group leader had assigned. Before she could begin, her phone lit up—an old chat group popping up like it owned the screen.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Brothers and sisters, I got promoted! Red packets to celebrate!
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: [Red Packet]
[World’s Richest]: One-star review. Not even enough for my breakfast.
[Scholar]: Cut them some slack. They don’t interact with people much. It’s already impressive if they can dig out a few coins.
Ye Wan Lan tapped to claim it.
System: Congratulations. You got one cent.
Her expression didn’t change.
[YN]: Thanks.
The group went dead silent.
Then, as if someone had set off an alarm, the avatars began flashing one after another.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Holy—Grandpa, it’s been eight hundred years! Your friend finally crawled out of the grave!
[World’s Richest]: I thought I was hallucinating. I even changed my glasses.
[Scholar]: Rich Sis’s glasses cost a million per pair, right?
[World’s Richest]: Correction. 17,980,000.
As if offended by the poverty of the conversation, she sent Ye Wan Lan hundreds of exclusive red packets.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Damn it! I want some too!
[World’s Richest]: ?
[World’s Richest]: How are you even trying to compare yourself to Sister YN? Go wash up and go to sleep.
By the time Ye Wan Lan finished claiming them, her balance had gained several new zeros.
She tapped the desk lightly. Four years without contact, and the rich had only gotten richer.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Sister YN, where are you in the Global Center? Wan Guo Group? Strategic Research Institute? World Bank? Or Shen Zhou University?
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: I’ve asked a bunch of times, and no one there knows your name.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Is it because I haven’t climbed high enough?
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Am I not qualified to see you?
Back when they first formed the group, they’d made an agreement: five years later, meet at the Global Center. Whoever climbed the slowest got beaten up.
And then YN vanished for four years—silent, invisible—so the meet-up never happened.
In this group, YN was the most mysterious existence. They knew her gender, and nothing else.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Say something, Sister YN. What are you even doing?
Ye Wan Lan thought it over, then took a photo of her homework—honest to the point of brutality—and sent it.
[YN]: Doing high school history problems. It’s pretty fun.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: ?
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: ?
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: ?
[World’s Richest]: If you’re really doing high school history problems, I’ll cap my spending tomorrow at one million.
[Mad Scientist]: Sister YN really is Shen Zhou. Speaking of which, a buddy at my unit was complaining a few days ago—Shen Zhou keeps squeezing them, making them investigate some Wan Jun Zhi War from three hundred years ago. Good thing I’m not in that department, or I’d be working overtime every day.
Ye Wan Lan’s eyes narrowed.
Someone was digging into what happened three hundred years ago?
Who?
The Lin Family after Heavenly Music Workshop? The Rong Family after Tai Su Sect? Or the Su Family after Tai Yi Palace?
[YN]: If you hear anything, tell me.
[Beat Up the Ghost Bro]: Are you Shen Zhou people all crazy? That was three hundred years ago. Even I can’t find it!
Ye Wan Lan ignored him.
A private message had already popped up.
[Mad Scientist]: Sister YN, help me. What’s wrong with this diagram?
A blueprint appeared—dense, precise, and unmistakably sensitive. World secrets, tossed into chat like a meme.
Ye Wan Lan stared at it for a moment, then corrected a few connection points and sent it back.
[Mad Scientist]: That’s you. The A19-Type Laser Weapon is ten times stronger than the previous generation. Once it’s built, I’ll give you one.
[YN]: Ten.
[Mad Scientist]: You’re ruthless…
[Mad Scientist]: Deal.
Ye Wan Lan lowered her lashes. Something in her chest trembled, faint but sharp.
At least the Transmigrator couldn’t steal everything from her.
What belonged to her would always be hers.
“A Lan.”
Lin Huai Jin knocked, then stepped in after she answered. “What has you so happy?”
Ye Wan Lan didn’t look up from her desk. “I just talked someone into giving me ten laser weapons. And I picked up a one-million red packet.”
Lin Huai Jin froze.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
His sweet, delicate, sensible niece was becoming more and more unhinged by the day.
No. He had to contact Rong Yu—immediately.
—
At 2:00 a.m., in the suburbs—River City’s No. 7 High School.
The campus lay in darkness. Only a single bulb glowed in the gate guard room, lonely and dim.
No. 7 High School was genuinely short on funds. The facilities were old, never properly repaired.
Whatever money they did have had been poured into the students—competition prep classes, training camps, summer programs.
At this hour, the school’s surveillance cameras were off.
Sheng Song hopped the outer wall with ease and sprinted toward the classroom building, stopping at Senior 2 Class 1.
Picking locks was second nature to him. A piece of wire, a quick twist, and the door clicked open.
He was in Class 2, directly across from Class 1. He wandered into Class 1 all the time. He knew the layout. The seats. Everything.
One sweep of his eyes, and he found Ye Wan Lan’s desk.
High school students had too many books. Most only carried what they needed home and left the rest in the classroom.
Sheng Song clicked his tongue. “You got in through connections and you’re still putting on a show? Who are you trying to fool?”
Ye Wan Lan had dropped out for three years. Shouldn’t she have been starting from freshman year?
So what—after two years of trying to cling to Zhou He Chen, she realized it wouldn’t work and switched tactics?
He sneered.
He yanked the textbooks and workbooks onto the floor, tore them apart, and dumped every scrap of trash he could find onto her desk and chair.
Then he lifted his foot and stomped her cup hard—again and again—until the words Gift from Yan Ting Feng were mangled beyond recognition.
He gave the cup one last kick.
It rolled across the floor, clattering until it disappeared into some shadowed corner.
Satisfied, he dusted off his hands and strolled out.
This was only the beginning.