Chapter Two: The Treatment of a Genius (Part Two)

Zhao Li sat motionless at his desk, lost in a haze even as class began. Fortunately, his classmates all knew of his secret affection for Li Mengdie and assumed his dazed state was due to her departure, so they tactfully left him alone.

Even when school ended, Zhao Li remained in that muddled trance. Others believed his melancholy stemmed from his beloved suddenly leaving, but only he knew the real reason. While that certainly played a part, it was not the main cause of his confusion.

Li Mengdie's cultivation score was 2.3, already considered a genius, and she had been admitted to the Academy for the Gifted. What did that make him? Most people achieve similar results after a week of training, but he had only practiced for two days. Strictly speaking, he completed eight days’ worth of work in just two, and was evaluated at a score of 1.1. By this calculation, his actual cultivation score was at least 3.5, perhaps even higher—a figure that easily surpassed Li Mengdie’s 2.3.

If Zhao Li revealed his true abilities, he would immediately be labeled another prodigy and follow his secret beloved into the Academy for the Gifted. Perhaps they might become a perfect pair, admired by all. Yet his father's drunken confession echoed constantly in his mind: all prodigies are guinea pigs.

Zhao Li remembered his father’s words with unwavering clarity and dared not forget them. The military-run Academy for the Gifted was, in name, a school for prodigies, but Zhao Li knew it would mean rigid oversight, daily experiments, endless data checks, and little freedom—possibly even being at others’ mercy when necessary. While the privileges offered there certainly surpassed those given to ordinary students or company employees, one thing was certain: there would be no freedom.

Torn between following his beloved and living as a guinea pig, Zhao Li wrestled with the choice countless times. In the end, his fear of that experimental life prevailed, and he did not pursue Li Mengdie.

Perhaps he would never see her again—the girl he had secretly loved since childhood. Their lives would never intersect. Or perhaps, if they did meet, she would already be an officer in the military’s special forces. Who could foresee what lay ahead? Who could know?

Whenever Zhao Li recalled the dissected guinea pig he had seen with his own eyes, he could not help but shudder. Even in the midst of his high school studies, he kept his father’s warning close to his heart. Consequently, his cultivation score became Zhao Li’s greatest secret.

In modern high schools, internal energy training was now an essential part of the curriculum—a reform implemented by the Ministry of Education two hundred seventy years ago.

From that year onward, all high schools on Earth began offering internal power courses to first-year students, aiming to improve humanity’s frail constitution and gradually adapt to the demands of the interstellar age.

Before this, scientists had conducted massive research, seeking breakthroughs from all angles. Ultimately, the key was found in a practitioner of traditional Chinese qigong. This prodigy possessed physical and mental faculties vastly superior to ordinary humans. Though the principles of qigong remain only partially understood, its practical results far surpassed any drug or other intervention.

It offered no toxic side effects, was inexpensive, and could be standardized across populations. After systematic education, almost no one developed resistance, akin to the antibodies produced by drugs. Excluding those born with severe disabilities, even the handicapped could train. Safe, efficient, not affecting genetic inheritance, with virtually no side effects—this method spread rapidly across the globe, triggering sweeping reforms.

Basic training required little time and yielded quick results. Humanity’s physical strength, reaction speed, cognitive abilities, memory, brain capacity, and even lifespan all increased dramatically. Except for the very young—whose bodies were still developing and whose comprehension was limited—everyone who practiced enjoyed remarkable benefits.

Cultural differences made it hard for non-Chinese countries to grasp the Chinese approach, let alone the intricacies of ancient texts, meridians, dan tian, and so forth. Thus, Chinese became a required subject, integrated into primary education. Meridian theory was taught from middle school onward, and high school students began actual internal energy cultivation.

The reason cultivation wasn’t introduced earlier was due to the needs of physical development. Furthermore, without a solid foundation, the advanced practices were impossible to understand or implement.

Although only basic exercises were taught—far from the most profound arts—they safely and efficiently raised everyone’s physical abilities to several times their original level.

In this era, universal education ensured nobody was left behind. Thanks to timely reforms, except for minors under eighteen, the entire human race experienced a qualitative leap in physical fitness.

Moreover, improved fitness in one generation seemed to enhance the genes of the next, just as healthier parents produced less fragile offspring. Thus, humanity steadily improved with each generation. The increase in lifespan extended the period of education accordingly; compulsory schooling grew from a few short years to sixteen, so that by high school, students reached the adult age of eighteen and could begin cultivation.

Each individual’s results varied—some progressed quickly, others slowly, depending on their constitution and understanding. Those who improved rapidly often attracted the attention of the government and military. Naturally, research institutions sought to uncover the reasons behind their exceptional talent.

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