The ranking list went up on a Thursday.
Of course it did. Not a Friday, which would've given Jiang Yue a weekend to recover. Not a Monday, which would've at least let him prepare. Thursday—the most pointless day of the week—as if the school wanted to maximize suffering by placing it in the middle of everything.
Teacher Gao posted it during lunch.
Not in the classroom. On the main hallway bulletin board, where everyone could see, where there was no privacy, where your rank became a public fact like your height or your face.
Jiang Yue heard about it from Xu Zhe, who came sprinting into the cafeteria like he was on fire.
"It's up," Xu Zhe gasped, hands on his knees. "The list. It's up."
Jiang Yue's stomach dropped.
He set down his chopsticks slowly. "Already?"
Xu Zhe straightened, face flushed. "Already. People are crowding the board. Come on."
Jiang Yue didn't move.
Xu Zhe stared at him. "Jiang Yue."
Jiang Yue stared at his tray.
His heart was beating too fast. His hands felt cold. His brain was running calculations he couldn't stop—what if it's worse, what if I dropped, what if all the studying meant nothing.
Xu Zhe's voice softened. "Hey."
Jiang Yue looked up.
Xu Zhe's expression was gentle in the way it only got when things actually mattered. "Whatever it says," Xu Zhe said, "you tried. That counts."
Jiang Yue swallowed. "That's very touching. Please never say it again."
Xu Zhe grinned. "Come on. Let's go see your funeral."
They walked toward the main hallway.
The crowd was already thick—students pressing forward, necks craning, fingers pointing. Some were laughing. Some were silent. One girl was crying quietly while her friend rubbed her back.
Jiang Yue's pulse hammered.
He stopped at the edge of the crowd and couldn't make himself go further.
Xu Zhe glanced at him, then pushed ahead. "I'll look."
Jiang Yue stood there, frozen, feeling like a coward and hating it.
Around him, voices floated.
"Did you see? Li Ming dropped ten places."
"Zhang Yun is in the top five now!"
"Wei Nianzhan is still first. Obviously."
Obviously.
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened.
Xu Zhe was gone for what felt like an hour but was probably thirty seconds.
Then he came back.
His face was unreadable.
Jiang Yue's stomach twisted. "What."
Xu Zhe stared at him.
Then a grin cracked across his face so wide it looked like it hurt.
"Thirty-five," Xu Zhe said.
Jiang Yue blinked. "What."
Xu Zhe grabbed his shoulders. "Thirty-five! You moved thirteen places!"
Jiang Yue's brain stalled.
Thirty-five.
From forty-eight to thirty-five.
Thirteen places.
More than Teacher Gao's demand of ten.
More than Jiang Yue had allowed himself to hope.
His throat closed.
"You're lying," he said, voice rough.
Xu Zhe shook him. "I'm not lying! Go look!"
Jiang Yue pushed into the crowd.
Students parted slightly, some watching him with surprise, some with curiosity.
He reached the board.
His eyes scanned the list, past the top ten, past the twenties, down to the thirties.
Jiang Yue: Rank 35.
The number stared back at him, printed in black ink on white paper, real and solid and undeniable.
Thirty-five.
His vision blurred slightly.
He blinked fast, jaw tight, refusing to feel this much in public.
Behind him, a voice murmured, "Jiang Yue moved up that much?"
Another whispered, "How? He never studies."
A third said, quietly, "Wei Nianzhan tutored him."
Jiang Yue's chest burned.
He turned away from the board before anyone could see his face.
Xu Zhe was right there, grinning, arms open. "Bro."
Jiang Yue shoved past him. "Don't hug me."
Xu Zhe hugged him anyway, quick and rough, the kind of hug that said I'm proud of you without actually saying it.
Jiang Yue let it happen for exactly two seconds before pushing away.
"You're embarrassing," Jiang Yue muttered.
Xu Zhe beamed. "You love me."
Jiang Yue's mouth twitched. "Debatable."
They walked back toward the classroom, Xu Zhe chattering about how he'd also moved up three places, which he considered a personal miracle.
Jiang Yue half-listened, his mind still stuck on the number.
Thirty-five.
He'd done it.
Not perfectly. Not at the top. Not anywhere near Wei's untouchable rank one.
But he'd done it.
And every step of it had been real.
In the classroom, students were buzzing.
Tang Ruo caught Jiang Yue's eye from across the room and raised an eyebrow, expression half-surprised, half-impressed.
Shen Yichen glanced at him, then away, mouth tight.
Teacher Gao stood at the front, watching the class settle with her usual sharp gaze.
When she looked at Jiang Yue, something shifted in her expression.
Not softness. Teacher Gao didn't do softness.
But something like… acknowledgment.
She didn't say anything to him.
She didn't need to.
The number spoke for itself.
After class, Jiang Yue walked out and found Wei at the staircase.
Wei was talking to Shen Yichen, something about student council.
When Jiang Yue appeared, Shen's expression tightened.
Wei looked up.
Their eyes met.
Jiang Yue stopped a few steps away, hands in pockets, posture deliberately casual.
Shen glanced between them, jaw flexing. "I'll go," he said to Wei, voice stiff.
He left without looking at Jiang Yue.
They were alone on the landing.
The stairwell echoed with distant footsteps and voices from other floors.
Jiang Yue stood there, heart beating steady but loud.
Wei looked at him, expression calm. "You saw the ranking."
Jiang Yue nodded once. "Thirty-five."
Wei's gaze stayed on him. No surprise. No pride. Just steadiness.
Like he'd already known.
Jiang Yue's jaw tightened. "You're not going to say anything?"
Wei's eyes didn't move. "What do you want me to say."
Jiang Yue's chest tightened. He wanted Wei to smile. He wanted Wei to say congratulations, or well done, or I knew you could.
He wanted Wei to show something.
Instead, Jiang Yue forced a smirk. "I don't know. 'Good job'? 'I'm impressed'? 'You're welcome for my genius tutoring'?"
Wei's mouth barely moved.
Then, quiet, steady: "You did it yourself."
Jiang Yue blinked.
The words hit harder than any compliment.
Because Wei wasn't taking credit.
Wei was giving it all to him.
Jiang Yue's throat tightened so hard it hurt.
He looked away, staring at the wall, jaw clenched.
"You helped," Jiang Yue said, voice rough.
Wei was quiet for a beat.
Then: "You let me."
Three words.
Simple.
And absolutely devastating.
Because Wei was right.
The hardest part hadn't been the studying.
It had been letting someone help.
It had been sitting at that table every night and accepting corrections without turning them into fights.
It had been trusting Wei enough to try.
Jiang Yue's eyes burned.
He forced himself to breathe.
Then he looked back at Wei and said, voice low, "Thank you."
No sarcasm.
No joke.
No deflection.
Just two words, plain and real.
Wei's expression shifted.
Not dramatically. Not visibly to anyone else.
But Jiang Yue saw it—a softening at the corners of Wei's eyes, a loosening in his jaw, like something had been released.
Wei nodded once.
Then he said, "Don't stop."
Jiang Yue blinked. "What?"
Wei's gaze held his. "Studying. Trying. Don't stop because of one result."
Jiang Yue's mouth curved. "Are you giving me a pep talk?"
Wei's expression went flat again. "I'm giving you instructions."
Jiang Yue laughed, genuine. "Wow. Even your encouragement sounds like a threat."
Wei's mouth twitched.
Almost.
Almost a smile.
Jiang Yue stared at it, at the almost, and felt something bright and terrifying bloom in his chest.
Then footsteps echoed from below, other students coming up the stairs.
The moment broke.
Wei straightened. "Go home. Rest."
Jiang Yue nodded, suddenly tired. "Yeah."
He turned toward the stairs.
Then stopped.
"Wei," he said, without turning.
A pause.
"What," Wei said.
Jiang Yue's voice was quiet. "Thirty-five isn't enough."
Silence.
Then Wei's voice came, low and certain. "No. It's not."
Jiang Yue smiled to himself.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was honest.
Because Wei didn't give him false comfort. Didn't tell him thirty-five was amazing and he should be satisfied.
Wei told him the truth: keep going.
And somehow, that was exactly what Jiang Yue needed to hear.
He walked down the stairs with the number thirty-five burning in his chest like a small, stubborn flame.
At home, his mother saw his face and immediately knew.
"How did it go," she asked, hands clasped, barely breathing.
Jiang Yue set his bag down. "Thirty-five."
His mother's eyes widened. "Thirty—"
Her hand flew to her mouth.
Then she was hugging him, tight, her arms around his shoulders, her voice cracking.
"Yueyue," she whispered. "I'm so proud of you."
Jiang Yue stood stiff for a second.
Then his arms came up, slow, and he held her back.
He didn't cry.
But his eyes burned, and his throat ached, and for a moment the apartment didn't feel like a stage.
It felt like home.
Wei Chengyu came back that evening and nodded at the news. "Good improvement," he said, in the same tone he used for acceptable quarterly reports.
It wasn't much.
But it was more than nothing.
Wei sat at the table, studying for something else, always studying.
Jiang Yue walked past him toward his room.
At the doorway, he paused.
"Hey," Jiang Yue said.
Wei looked up.
Jiang Yue held his gaze. "Next time, I'm beating thirty."
Wei's eyes didn't soften.
But they sharpened.
Like a blade recognizing another blade.
"Good," Wei said.
Jiang Yue walked into his room and shut the door.
He lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
Thirty-five.
Thirteen places.
One person who believed in him before he did.
And the terrifying realization that wanting to be better—for himself, for his mother, and for Wei—might be the same thing.