Jack Clark, who made his fortune through “something for nothing,” invited several elite figures from Hong Kong to give him lessons over the summer. When it came to the topic of financial derivatives, David Clark, who happened to be looking for a reference book in the study, listened to their grandiose talk for about ten minutes. Then he tossed out, “Your understanding of CAPM and APT theory is trash. The hedging, differentiation, and binomial modeling in pricing mathematics aren’t played the way you’re doing it. Throwing a bunch of jargon at Jack Clark is pointless—he doesn’t have a penny in his pocket. Talking to this illiterate about Brownian motion’s first passage time is less useful than just chatting him up in a sauna.”

A group of financial prodigies, all with dazzling halos over their heads, were left dumbfounded on the spot, exchanging glances at the young figure. Jack Clark, who loved to spend money to appear cultured, burst out laughing, completely unrestrained.

Chapter 7: The Submissive Old Fox

David Clark drank tea quickly—he could finish a steaming cup of Tieguanyin in just seven minutes, and even faster with Biluochun or Longjing. He would brew a cup of Tieguanyin five times, no more, no less, then switch to new leaves. Usually, his work would be done after two or three refills. Today, David Clark only changed the leaves once, because he had the habit of watching the evening news, and even went out of his way to find related videos at the end. This was just like how he never missed an issue of “Economic Observer”—both habits were forced on him by Jack Clark, but over time, they became second nature. As the news was wrapping up, he got a call from Frank Thompson: “David Clark, you’re really gutsy. First meeting and you dare not show up. The counselor just had the temporary class leaders take attendance. Looks like you’ll be summoned to the office for a ‘chat.’ My condolences.”

David Clark frowned, said nothing, hung up, and rode his bike to the track. He ran ten full laps—not fast, but after finishing, his face wasn’t red and his heart wasn’t racing. By then it was almost 9 p.m. There weren’t many people on the track, mostly couples strolling and whispering sweet nothings. After running, David Clark got another call from Frank Thompson, who sounded like he was reporting from the front lines, tense and urgent: “No idea what happened, but some uncle from the academic affairs office wants to make an example out of someone, and picked you. Our counselor tried to cover for you, but it didn’t work. Now that creepy old guy is sending his minions to summon you to the office in the teaching building. Bro, rest in peace.”

Memorizing the office address Frank Thompson gave him, David Clark got back on his bike and rode off gallantly to his doom.

The leader sat upright in a spacious office chair, holding a teacup. The young counselor who’d had lunch with them earlier was standing, apparently trying to speak up for David Clark. When David Clark entered, he couldn’t be bothered to explain, just waited for his sentence. He’d never had much patience for people who took themselves too seriously, and this department head was clearly one of them. Of course, David Clark wasn’t stupid enough to slap him—he could accept teachers doing things that weren’t exactly “burning themselves out for their students,” as long as it was within their authority. For example, if a “benevolent” teacher saw a pretty girl being affectionate with a boy and got upset, then took it out on some unlucky soul who happened to cross his path—if he was that poor sap, David Clark didn’t mind being the scapegoat. It was like when he played basketball and got blocked by the court’s star, hearing the cheers from the girls on the sidelines—he’d deliberately get blocked a few more times, just to see everyone so happy. That made him happy, too.

David Clark always assumed the worst about people, because he was an optimistic pessimist—that way, he could avoid disappointment as much as possible.

So he accepted the department head’s criticism with humility, nodding repeatedly, but never promising it wouldn’t happen again. Alan Clark was always easygoing to an exaggerated degree about things above his bottom line, but that didn’t mean he was a pushover anyone could bully. What kind of “good kid” would, as the sparrows say, hide a watermelon knife under the bed—let alone a whole sack of them?

“David Clark, that’s a good name. Don’t waste it.” The middle-aged department head leaned back in his chair and said slowly. After lecturing for a while, he got thirsty, then suddenly seemed to remember something and muttered, “David Clark… why does that sound familiar?”

There was a knock at the door, and then an elderly man with thinning hair strolled in, smiling with squinty eyes, looking just like a down-on-his-luck street hustler. But the middle-aged admissions director, who usually put on airs even in front of David Clark’s counselor, suddenly jumped up, set his teacup aside, and, like a usurping monkey meeting the real mountain king, hurriedly gave up his seat. Trying to look natural but unable to hide his ingrained obsequiousness, he said with a fawning smile, “President, what brings you here?”

“Looking for someone.” The old man, his eyes fixed on David Clark, still wore that smile that seemed ready to trick a naïve girl or take advantage of a respectable woman at any moment.

“Are you looking for Little Howard? He’s one of the rising stars in our school’s young talent program—a PhD from Zhejiang University, very promising.” Clearly, the middle-aged man’s social skills were far inferior to the old man who looked like a gatekeeper. Sensing the shift, he immediately tried to promote David Clark’s counselor, Howard Grant, a young newcomer to the school.