The students exclaimed in surprise; no one expected the teacher to say something so hurtful.

Unexpectedly, David Foster’s smile didn’t change. Looking at the The Homeroom Teacher, who was about the same height as himself, he said softly, “I’ve always made a living by picking up scraps—what’s the problem? Even if I end up picking up scraps in the future, it doesn’t matter. At least I won’t be like some people, who were supported by the whole village to go to college, then ran off to another city to enjoy the good life, and completely forgot about their fellow villagers.”

Mr. Foster was stunned, her face suddenly turning pale and green. She was about to lash out, but David Foster blinked and, with a sweet smile, said, “Mr. Foster, that watch the village chief gave you back then—did you pawn it or throw it away? How come we’ve never seen you wear it?”

Ohhh, the boys in the class exploded with laughter, egging each other on.

Mr. Foster, furious, slammed the desk and stormed out of the classroom.

“Awesome, King of Scraps.” The girl sitting in front of David Foster was named Jessica Clark. She usually disliked the The Homeroom Teacher the most, and turned around to say to him.

David Foster smiled, not wanting to chat idly with the classmates around him. He glanced at Emily Sullivan, then sat down, pulled out a copy of “Sentimental Swordsman, Ruthless Sword” from under the desk. He’d borrowed this book from the county library last week. Although it was free, there would be a custodial fee if it was overdue, so he had to hurry and finish it.

After the bell rang, two boys from another class were calling at the back door of the classroom: “Is David Foster here?”

David Foster looked up from his book, a bit puzzled, and replied, “That’s me.” He wondered if the The Homeroom Teacher had reported him to the school.

Stepping outside the classroom, the two boys looked him up and down with disdainful smiles. “So you’re the one who picks up scraps?”

David Foster glanced at them sideways and said, “Yeah, but I won’t be picking up yours.”

The boys in his class, watching to see what was happening, burst out laughing again. “King of Scraps, you’re really cool today.”

“What are you laughing at!” The two boys, embarrassed, shouted, “It’s William who wants to see him.”

At the mention of “William,” the boys in the class instantly fell silent, like cicadas in winter, not daring to make a sound. Only a tall, skinny boy sitting in the front row coldly tossed out, “Who are you trying to scare?”

The two boys quickly said, “Henry Carter, this has nothing to do with you.”

David Foster gave a wry smile and walked out the classroom door.

Chapter 7: Brilliant Sunshine

William was William Harris from Class 2. It was said that he had connections with people from outside school, so he became a big name in the county high school—one of the two most formidable students. The other was David Foster’s classmate Henry Carter. Henry Carter’s father was the chief of the train station police station, so people in the underworld generally gave him some respect. Plus, he was sociable and had made a name for himself.

But William Harris was different. He was the son of a worker at the county’s state-owned forklift factory, had no connections, and wasn’t good at much—except fighting. In his first year of high school, he was cornered by five people by the river. He took them all on, ended up with three broken ribs, but three of his opponents were left lying on the ground. That fight made his reputation. It was said he sometimes listened to rock music. When asked why he liked Black Panther, he said, “Rock is great—it doesn’t hurt people, and it’s a rush.”

Back then, there was no such thing as Viagra, that little blue pill, so the name William wouldn’t make people laugh in the county high school—but it could scare a lot of people.

David Foster frowned, thinking that no matter what, he had nothing to do with the underworld. Why was this William looking for him?

Full of doubts, David Foster followed the two guys as they dawdled up to the fourth floor of the teaching building. The fourth floor only had a half-attic and was rather dim, usually a hangout for senior boys to smoke and chat. But this break was strange—the usually lively attic was eerily quiet, with only one person inside, half-squatting, holding a cigarette between his index and middle fingers, the tip glowing red.

“Sit,” the person said.

The two who’d called David Foster up gave him a push and barked, “William told you to sit.”

David Foster smiled, patted his butt, and sat down in front of William Harris.

William Harris was tall and burly, but his waist wasn’t thick, which made his shoulders look especially broad—clearly a good fighter. Seeing David Foster sitting calmly, just like in the classroom, he was surprised by his composure and stared at him for a while before suddenly saying, “You really have guts—no wonder you dared to mess with people from outside.”

Hearing this, David Foster finally understood what was going on. It must have been the aftermath of dealing with that little punk the other night. He gave a wry smile and said, “That really wasn’t my fault.”

“Oh? You know what this is about?” William Harris asked, biting his cigarette.

David Foster smiled bitterly. “Is William planning to teach me a lesson for those outsiders?”

“Pah!” William Harris suddenly burst out angrily. “What do you take me for, kid! Don’t think I’m a coward like your classmate Henry Carter. I’ve mixed it up everywhere, but I’ve never messed with my own classmates!”

Only then did David Foster realize he’d misunderstood, and he smiled and apologized.