Chapter 748: Renmin Call Beast

Heimu sits on a hard stone stool, in front of her is a blackboard propped up by a rough wooden frame, and behind her Weng Fa Luo Si's Yongzhou daylight streams through the flower‑vine gaps of the open courtyard, coating her ash‑white long hair with a thin warm golden sheen.

Her posture is upright, hands crossed on her knees, her violet‑black eyes calmly stare ahead.

If this scene were isolated and captioned with a line like "System Space manager conducts grassroots research on Golden Descendant education status," it could probably be pasted into the appendix of any respectable work report.

The premise is to ignore the light‑green figure in front of the blackboard that is currently engaged in Chaotic Demon Dance.

Na Ke Xia stands beside the blackboard, his light‑green hair tied into a low ponytail that swings left and right with his vigorous movements, the dark‑green gradient at the tips tracing lingering after‑images in the air.

The pure black Eye Mask over his left eye remains motionless, while the red‑blue gradient pupil of his right eye shines astonishingly, swirling with a light that could be called "fervor" but is closer to "madness."

His right hand grips a piece of chalk, his left hand clutches a branch of unknown origin, and the blackboard is filled with densely packed formulas in his extremely sloppy script—if those things can be called formulas.

"Concrete No. 42!"

His voice rises to a piercing pitch, the tail curling upward into an almost cracked arc, as the chalk frantically taps the board, scattering white ash. "When Concrete No. 42 is mixed into Italian pasta, its molar mass equals the entropy‑increase curve of an ant's tiny brain soaked in olive oil for three days and three nights! This conclusion is indisputable!"

He flicks the edge of the blackboard with the branch, and, keeping pace with the slap, spins around in place, while the two long strips hanging from his dark collar lift like propellers.

"Class, pay attention! The essence of this formula lies in that when you tune the concrete‑to‑pasta ratio to the seventeenth decimal place, it tastes exactly like an ant's brain! No, it's purer than an ant's brain! It's the collective subconscious of ants!"

Heimu's mouth twitches at the corner.

A translucent System Panel hovers before her, clearly displaying the three floating entries above Na Ke Xia's head:

"Renmin Call Beast", "Psychosis", "Interesting" (Sai Fei Er retained).

She has been staring at those three entries for quite a while.

The naming style of the "Renmin Call Beast" entry bears a distinct Aha flavor.

As for "Psychosis," Heimu even finds the entry somewhat redundant, since anyone witnessing Na Ke Xia's current behavior could reach the same diagnosis without a label.

And the "Interesting" left by Sai Fei Er prompts Heimu to make another mental note about that cat still frolicking on Xianzhou.

Her timing is unfortunate.

Just as she steps into the open courtyard, without even a chance to speak, Na Ke Xia points a branch at her nose and commands, "Sit still, don't disrupt class discipline," his tone so severe as if she were the anomalous entity whose data model had been corrupted by a "joyful" entry.

She sits down.

She casually sweeps the two unlucky ones beside her as well.

Wan Di sits on the stone stool to Heimu's left, his back perfectly straight, broad shoulders squared, his short hair fading from gold to orange shimmering with molten‑gold flow in the sunlight.

His bare torso displays defined muscular lines, red battle markings extending from neck to chest, faintly glowing dark‑red under Yongzhou daylight.

Both hands rest neatly on his knees, his golden eyes focused on Na Ke Xia, who is currently engaged in Chaotic Demon Dance ahead, his gaze so serious it seems he is listening to a strategic briefing on the fate of Xuanfeng City.

If one only observes his posture and expression, anyone would assume he is a crown prince undergoing military theory training, until the floating entries above his head are seen.

Good student. Brain has left. gay.

When Heimu sees those three entries, her gaze lingers on the "gay" entry for a full three seconds.

Inside the brackets there is no annotation, just a solitary clean word hanging there, faintly flickering in Yongzhou daylight.

She glances again at Wan Di's upright posture and wise eyes, deciding to temporarily not ponder what the entry means.

XiaDie sits to the right of Heimu.

She neither watches the blackboard nor Na Ke Xia, instead she lies across the stone table, her purple‑gradient long hair slipping from her shoulders to cover most of the tabletop, the dark‑purple tips shimmering dimly in the light.

Her head is bowed low, a pen clenched in her hand, scribbling something on a parchment, the tip producing a fine, dense rustle across the paper.

The hollow‑styled braids drape from her shoulder, swaying gently with her writing motions.

Her posture is so focused it borders on autistic, forming a stark contrast with the upright, muscle‑bound crown prince on the left who is attentively listening.

Heimu turns her head sideways, her gaze landing on the entry panel above XiaDie's head.

"Doujin Girl (?)".

"(? ω?)", followed by a line of small text: "You know."

Below are two red Lock icons marked by the system as "Unable to Probe," each followed by a row of flashing ellipses, as if mocking her permission level.

Heimu squints slightly.

She's been at this for so long, and it's the first time she's encountered an entry that even her permissions cannot directly unlock.

Of course it's not unprobeable; the system prompt reads clearly—"Parsing, estimated remaining time unknown."

That's also why she dutifully remains in this open‑air psychiatric ward: she won't leave until those two "Unable to Probe" entries are unlocked.

She must discover what Aha has stuffed into XiaDie's model that makes the system's parsing progress bar crawl slower than a snail.

A loud table‑slap echoes from ahead.

Heimu pulls her thoughts from the entry panel back to the front, redirecting her gaze forward.

Wan Di lowers his upright right hand; the earlier sound was his palm striking the stone table.

Na Ke Xia halts the dance demonstrating the "Concrete‑Pasta Entropy Curve," freezing in an extremely odd pose: left foot planted on the stone platform beneath the blackboard, right arm raised high with the branch, neck twisted to face Wan Di's direction.

In that red‑blue gradient pupil flickers a chaotic light that can be read as a clash between "irritated at having the lecture interrupted" and "excited that someone finally asked a question," battling across both hemispheres.

"What."

Na Ke Xia flicks the branch downward, the tip pointing at Wan Di, his tone laced with impatience as if a pause button had been forcibly pressed.

"You have a question!?"

Wan Di rises at a measured pace, first stepping off the stone stool, hands naturally hanging at his sides, his golden eyes fixed on Na Ke Xia, his expression solemn as if offering a sacrifice to the Titan in a temple.

He speaks, his voice deep and powerful, enunciation clear, tone formal.