Chapter 6 The Counselor’s Sixth Day Mou Lin decided to make him pay…

Chapter 6: The Counselor’s Sixth Day on the Job — Mou Lin Decides to Make Him Pay…

Sometimes, it’s not just teachers who should keep their distance from students’ lives; students should also keep their distance from their teachers’ lives.

Mou Lin weakly closed his eyes, no longer looking at the terminal shoved in front of him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have walked through that door half an hour ago.

…

Because he couldn’t resist slacking off while writing documents yesterday, Mou Lin procrastinated until quite late. The moment he lay down, he passed out completely, forgetting to set an alarm. This morning, he was woken by a call from Cheng Jingnian’s terminal. Fortunately, the students weren’t contacting Cheng because it was time for their appointment and the teacher was missing; they had simply arrived early and found themselves locked out of the small meeting room.

That gave Mou Lin just enough time to wash his face before rushing to the scene.

He arrived precisely at nine, the agreed-upon time, and all eight student representatives were already there. It seemed one representative from the Mech Operations Department had also overslept, arriving only one elevator ride before Mou Lin. He scratched his chestnut hair, looking rather sheepish.

The other Mecha Department rep was scolding him: “Zhao Yao, if you’re going to oversleep every time, you might as well go play cards. Everyone would be thrilled to hear you didn’t get up.”

Zhao Yao laughed it off without responding, but the Logistics Department rep couldn’t resist asking, “Why?”

“Because you’re ‘Zhao’ (too early to) rise.”

The Beta girl looked like she wanted to slap herself. Mou Lin’s last shred of hope died. He deeply regretted ever harboring even a sliver of expectation.

This guy, who carried himself like a cold, aloof peak flower, was named Cong Xieying. Mou Lin hadn’t interacted with him much, but he left an unforgettable impression.

—Because he’d never met someone with such terrible puns! Or someone who loved them so much! The only thing “cold” about this person was his passion for corny jokes!

One of the Omega student reps from the Medical Department clapped her hands: “Then I must be happy because my surname is Fu, right?”

—It’s spreading to the classmates, ahhh!

—Also, your name is Fushaka, girl! Your surname is Grendel!

Mou Lin cut them off before the entire scene devolved into the worst pun contest in history: “Let’s head into the meeting room first. We don’t have much to cover today, so let’s make it quick.”

Distributing and emphasizing the safety guidelines for the Three-School Joint Training Camp didn’t take long. Mou Lin had originally allotted twenty minutes for Drill Instructor Cheng Jingnian to speak, but Cheng finished in just five.

Mou Lin stared at him: *Seriously? Nothing else?*

Cheng Jingnian nodded silently.

Fine. Mou Lin leaned back in his chair and reiterated the importance of safety.

“Make sure to forward and check the map files promptly. Anyone having trouble opening them should contact me. Also, I’ll run a lottery draw in the group chat at three this afternoon. Remind all team leaders to participate on time—it determines team assignments and which Drill Instructor will be ‘hunting’ you during the joint training. I think I explained the rules clearly earlier?”

The student reps nodded, and Mou Lin waved them off, signaling they could leave.

But Zhao Yao turned back and approached, and the other students also paused, clearly not ready to go.

Mou Lin: ?

Zhao Yao mysteriously pulled up a terminal projection: “Mr. Mou, is this photo of you?”

A half-body shot of him appeared. The image wasn’t very clear—slightly blurred from motion, as if captured from a video. Though the face was pixelated, the screenshot perfectly captured the murderous aura radiating from Mou Lin as he spun forcefully.

If it had ended there, Mou Lin might have been able to accept it. But what about the caption underneath?!

Mou Lin shut his eyes in agony, his voice trembling: “I think I’ve suddenly forgotten how to read.”

His reaction was so intense that even Cheng Jingnian, who usually respected privacy, couldn’t suppress his curiosity. Sitting across from the projection, he could only read the reversed text one character at a time:

“Alien… tycoon… throwing money… becomes… ‘money-throwing idiot’… local… teacher… cold, arrogant… refund… hag”

*Alien tycoon throwing money becomes “money-throwing idiot,” local teacher cold and arrogant refund hag?*

“Ahem.”

Mou Lin heard a poorly concealed chuckle disguised as a cough from Cheng Jingnian’s direction—he definitely saw the corners of Cheng’s mouth twitch upward!

For the sake of Cheng Jingnian, who had helped him finish half the report materials yesterday, Mou Lin ignored him and instead directed his fury at Cong Xieying, who had one foot out the door but was so absorbed in the gossip that he forgot to leave, blocking all the student reps inside: “Student Cong Xieying, reflect on why every time you show up, terrible puns flood the room!”

Cong Xieying straightened up, his aloof demeanor utterly intimidating: “Reporting, Counselor, because I am ‘Xieying’ (Homophone for ‘Homophonic’).”

Mou Lin once again felt despair at how quickly he realized “Xieying” sounded identical to “xiéyīn”—homophone.

But it didn’t stop there. Cong Xieying’s light green eyes locked onto Zhao Yao: “And this is Zhao Yao’s fault.”

Zhao Yao: “Me again?”

Cong Xieying: “Because you’re here, so—”

Almost all the student reps chorused: “We’ve ‘Zhao’ (found) it.”

Cheng Jingnian leaned back in his chair, head tilted up, beyond caring. Mou Lin glanced desperately at the only student who hadn’t joined the madness—one of the two Alphas from the Command Department, Lu Jianshen. Compared to the other Command Alpha, who was laughing so hard his tonsils were visible, this young man wore a dark expression, his eyes screaming how immature everyone else was.

Mou Lin looked at him a few more times, thinking this kid might actually accomplish something great.

Then, unable to take it anymore, red with rage, he chased all these unreliable student reps out.

Ignoring the chaotic shouts from outside—“Teacher, I promise I won’t make puns again!” “Teacher, I’ll definitely cover Cong Xieying’s mouth!” “Teacher, you still haven’t explained this photo!”—Mou Lin returned to his office with a grim face.

Trying to shake off puns so bad they could make the entire galaxy blush, and after several deep breaths, Mou Lin still couldn’t stop thinking about that photo.

He typed the caption into the search bar. Results popped up instantly—the first video’s thumbnail was the exact image Zhao Yao had shown him. The title, however, was surprisingly serious: “Do We Still Overly Worship Money?—A Look at the Federation Through the White Frost Star Teacher Incident.”

The video began with a brief explanation of the source: it came from an unauthorized livestream at a police station—an act not to be emulated—but the footage held significant real-world relevance, hence its sharing. Then came Mou Lin’s forceful declaration. The moment “This is White Frost Star!” appeared on screen, Mou Lin used a lifetime’s worth of reflexes to mute his terminal.

“Thud!”

Cheng Jingnian looked up. Mou Lin had face-planted onto the desk, the tips of his slightly curly hair revealing bright red ears.

“They dug up my workplace… Am I going to get fired…” Mou Lin mumbled miserably.

Cheng Jingnian: “It’s fine. You won’t.”

Mou Lin: “But we’re a military academy. Won’t there be a PR crisis or something?”

Cheng Jingnian paused, as if overcoming some internal resistance: “…You can search my name.”

“You can look up any other counselor or Drill Instructor you know too,” he added.

Mou Lin quickly typed “Cheng Jingnian.” What was the point in checking others? His partner was more entertaining. To his surprise—but fitting Cheng Jingnian’s implication—the largest social platform on the Star Network was flooded with content about “Cheng Jingnian.” There were four pages of original uploads alone, and the number of reuploaded compilation videos was terrifying.

*What’s going on? Is this star system really ruled by public opinion??*

Stunned and disbelieving, Mou Lin scrolled down. The first few pages featured compilations of Cheng Jingnian himself, while later ones showed titles like “Federal First Military Academy Drill Instructor Compilation” and “White Frost Star Military Academy Drill Instructor Compilation,” seemingly ranked by the target’s screen time.

Cheng Jingnian gave a soft cough.

Forcibly pushing his finger away from the play button, Mou Lin finally managed to shake off his embarrassment: “Why is there such a high level of attention?”

Cheng Jingnian hesitated, the tip of his left ear turning red—his right ear was covered by a metal prosthetic and couldn’t be seen. Unable to bring himself to say it, he finally lowered his head and operated his terminal.

【Cheng Jingnian: [Forwarded Comment] “This overwhelming sense of reliability and appeal!! The contrast between a slender figure and a powerful aura—I always say the best things are handed over to the Federation. Isn’t this way better than watching idol dramas?!”】

【Cheng Jingnian: [Forwarded Comment] “It’s that look in his eyes, like he’s looking at a dog! Master, I’m your dog, woof woof! Step on me!”】

【Cheng Jingnian: [Forwarded Comment] “Does anyone understand the feeling of his slightly curly hair swaying by his face? AWSL—ah, I’m dead!”】

Mou Lin almost threw his terminal away.

Fortunately, Cheng Jingnian still had some sense of propriety or humanity, as he quickly retracted these inflammatory messages.

Unfortunately, Mou Lin had already decided to make him pay for it.

【Mou Lin: [Forwarded Comment] “This silver hair, like something inorganic, should be paired with green eyes resembling water-soaked moss—cold and distant. And if he’s a Beta, it’s even better, isn’t it?”】

Mou Lin’s voice was trembling: “Are you trying to say it’s because of looks, like these comments?”

【Mou Lin retracted a message】

Cheng Jingnian said: “Yes.”

They just stared at each other for a while, both faces growing increasingly red, as if someone had turned off the office AC. Finally, Cheng Jingnian changed the subject: “These… comments… among our colleagues in our year, only Meixinsta has fewer.”

Meixinsta… It took Mou Lin a second to remember she was the Class Four Counselor: “Why?”

“She’s an Omega. Inappropriate comments are automatically flagged as sexual harassment.”

Mou Lin tried to apply the logic: “Would Shen Zijun have fewer comments too?” She was the Class Three Drill Instructor, the only Alpha.

“No, hers are the most.” Cheng Jingnian gave a negative reply.

*Sigh… ABO.*

Mou Lin shook his head.

…

The rest of the day went by without much happening, except for the good colleague Meixinsta delivering a box of group-bought, about-to-expire inhibitors and sharing tips on securing them to a combat belt. So, when Mou Lin climbed aboard the transport ship the next morning, the well-rested Mou Lin felt particularly refreshed.

“Want some camouflage patterns on your face? Though they’re basically just decorative and not very useful.”

As soon as he entered the front cabin, Shen Zijun greeted him brightly.

The other counselors had already put theirs on—three cat-whisker-like lines on both cheekbones, purely decorative. The Drill Instructors generally had clean faces, without even that bit of decoration.

But… Mou Lin looked down at his jungle camouflage uniform, then looked up:

“I must be awake, right? I’m not seeing things?”

“I knew that you’d be wearing white, but how can it be this white?!”

Author's Note:

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[1]: Why does it turn red? Redshift, besides indicating moving away, also signifies cooling. Well, this explanation makes it even colder.

Please attack me with more homophonic puns, [Blue Heart]!