Chapter One: Psychological Test (Part One)

“Next, Zhao Li!”

“Present!”

Zhao Li answered loudly, stood up, and straightened his new uniform. Though his movements weren’t exactly standard, he managed to tidy himself up efficiently.

This was the first aptitude test after enlistment, which would determine the branch of service he’d be assigned to in the future—a matter of great importance. His earnestness was an effort to leave a good impression on the officers conducting the test.

Knock, knock, knock—the sound rang clear and rhythmic against the alloy door. Then a commanding voice came from within: “Enter!”

As the words faded, the alloy door slid open automatically. Zhao Li strode inside. The room was spacious but sparsely furnished—just a long table and a few chairs. One stood in the center, the other three behind the table. At one end of the table, there was a display screen and a control console.

Three officers sat behind the table, all middle-aged: one captain and two lieutenants. From the setup, it was clear this test was neither simple nor perfunctory.

“Good day, sir!” Zhao Li saluted, though the gesture wasn’t entirely conventional, and greeted them loudly. He had only received his uniform that morning, on his first day in the army, and hadn’t yet learned the proper military motions.

The officers returned his greeting with solemn formality. The captain in the middle glanced at Zhao Li’s attire, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Sit.”

Zhao Li took the only empty seat, straightening his spine and tensing every muscle, afraid any slip might displease the officers—and who knew what arduous posting he might be assigned if so.

“Zhao Li, twenty-one years old…” The voice reading his profile sounded synthesized, reciting the sparse details of his life with flat indifference. Simple was inevitable: after finishing the current fifteen-year compulsory education, Zhao Li hadn’t waited for university, but enlisted directly. His resume was as simple as could be.

“Tell me, why did you enlist?” The captain’s tone was kind, recognizing the nervousness in the young recruit before him.

“Sir, serving in the military is every citizen’s duty!” Zhao Li sat ramrod straight, answering loudly.

“Are there any other reasons?” It was a standard reply—no one could fault it, but everyone knew it wasn’t what truly motivated young people to join the army.

“Sir, in the military I can learn skills that aren’t available in society!” Zhao Li answered swiftly, without a hint of hesitation. Many military skills weren’t taught outside, but mastering them made finding a job in civilian life far easier. Especially the cultivation methods unique to the military, which far surpassed the basic versions available to the public—that was a major draw for young people.

The captain nodded. The recruit before him was clearly candid, not given to empty high-minded rhetoric. Unlike some, who would grandstand about selflessness and lofty ideals when asked the same question.

“Anything else?” Finding someone so honest was rare; the captain pressed on instinctively.

“Yes, sir. After discharge, if I take the university entrance exam, I’ll get at least forty extra points. If I perform well and earn commendations, I’ll get even more. Additionally, under equal circumstances, I’ll have priority admission.” Zhao Li had no fear that admitting his personal motivations might draw criticism from the officers. He knew, in the military, straightforwardness often counted for more than honeyed words.

“Excellent!” The captain appreciated Zhao Li’s candor. He marked on Zhao Li’s evaluation: clear purpose, honest character.

“Please draw your random test question.” The lieutenant by the screen watched Zhao Li dispassionately, inviting him forward. This comprehensive test covered many subjects, with varied methods; to prevent cheating, each recruit drew a question at random.

“Number thirteen!” Zhao Li heard the number and couldn’t help muttering inwardly, “What an unlucky number.”

The first question was from the old Grimm’s fairy tale, Cinderella—the girl who fled before midnight, before everything reverted to its original form. The question: What problems are there with this story?

Zhao Li had read it before and knew the flaws, so a smile crept onto his lips. “Sir, there are two problems here.”

“Two?” The answer clearly surprised the three officers. The captain, intrigued, urged him, “Let’s hear it.”

“Yes, sir!” Though he hadn’t undergone formal training yet, he’d been told it was best to preface answers with “Sir, reporting,” “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir.”

“The first problem, sir, is that everything was supposed to revert after midnight—but the crystal slipper didn’t.” This was the textbook answer, widely recognized as a minor oversight in the master’s work.

The officers, however, were more interested in Zhao Li’s second answer—something they’d never considered before. “And the second?”

“The second, sir, is that finding someone with just a shoe is impossible.” Zhao Li answered loudly, seeing how intrigued the officers were. “If you gave me a shoe, I could easily find millions of people who fit it, sir. If it was truly possible to identify someone by a single shoe, the entire forensic unit could be dismissed—they’d all be unqualified.”

His last remark was spontaneous humor. While the question wasn’t hard for Zhao Li, the test wasn’t about finding the right answer—it was about the details of how one responded. The correctness of the answer wasn’t the only criterion.

This was a perspective none of them had considered. Not only, given today’s massive population, but even within the fairy tale itself—unless Cinderella’s family was the only one in existence, the method simply wouldn’t work. The prince was doomed never to find his beloved.

The three officers exchanged glances, each seeing satisfaction in the others’ eyes. The captain lowered his head and added another note to Zhao Li’s evaluation: strong logic, excellent divergent thinking. After a moment’s thought, he wrote: has an appropriate sense of humor.