The Ultimate Proctor

2

Arthur kicked the aluminum charcoal basin towards Benjamin, who carefully lit a fire, filling the stove with an orange glow.

Oliver crouched by the stove, dejectedly tossing in wood chips.

The flames flickered. He stared gloomily for a while, feeling he needed to share his feelings with someone before dying. He looked up to see his brother standing beside him, warming his hands with an expression of utter indifference and boredom.

Oliver considered for two seconds and decided to die quietly.

...

"Hey, um." Benjamin suddenly spoke.

Arthur glanced over.

"Don't know what to call you." Benjamin patted the pregnant woman's shoulder. "You're pregnant, how can you just sit there freezing? That's terrible. Come over and warm up. Don't catch a chill, end up with both sides suffering."

The woman froze for a moment, then tears streamed down her face.

Benjamin jumped. "What? What's wrong?"

The woman wept softly. "Who knows if I'll even live to give birth..."

Despite saying this, she moved her chair closer to the stove.

She cried for a while before finally stopping. Her voice thick with tears, she said to Benjamin, "By the way, you can call me Eleanor Farrell."

Benjamin forced a laugh. "Didn't expect we'd share a surname! I think you're about the same age as my... son. Quite a coincidence. Once we're out of this damned place, we'll give you a big red envelope to ward off bad luck, guarantee a safe delivery for mother and child."

Dominic Taylor muttered darkly, "f*****g hell, chatting like this now... f**k!"

Hearing this, everyone stiffened and scattered around the room, searching.

The others were looking for clues related to the question; Dominic was looking for various defensive hunting tools.

Arthur didn't move away. Once his hands were warm, he lightly brushed the wall with the question text, then turned his attention to the clutter on the stove ledge.

There were a few bottles and jars, a pile of blackened coins, some oddly shaped pebbles, scattered chicken feathers, even a moldy pacifier from God-knows-which century.

Seeing Arthur hadn't left, Oliver didn't dare move either.

He remembered his teacher's advice before the college entrance exam: when you have no clue, read the stem several times. So he planted himself in front of the wall and started muttering repeatedly.

"A group of travellers arrived at the snowy mountains..."

"Travellers..."

"Snowy mountains..."

"Hiss..."

When he snapped out of it, he found the room unnaturally quiet, everyone holding their breath, staring at him.

Oliver: "...Just reading aloud."

Benjamin had the classic parent's flaw: in a crowd, he wanted his kid to perform. "Thought of anything? Tell us?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "No."

Faces fell with disappointment, and people resumed rummaging.

Only Dominic Taylor refused to let it go. He eyed Oliver suspiciously. "Really? You're not hiding something, are you?"

Oliver: "Why would I hide anything?"

Dominic stared into his eyes for a while, making him intensely uncomfortable.

"Fine. Better not be."

This thug was probably used to threatening people; nothing he said was pleasant. He turned back to sorting through the hunting tools.

Oliver silently flipped him the bird. Asshole.

This classmate had just turned eighteen before the college entrance exam, at the peak of his narcissism, thinking everyone beneath him was an i***t – even his own father couldn't escape that label. The only exception was Arthur.

Actually, he'd only gotten close to Arthur in the last couple of years. Benjamin said Arthur had been abroad recuperating from an illness, but would come back to China occasionally. Each time, he'd stay at their house for a couple of days.

Added up, the actual time wasn't that long.

But with a research spirit never applied to his studies, Oliver had still learned a few things.

For example, Arthur had some memory problems. He had no recollection of certain years, the events that happened, or the people he met. That was why he was recuperating abroad.

Also, several elders in the family seemed a bit afraid of him.

This point baffled Oliver. He'd asked Benjamin several times, but Benjamin said he was overthinking and wasting time.

After a while, he started to think it was normal.

After all, even the thug they'd just met in this cabin seemed a little afraid of Arthur.

Relying on his brother's presence, Oliver intended to pick a fight with Dominic, annoy him a couple of times. But when he turned around, Arthur was long gone.

Oliver: "...Where'd he go?"

Eleanor Farrell asked, "Looking for someone?"

Her condition made it hard for her to move around constantly.

Oliver: "My brother."

Eleanor: "He went that way."

She tilted her head towards the other end of the cabin.

...

The cabin wasn't actually that small. The ground floor had three rooms connected to the living room. In a shadowy corner, an old wooden ladder led to a small loft upstairs.

It was just piled high with too much stuff and crammed with too many people, making it dark and crowded.

The bedroom doors on the ground floor were locked, the locks rusty and oddly shaped.

Stranger still, one door had a rooster hanging from it, the other a hen.

Both birds had been bled dry, but their feathers were neatly combed. Their heads were twisted to face the same direction, creating a bizarrely creepy sight.

When Oliver arrived, Arthur was standing in the shadows beside the door.

Scarier than the chickens.

"Bro, what's that thing in your hand?" Oliver rubbed his goosebumps.

"Axe. Never seen one?" Arthur lazily lifted an eye.

"Seen one..."

Oliver thought, That's why I'm freaking out. Why the hell are you holding an axe?

Holding it was one thing, but Arthur was gripping the small hand-axe loosely in one hand, while the thumb of his other hand casually stroked the blade.

"Walked around inside. Found any clues?" he asked without looking up.

"Huh?" Oliver was bewildered. "Should I have?"

Arthur looked at him.

He was tall, always looking down at people slightly. His eyes were a clear, light brown, his eyelids thin. Handsome, yes, but when expressionless, they held a distant, cold indifference.

Other things aside, you definitely couldn't feel any familial warmth.

Oliver was thoroughly intimidated. "Give me an example."

Arthur: "What kind of questions are related to snowy mountains?"

Oliver: "...Not really sure."

Arthur: "Didn't you go to school?"

Oliver: "I did..."

Arthur: "Wasted on the dog?"

Oliver: "Learned a few tricks... Three long, one short, pick the shortest. Three short, one long, pick the longest. Two long, two short, pick B. All uneven, pick C. Physics basically relies on that."

Arthur: "..."

Oliver: "And one crucial thing."

Arthur: "..."

Oliver: "Know when to give up."

Arthur: "Piss off."

Oliver suspected that if he kept talking, the axe would end up embedded in his forehead. He shut his mouth awkwardly.

His dear cousin finally withdrew his gaze, too lazy to look at him.

After a while, Oliver couldn't resist asking another question: "Bro, what are you doing with that?"

"Looking for a pen." After saying this, Arthur gave a disdainful snort and tossed the palm-sized hand axe into a scrap bucket.

Oliver stared at the axe: "Looking for what???"

Arthur said, "A pen."

Oliver was convinced one of them had lost their mind.

However, Arthur didn't bother explaining further. He just climbed the wooden ladder up to the loft.

...

Time passed surprisingly fast as they picked through things.

The red-painted numbers on the wall kept changing imperceptibly – from 6 to 5, then to 4.

The time for the first paper collection was getting closer. Everyone grew more anxious. No leads, no clues, and a countdown timer hanging over them like the college entrance exam.

Under high pressure, people grasp at straws.

When Arthur came down from the loft, Eleanor Farrell was dipping her finger into a small black bottle, about to write something on the answer wall.

A strong, sour stench wafted from the bottle, like cheap ink gone bad, but the color was slightly different.

Maybe it was the dim, yellow light, but it looked rust-brown.

"I... Is this really okay?" Eleanor looked anxious, her voice trembling, seemingly seeking confirmation again. "It doesn't have anything to do with physics..."

"The question hasn't given any information! How do we know what scores points!" A balding, short man cursed with a dark face. "I doubt there's any f*****g correct answer at all! Leaving it blank now is blank. When the six hours are up, leaving it blank is still blank. Either way, someone's gonna die."

He glared at Eleanor. "Got the guts to write? No? Then I will!"

Eleanor flinched, but her wet finger still touched the wall.

She drew two lines, only to find the liquid on her fingertip left no trace on the wood and stone. The strokes vanished the moment they were written.

Accompanied by an extremely faint watery sound.

As if the answer wall... had swallowed them.

"I... I can't write on it..." Eleanor panicked.

"How? Not enough ink?" The balding man strode over, dipped his finger full of ink from the bottle, and forcefully drew a long stroke on the answer wall.

The result was exactly the same.

The long downward stroke hadn't even reached its end before it disappeared.

That faint watery sound seemed to linger.

The balding man stood frozen for a moment, then his emotions suddenly snapped. "No... How is this possible? Must be not enough ink... Not enough ink... Right..."

He reached out to grab the ink bottle.

Just as he was about to splash the entire bottle onto the wall, his hand was suddenly clamped down.

He turned his head to see Arthur Wright looking down at him, his cold face impatient as he snapped, "Stop being crazy, there's something wrong with the wall!"

The balding man instinctively struggled twice, his face turning red, but couldn't free his hand.

"Oliver." Arthur turned his head. "Give me the hemp rope by the wall."

The balding man, red-faced and thick-necked, wrestled with him. "What are you doing?!"

Arthur deftly tied a knot with one hand, looped it around the man, and pulled... binding both arms and hands together.

Oliver was stunned. "Bro... what did you do before? How are you so good at tying people up?"

Arthur's light-colored eyes swept towards him.

Oliver remembered... his brother might not even know himself.

The balding man was dumped on the tattered sofa. Arthur recapped the bottle of whatever-it-was "ink."

The moment the lid clicked shut, everyone in the room heard a soft sigh.

"Who?!"

Everyone's hair stood on end.

After the last stain on the answer wall vanished, a line of text suddenly appeared in the previously blank area:

Violation Warning: Use of non-compliant exam stationery detected. Invigilators notified.

Invigilators: 001, 154, 922

A rooster's crow erupted abruptly inside the cabin.

Oliver nearly crowed back in fright. He grabbed Arthur's sleeve, ducking his head and peering fearfully towards the sound.

The rooster hanging on the door had twisted its neck at an unnatural angle, its lifeless eyes fixed on the main door.

Arthur strode towards the door. Oliver clung to his sleeve like a dead weight, trying to hold him back. In the end, he was dragged along to the doorway.

Outside the window, in the blizzard whipped by the gale, three figures materialized silently nearby.

The leader was tall, with black, short-cropped hair, wearing a fitted overcoat. Even as a silhouette, he looked imposing and formidable. As he reached the door, a gust of wind blew snow into his eyes.

He lowered his head and blinked lightly, snowflakes falling from his brows and lashes. When he lifted his gaze again, his deep, dark eyes reflected a hint of snow, locking directly with Arthur's inside the cabin.

Arthur touched his earring almost unconsciously.

Oliver whispered mosquito-like in his ear, "You wouldn't... know him, would you?"

Arthur frowned, his voice low. "Forgot."