Chapter 2: The Odd One Who Talks to Himself — Xiao Xiu

“Wow, Master F is so beautiful.”
　　
“Everyone’s in groups and pairs.”
　　
“Oh, there is one person, just like when you were in school.”
　　
“But back when you were in school, you barely ever went to class—you scared off quite a few tutors… and yet you still managed to get your degree. Everyone worked really hard for that.”
　　
“It’s been six years since I last came to school, I really miss it~”
　　
Fu Lizhen’s temple throbbed with a bulging vein, and he said through gritted teeth, word by word: “Shut—up!”
　　
“Welcome…huh?” The female teacher who had been waiting downstairs and hurried over to greet him upon seeing him awkwardly withdrew the rest of her sentence. She glanced cautiously at Fu Lizhen, silently grumbling to herself. She really couldn’t understand what those leaders were thinking. Sure, this Fu Lizhen was quite famous in the art world, but at the end of the day, he was still an autistic patient. They said he could live a normal life with intervention, but who knew whether he was actually better or not.
　　
Just like that, it was especially abnormal… The female teacher’s expression was complicated.
　　
Rong Qiao was used to talking to herself and couldn’t change it for the time being. She stuck out her tongue: “Sorry.” Then she moved away from his shoulder.
　　
But it was fine, only Li Zhen could hear her talking to herself; otherwise, others would probably be scared to death.
　　
Fu Lizhen sneered, then composed his expression and looked at the female teacher’s lips: “Sorry, it wasn’t directed at you.”
　　
The female teacher’s expression grew even more peculiar, but she still maintained the composure of a highly educated intellectual, smiling as she made a gesture for him to proceed: “Mr. Fu, the dean and the party secretary are already waiting for you inside. This way, please.”
　　
“Thank you.” Fu Lizhen nodded, his expression vacant.
　　
The party secretary and the dean of the art college were already in the office, both appearing amiable and easy to talk to. However, the moment they spoke, Rong Qiao could tell that this was not an equal conversation—it was merely a one-sided notification.
　　
From the information she had gathered, it seemed that Li Zhen’s mother had already discussed everything with them. Today, Li Zhen was probably just coming over to sign the papers.
　　
She curved her lips slightly, descending from the ceiling to stand behind Fu Lizhen, whose face remained expressionless.
　　
“……So for each academic year, you are required to teach one course, with no fewer than twenty-four class hours, plus one lecture per semester, and there may be a few academic exchanges during that time.”
　　
The balding dean with a Mediterranean-style hairline looked at him with a beaming smile and added, “That shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
　　
Fu Lizhen struggled to keep his mind from wandering and finally made it to this point. He furrowed his brow, having no desire to nod or speak at all.
　　
Rong Qiao muttered softly, “If you don’t say anything again, they’re going to think you’re a really strange person.”
　　
“For them, I’ve always been strange.”
　　
He replied flatly, and the other two people in the office froze. The tall, thin secretary with graying temples even glanced around the room to confirm that only the three of them were present.
　　
But clearly, the man across from him hadn’t directed that last remark at him or Old Zhang.
　　
What exactly was he thinking?
　　
Rong Qiao shut her mouth in frustration. She had gotten so used to talking to herself that she couldn’t control it for a moment.
　　
Fu Lizhen’s brows furrowed even tighter. He didn’t want to give anyone lessons, but he also didn’t want Dr. Wang moving into his house.
　　
So annoying.
　　
“The number of class hours is too many—cut it in half.”
　　
Hearing his voice again and finding his words coherent, the dean and the secretary let out a heavy sigh of relief. The latter smiled and said, “Twelve class hours a year is too few. How about this—at least twenty class hours. We really can’t go any lower. Besides, we’re paying you by the hour, and your mother has already agreed.”
　　
Fu Lizhen shook his head. “She agreed to it.” Not me.
　　
She is her, and I am me.
　　
There was clearly no connection between them.
　　
The secretary began to reflect on whether the decision he and the dean of the art college had made was truly correct. Did they really have to hire someone like this to teach the students? Was there no better option?
　　
“Phew—” The secretary rubbed his brow, conceding defeat. “Sixteen class hours per academic year, and I’ll add a thousand to the hourly rate.”
　　
Yes, he had pondered these two questions countless times, and the conclusion was always the same—they had no better choice than to hire Fu Lizhen.
　　
F University was a comprehensive second-tier undergraduate institution. In recent years, the art college had been declining year after year. In the past two years, it had even resorted to supplementary admissions every time, and the overall atmosphere of the college had hit rock bottom. They needed to try a different angle to salvage the college.
　　
Fu Lizhen’s name carried considerable weight in the art world—even many non-art students knew of him, a man once afflicted with autism yet brimming with extraordinary talent. With funding severely lacking, someone like him could perhaps serve as the fulcrum for attempting to transform the entire art academy.