The iron cans turned to powder when thrown out, yet after their arduous journey, they didn’t even have a scratch.

William Baker hid behind Brian Baker, trembling, causing Brian Baker to shake along with him.

In a pitiful whisper, he asked, “Are they still human?”

Mr. 001 seemed to hear this, turning his head to glance at Brian Baker.

His irises were a deep, profound black, hidden in the shadow cast by the backlight, with the occasional glint of firelight flickering across them, vanishing in an instant. Yet that sense of mockery still lingered.

Brian Baker looked at him expressionlessly, pressing down on the quivering spirit behind him, and calmly asked, “Can you shut up?”

William Baker didn’t dare move.

……

It wasn’t until Mr. 001 finished warming himself by the fire and put his gloves back on that the proctor at the door spoke in an official tone: “We are the proctors for this exam. I am number 154. We just received word that two of you did not answer according to the rules.”

The pot-bellied John Baker turned deathly pale. She could barely stand to begin with, and now she looked about to faint.

She was like a faucet, tears gushing out uncontrollably.

As for the bald man tied to the sofa… he didn’t even dare to breathe.

“But…”

Someone suddenly spoke up.

Proctor 154 paused and looked toward the speaker.

William Baker suddenly stuck his head out from behind Brian Baker.

Surprisingly, the one daring to speak up was his drunkard father, Old Baker.

“At the… at the very start, there weren’t any rules about how we had to answer.” Old Baker stammered, cowed by the attention.

“All rules are given as prompts,” 154 replied.

“Where’s the prompt?”

154 looked at him expressionlessly: “I’m not a candidate.”

“But—but we didn’t know! Ignorance is not a crime…” Old Baker’s voice grew smaller and smaller, until it was barely a mosquito’s hum.

154: “That’s not our concern.”

With a face like a coffin lid, 154 continued in his official tone: “We will only punish the violators. The rest of you may continue the exam.”

As he spoke, he pulled out a stark white slip of paper and read the scrawled message on it.

“According to the information received, the violators are a middle-aged man and a young girl—”

He glanced at Mr. 001, then looked back at the slip, paused for a few seconds, and repeated with a stiff face, “A middle-aged man and a lady. The two violators will come with us.”

While he was speaking, the other proctor, number 922, had already grabbed the bald man from the sofa and dragged him to the door like a dead dog.

The door was opened, and a cold wind howled in.

Snow pellets pelted down, and everyone inside screamed and shrank toward the stove, as if a touch from the snow would make them vanish into thin air.

Everyone watched as proctor 922 led the bald man out the door, and suddenly they both disappeared into the wind and snow.

Only the bald man’s terrified screams and a puddle of water on the floor remained.

154, still with his coffin face, said, “There’s still a young, hmm, a lady…”

He looked up, frowning as he scanned the room.

Old Baker and two kindly old ladies took advantage of the chaos to shield John Baker behind them, but they were shaking like leaves.

Just as 154’s gaze was about to land on them, Mr. 001 jerked his chin toward Brian Baker, “The other one is him. Take him.”

“Who?”

154 glanced down at the slip of paper.

On it, in sharp, messy handwriting, was written—young girl.

154 stared blankly at Brian Baker.

Brian Baker, under his gaze, glared at Mr. 001, his face cold and severe.

154 had no doubt that if this cold-faced guy had a knife, their boss’s head would already be chopped off.

“This—”

He was just about to speak when Mr. 001 flipped up his coat collar and turned to walk into the wind and snow.

……

……

“Damn! Bro!!”

“Bastards!! How can you be so unreasonable!!” Old Baker jumped up.

“It’s not him! It’s me! It’s not him—” John Baker was stunned for two seconds, then hurriedly pushed through the crowd toward the door.

But all she saw was the door wide open, sand-like snow swirling in on the wind, pouring in by the handful.

There was no sign of anyone by the door.

The three proctors, along with the bald man and the wrongly taken Brian Baker, had long since vanished without a trace.

“Stop yelling! They’re gone—if you’ve got the guts, go after them!” The tattooed man spat, strode over, slammed the door shut, and locked it with two more bolts.

The room instantly fell silent. Old Baker’s eyes were bloodshot; furious, he slapped his thigh and sat down heavily on the floor.

John Baker collapsed back into her chair, crying even harder.

She hadn’t stopped since entering this house, as if she was about to cry out all the tears of her life.

William Baker stood stiffly by the door for a while, face pale, then turned to help his father up, frowning as he whispered, “My brother left me a message.”

“What?” Old Baker was stunned.

The proctors moved faster than humanly possible—how did Brian Baker have time to leave a message?

“He told me to find a knife,” William Baker said.

“What kind of knife?”

William Baker slowly shook his head, didn’t answer, and instead turned to look at the answer wall.

Old Baker followed his gaze.

He swept his eyes around aimlessly at first, but finally his gaze settled on one spot.

There were a few fine knife marks there.