This preserves the simplest and most direct law of the jungle in human evolutionary history.

Ethan Brooks hasn’t differentiated yet, but he still understands all that Alpha stuff.

He thinks that certain someone with the surname Bai is just blatantly showing off and mocking him.

So what if he differentiated into a pretty decent Alpha before him? What’s the big deal.

The bell rings for the end of class.

Ethan Brooks slings his backpack over his shoulder, stands up, and heads toward the back door. As he passes by Ethan Grant, he puts a hand on his shoulder, leans down to his ear, and chuckles softly: “So Master Grant was pretty quick, huh? Just, men who are too quick—”

“Not good.”

As the boy says this, a faint, indistinct scent drifts past Ethan Grant’s nose with his leaning movement.

Ethan Grant’s eyes lift slightly, a strange glint flickering beneath his amber gaze, as subtle as thin ice melting in spring—so subtle that no one notices.

After provoking him, Ethan Brooks leaves the classroom straight away, leaving only Ethan Grant sitting alone in the back corner. He closes his book, taps his fingertip lightly on the desk, making a short, crisp knock.

Full of meaning.

-

For the past two nights, Ethan Brooks has invited William Turner over to his place to play games, and since they played too late, he just slept over at William Turner’s house.

Unlike Logan Reed, William Turner and Ethan Brooks have been sworn brothers since childhood—their moms have been close friends at the mahjong table for years, so Ethan Brooks knew William Turner as soon as he knew 饼筒万.

William Turner is a handsome, smart Alpha with a straightforward personality, good temper, well-off family, generous, loyal, and high emotional intelligence—the kind of boy who has the most friends during school days.

They went to the same elementary, middle, and high school as Ethan Brooks, skipping class, fighting, playing games together—never missing a thing. Their revolutionary friendship runs deep; they’re true childhood friends in every sense.

By comparison, Ethan Grant, the so-called childhood friend, is pretty fake.

The cheap kind, at that.

The cheap childhood friend walks into the classroom in the morning and sees Ethan Brooks napping on his desk.

At this age, it’s not unusual for boys to have one or two close friends and occasionally sleep over.

But when Ethan Grant sits down, he can’t help but frown: “Where’d you pick up all that scent?”

Maybe it’s because Alphas are naturally hostile to other Alphas’ scents.

Ethan Brooks, however, is completely oblivious. He tugs at his collar, lowers his head to sniff a few times, still looking a bit dazed and sleepy: “Really?”

Then he lets go of his collar and lazily flops back down: “William Turner clearly said he hasn’t worn this shirt yet. Why are you Alphas’ noses so sharp?”

After saying that, he realizes something’s off and adds, “We Alphas.”

Ethan Grant holds a pen between his fingers, tapping it absentmindedly. The thin lenses of his glasses cast a slightly chilly light over the tear mole at the corner of his eye.

His tone is indifferent: “You probably don’t count as an Alpha.”

Ethan Brooks knows he’s seventeen and still hasn’t differentiated—he’s definitely a late bloomer—but he’s never doubted that he’ll become a top Alpha. Hearing Ethan Grant say that, it really rubs him the wrong way.

He feels like this guy has been showing off and looking down on him, both openly and secretly, these past few days. He gives a lazy snort: “You should be glad I’m a late bloomer, or else my scent would probably overwhelm you so much you couldn’t even attend class.”

“Oh, looking forward to it.”

“……”

Henry Clark feels the atmosphere behind him is really not great, but he doesn’t dare to intervene. Luckily, Old Grant comes in holding a sheet of paper.

“The results for the placement test are out. Come up and check for yourselves.”

With that, he hurries off to patrol morning self-study, leaving the rest of the class to explode into chaos, everyone rushing forward, then turning pale.

Even knowing it’s certain death, why do they still charge ahead so bravely?

Ethan Brooks raises his eyebrows in confusion.

He never looks at the grade sheet, because he’s long since grown tired of seeing “Ethan Brooks” at the very top.

Just as he’s thinking this, someone in the crowd suddenly shouts: “Holy crap, Mr. Ethan isn’t first?!”

“Mr. Ethan is first, look—he and Ethan Grant have the same score, but Ethan Grant is a ‘B’, so he’s listed above. Hey, why are you all looking at me?”

Henry Clark pauses, as if realizing something: “No, I’m not saying Ethan Grant is a B, I really didn’t mean that! Crap, don’t look at me! …Master Grant, happy birthday.”

The whole room falls silent, as if a heavenly chorus has begun.

Logan Reed rushes in, panting, using his petite Omega frame to squeeze through the crowd and up to the podium: “Move, move, let me check the results of our class’s bet… Holy crap! Mr. Ethan! You’re actually below!”

“……”

“……”

“……”

Henry Clark feels he’s not alone on the road to the underworld.

Ethan Brooks slams his pen down on the desk: “Watch your mouth.”

Because he used too much force, the round pen rolls toward the edge of the desk.

Ethan Grant reaches out and stops it at the edge with his finger: “Who’s not watching their mouth now?”

As he speaks, his gaze sweeps past the tear mole at the corner of his eye, glancing at Ethan Brooks: “So what, you’re on top?”

“Heh.”

Ethan Brooks beckons to Logan Reed with a finger.