Then I really have to go.

On the road.

Lin Mo walked while conducting a soul-search on Shim Jae-hyeok’s spirit.

The memories were all intact, and Lin Mo could browse through them at will.

Then his footsteps paused.

He seemed to have discovered something extraordinary.

The hidden agents Neon had planted in Korea weren’t just one or two—they were an entire network.

From the business world to politics, from academia to the military-industrial sector, they spread like tangled vines.

And what surprised him most was that the Superpower Youth Corps also had a Neon spy inside.

And the rank wasn’t low.

There’s an even bigger fish!

Sure enough, this world was one giant Undercover.

The matter of Cai Junhuang was now clear too.

It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment frame-up—it was a dumpling wrapped specifically to go with Lin Mo’s vinegar. Only the dumpling wrapper hadn’t even been properly shaped yet when Lin Mo smashed the whole thing apart.

Lin Mo ran this information through his mind twice, making sure nothing was missed.

Primary objective, complete.

He now had a partial list of who the nails planted inside China were.

The ones in other provinces could be handed over to Dongfang Shuye to pull out after returning; the ones in Yangcheng, he’d deal with personally.

But then again.

The main quest was done, but there were still a pile of side quests.

Like playing a game—the main storyline can usually be finished in two hours, but side quests are the real time-sink.

No matter. He still had time.

This trip to Korea wasn’t over yet.

--System: Madamada, time to show the real skills--

“The competition is about to begin. Please return to your seats.”

The announcement was repeated in multiple languages. Lin Mo drew back his gaze and walked back to his seat.

As he sat down, his peripheral vision swept the seat beside him.

Empty.

The Korean team contestant who had sat there yesterday was already cold.

Not cold in the competitive sense—he was literally dead.

Lin Mo opened his stationery pouch and neatly arranged several pens on the desk, his expression as calm as if no one had ever sat at the neighboring desk.

The other contestants were much the same—those who needed to prepare, prepared; those who needed to adjust their state, adjusted. No one wasted even a single extra glance on an empty seat.

After all, they didn’t know that Korean guy anyway.

The remaining Korean team members, though, were rather amusing.

The team’s total score was already out of reach—losing one member meant the score took a direct hit.

But individual rankings? That affected personal interests directly.

Winning a gold medal meant exemption from military service.

That kind of motivation was more real than anything.

Lin Mo noticed the Korean team members across from him—each one sitting straighter than the last, eyes fixed forward, lips pressed tight, as if they were heading to battle.

In a sense, that was their will to survive.

Just then, a figure blocked the light in front of Lin Mo.

“Lin Mo.”

Chen Zhiyuan.

The Chinese-American player on the US team—or more accurately, someone who had immigrated there.

This man stood smiling in front of Lin Mo’s desk, his posture relaxed, hands in his pockets, carrying the air of an old friend catching up.

“I know you’re incredible. After the competition ends, how about a drink? Just the two of us, a casual chat.”

Lin Mo looked up at him.

One look was enough—the guy had a deliberate air of friendliness about him, not the genuine kind, I’m not buying it.

But Lin Mo didn’t call it out on the spot. He just smiled and said, “Sure.”

Chen Zhiyuan got his answer, patted the corner of Lin Mo’s desk, and said, “It’s settled then.”

Then he turned and walked away.

He left cleanly, without any dragging—clearly a man who got things done efficiently, at least when it came to carrying out tasks.

No sooner had he left than Wang Jie darted over, standing casually by Lin Mo’s desk.

“What does that guy want?”

“What else could it be?” Lin Mo picked up a pen and doodled on scratch paper, testing whether the pen wrote properly.

“Same old US playbook—first get chummy, then dangle the olive branch. Or did you think Chen Zhiyuan found me so handsome he wants to call me daddy?”

“Fair enough.”

Wang Jie wanted to say more, but the judges were already making their final announcements.

“All contestants, please return to your seats. The competition will officially begin in two minutes.”

As Wang Jie left, he cast one last look back at Lin Mo, his expression as if to say “Don’t do anything reckless.”

Lin Mo waved him off.

The bell rang.

The competition officially began.

The exam papers were handed out by the proctors.

Lin Mo opened the question sheet and started from problem one.

Today’s questions were indeed different from yesterday’s—not necessarily more difficult, but each problem had an extremely long chain of derivation, with steps interlocking one after another. Skipping steps was practically impossible.

So what if there were more steps? It just meant writing a few more lines. His brain worked the same way; his pen speed just needed to keep up.

It was the other contestants who suffered instead.

He wrote quickly, but not sloppily so.

Every step of derivation was neat and proper, the logic crystal clear, not a single necessary process missing.

Fifty-two minutes.

After drawing the final equal sign on the last problem, Lin Mo set down his pen and went through the motions of checking his work from start to finish.

No problems.

He raised his hand.

The proctor walked over, and Lin Mo pointed at his paper: “Submitting.”

The proctor looked at the clock on the wall, then at Lin Mo, opening his mouth as if wanting to say something before stopping.

This scene was practically identical to yesterday’s.

There was nothing surprising about it anymore.

The proctor collected the paper, and Lin Mo stood up and left the examination hall.

As he passed the other contestants, he could feel a barrage of gazes stabbing into him.

Some in shock, some in suspicion, and a few who stopped writing for several seconds before snapping back to their papers.

He reached the Chinese team’s spectator area, where Teacher Bai was the first to greet him.

“Lin Mo, how did it go?”

“Normal.” Lin Mo took the water bottle Teacher Bai offered, twisted it open, and took a couple of sips. “Just a lot more steps than yesterday.”

Teacher Bai nodded, but before he could say anything more, Lin Mo had already screwed the cap back on and casually dropped a line.

“Oh, by the way—Chen Zhiyuan from the US team asked me to meet him tonight for a chat.”

Teacher Bai’s expression changed instantly.

Not surprise, but a complex reaction laced with anger and wariness.

He’d spent most of his life in academia and had seen this kind of thing far too many times.

Chen Zhiyuan himself was one such example.

“Don’t you dare go.”

Teacher Bai lowered his voice, his pace quickening. “You don’t understand their playbook. There have been precedents in previous years.

First, they invite you out for dinner and drinks, chatting warmly before piling on promises—scholarships, labs, green cards—everything they can stack.

Once you actually go over, they’ll support you for the first couple of years, give you whatever you need.

And then? Once your research output comes out, the name on the byline might not be yours.

Once you’re past your most productive years, they’ll kick you out without a second thought.”

Teacher Bai paused here, his tone growing heavier.

“I taught Chen Zhiyuan last year. I had even expected him to be here this year too. I genuinely thought he was a good prospect...”

It was clear that Teacher Bai was still a genuinely caring teacher.

Lin Mo listened to all of it, and if anything, he became even more interested.

“Then I definitely have to go.”