Middle Finger Salute

The rest of Team China snapped out of it too, exchanging bewildered glances.

Wang Jie slammed the table next, standing up and glaring at the organizing committee: “What the hell is this?”

On the rankings, Lin Mo's name had been wiped clean, as if he had never even participated in the competition.

Lin Mo, however, didn't stand up.

He leaned back in his chair, squinting toward the podium area.

Interesting.

Jenny Ma really wasn't afraid to die, was she.

His gaze swept across the hall, catching plenty of details—several national team leaders couldn't suppress the corners of their mouths, that barely-concealed excitement of finally getting to watch a good show. They weren't even trying to hide it.

Teacher Bai's chair scraped back as he stood up.

Without a single extra word to his students, he strode toward the organizing committee.

His steps carried force, and everyone's eyes followed him.

They'd thought this would just be someone questioning the scores, pulling some petty stunts to annoy them—but no, they'd gone bold and directly erased Lin Mo's score and ranking.

The worst part: they hadn't even notified anyone.

Lin Mo watched as Teacher Bai stood before the long table of the committee, demanding loudly in English:

“Why was Lin Mo's score canceled? Where's the official notice? Where's the procedural announcement?”

The olympiad committee was made up of representatives from various countries, and this year's chairman was from an Austria—not the kangaroo kind, the European kind.

That Austrian, named Grubo, wore gold-rimmed round glasses and looked every bit the polite scholar. He raised his head from his seat, studied Teacher Bai for a moment, frowned, and spoke with a condescending tone:

“Strictly speaking, we should have canceled not just his qualification, but the entire Team China's qualification as well.”

Quite the bold claim.

“Give me a reason!” Teacher Bai slammed his palm onto their table, splashing a few drops from the teacups.

“If you can't give a reason, I'll file an appeal and a formal complaint with the Olympiad Committee right now. None of you are getting away from this.”

Teacher Bai was usually mild-mannered like a stuffy scholar, but when truly provoked, that fierceness came straight from his bones.

Lin Mo watched his back, thinking to himself—if they didn't get a proper explanation, this teacher might just skip the award ceremony entirely and march the team out.

Meanwhile, Wang Jie and the others crowded around Lin Mo.

“This is outrageous,” Wang Jie said, rolling up his sleeves. “They didn't even have evidence and they canceled your score. These people must have had their heads slammed in a door.”

“Everyone knows Lin Mo's skill level. Those problems were like drinking water to him. So what if he was fast? Is being fast a crime now?”

The team members chimed in one after another, righteous and angry.

Nobody said Lin Mo got targeted because he finished too quickly—after all, you can't blame the victim.

When someone is bullied, you don't flip it around and say the victim was at fault.

Over at the committee table, seeing Teacher Bai's stance, several of them exchanged glances but didn't seem rattled.

Grubo adjusted his glasses and replied, “We repeatedly reviewed this contestant's performance during the exam and concluded that he engaged in cheating.”

Teacher Bai stared at him. “Evidence! In a modern society, we talk evidence. You think he cheated, so show me the proof—what's on the surveillance footage? What did he smuggle in? Who did he pass notes to? Go on, say it.”

“Because he was too fast,” Grubo said, spreading his hands.

“Yes. Almost no sign of thinking,” several other committee members chimed in.

Clearly, they had reached an agreement beforehand. This was rehearsed.

Teacher Bai laughed in frustration. “Fast equals cheating? So should Bolt have his gold medal revoked because he runs fast?”

Grubo didn't respond.

Just then, Lin Mo walked over.

He didn't rush into an argument. Hands in his pockets, steps unhurried, he stopped in front of Grubo and tilted his head, watching him for two seconds.

“Why was my score canceled?”

A flash of violet light passed through Lin Mo's eyes.

Pointless to trade verbal barbs now.

Reasoning with these people was a waste of time. The straightforward approach worked better.

Grubo met his eyes, his pupils briefly dilating.

Then this Austrian gentleman shot up from his chair, pointed right at Lin Mo's nose, and spoke in a voice loud enough for everyone around to hear:

“Because you offended the US team! They pressured us to use cheating as a pretext to void your score! We didn't want to, but they paid us too much!”

The hall went dead silent for half a second.

Then it erupted.

Not every country was afraid of the US. The Middle Eastern delegation leaders shot to their feet, eyes gleaming with pure delight at the drama. Nearby, several African team members pulled out their phones and started recording.

The US team's faces—priceless.

The US team leader's expression shifted from stunned to stone-cold in two seconds. He opened his mouth to say something, but Grubo kept talking, completely unable to stop.

“They threatened to cut next year's sponsorship funds, and said if we didn't cooperate...”

Grubo trailed off mid-sentence as the violet tint in his eyes faded.

He froze.

Then covered his mouth.

Too late.

The entire venue—hundreds of people—had heard it clearly, and at least twenty phones were recording.

Lin Mo tilted his head, slowly raised his own phone.

The red recording light was on, the frame locked steadily on Grubo's face, capturing everything from start to finish.

Every single word came straight out of Grubo's own mouth—nobody forced him, nobody threatened him, the whole venue bore witness.

Lin Mo pocketed his phone, turned to Teacher Bai.

“Teacher, make the call.”

He grinned.

“Team China needs an explanation. If they won't give one, I'll find a way to get one myself.”

Lin Mo turned back, his gaze drifting over the crowd, landing on the US team.

Teacher Bai immediately pulled out his phone and dialed the embassy.

This kind of matter absolutely required diplomatic involvement.

The US team leader's face was black as coal. His teammates and assistant coaches exchanged nervous looks—someone was frantically texting down below, someone half-rose from their seat then sat back down.

They didn't dare say a word. They had no idea how to defend themselves.

Lin Mo looked directly at them and flashed a wide, bright grin.

Sunny and cheerful.

Then, from a distance, he raised his middle finger at them.

Everyone on Team China raised their middle fingers in unison, rendering their most profound salute.