Framed for Cheating, Saved by the Army

When the college entrance exam results were released,

I received a 20point bonus for being the child of a martyr.

For the first time ever, I, the perpetual runnerup, surpassed the school's "cool" heartthrob and became the top scorer in the province.

He confronted me, accusingly:

"I never thought you’d stoop so low as to fake your identity just to beat me."

My classmates erupted in anger:

"How could someone as petty as you be a martyr’s kid?"

"You must’ve pulled some dirty trick!"

They broke into my locker and exposed my family records,

revealing that my socalled heroic father was actually a streetside pancake vendor.

The story spread online like wildfire—

"A secondgeneration pancake seller faking martyr status to grab 20 bonus points on the college entrance exam."

My mother came to school, trying to set things straight,

but Ryan Caldwell and his goons shattered her hands with a baseball bat.

Then, with a box cutter, they carved “fake martyr’s relative” onto her face.

I brought her medical records to the police,

but they refused to press charges, citing insufficient evidence.

I reached out to lawyers, but no one would take the case.

With nowhere else to go, Ryan even dared to sneer,

"My father’s the richest man in Cedarville. If you two want to stay alive, you’ll do as I say."

Watching my mother slip in and out of consciousness in the ICU,

I knelt before the gates of the military compound,

a plaque reading "FirstClass Meritorious Service" strapped to my back.

"Uncle... I don’t want the extra 20 points anymore. Can you just give my father back?"

——

"Wesley Grant, congratulations!"

"750 points, plus 20 bonus points for children of martyrs—that’s 770!"

"You’re this year’s provincial top scorer!"

The homeroom teacher’s excited voice rang through the phone.

Before I could even celebrate with my mother,

I was flooded with messages in the class group chat—

Ryan and his cronies are leading the charge:

"Wait—Wesley? He’s the provincial top scorer?"

"770 points? That’s over the full score!"

"He got 20 extra points? Martyr’s child? Never heard that before."

Then, an anonymous document was uploaded.

It was deleted almost instantly,

but one sharpeyed classmate had already saved it.

The chat group exploded.

"Shocking news! I can’t believe what I’m seeing!"

One screenshot after another followed,

all allegedly showing me hiring someone to fake my identity to surpass Ryan.

The final message came from Ryan himself:

"@Wesley, didn’t think you’d go so far as to forge your identity just to beat me."

That message sealed my fate—

accused of impersonating a martyr’s child.

The group chat turned into a courtroom,

and I was already declared guilty.

The messages came like poisontipped arrows:

"Wesley always pretends to be some righteous guy. Turns out he’s just a fraud!"

"If his dad’s a martyr, then mine’s the SecretaryGeneral of the UN!"

"One point in the college entrance exam can ruin thousands. You stole 20. Do you know how many lives you just crushed?"

"Everyone, report him to the school and the Education Bureau! Why should someone like that get a single bonus point?"

I tried to defend myself, furious.

But just as I brought out my father’s martyr certificate, a new post surfaced in the group—an Instagram Moment from one of Ryan’s admirers.

A photo of my father in uniform had been photoshopped—he now stood behind prison bars.

Another photo, of my mother flipping pancakes,

was altered to make her look like a street solicitor.

Even my school honor roll photo was doctored,

with the words "SAT cheater" stamped across it.

Caption: "Behold the true face of the ‘top scorer’ family!"

I trembled with rage.

I posted my father’s official martyr certificate,

But no one believed me.

Instead, more doctored photos surfaced,

each one crueler than the last.

Late that night, my personal information was completely exposed. Frenzied netizens dug into my heroic father’s background, only to “discover” he had merely sold pancakes.

People who had once bought from him even posted photos to back their claims.

For a while, the internet exploded: “Secondgeneration pancake vendor fakes martyr background to get 20 bonus points on the college entrance exam.”

The next morning, the school called and said they needed to reverify my eligibility for the bonus points.

I was about to leave with the documents when my mother gently took them from me.

“You stay here and choose your dream university. I’ll go.”

Worried about the backlash from last night, I hesitated and considered going with her.

Just then, my phone rang—it was the admissions offices of both Westfield University and Harborview Institute.

I looked at the screen awkwardly.

“Go on, answer it. I’ll be back after submitting the papers.”

She patted my shoulder reassuringly, took the documents, and left.

After ending the call, I checked the time and, instinctively, opened my Instagram Moments again.

A new status from Ryan, posted just half an hour ago, caught my eye:

“I’m exposing a fraud today. Just wait for the good news!”

The post included a photo of him and a few friends standing in front of the school building.

A deep sense of dread rose in my gut.

I immediately called my mother—no answer.

My hands shook as I searched for my homeroom teacher’s number and hit dial.

“Liam Price! Has my mom arrived at school? I can’t reach her!”

There was a pause on the other end.

“She came… but…” Teacher Liam’s voice dropped.

“She was suddenly surrounded by a few boys. Things got violent…”

I dashed to school. As soon as I reached the gate, a loud commotion erupted near the honor roll.

I sprinted in that direction. From afar, I saw a crowd of students—

some filming, others laughing or cheering.

“Move!”

I shoved my way through.

What I saw made my blood run cold. My mother was being held against the glass display of the honor roll.

A bloodied baseball bat came crashing down on her hands.

“What are you doing?!”

I rushed forward but was blocked by two tall boys.

Ryan turned, spotted me, and smirked.

“Oh look, the top scorer himself showed up.”

“Perfect timing! We caught someone sneaking into the archives!”

My mother, pale and trembling, tried to explain:

“I’m not stealing anything… I was just passing by the archives…”

I pushed through and threw my arms around her. She trembled in agony.

Her hands were swollen, misshapen, and dripping with blood.

“What thief? This is my mother!”

“I see now!” Ryan exclaimed with a sneer, as if a mystery had just been solved.

“You were scared your fake martyr story would fall apart, so you sent your mom to swap out the documents!”

“I didn’t forge anything!” I cried, rummaging through my mother’s bag in desperation.

“My father is a real martyr. Look…”

I held up a certificate, neatly sealed with transparent tape.

“This is my father’s martyr certificate… and…”

I carefully unfolded a yellow photograph.

“This is him, in uniform.”

Ryan raised a brow and took the items from my hand.

I exhaled deeply.

At last, my mother’s name would be cleared. My father’s honor was restored.

Ryan flicked the certificate with contempt.

“You really think printing something off the internet will fool people? Do I look that dumb?”

He whipped out a knife and sliced the certificate into shreds. “And this photo…” He scoffed, ripped it apart, and let the pieces scatter on the ground.

“Uniform photos? Every photo studio has props for that.”

My mind went blank.

Almost instinctively, I dropped to my knees, hands trembling as I tried to gather the torn fragments.

But the pieces were too tiny to piece back together.

Ryan looked down, his sneakers crushing the last remnants.

“You're pretty good at putting on a show. Too bad you couldn’t fool me.”

His tone turned cold, tinged with mock pity. “I got a tip last night and sent someone to the Office of Civil Administration to check. Your father’s name isn’t even in the martyrs’ registry.”

“After your secret got out, you and your mom dared to go to the archives and tamper with evidence.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Everyone here’s been grinding for three years straight—just for a shot at a few more points in the exam!”

“And people like you? You just cheat your way in with dirty tricks, snatching 20 points like it's nothing.”

“You’re spitting on the memory of true heroes and mocking our hard work!”

Eyes all around turned red with fury.

A girl suddenly screamed, hysterical, “I missed last year’s cutoff by just 3 points! THREE!”

Ryan sighed dramatically. “Fake martyr’s kid? What’s the worst that’ll happen? A few years in prison?”

“That’s way too easy.”

A boy charged out. “School Prince, they need to be taught a lesson!”

“Yeah! If they love pretending to be martyrs’ kids, then mark them—let everyone know who the fakes are!”

The crowd roared in agreement.

Ryan hesitated, hands raised as if to calm them, but their chants only grew louder.

Finally, he took the knife, feigning reluctance.

“Since everyone insists…”

He stepped forward and gripped Mom’s chin.

I was pinned to the ground just a few feet away—

helpless as he raised the blade toward her face.

Mom shrieked in agony as the blade tore through her skin, blood streaming down her chin and splattering the pavement.

Ryan looked satisfied, calm—

like he was putting the final strokes on a painting.

Cheers erupted around us.

Phones swarmed in, capturing every gruesome second.

“Nice one, School Prince! Teach these liars a lesson.”

“Pretending to be martyrs’ children? Those are titles bought with blood!”

“Where’s Pancake Brother? He’s the mastermind! Don’t let him off easy!”

Ryan stood back and admired his work.

“Hm, not bad… a few sloppy spots.”

He leaned down again, knife in hand, pressing the blade toward Mom’s torn flesh. My heart stopped.

In a split second, I tore myself from my captors and lunged forward, throwing myself between them.

My body slammed into him, knocking him backward.

The athlete beside him, furious that I dared to fight back, pummeled me with fists and kicks.

I held my mother close, wrapping my arms around her, shielding her with my own body.

“It’s okay, Mom… I’m here.”

“I’ll protect you.”

Suddenly—

“What is going on here!?”

The principal and several teachers came rushing in, alarmed by the commotion.

Ryan quickly fixed his shirt, putting on a calm front.

“Principal, it’s nothing. We were just having a little chat with our provincial top scorer.”

“But he lost it… attacked us without warning.”

The principal’s eyes moved between us, uncertainty flickering in his gaze.

My eyes finally settled on my mother, unconscious and bleeding heavily.

“Call an ambulance—now!”

Amid the chaos, Ryan leaned in close and whispered into my ear,

“This is just the beginning. You and your pancakeselling mother are in for a nightmare.”

Then he turned and walked away, leading his gang of boys like nothing had happened.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the school gate was swarming with curious onlookers.

“How did he get hurt like that? Did someone beat him on purpose?”

“I heard he’s the top scorer who faked being a martyr’s kid to get bonus points!”

“Well, serves him right…”

My mother rushed into the emergency room.

I received a quick bandage for my wounds—then was taken straight to the interrogation room.

“Severe blood loss, shattered bones in both hands, and facial lacerations…”

“She’s also suffering a mild concussion. Prep the OR, now!”

While five doctors fought to save my mother’s life,

I sat under a harsh interrogation light, answering the same question again and again.

“Why did you go berserk and attack people?”

For the tenth time, I replied,

“I told you—it was Ryan. He led the attack on me and my mother.”

“Do you have any proof?”

The interrogator rapped his knuckles against the table.

“Every witness says you suddenly went wild and started hitting people.”

I looked up, eyes blazing.

“Check the surveillance! Or look at the crowd’s phones! A lot of them were recording!”

“The security cameras are broken,” the interrogator cut in flatly.

“And the footage on the students’ phones? Doesn’t exist.”

A cold wave swept through me.

It all made sense now—they’d already covered their tracks.

The interrogator sighed.

“Wesley, considering you’re a minor and the circumstances are special...”

“We’re letting you off with a verbal warning. But if this happens again—”

“Again?” I laughed bitterly, tears hitting the metal table.

“My mom’s fighting for her life! I’m reporting Ryan for intentional assault. Will you hold him accountable?”

He shook his head.

“There’s no solid evidence. You say Ryan did it—can you prove it?”

“We were beaten half to death! Isn’t that proof enough?!”

Again, the interrogator shook his head, helpless.

“No direct evidence—no case.”

When I was finally released, I ran to the hospital.

Standing outside the ICU,

I stared through the glass at my mother, hooked up to machines, barely alive.

“Her condition is stable for now. She’s not in immediate danger.” the doctor said, removing his mask with a tired expression.

“But her hands are badly shattered, and the facial wounds run deep… I’m afraid in the future…”

I nodded silently. My throat burned too much to speak.

The police wouldn’t help. So, I turned to lawyers.

I searched the entire city.

Out of 321 law firms, not one dared to take my case.

Left with no choice, I learned online how to write my own legal complaint.

But when I tried to file it at court, I was dismissed—“procedural errors.”

Out of options, I took my case to the internet.

I created a new account and uploaded my father’s martyr certificate, along with hospital reports detailing our injuries.

[I’m Wesley, this year’s liberal arts top scorer in Cedarville.]

[I’m reporting Ryan, son of the Caldwell Group’s president, for leading others to insult and violently attack the family of a martyr.]

[My mother suffered shattered bones in both hands. The words ‘fake martyr’s relative’ were carved into her face. She’s still unconscious in the ICU.]

The video went viral almost instantly.

[My father gave his life to this country. Is this how his family is treated?]

[This isn’t even human! This is outrageous!]

@Cedarville Police: Is your crackdown on organized crime just for show? Why haven’t these thugs been arrested yet?

The livestream exploded in popularity, and the first call I received was from the school principal.

“Are you out of your mind? This incident has severely damaged the school’s reputation. Shut down that livestream immediately!”

“If you don’t, I’ll file a disciplinary report against you! Forget ever getting into a university!”

I ended the call.

At this point, was university really what I should be worried about?

The second call came from Ryan.

“Wesley, you think you can twist the truth by livestreaming?”

“My father’s already spoken to the Cyberspace Administration. Your video will be deleted any second now.”

As soon as he hung up, the stream went offline.

I realized someone had cut my signal.

I’d just reloaded my phone plan earlier this month, yet the system now showed it was disconnected.

I rushed downstairs and searched for open WiFi networks, determined to keep posting online.

Though the viral momentum was being throttled, many had already begun speaking out on my behalf. But the very next day, a wellknown blogger released a video.

In it, my teachers, classmates, socalled friends—even some relatives—appeared, condemning me.

[Wesley’s always been shady. Now he’s pretending to be a martyr’s son? Disgusting.]

[His dad died in a car crash—I saw it myself. A martyr? What a joke.]

[They clearly want to blackmail the wealthy Caldwell family. Getting beat up doesn’t mean you can exploit others.]

[The Caldwell family is one of Cedarville’s most generous. Their young master has built countless Hope Primary Schools.]

Gullible netizens jumped in:

[I can vouch—our town’s school was also built with donations. Much respect to the Caldwell family.]

[A widow and orphan doing so well, just selling pancakes? What kind of pancakes are they selling, exactly?]

[Wow. Thank goodness people are warning others. I nearly believed that kid. These scammers are disgusting.]

The Caldwell family unleashed tens of millions of resources, deploying an army of trolls.

The internet turned against me in an instant.

My livestream account was banned.

My videos were removed.

The platform accused me of spreading false information.

My hands and feet turned ice cold.

Was this how it ended?

Was I really powerless against them?

Suddenly, my phone rang. A video call. I answered—and froze in place.

It was Ryan. Inside my mother’s hospital room.

He gripped her oxygen mask and yanked it aside with cruel amusement.

“Surprise, Wesley.”

I clenched my phone so hard my knuckles turned white.

“What… what do you want?”

“Word is you’ve been making a fuss lately.”

He slowly ran a finger down her IV line.

“If you keep it up, who knows what might end up in this drip?”

Rage made my vision blur.

“There’s security in the room. Nurses outside. You won’t get away with this!”

He chuckled.

“The surveillance is broken.”

“Just like at school.”

He leaned closer to the camera, sneering.

“This is just a little surprise. But next time? You won’t be so lucky.”

The line cracked with static—then cut off.

“Ryan, you—!”

Before I could finish, the screen went black.

I ran.

I didn’t care about pain, exhaustion, or the risk.

I just ran.

“Mom… Mom…”

Panting and soaked in sweat, I burst into the ICU corridor.

The nurse on duty saw me and immediately stepped in to block my path.

"The patient is fine. We detected the problem in time and have moved her to a secure ward."

I collapsed to the floor, surrounded by shattered glass, feeling as if I had barely survived a disaster.

"The surveillance…?"

"All disabled."

The security chief, who had rushed over wiped sweat from his brow.

"Someone deliberately cut power."

I picked up a card from the ground. Scrawled on the back in red marker:

[This is a warning!]

Nearby nurses looked at me with pity.

"Wesley, don’t stir up more trouble. The Caldwell family is rich and powerful. You can’t beat them."

"Think of it this way: your mother suffered, but she got enough money to last her life."

"If you keep pushing like this, it’s going to affect our work, too."

As I listened, I could feel it—they’d throw my mother out of this hospital the moment they got the chance.

Is this really the end?

Tears of helpless rage ran down my face. Bitterness filled my mouth.

My father always taught me to be honest and kind.

So why, when I faced injustice, did no one stand up for me? I only want the truth—why is it so hard to get?

The media loves stories about soldiers bringing honor to their families.

Then why can’t I even get justice after my father died for this country?

Everyone sees us—an orphan and a widow—as easy targets, too weak to fight back.

But if I can’t find justice here, I’ll go to the military district and reclaim my father myself!

I went home and removed the plaque that read “First Class Meritorious Service.” Then I took a twoday, onenight train to the military compound where my father had served.

The next day, I stood outside the gates, holding the plaque high above my head, and knelt:

"Uncle, I don’t want the 20 bonus points on my college exam. I just want my father back!"