The setup of this course is itself filled with a sense of ritual. University administrators seem to believe that as long as they gather the students who have made mistakes, hold a class, and read a few pages of a PowerPoint presentation, they can make them suddenly repent and regain their reverence for academia. The course is meticulously arranged: two hours a week for eight weeks, covering topics such as "the definition of plagiarism," "the norms of citation," and "the long-term rewards of integrity." The teacher passionately discusses the "bottom line" in academia and occasionally throws out a few famous quotes, such as "Integrity is the foundation of one's existence" or "Truth cannot tolerate the slightest falsehood." Students are required to write reflection journals, participate in group discussions, and even submit a paper at the end of the term on "how to be an honest scholar." The entire process is orderly, as if simply completing these steps will magically replant academic integrity in everyone's heart.

However, the disconnection between this formal education and reality is evident. The students sitting in the classroom are not making mistakes due to a lack of understanding of the definition of "plagiarism." On the contrary, many of them are well-versed in academic norms, knowing how to insert references in their papers and how to paraphrase others' viewpoints in their own words. Their problem lies not in ignorance but in choice—under the pressure of late-night deadlines, in the competition for GPAs and scholarships, and in an atmosphere where "everyone does this," they choose a more "efficient" shortcut. Plagiarism, ghostwriting, and data manipulation are less a betrayal of academia than a compromise of survival strategies. Yet this integrity course attempts to solve a problem that is far more complex than simply "knowing and not knowing" with moral preaching.

Ironically, this course itself resembles a miniature version of academic misconduct. Students behave properly in class, taking notes, nodding, and actively participating, but these actions are more about meeting attendance and grades than genuine introspection. Some criticize the harms of plagiarism in group discussions, only to turn around and ask in WeChat groups, "Is there anyone who can help revise my paper?" Some write lengthy confessions in their reflection journals, filled with determination to "turn over a new leaf," but these words are often cobbled together from templates found online. Even the teacher seems to have little hope for the effectiveness of this course. After one class, I overheard a teaching assistant complaining, "These students come just to earn credits; who will really change because of this course?" This phenomenon prompts reflection: the true audience of this course seems not to be the students but the university's management—it's more like a performance set up to satisfy external audits.

This disconnection between form and substance raises doubts about the true significance of the academic integrity course. It resembles an administrative solution; universities need such courses to demonstrate their "commitment to academic ethics" in response to external scrutiny and evaluation. Students are required to participate, teachers are required to teach, and processes are strictly enforced, but the real issues—why is cheating so prevalent? How can students' mindsets be changed?—are buried beneath the cumbersome sense of ritual. The course designers seem to have forgotten that integrity is not a quality that can be instilled through a few pages of PowerPoint and a few assignments; it needs to take root in a deeper cultural and environmental context. The students in the classroom are, in fact, a microcosm of this dilemma. Many of them are not inherently dishonest but are caught in a contradictory system.

The university's evaluation system prioritizes grades, with GPAs determining scholarships, internship opportunities, and even future paths. In such a high-pressure environment, academia becomes a game rather than a pure pursuit of knowledge. Students are required to juggle assignments, exams, and projects from multiple courses while also balancing extracurricular activities and social lives. Time is fragmented, and energy is squeezed to the limit. Thus, plagiarizing a paper, hiring someone to write an assignment, or even sneaking a peek during an exam becomes a "rational" choice. Behind this choice lies a helpless compromise to systemic pressure and a subconscious acknowledgment that "rules can be circumvented." Indeed, universities may argue that this course aims to correct such behaviors, but when the course itself devolves into a formalistic tool, how can it truly reach the inner struggles of students?

On a deeper level, this phenomenon also reflects a certain hypocrisy within university culture. Schools wave the banner of "academic integrity" while turning a blind eye to cheating. As long as one is not caught, plagiarism, ghostwriting, and even buying and selling papers seem like open secrets. Some professors are indifferent to the quality of students' papers, only checking if the format is correct; some courses have vague grading standards, leading students to feel that "effort doesn't matter." When the seriousness of academia is diluted and the enforcement of rules is flexible, students naturally begin to question: Is integrity really that important? If the university itself is "performing," then the students' "formalism" is merely a form of imitation. This cultural double standard renders the moral preaching of the academic integrity course particularly weak and ineffective.

In class, the teacher is playing a video of a well-known scholar discussing how he has upheld his principles in academia. The scholar in the video is gray-haired and speaks earnestly, but most of the students in front of the screen are distracted. Some doodle in their notebooks, some secretly scroll through their social media, and others wear headphones pretending to listen. After the video ends, the teacher poses a question: "What insights do you think this scholar's experience offers you?" The classroom falls into a brief silence, and finally, a student raises their hand and answers formulaically, "We should learn from his rigorous attitude and eliminate academic misconduct." Other classmates nod in agreement, as if completing a collective performance. The teacher smiles with satisfaction and moves on to the next PowerPoint slide.

This scene itself is the best illustration of the absurdity of the academic integrity course. Students have learned how to "perform" in such a classroom, how to package their perfunctory responses with the right language. Yet true change—love for academia, belief in integrity, respect for rules—remains a distant prospect. The more grandiose the sense of ritual in the course, the more glaring this disconnection becomes. Perhaps the problem has never been whether students know "plagiarism is wrong," but whether they believe that integrity is still worth upholding in this competitive and compromising world. Outside the classroom, campus life continues to be noisy, with students burning the midnight oil in the library, and some discussing how to find more reliable ghostwriting channels. The echoes of this course seem to resonate only within the four walls of the classroom, while the currents of reality have long washed it away without a trace.

Sunlight streams into the classroom, and the projector's beam flickers on the wall. The teacher's voice remains passionate, and the words on the PowerPoint are still inspiring. But the students in their seats are silently calculating: how much longer until this class ends? How to deal with the next assignment? On this stage of "integrity education," everyone is playing their role, while the true academic spirit quietly exits like an unnoticed supporting character. Occasionally, someone will quietly joke after class, "This course is even more hypocritical than the paper I plagiarized." Laughter mingles with helplessness, as if at that moment, they have reached a tacit understanding of the absurdity of this education.

Meanwhile, university administrators may continue to take pride in the "success" of this course. They will tally participation rates, completion rates, and may even quote a few positive comments from student feedback to prove the course's value. However, these data and statements are merely another form of performance, obscuring a deeper reality: what students learn in class is not how to become honest scholars, but how to navigate between rules and survival. Indeed, the original intention of this course may have been well-meaning, but when it is packaged as a procedural ritual, it inevitably loses its power to touch hearts. Every nod and every note taken in the classroom may only be adding a false color to this illusory feast.

In such an environment, students' psychological changes are also quietly occurring. They begin to view integrity as a "dispensable" virtue rather than a principle that must be adhered to. Some joke about their "cheating history" on social media, while others share tips for ghostwriting in their dorms; these behaviors have, to some extent, become part of their adaptation to university life. Indeed, the university attempts to correct these tendencies through this course, but when the course itself becomes a symbolic existence, it instead reinforces students' sense of alienation from the rules. Perhaps one day, these students will become professors and recall this course, but they may only remember the tedious PowerPoints, not the beliefs it attempted to convey.

Outside, the shadows of the trees sway, but the atmosphere in the classroom grows increasingly heavy. The teacher continues to explain, and the students continue to be distracted, while the absurdity of this course becomes more pronounced with the passage of time. Perhaps true education has never been something that can be accomplished in a single course or a video; it requires a more authentic and humane environment, rather than merely staying on the surface of formality. Every face in the classroom silently tells the story of this disconnection, while this feast of "integrity education" quietly moves toward its conclusion, unnoticed.