Ch 5: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Cen Han sat in the dimly lit room.

As evening approached, the light from outside grew weaker. Sitting in his wheelchair, half his face was hidden in shadow, with only faint specks of light falling across his lips and chin.

He inhaled lightly, exhaled lightly, as if trying to breathe out all the black fog wrapped around his heart.

In the years just after the disaster, when he first began enduring such treatment, he had once hated, once raged—shattering all the furniture and decorations in his home, wishing he could beat his tormentors into the dust.

With time, that wild anger sharpened into poisonous needles, pricking him constantly, sprouting arms that dragged him deeper into the mire. Pity and contempt alike became catalysts.

Look at the state you’re in.

Emotions and reason detached, leaving behind only extreme calm, watching his own searing pain with cold detachment.

Cen Han rolled his wheelchair to the desk.

The inferior external optic membrane could be used no more than eight hours a day, and today he had already exceeded that limit. His eye sockets throbbed and itched. He raised a hand to cover his left eye, about to remove the thin membrane, when his movements suddenly froze.

“…”

Silence. He turned his head, staring quietly at the two bottles of nutrient fluid and the strange object that had suddenly appeared beside them.

His eyelashes trembled.

Another hallucination? Cen Han thought coolly.

Two bottles that shouldn’t exist in his room. If he picked them up, perhaps what entered his throat would only be shredded paper or empty air. His mind lured him into traps like this before—illusions so real he once believed them.

Bloodshot lines spread in his eyes, but he didn’t notice, staring at them for a long time.

His stomach cramped in protest. Cen Han lowered his gaze, removed the optic membrane, showing no curiosity toward the bizarre double-layered object.

Vision plunged back into darkness. He reached for mechanical scraps scavenged from the junkyard that morning and quietly, skillfully began assembling.

…

Qian Yuan had logged off. She received a message from her father with the contact information of a magazine editor.

She still had to scrape together money this month for a tripod. Reluctantly, she spent an afternoon psyching herself up, then called the editor and submitted her photography portfolio by email.

Fortunately, the editor liked her work. Soon she’d have extra income.

That night, fresh from her shower and lying in bed, Qian Yuan finally relaxed.

As her tension faded, she suddenly remembered the game she’d neglected. Picking up her phone, she logged onto the forum to find the old post and suggest lowering the recharge prices.

But when she tapped the title, a prompt popped up:

【This post has been deleted.】

Qian Yuan: “…Huh?”

On this forum, posts could only be deleted by the author or by an admin for rule violations.

The developer looking for beta testers wouldn’t delete their own post. Could it be against forum rules?

Blinking at the home page, she set the phone aside and reached for the VR headset.

…

Her dumpling avatar reappeared in the cramped room. This time, she wasn’t alone—there was a little mound under the blanket on the single bed.

The dimly glowing in-game clock read 【9:30】. She hadn’t expected Cen Han to sleep this early.

The curtains were half drawn. Through the faint night light outside, she saw the two bottles of nutrient fluid still untouched on the desk.

Qian Yuan: “…” Wasn’t he hungry?

She scratched her head, puzzled, but didn’t dwell on it.

The room was quiet. She walked closer, saw him hiding under the blanket, and naturally tugged it down a bit, wanting to glimpse his dumpling face.

But as soon as she pulled, he suddenly sat upright, clutching the blanket, eyes unfocused and wary, staring into the void.

Qian Yuan: “…”

Her dumpling face puffed up.

When would this game finally act normal—like a proper raising sim, letting the child be cute and clingy to her?

That thought flashed by, and in the next second she heard a muffled sound.

“Grr—”

The boy’s grip on the blanket tightened. He licked his lips, pressing a hand hard against his stomach.

Qian Yuan’s eyes widened.

Wait.

He was so hungry his stomach was growling—so why not drink the nutrient fluid on the desk?

She glanced from the untouched bottles to the boy pressing his stomach coldly at the bed’s corner, her brows furrowing deep.

Finally, she grabbed a bottle, opened it, and carried it to him, patting his head.

“No being picky,” she scolded, though knowing he couldn’t hear or feel her. “We’re too poor. This is all we can afford.”

When the cold bottle neared his lips, he flinched violently, scrambling back into the bed’s corner.

Qian Yuan suddenly felt like a wicked villain. She grinned, braced a hand against the wall, and did a dramatic kabedon.

The poor boy had nowhere left to run. The bottle tip pressed against his lips until, cornered, he had to open his mouth and gulp it down.

Liquid trickled from the corner of his lips. Flustered, he pushed at the bottle, his tongue darting out to lick like a kitten.

“So good!”

Qian Yuan beamed. The little dumpling’s round eyes curved into crescent moons.

At moments like this, the healing power of his cuteness doubled. She pinched his cheek, satisfied, then set the empty bottle on the desk, still smiling.

“I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”

…

Silence.

Cen Han sat frozen in the corner. For once, his usually cold face showed a rare bewildered expression.

The foul taste of the low-grade nutrient lingered in his nose, but the stabbing pain in his stomach eased. Warmth spread through his body, the satisfaction of being fed pulsing through his veins.

It felt too real—neither illusion nor dream.

In the darkness, his throat bobbed faintly.

Maybe he was dreaming.

Cen Han slowly lay back down.

It must be a dream, he thought. By morning, hunger would gnaw him again, his arms weak as ever.

…

Dawn poured across his face. The alarm clock blared.

Cen Han sat up, reaching for the desk to silence it—only to feel something unusual under his fingers.

Frowning, he retrieved his optic membrane and slipped it in.

Vision returned.

The first thing he saw was an empty bottle.

A few drops of green liquid clung to the bottom, proof of what it once held.

Memory from last night returned slowly. His eyes widened.

Not a dream.

Could imagination truly last so vividly, so tangibly?

If it was real, then someone had secretly entered his room, cleaned it, left him two bottles of nutrient fluid—and even forced him to drink one at night.

And he hadn’t died of poison. He was alive, sitting here.

Why?

A fleeting light crossed his eyes—but then another detail struck him, darkening his gaze.

—No.

He had heard nothing. No one had reached out a hand to him.

If it was only fantasy, no wonder it seemed so real. Just like before…

A cold wind swept in. The empty bottle wobbled on the desk, fell, and clattered sharply. His jawline tightened. After a long silence, he moved to the bathroom to wash.

When he came back, he ignored the remaining bottle.

But before leaving, he couldn’t resist one more glance at the strange, out-of-place object.

On its first tier was a small spoon-shaped protrusion. He lowered his gaze, rough fingertips brushing it. The spoon moved slightly.

He pressed it down.

“Click—”

A faint snap. Warm orange light poured into his dark eyes, illuminating half the shadowed room.

His pupils contracted.

…Light?

The Imperial Capital’s energy grid didn’t cover the slums. Houses here had no lamps, and he couldn’t afford energy stones. For years, when night fell, he had grown used to pitch black.

He had thought he no longer longed for light. But now, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering—

This glow within reach, was it only a false mirage, a cruel trick, a mirage foreshadowing misfortune?

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐