Ch 23: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Though Cub, obedient to the point of making Qian Yuan teary, had offered up his private stash, the little ghost had nowhere to carry a pouch of money. With watery eyes, she firmly refused and tucked it back beneath his bedboard.

Cub was very displeased, his dumpling face sullen. “Anyway, you mustn’t go to the junkyard again.”

He paused, then repeated sternly, “If you need money, just take it yourself.”

Chasing someone to spend his secret savings, sulking if they wouldn’t—it was so funny that Qian Yuan couldn’t resist poking his cheek, cheerfully agreeing.

As night deepened, she checked the game sign-in. Ten starcoins added to her balance, plus a vanilla cream bun from the lottery.

She placed the bun neatly on the table’s corner, tempted herself. Since Cub had been through so much today, she stayed with him until he went to bed, then logged out.

After removing her helmet, she nestled in bed with two pillows propped behind her, pulled up a budgeting app on her phone.

Her father had given her five thousand yuan—not a small sum. But if she wanted to save for her dream Manfrotto tripod, she couldn’t count this money toward daily expenses.

The bleak numbers made her almond eyes droop. She had to face the reality: she’d soon have to go out and “work” again.

Procrastination won. She closed the app and idly scrolled her phone. Opening WeChat by chance, she noticed that the nickname 【Casual Cub-raising APP】 was still pinned at the top.

She’d first entered the game using its code. By now she was sure: this account was the game’s official WeChat service account. Though how it had appeared in her subscriptions, she still didn’t understand.

Bored, she tapped into it. The handful of sudden messages still lay there, quiet. She poked around the bottom bar.

Content was sparse; the only promo video was the same one she’d seen on the forum.

Still, this game’s dialogue system was the best she’d ever played. No matter what she typed, the character responded flawlessly, tone natural instead of robotic. She had never once failed to trigger a proper reply.

Aside from Cub’s voice actor sounding too mature and the devs’ bizarre design choices, there weren’t real flaws. Maybe it lacked exposure now, but once released publicly, it could dominate the raising-sim market.

Curious what other players thought, she opened Weibo and searched 【Casual Cub-raising APP】.

Only a few scattered ads popped up, keywords messy. Clicking the tag, the page went blank.

—The game didn’t even have an official Weibo.

Qian Yuan: “…”

She sighed. “Truly—made with heart, promoted with feet.”

Such companies were rarer than pandas. Her tolerance for the devs’ antics rose a notch. She flipped idly in the WeChat account’s details—and spotted the ID: “PandoraA09.”

Pandora? Was there a studio by that name?

She copied it into a search bar. No results.

Frowning, she thought: even a tiny two-person studio usually left traces online. But this one? Nothing.

Sleepiness hit. She yawned, brows loosening, and put it aside. After washing up, she set an alarm for the next morning.

…

“Rumble—”

Rain fell at dawn on the Imperial Capital Star, thunder booming by morning. Cen Han startled awake, sitting dazed in bed clutching his quilt. He pressed his forehead; his fingertips met cold sweat.

Yesterday’s events had not simply passed. His chest still ached dully—and… old memories haunted his dreams.

The thunder roared. He steadied himself, transferred into his wheelchair.

Having gone without his optic membranes for a whole day, the pain had eased somewhat. He grabbed a nutrient vial from a box, rolled to the desk, donned the lenses, checked the clock—nearly time for school.

As he twisted the cap, his eyes caught something. His hand froze.

“…”

He slowly set down the vial and picked it up.

A bun. Golden and soft, sliced open, filled with white cream.

…She’d bought him something again.

He pressed a finger to his brow, helpless but faintly moved. The feeling was complicated: being cared for, secretly touched, shadowed by faint shame.

Exhaling, he re-tightened the nutrient cap, lifted the bun, and bit in. His jaw moved; his cold features softened.

Fluffy sweetness filled his mouth. He paused.

…Sweet.

Years ago he’d visited a fertile, untainted planet, famous for its orchards. There he’d tried a dessert hailed across the stars, but found its jam cloying. Unlike now.

In his diary, mood points ticked upward: 【+1】【+1】… climbing.

The storm had washed away the slum’s stench; fresh air replaced it. He locked his door, wheeled out. Mud splashed, wind stung. At once his face turned expressionless, all emotion sealed in ice.

Yesterday’s bullies had been scared off by the ghost. Would they stay away? Likely not.

His mother’s letter had once declared his father innocent, insisting he’d been framed. She’d lost hope in the end, leaving that burden to her crippled son. He had torn it in rage, but its weight still bound him.

Eyes closed, he thought calmly.

…Zhang San should soon deliver the tools. But weapons weren’t allowed on campus. If he refused to endure again, he needed another way.

The school gate loomed. Laughter and whispers returned.

Expressionless, he rolled through the gate.

【Cub—】

The mechanical voice chimed. He froze.

A glow appeared. Cen Han’s head snapped up.

The sun pierced the clouds, beams of gold falling. The little ghost ran toward him.

【Cub!】

His pupils contracted, reflecting her bright, smiling face.

【I came to go to school with you now!】

For a moment, it was as if fireworks lit his starry-black eyes.

Qian Yuan’s steps faltered, then she smiled too.

—Cub looked happy!

Her irritation from overhearing cruel gossip melted away. She rushed to his side, one hand on his wheelchair, the other typing clumsily.

【Cub, good morning! Did you eat breakfast?】

“…”

He hesitated, then said slowly, “Yes.”

The silence felt strange. Qian Yuan opened his diary.

【Cen Han saw the player, felt joy.】
【Cen Han heard the player speak, fell silent.】
【Cen Han doesn’t really like being called Cub.】

Qian Yuan: “!”

So Cub had his pride after all.

She frowned, thinking. If he disliked “Cub”…

“Cen Cen?” she tried. Then, “Han Han?”

…Neither sounded as cute.

She muttered them a few times, then shrugged. She’d just stick to “Cub.” Casually, she typed:

【Cub, where to next? I’ll come to class with you~】

“…”

This time his silence lasted longer. Just as she leaned closer, he finally spoke, voice tight.

“…Up ahead,” he said, cleared his throat, forced calm. “Th-the classroom building.”

Qian Yuan: “…”

Cub, why are you stuttering again?

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐