Ch 28: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

The sky was fully dark, the outline of the opposite teaching building faintly visible against the night. Lights flicked on one by one, like scattered stars in the dusk.

But Cen Han could see none of it.

The sound of recitation flowed from the classroom door’s crack, seeping into his ears. The rolling of the recycling robot’s wheels, the faint footsteps in the corridor below, idle chatter at the stairwell… he could even hear his own heartbeat.

His spiritual focus was razor-sharp, his hearing unnaturally sensitive in the dark. Yet before him there was only silence—the little ghost who had been muttering moments ago had suddenly fallen quiet.

After he said that sentence, his whole body froze.

He realized what he had just revealed.

Whenever she spoke to him, she always switched to that mechanical electronic voice.

She didn’t want him to hear her real voice.

Cen Han had long known this.

And because he knew, even when he somehow heard her mutterings and self-talk, even when he caught those confusing remarks he couldn’t understand, he always pretended not to notice—never daring to respond to that female voice.

But now—

He swallowed dryly, whispering, “…sorry.”

The reading voices in the classroom ceased, the recycling robot rolled back to its corner and dimmed its eyes, footsteps downstairs halted as someone opened an office door, the stairwell chatter faded away.

Even his own heartbeat seemed to vanish.

He paused, then added softly, “That’s not what I meant.”

The surge of emotion just now had been wild, inexplicable. He didn’t even know why he said those words. It felt like some invisible force inside him had driven him to speak impulsively.

He tilted his face, straining to hear something. But all around remained silent.

It felt like he was the only person left in the world.

“…are you still there?”

His breathing quickened, pupils widening, fingers tightening unconsciously on the wheelchair armrest until his knuckles went white. Only then did he snap out of it, reaching for the external optic membrane box in his bag.

And in that second—

He heard that clear voice again.

Not the mechanical tone in his ear, but a real human voice, coming distinctly from a direction.

“…Cub?”

Unlike her usual relaxed tone, her voice was taut now, the upward lilt carrying audible nervousness. But Cen Han didn’t notice—his movements stalled, and almost desperately, he turned toward the sound.

“Where did you go?”

—Where did you go.

Qian Yuan blinked, almost wanting to cough dryly in embarrassment.

She never expected the game to actually allow direct voice chat with Cub. Startled, her right hand acted on its own, trembling as it hastily pressed logout.

Only after she pulled off her helmet and sat up on her bedroom bed did she realize what a cowardly move she had just made.

Of course she couldn’t admit this to Cub.

“Ah? I didn’t go anywhere,” she feigned calm, quickly steering the topic away and grumbling, “…Cub, could you always hear me talking?”

Cub was silent for a moment. She couldn’t tell if he believed her, but his black eyes drooped, his face pale from the emotional strain just now.

Slowly, he hummed in response, eyes flickering with faint grievance, his voice low. “…I didn’t mean to.”

Those few dozen seconds of silence had been stretched unbearably long by anxious imaginings, overwhelming him with fear. Eyes lowered, he murmured, “If you don’t want to, just talk to me the way you used to.”

Qian Yuan swallowed and said stiffly, “I—I do want to.”

—Of course she didn’t!

She’d spent so long holed up at home, communicating with her guildmates only by typing, her conversational skills had probably regressed below zero.

But Cub’s pitiful dumpling face was impossible to refuse. Qian Yuan clenched her fists, cheering herself on.

—Besides, he wasn’t real. Just a game character. A little cub. What was there to be afraid of!

Thinking this, her nerves actually relaxed, her voice losing some of its tension. With her hands behind her back, she remembered what happened before she logged out, muttering softly, “Cub, you could hear me all this time, so why didn’t you say anything?”

Her words pulled Cen Han’s thoughts back to that moment. He pressed his lips, unsure how to answer.

Should he tell her his suspicions? How would she react?

Her earlier offhand comment still stuck in his throat, but the urge to ask again had already withered. He began to lift his lips, ready to gloss over it, when she spoke again.

“Oh right!” the little ghost seemed to remember something. “Cub, don’t misunderstand. You won’t have a new dad—”

Cen Han: “…?”

Confusion barely reached his eyes before her next words landed, solemnly: “When I said husband, I meant a 2D character, in a game. He can’t raise you with me.”

Cen Han: “…”

Her explanation didn’t ease the knot that had inexplicably formed in his chest. But one word still struck his nerves.

…Game.

Do ghosts play games too?

He had no interest in games, knew little about them. That faint discord was like a plucked string, the sound brief, fading quickly beneath other thoughts.

Cen Han furrowed his brows.

New dad.
Raising him.
Cub.

Those words, linked together, sparked a troubling suspicion. The answer was obvious, and the realization weighed on him all the way until he returned home after school.

But that tangled unease was soon buried under something heavier.

The familiar old house stood silently in the night. Its heavy iron door had been forced open, the broken lock discarded on the ground. Through the wide-open entrance, traces of ransacking were visible inside.

Cen Han had already donned his optic membranes on the way back, his gaze turning cold as he paused at the half-ruined door before silently entering.

The little ghost, who’d said “see you later” at the school gates, was not inside. His movements paused, eyes scanning the room.

Several things were missing.

The desk lamp, the corner’s nutrient solution, the boxes Zhang San had delivered that afternoon.

It wasn’t unexpected. This was the slums, the place with the lowest morals on Capital Star. A house left open was no different from hanging a sign inviting thieves in.

Sitting in his wheelchair, his expression unreadable, he began calmly calculating.

The toolset and parts box had been bought on advance credit from Brother Jian, deducted from his order fees. He didn’t have enough left to replace them.

The three orders were for repairing two SV97 security bots and an A15 butler bot. These were all expensive models; if lost, he’d owe a fortune in compensation.

His first deal with mercenaries had ended like this. The Vultures held weight in the black market—building connections there would be nearly impossible now.

Crossroads unfolded in his mind, each path leading to a dead end.

Cen Han shut his eyes, sitting alone in the dark room, his silhouette fading into shadow.

What should he do?

His thoughts sank into the coldest depths, skirting the red line. His teeth pressed his bloodless lips, interrogation rooms flashing before his eyes, machines beeping in his ears again.

The sound of wheels rolled nearer. The robot’s blank face was about to loom before him. Cen Han’s mind, lost in some nameless abyss, snapped awake.

…No.

His head whipped toward the door.

There really was the sound of wheels.

The half-broken iron door creaked, pulled outward by a glowing hand. It groaned heavily, then collapsed with a crash, dust rising in a cloud.

That hand froze midair, fingers twitching stiffly, then withdrew as if shocked, pretending nothing had happened.

Something rolled up the small ramp at the entrance and into view.

Cen Han’s pupils shrank.

It was a brand-new wheelchair, with a small controller on its armrest—utterly unlike the old, cheap one he sat in. Boxes were stacked on its seat, the missing desk lamp perched precariously on top, wobbling as if about to fall.

The little ghost’s head popped out from behind the pile. She pushed the wheelchair in with effort, her round eyes curving into bright crescents when she saw him.

“Cub, you’re back so fast—did you know someone stole your stuff?”