Author Archives: sandy

After Cen Han left for afternoon classes, Qian Yuan sat on his bed and thought carefully.

—She now had 133 Star Coins (credits), and when she last checked the convenience store, a winter coat cost 120.

But yesterday, when she looked at the door, she noticed two new destinations had appeared: the black market for 10 stamina, and the shopping mall for 15.

Clothes from the convenience store couldn’t compare to the mall. Since she had already leveled up to level 2 and now had 15 stamina, she decided to visit the mall.

Before leaving, Qian Yuan claimed her daily login rewards—10 Star Coins and a gacha coin—and eagerly summoned the gacha machine.

【Congratulations! You have obtained: Slingshot Set ×1!】

Qian Yuan: “…Huh?”

A slingshot dropped into her palm: a wooden Y-shaped handle, an elastic band, and a small pouch of steel pellets.

It looked exactly like the kind kids would play with.

Qian Yuan fell into thought.

Everyone knew gacha prizes were deliberately set by the developers.

So the fact that this slingshot was included must mean something.

Maybe Cen Han liked slingshots?

The little ghost scratched her head, glanced at the desk cluttered with mechanical scraps, and tucked the slingshot into the bag by Cen Han’s wheelchair—planning to surprise him later.

After a night’s rest, her stamina (XP) had fully recovered. From the four options, she clicked on Imperial Capital Mall.

The scene shifted. Dazzling light flashed into her eyes, making her instinctively raise her hand to shield them.

Noises crowded in from every direction: casual conversations, shy small talk, curious questions, bursts of laughter… She froze, goosebumps rising, her mind blank, feet rooted like lead.

Then a dumpling-faced NPC passed right in front of her.

Her pounding heart slowed. She swallowed, lowered her hand.

Coming suddenly from the silence of a tiny room to the chaos of a mall had startled her, but she quickly reminded herself—this was just a game. These crowds weren’t real people.

That thought eased her nerves. She opened her eyes wide, curiously taking in the new scene.

Cen Han’s house and the convenience store were plain. The junkyard had robots and tech, but it was still just a scrapyard, not much to look at.

The mall, however, was different.

A galaxy shimmered across the domed ceiling—an unusual one, without a clear core or spiral arms, no whirlpool shape, not even an elliptical structure. Instead, the stars traced a thin crescent, like a new moon.

It was as if someone had poured a glowing galaxy into this building to light the way for its people.

Her dumpling avatar craned her head back in awe. Meanwhile, NPCs around her were unfazed: some hurried past holding glowing tablets, some walked out of shops trailed by robotic butlers carrying bags…

Futuristic atmosphere radiated everywhere.

“Sir!”

A soft mechanical female voice called from behind her. Qian Yuan turned to see a uniformed robot waving at a skateboarding NPC in midair. “Commander Lu Di will arrive in ten minutes! All hover devices are temporarily prohibited in the mall—please come down at once!”

Three exclamation marks popped above the skater’s head, and he nearly fell. The crowd buzzed.

“Commander Lu Di? Didn’t expect to run into Major General Lu today!”
“He’ll be here in ten minutes? Let’s wait. Last time I saw him was at the Imperial Capital Oath Ceremony.”
“Ever since his promotion three years ago, he’s rarely appeared in public.”

Lu Di, a high-ranking figure?

Story-related characters often tied back to the protagonist. Qian Yuan made a mental note of the name.

The mall was the largest in the capital, eight stories tall, filled with throngs of customers. Qian Yuan wandered freely through the crowd, browsing store after store.

In reality, she hadn’t been to a mall in ages. It felt refreshing. She lingered longer than expected.

Clothes came in all styles: sharp suits, cute pajamas, casual sportswear. She stopped before an extravagant evening gown, glanced at the endless string of zeros on the price tag, and sighed.

“These outfits are so expensive…” Dazzled, she muttered, “If I had more money, I’d fill Cen Han’s closet and dress him differently every day…”

Suddenly, a glowing pop-up appeared: 【LIMITED-TIME SPECIAL OFFER!】

Qian Yuan: “…”

A game with a 10-to-1 currency ratio still trying to tempt her into spending? She scoffed inwardly, poor enough to shut the window without hesitation.

Finally, she found a men’s shop with discounts. Spending 100 Star Coins, she bought an off-white long winter coat and had a delivery robot send it to Cen Han’s home.

Compared to the convenience store, she saved 20 coins—and the style was nicer. The extra 5 stamina was worth it.

Her brows arched happily as she logged off, eager to see Cen Han’s face when he opened the gift.

…

The Imperial Capital was the main planet of the Crescent Galaxy, home of the Imperial family. Its residents were watched more closely than any others. Being born there was both an honor and a burden.

It wasn’t a time of complete peace. With population growth stalled, every academy on the capital planet was required to run physical and psychological evaluations each semester, ensuring the young could grow into useful citizens or soldiers.

That afternoon was psychological testing day. The classroom was nearly empty. Cen Han sat in the corner, staring at a desk stained red with some unknown liquid, before turning his gaze away indifferently.

He sat quietly, dazed.

Ever since the incident, he avoided these evaluations. The outside doctors didn’t know who he was, so they didn’t sneer the way his classmates did. Still, he refused to go.

The thought of stripping for them to press on his limp, atrophied legs—or baring his darkest emotions, his weakness—was unbearable.

Tested students trickled back, working practice sheets on their tablets. Cen Han sat stiffly until dismissal.

Winter days darkened quickly. Few lingered at school. In the quiet hall, he turned his wheelchair.

The infirmary door glowed faintly from within. Someone was still inside.

After the first confusion and fear, Cen Han rarely wondered what that glowing ghost really was. Illusion or reality, it didn’t matter.

But…

He looked at the door.

After his father’s disgrace, it was as if the sky had collapsed. His grandfather, a lifelong soldier, should have enjoyed peace in retirement—but collapsed in anger, never waking again. Friends drifted away, admirers turned cold.

His mother had been pregnant, emotions unstable. Overnight she withered. Soon after, she moved them out of the capital, changed his school, and tried to help her son recover.

But she too couldn’t hold on.

He had seen her breakdowns: muttering to empty air, clawing her own throat in madness, sobbing uncontrollably when lucid—until she took her own life.

When the door was pushed open, he saw her last: stiff legs dangling lifelessly.

A tragedy.

He exhaled softly, recalling his noon confusion.

If it was all illusion, then why couldn’t he hear its voice?

His mother had… auditory hallucinations.

But the nutrient fluid, the hot noodles—those spoke of a ghost that truly existed.

If he opened this door, he could know for sure.

But would people believe him? Or would they look at him the way he had once looked at his mother?

Voices drifted from the not-fully-shut door. Across the courtyard, classroom lights winked out one by one. Cen Han suddenly shut his eyes, breath stifled, tugging at his collar.

Go back, he told himself.

Believers know their god is real. No one else can understand.

He chose to be a believer.

The post-snow streets of the slum were muddy, a torment for his chair. But he hurried anyway.

He unlocked the door and opened it.

Inside, there was no faint glow.

“…”

The light in his eyes dimmed.

He wheeled to the desk, planning to prepare as many parts as possible to sell at tomorrow’s black market. He’d known these machines since childhood; simple ones he could fix blindfolded.

He was about to remove his optic membrane when he noticed something.

A box sat on the bed. Its logo was familiar—an Imperial men’s brand.

A guess flickered through him. His lashes trembled, and he reached to turn on the lamp.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Previous

Because she had stayed up too late the night before, when Qian Yuan entered the game the next day, Cen Han had already finished his morning classes and come home for lunch.

Yesterday it had snowed heavily all day. The snow on the streets outside was high enough to cover a person’s foot. But early that morning, the low-level junk-recycling robots had already cleared a narrow road.

Since one of the city’s junkyards sat right in the slums, there were plenty of robots there, which allowed Cen Han to travel smoothly.

Normally, whenever he returned from school, his mood value in the diary would plummet. But this day was different—the numbers stayed green.

Qian Yuan patted his small shoulder while he tinkered with a broken mechanical part, tilting her head curiously, trying to communicate with him telepathically.

But clearly, he couldn’t follow her train of thought.

The little ghost clung to his shoulder, poking her round head forward, eyes bright with curiosity. The moment she appeared, Cen Han slipped on his optic membrane. He frowned slightly, then glanced at the mess of mechanical fragments and tools scattered across the desk. After a moment, he seemed to understand something.

He leaned over, fetched a beginner’s mechanics book from the cabinet, and handed it to the ghost.

“This one is easier to follow,” he said briefly, rubbing at his temple. “You can read it.”

Then he paused, tilted his head, and gestured with his chin at a new cardboard box sitting in the corner. “Zhang San told me to meet him tomorrow night at the black market. I had him sell some parts for me. You… don’t need to go find food anymore.”

—He was the only one who could see the ghost. Though he had no idea how it managed to bring food, he guessed it wasn’t easy.

His voice carried a trace of fatigue as he spoke, his dumpling face stern. Then he turned back to his repairs. Qian Yuan, meanwhile, looked blankly at the book suddenly shoved into her arms, tilting her head in confusion.

…The child in the game telling her not to raise him? What was she supposed to do with that? Online now, waiting for urgent answers.

And this book—what did he mean by this? Forcing a high-school dropout to read textbooks inside a game was seriously too much.

Qian Yuan muttered inwardly.

Still, curiosity won out. She opened the book.

Its material was special—like colored glass, but soft and thin, smooth to the touch. The printed words shimmered faintly at the edges.

Perhaps in this game, books weren’t made from wood. Which wasn’t surprising—this was a game, after all. Strange rules were everywhere.

She skimmed through a few pages and quickly felt overwhelmed.

Clearly, the writers had studied their sci-fi carefully. The text was well-constructed, but crammed with technical jargon she couldn’t understand.

She put down the “celestial scripture,” and to reassure herself she still knew how to read, quietly opened Cen Han’s diary.

【November 6, 4:00 AM】
【Cen Han went to the junkyard.】
【Cen Han collected scraps.】

【November 6, 5:30 AM】
【Cen Han built mechanical parts from scraps.】
【Cen Han repaired fragments.】

【November 6, 7:00 AM】
【Cen Han waited at the intersection.】
【Cen Han kept sneezing. He might have caught a cold.】

【November 6, 7:30 AM】
【Cen Han met Zhang San.】
【Cen Han went to school.】

…

The diary continued for a long way, but Qian Yuan no longer had the mood to read.

Her eyes widened at the snow-mud stuck to the wheels of his chair, then at the mechanical scraps in his hands.

She’d logged off at 2 AM. Cen Han had gone scavenging at 4 AM. Did that mean he hadn’t slept at all—or just two hours?

No wonder his voice had sounded so off earlier, so tired. After staying up, he’d still waited outside in the freezing cold with thin clothes…

Qian Yuan frowned deeply.

The next second, Cen Han suddenly froze mid-action at the desk.

A hand reached from the side, tilting his chin toward it. The touch wasn’t forceful, but he instinctively wanted to turn away—yet his eyes couldn’t escape the ghost’s expression.

It was a smiling face, but with drooping corners, almost crestfallen. And somehow… worried.

…Worried?

Was it worried about him?

The ghost’s mouth opened and closed silently, as if speaking. After a moment, it released him and darted across the room.

Cen Han’s black eyes followed, lips pressed tight.

…If only he could hear it.

The thought surfaced unbidden. He caught himself, startled by his own greed. But like a sprout touched by rain, it grew instantly, unstoppable.

A screw slipped from his fingers, clinking against the desk. He quickly pinned it down, distracted.

…Why couldn’t he hear it?

He sat silent, lost in thought—until the ghost came huffing back and shoved something into his hand.

He looked down. A bottle of nutrient fluid.

The cardboard box he’d pointed at earlier had been opened. The ghost pressed one hand on the table, the other on his chair, its bright eyes locked on him.

It didn’t speak, but Cen Han inexplicably understood.

It had seen his exhaustion and wanted him to replenish his strength.

“…”

Outside, clouds scattered, and soft midday light spilled inside. Cen Han froze for an instant. A strange feeling rose to his tongue, but he forced it down.

He lowered his gaze abruptly, lashes trembling as if to hide something. Almost nervously, he began: “I…”

But he never finished.

The ghost seemed to remember something, gave a look of sudden realization, and took the bottle back—then opened it.

It leaned closer, raising the mouth of the bottle to his lips.

As if about to feed him.

Cen Han: “…”

His complicated thoughts evaporated. His face went blank.

Why did this ghost always try to feed him? As if… as if he were a little child.

…

His throat bobbed faintly.

Since the day he became self-aware, no one had fed him.

Even three years ago, when he’d barely survived and lay in the hospital swaddled in bandages, he had never allowed anyone to feed him.

But sometimes, a single familiar gesture could trigger everything. Memories never forgotten replayed.

“Eat a little, please. You can’t go on like this. Just eat a little…”

The boy, swathed in thick bandages, sat up in bed and hysterically slapped away his mother’s food tray.

Outside the hospital, reporters blocked the entrance, their voices sharp and cold as they rose into the air, seeping up into the fourth-floor ward.

Eyes peered through the glass in the door, whispering indistinctly, their stares heavy with suspicion.

And after discharge—came the interrogation.

“What do you know about your father’s treason? Did he ever mention his plans?”
“You were on the ship at the time—why were you there? What were you doing?”
“You were the only survivor of the explosion. How did you escape? Did your father arrange your escape?”

Suspicion and scrutiny left him nowhere to hide under glaring spotlights. Imperial officers looked down on him coldly, while lie-detecting robots strode closer, blue, emotionless eyes reflected on his despairing face.

“Inject him. Start the machine—”

“Snap.”

A crisp sound. Cen Han jolted awake, pupils refocusing, expression calm again. He saw the ghost lowering the empty bottle from his lips and turning on the lamp.

Its glow was warm and soft—worlds apart from the cold light of machines.

The bottle was empty. Somehow, without realizing, he had let it feed him again.

And then, it had even patted his hair, as if rewarding a child for eating obediently.

“…”

Color flushed faintly across his pale face. A hint of frustration flickered in his dark eyes.

Silent for a long time, he finally sighed softly, almost mocking himself, pressing his knuckle against his brow.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

The atmosphere in the room turned strangely tense.

After his first burst of anger and shock, Zhang San seemed to remember something. His expression shifted awkwardly, embarrassment twisting his face. Cen Han, however, remained cold and detached, sitting off to the side with his eyes lowered, waiting to see how the “ghost” and Zhang San would interact.

But what Cen Han didn’t expect was that after fumbling for a while, Zhang San actually turned toward him and stammered, “Thanks, kid…”

He stopped short, forcing down the familiar derogatory word that almost slipped out, then added stiffly, “About before… sorry, I—”

Something unpleasant clearly came to mind, cutting him off again. His face turned pale, then flushed. He didn’t want to admit he’d been duped by his own underlings, so all he managed was, “…I wronged you.”

Cen Han blinked faintly, frowning. He shot a quick glance at the ghost beside him.

He didn’t care about Zhang San’s inner turmoil. Instead, another thought occurred.

…Could it be that Zhang San couldn’t see it?

Was he the only one who could?

That unexpected realization lifted a little of the weight pressing down on him. Cen Han’s mood lightened, the gloom in his eyes receding.

“Hey, what’s with that attitude?”

As expected, Zhang San was impossible to like. Seeing Cen Han ignore him, he raised his voice angrily: “You think I’m the same as those interstellar pirates? I’ll tell you this—your nutrient solution, I’ll get it back to you tomorrow! I live clean, I—”

“No need,” Cen Han said coolly. “If you take me to the black market.”

Qian Yuan, who had been checking if the side quest reward had gone through, snapped her head up.

—The quest description had mentioned Zhang San’s black market contacts. She’d been puzzling over how to get her cub connected to them. She hadn’t expected Cen Han to take the initiative!

Zhang San froze.

The black market wasn’t off-limits, but it wasn’t a place ordinary students would wander into. It wasn’t as terrifying as some imagined, but smugglers, mercenary groups, and wanted men did turn up there. It was illegal ground under the Empire’s law.

Probably connecting it to Cen Han’s background, Zhang San’s face shifted into wariness. For all his poverty, his own life was worth more than a few boxes of nutrient solution.

Suspicious, he asked, “What do you want there?”

Cen Han saw straight through him, the air around him growing heavier as he forced patience. “Sell mechanical parts.”

All these years, he’d used Uncle Tang to trade with the black market, always giving the man a small fee.

But after what he’d overheard recently, Cen Han couldn’t bear to impose further.

If he wanted to survive in the New Moon Star, he had no choice but to go himself—especially to the inner circle, where people cared little for Imperial loyalty. Perhaps they wouldn’t reject him for who he was.

The boy’s eyes dimmed briefly—until Zhang San suddenly shouted, “Mechanical parts?! You can make those things?”

Mechanical engineering was exclusive to the Academy of Mechanics. Education on the Imperial Capital Star was divided into four stages: early childhood learning guided by parents, robots, and AI; five years in a junior academy; six years in a higher academy during youth.

Graduates usually went straight into work, but a few aimed for even tougher vocational schools—like the military or mechanics academies.

Exams were brutal, and competition fierce. Only a fraction graduated, but those who did became stars of the Empire.

No wonder Zhang San was shocked. To him, uneducated and untrained, making machines was unthinkable. After his surprise, seeing Cen Han’s calm face, he understood.

With his background, it wasn’t strange that Cen Han had learned. Jealousy gnawed at him, but he grudgingly nodded.

“Kid… if you’re just selling parts, I might know someone.” He eyed Cen Han. “But only if you’re not planning something stupid. If you get me killed, I’ll kick you out of that chair and into a recycler’s annihilation box first.”

What an attitude!

Even if the goal was achieved, Qian Yuan couldn’t help the angry bubble that popped above her dumpling head. She wanted to dump nutrient solution on his head, but all she had left were two precious packs of instant noodles.

While she hesitated, Cen Han only nodded faintly, watching Zhang San leave. He seemed unaffected by the harsh words—or maybe, he was simply used to them.

Qian Yuan pressed her lips together. She wanted to pat Cen Han’s head, but before she could, he hesitated, then looked at her. His round cartoon face was blank.

“Will you go with me?”

[November 6, 2:00 a.m.][Cen Han longs for the player’s company.]

“…”

Qian Yuan’s little heart gave a tremor. She almost answered out loud.

Thankfully, reason returned. She ran to the door and pressed her hand against it, pulling up the scene selection. Two new options had unlocked thanks to leveling and story progress.

Her avatar nodded hard, round dumpling face smiling brightly. “Of course.”

After logging off, Qian Yuan couldn’t sleep. She lay on her stomach with her phone.

A new message on WeChat startled her. She rarely got any. Sure enough, it was from her father.

[Through Wind and Rain]: Back in Rong City soon. Let’s eat Friday.

[Through Wind and Rain]: I’ll introduce you to a friend. [grin]

“…”

She hesitated, then slowly typed back one word: “Okay.”

Switching apps, she opened QQ. He Shang had sent a private message about the photo exhibition.

She transferred him money for the ticket, glancing at the date.

December 25.

She exhaled. Over a month away. Enough time to steel herself.

Still, the date nagged her. Where had she seen it recently? She couldn’t recall.

…Maybe it was just because it was Christmas. Stores had already begun their promotions. People in the guild chat had shared mall photos, Rong City dressed up in red and green.

Thinking so, she yawned, tapped her screen dark, and curled under the covers.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Snow swirled thickly as Qian Yuan took a step forward.

…The side quest reward was ten credits.

She took another step.

…The side quest also rewarded fifty XP!

A recycler robot trundled past. She managed a third step, then froze, feet glued to the ground.

…If she could just rack up 120 XP, she’d finally be able to go to school with her little ward!

Qian Yuan drooped her head, wringing her hands in regret. How could she have been so rash? She scolded herself, reflecting solemnly.

He was just an NPC. She could have saved him, then shoved him back into a sack and dumped him again.

Convincing herself, she ran back, yanked the sack off the chicken-nest-haired brute, and—yes—his battered, pitiful face brought her a tiny spark of joy. She poked his shoulder, pushed his cheek. No response.

At this rate, he’d freeze to death in the snow, even if the wounds weren’t fatal.

Could she drag him between scenes? Unsure, her gaze drifted to her backpack.

A strange equation formed in her mind.

Backpack = stores trash.
Zhang San stole her ward’s nutrient solution = trash = can go in the backpack.

Qian Yuan: no flaw in the logic.

With grave seriousness, her dumpling avatar analyzed the snowy scene, nodded decisively, and acted.

She tried hefting him up—too heavy. Nearly crushed her. So she tried something else.

She slipped the backpack over his head. To her shock, his bun-sized head vanished inside.

Perfect plan!

Satisfied, she patted the bulging pack and checked its contents.

[Contents:
Half-dead Zhang San — value: 500 credits
Total: 500 credits
(Confirm to Sell)]

Qian Yuan nearly jabbed the sell button in shock. Her left hand smacked her right away just in time.

Hand over chest, she breathed relief. She mustn’t be tempted by gold.

Experience mattered more. And this was a wholesome healing game—she wouldn’t stoop to trafficking characters!

So, with one slot taken by Zhang San, she filled the other nine with junk and teleported home.

She quietly set Zhang San on the floor, careful not to make a sound, then sold the rest.

Her balance: 123 credits.

…Enough for the cotton coat.

She shut the menu, satisfied.

Zhang San’s bruised face was swollen, a long gash streaking his forehead. Clearly his own underlings had beaten him raw, targeting his face especially.

His big round head was tinted purple. Qian Yuan strongly suspected the backpack had no air. Clearly, it wasn’t designed to hold people. Still, the system had accepted her ironclad logic.

The burly man lay sprawled, pitiful. She remembered his cruel words to Cen Han and felt a flicker of satisfaction.

But… how to complete the quest?

She pondered, then fetched the rag she’d used to wipe the stove, wet it, and wiped his face roughly.

Cold water pressed onto wounds made even the unconscious man shudder, muttering faint sounds.

The sounds were faint, yet from the bed came sudden movement—

Qian Yuan turned, startled. Cen Han had sat bolt upright, blank eyes wide in the dark.

The tension faded quickly. Tilting his ear, he sat still, listening carefully.

She rushed to grasp his hand.

Cen Han stiffened.

The familiar warmth softened the barbs rising on his back, eased the feral edge from his brows.

…Why did this ghost always touch him?

Hair veiled the faint blush at his ear. He pursed his lips, turned aside, awkwardly pulling away to reach for his ocular membrane.

Vision returned; the dim room’s furniture came into view. And there—on the floor—

His brow twitched. He flicked on the lamp.

Everything lay bare.

The battered man sprawled clearly before him.

“…”

Cen Han froze, disbelief in his eyes. His face darkened instantly. He glanced at the intact iron door, at the rag in the ghost’s bloody hand. The storm outside seemed to rage inside his eyes.

…What was this?

Why had she brought his tormentor into his home?

What did it mean?

His jaw clenched. Humiliation swelled, bitter as betrayal—even though he knew, logically, there was no bond between him and this ghost.

The fury rose—then arms wrapped him.

The ghost hugged him in a rush, mouth working urgently, then drooped in frustration—then lifted again, gesturing wildly, desperate to explain.

…Afraid of being misunderstood?

Why explain, why care? Just a ghost, nameless and sudden.

But—it had been so long since anyone cared about his feelings.

Cen Han’s chest knotted, fingers digging into his palm.

The ghost stared anxiously. He sat on the bed, gaze falling on the man sprawled on the floor.

The swollen face brought no comfort.

At last, he said quietly, “You want to help him.”

Qian Yuan’s heart skipped. She peeked at his mood meter before nodding. No drop.

She exhaled in relief, nodded again, then shook her head, unsure how to explain.

Her little ward lowered his head, silent. The diary showed 【-1】, 【-1】, dropping by five before he finally rolled into his wheelchair and went into the bathroom.

Qian Yuan followed, watching him retrieve a spray can from beneath the sink.

“…Medical spray,” he said flatly, averting his gaze. He didn’t mention it was bought four years ago.

Qian Yuan’s eyes widened. So convenient!

Expressionless, Cen Han sprayed Zhang San. She checked the diary—her heart calmed.

Earlier, a system alert had warned her he was near blackening. His mood had hit a blood-red -10. But after a few angry bubbles, he’d been easy to coax.

Relieved, she stood by him, both watching Zhang San.

The expired spray still worked. His swelling receded visibly, wounds knitting.

Perhaps even unconscious, Zhang San felt Cen Han’s icy presence. For once, his eyes flickered open.

Still dazed, he sat up slowly—then froze.

…This wasn’t his home.

Blinking, vision refocusing, he saw a pair of feet on footrests. Wheels.

Wheels?!

He gasped, looked up, straight into Cen Han’s cold eyes.

That stare was venomous, more chilling than when he’d cursed him before.

Cripple or not, the air around him was like a predator baring fangs.

Zhang San’s scalp prickled. Instinct made him scoot back—then he remembered: he was the muscle here, and this boy was blind and crippled.

He leapt up, fist raised—then his eyes snagged on the item in Cen Han’s hand.

[Imperial Capital Royal Brand Medical Spray]

“…”

Zhang San froze.

He stared once, twice, three times at the priceless spray.

His gaze locked.

…Could it be—this cripple had saved him?

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

The sudden hush rang loud in her ears, as though the other party no longer knew what to say.

Qian Yuan glanced quickly around.

The convenience store was empty, its iron shutter already pulled down. Outside, nothing could be seen. She recalled there had been a back door when she last came here. Creeping over, she found it slightly ajar.

She eased it open. A short hallway stretched ahead, another door at its end. From beyond came voices—this time lower, muffled through the wall, but she recognized it instantly.

Cen Han.

“…This time… was an accident.”

He sounded uneasy, the usually calm tone wavering as if defending himself. “The nutrient solution I bought here recently disappeared. That’s why I came back.”

“…How could it suddenly disappear? What happened?”

Qian Yuan poked her head through the gap.

The store was indeed connected to a residence. Cen Han stood in a small living room, his back to her, shaking his head silently.

Across from him was the bushy-browed shopkeeper. His brows were knit tight, his face weary.

“…Alright,” the man sighed at last. He neither believed nor denied the vague explanation. After a pause, he patted Cen Han’s shoulder. “Xiao Han, you’re a sensible child. Uncle Tang knows you’ll be careful.”

Qian Yuan saw Cen Han’s drooping hand curl abruptly into a fist.

She blinked, puzzled, not sure what they really meant.

Soon Cen Han left through another door, hugging a bottle of low-grade nutrient solution. When Qian Yuan checked her game screen, her credits hadn’t dropped.

So—her little ward actually had his own stash of private money and bought food himself. Amazing. But her attention was already elsewhere.

The shopkeeper sighed in the living room. Just as she prepared to teleport home, footsteps sounded.

A ponytailed girl emerged. “Dad, why did you really say that to Cen Han?”

Eh? Hidden storyline?

Qian Yuan snapped her menu shut and slipped fully into the room, plopping openly onto the sofa to eavesdrop.

The bushy-browed man said, “Zhenzhen, weren’t you the one who said you were afraid classmates would find out our family’s connection with him?”

The girl fell silent. Another sigh.

“His father helped us a lot in the past. Even if everyone curses him now, I can’t ignore the boy’s plight. Helping when I can—that’s the least we can do.”

Rubbing his brow, he muttered, “But no one else can know. Even if you hadn’t mentioned it, I wouldn’t want others to see him coming here. Taking some supplies to him monthly is the most we can manage.”

Then, more sternly, “Zhenzhen, it’s one thing if I help him. But at school, you must keep your distance. I fear… he might get ideas. After all, we’re the only ones still in contact with him.”

The girl flushed scarlet, stammering in protest.

But her father seemed convinced, face creased with worry. “Didn’t you sneak to the slums the other day? Don’t lie. I saw the mud on your shoes. Now he suddenly turns up, saying his nutrient crates are missing… I’m worried.”

Listening, Qian Yuan: “…”

As the talk shifted dangerously toward romance, she hastily clicked to go home. Just before the scene faded, she heard the man’s heavy admonition.

“Do you understand, Zhenzhen? This isn’t small. Cen Han has no future. Blind, crippled—he’ll spend his life in the slums. I can’t forget old debts, but you need better friends. Like that Shan boy who gave the speech at the opening ceremony—that’s the kind you should know…”

The voices dwindled.

Back in the empty room, Qian Yuan’s mood was tangled.

A harsh truth had been laid bare.

Her little cub was shunned.

Uncle Tang, the shopkeeper, was the only one willing to help him. Yet even he spoke of Cen Han with condescension, warning his daughter away lest others see.

And all of it… traced back to Cen Han’s father.

What had his father done, to leave the boy in such a state?

She couldn’t guess. Sulking, she waited.

When the snow-dusted youth finally came home, his eyes lit briefly at the sight of his small room. Qian Yuan’s heart clenched harder.

Her poor little one!

VR games really did pull you in. Stung by what she’d overheard, she threw herself into grinding—no cash, but endless farming.

The cotton coat cost more than a quilt: 120 credits. So she worked like clockwork, hitting the dump every two hours. By eleven that night, she had scraped together 112.

Her little cub went to bed happy, mood back to 80. She logged off only to grab a midnight snack, then pushed herself until 1 AM, desperate to log in again.

One last dump run would do it. In the morning, she could give him a warm coat.

…If only the backpack didn’t max out at ten items, she could have farmed even faster.

The familiar robots and glowing containers appeared. It was another blizzard night, the dump a white wasteland.

She trudged deeper.

[Ding~! Congratulations, player, you’ve unlocked a side quest! Check your task list!]

Another one?

Her eyes lit up—she needed XP badly. She opened her list.

[Side Quest: Zhang San was ambushed by his own lackeys, beaten and left half-dead in the snow. Rumor has it this dump boss has black market connections. Earning his favor may help the protagonist…

Goal: Save the dying Zhang San.
Reward: 50 XP, 10 credits.
Note: Buy a one-time pass to hire robots and complete instantly!]

Zhang San? Who? Just some random extra?

Bewildered, she jogged around. At last, by a dumpster, she found a massive figure sprawled in the snow.

A burlap sack covered his head. He was far bulkier than other game sprites, like he’d been juiced up.

The shape gave her a bad feeling. Slowly, she pulled the sack away.

A familiar battered face appeared, hair like a bird’s nest now frosted white, cheeks bruised, dried blood crusted.

Qian Yuan: “…”

She considered. In the storm, she carefully pulled the sack back over, stood up, and walked away as if nothing had happened.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

After completing her goal for the day, Qian Yuan stood up with satisfaction.

She had lingered in this “casual” game far too long that morning. On a whim, she walked to the stove, waved at her little ward, pointed to the newly appeared kitchen set, then held up the three remaining buckets of instant noodles.

The slums had no electricity or gas, but at least there was running water. She had spent the entire morning fumbling with the setup, even searching online, before finally coaxing the fire to life. Pouring water into the pot, she patted the stove, giving Cen Han a questioning look.

He seemed to understand, his expression suddenly falling still.

“…Mn.” At last, he spoke. “I know how to use it.”

Qian Yuan sighed in relief.

No need to buy a quilt now to raise comfort—her new target was a cotton coat. At night, he could use it as a blanket, and outside it would keep him warm. For a household this poor, it was far more useful than a quilt.

If she wanted to save up quickly, he’d have to eat instant noodles with her for a while.

As Cen Han turned back to study, she waved. “I’ll come see you later.”

“…”

Her glowing ghostly form faded into motes of light, dissolving into the air.

Cen Han’s fingers twitched on the wheelchair armrest, then went still again.

He had thought…

A flood of tangled thoughts passed. At length, he wheeled himself to the desk.

The book the ghost had scribbled in still lay open. Carefully, he tore out the corner with her handwriting, staring at the little note.

Lowering his eyes, he smoothed the crease, tucked the scrap between the pages, and stored it safely in the cabinet.

…

Qian Yuan removed her headset.

A heavy rain had fallen before dawn. In Rong City the air was damp and cold, and even the heater couldn’t lift her reluctance to leave the bed. She curled up under her quilt and reached for her phone.

The guild chat was lively; someone had tagged her earlier while she was in-game. She skimmed the feed, finding the latest chatter about a photography exhibition.

Her father had been a gifted wildlife photographer, and she had inherited his passion. Since middle school she’d been shooting photos everywhere, first on her phone, later with the camera he passed down to her.

Back then he hadn’t been so absent from home, and she hadn’t withdrawn so much. He took her to exhibitions, introduced her to colleagues.

Adults had been patient with the quiet, pretty girl. One young woman, upon hearing she also played this game, invited her into their guild—a guild founded by local Rong City photographers.

Years passed. That woman and many others quit the game; new players unrelated to photography joined. A few veterans remained.

Qian Yuan already knew about the exhibition, but said nothing, simply watching.

Then came another tag.

[Universe’s Number One Pharmacist]: @Thousand-Paper-Crane, classmate, Teacher Wen Pian’s works will be shown this time. [hehe]

Qian Yuan froze.

She hadn’t followed that teacher’s news for a long time—she truly hadn’t known her works would be displayed. Her lips pressed tight. Before she could type, another message appeared.

[He Shang]: Wen Pian? The portrait photographer? Thousand, you liked her?

[Universe’s Number One Pharmacist]: She’s Wen Pian’s little fangirl! [rose]

Qian Yuan’s lashes trembled. She turned restlessly in bed.

That was all years ago…

Another ping.

[He Shang]: What luck! @Thousand-Paper-Crane, want to join us? I have a friend who can’t make it—I can sell you their ticket cheap.

[Universe’s Number One Pharmacist]: @Thousand-Paper-Crane @Thousand-Paper-Crane @Thousand-Paper-Crane [knife] [bomb]

With tags spamming her, she couldn’t ignore it.

Normally, she would have refused—these people barely knew her now. She had only ever met Cherry (the guild leader) and once, as a child, the Pharmacist. Neither knew her current situation.

But Wen Pian’s work would be there.

That was an artist she once adored—and in truth, still did.

She couldn’t quite bear to miss the chance, even though she no longer shot portraits.

Her fingers crumpled the pillowcase. After long hesitation, she typed slowly:

[Thousand-Paper-Crane]: I’d like to go, thanks for offering the ticket ^-^

After sending, her heart pounded wildly.

A vague ache spread through her limbs; making the decision alone left her shaken.

She rolled about under the blanket, pressing a pillow over her face, calming herself with effort.

Despite all her resistance, she couldn’t deny it: after so many years, the thought of returning to a photography exhibit filled her with quiet anticipation.

She splashed her face with cold water, meeting her reflection: bright almond eyes framed by dark lashes, features pretty but pallid, with faint circles under her eyes.

She hadn’t gone out in over two months. Everything—food, supplies—was ordered online.

This had been her life for years: leave the house once every few months to earn just enough, then hole up again like a snail until funds ran out.

Unhealthy, yes. But she had no will to change it yet.

After lunch, she curled up with her tablet for dramas. When the two-hour alarm chimed, she dove back into the game.

Going to the convenience store cost too much stamina; she had planned to grind at the dump for credits first. But opening the diary, she saw Cen Han had already gone to the store.

Snow was falling now, thin on the ground, making travel by wheelchair hard. She understood him skipping class, but why venture out now?

He still had three packs of noodles at home. Characters shouldn’t buy food until they ran out, right?

She frowned. Then two more diary lines appeared:

[November 5th, 1:30 PM][Cen Han spoke to the shopkeeper.][Cen Han is in a bad mood.]

Qian Yuan glanced at the top corner—and nearly screamed. In the short time she’d been offline, his mood had plummeted from a healthy green 80 straight to a glaring red 30, still dropping.

All her hard work—gone!

She rushed to spend her ten stamina to travel to the convenience store.

The scenery loaded. As soon as she arrived, she heard low, halting words. The voice was hushed, as though afraid to be overheard.

“…Don’t bring that up again… Xiao Han. We agreed you wouldn’t come here. What if someone sees you?”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

The Imperial Capital weather forecast had warned of a blizzard by evening. By midday, the drop in temperature was already obvious. When Cen Han left the academy gates, the weather had changed completely. Clouds churned above, heavy and oppressive, while the cutting wind raged unchecked. Snowflakes, swept sideways, lashed about wildly. Trees along the roadside bent under the weight.

Afternoon classes had been canceled, and students hurried home. For once, Cen Han left the campus in peace, free from sneers or taunts.

His fingers were chapped and swollen with frostbite. His threadbare coat let the wind in. The pants he’d worn for three years were too short now, exposing bony ankles that the cold gnawed at until his teeth chattered.

He only wanted to get home quickly, crawl beneath his blanket, and hide in the dark. But the wind seemed set against him.

His frozen hands gripped the wheels stiffly. The gale roared head-on, whipping dust and grit from the slum’s dirt road. Forced to a halt, he turned his face aside, eyes squeezed shut, unable to move.

At last, a hoarse, broken growl tore from his throat.

The road was empty. The houses along the way all had doors shut tight. By the time he reached his home, he was exhausted, his limbs red and itchy from the cold.

This time, the bitterness and rage inside refused to be beaten down. He bit his lip nearly to bleeding as he fumbled with the key.

Click.

Soft, pale light spilled into his pitch-black eyes. Behind him, the storm howled louder, but Cen Han sat frozen in the doorway, stunned.

The fury and despair that had almost driven him to smash everything stilled, his very heartbeat caught.

There on the desk was a steaming bowl of noodles. Its spicy fragrance curled into the room, greeting him with warmth.

And there—finally visible—was the silent presence that had haunted him.

Glowing, half-transparent, round-faced with a silly smile.

It should have been eerie, terrifying. Yet Cen Han felt no fear.

It was… a little ghost.

The little ghost ran to him, pushed his wheelchair inside, and shut the heavy door. The storm was shut out; the room was quiet again.

It moved its mouth at him—words he couldn’t hear. Then it nudged the bowl closer, placed chopsticks in his hand.

Its touch wasn’t cold, but gentle, even warm.

He parted his lips to speak, but his throat was dry, his voice lost. His gaze dropped instead to the fragrant noodles.

Golden strands floated in red broth, dotted with vegetables and beef.

Before he could think, his throat bobbed.

The last time he had noodles was three years ago, before radiation struck the Capital. Back then, real food wasn’t so expensive. Since then, all he had was vile, low-grade nutrient fluid.

The steam stung his eyes, surreal and absurd. Yet for a moment, it pulled him out of the mire.

Color returned faintly to his lips. Hoarsely, he asked, “…Who are you?”

The ghost tilted its head, mouth moving, but still he heard nothing.

It was the second time he asked.

The first time, he’d believed it was hallucination, and despaired.

This time, he doubted himself. Perhaps this ghost really wasn’t just his mind’s invention.

…

Qian Yuan, chin in hand, smiled as she watched his mood meter creep upward.

Communication wasn’t unlocked yet, but after failing to get answers, Cen Han quietly lowered his head and began to eat. From her perch on the bed, she watched his brows pinch from the spice, his bun-round cheeks puffing as he chewed.

…Cute!

She clasped her face, overwhelmed.

The diary spat updates: 【Cen Han is conflicted】, 【Cen Han is confused】. After eating, he turned, a question mark hovering over his head.

“Why are you helping me?”
“Are you a ghost?”
“—Can’t you talk to me?”

His dark eyes fixed on her, fingers twisting nervously. He looked desperate for an answer.

…Ghost? Her avatar was clearly a cute dumpling!

Biting her lip, Qian Yuan gave in. She pulled a book and pen from his cabinet and scrawled: 【I am NOT a ghost!】

He frowned. “Can’t read it.”

She tried sign language gestures. 【Hey, hello~】

He blinked blankly.

She snapped a photo of one of his books to run through translation—failed.

At last, she simply nodded.

“…You can’t speak,” he said.

She nodded.

“You’re real.”

She nodded.

“You’re… helping me?”

She bobbed her head like a pecking chick.

The wind battered the window. The room was cold, but after that bowl of noodles, warmth lingered.

Though his reason still doubted, his softer feelings yielded. “…Oh.”

He turned away coolly, sat at the desk, opened a book, muttered stiffly: “Do what you want.”

【Cen Han doesn’t turn a page.】
【Cen Han pretends to read but sneaks glances at you.】

Qian Yuan: “—!”

Oh my god. Too cute!

After nearly spitting blood at the devs for making her scavenge trash, she finally tasted joy. She poked his cheek.

He jerked around, stunned, ears reddening. “…Don’t touch me.” His voice rasped, trying to sound calm, but his eyes dodged, flustered.

But the little ghost ignored him. She poked his cheeks, pinched his ears, patted his head, treating him like a doll.

The blush spread, up his cheeks and down his neck. He tried to escape, but the heavy chair betrayed him.

Finally, cornered, he covered his face and whispered, “Stop touching me…”

Satisfied, Qian Yuan pulled back and checked the diary. She gasped.

【Mood +】
【Mood +】
【Mood +】

【Current Mood: 80/100】

She stared at the bright green record.

…So her cub was the classic tsundere—his mouth said no, but his heart was happy.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Song Ganlan and the other players eventually realized that even after receiving “excellent” evaluations from every teacher and instructor, they were still only labeled as “Outstanding Students.”

After waiting a long time with no system notification for dungeon clearance, Song Ganlan finally asked the homeroom teacher of the Spring and Autumn Class, “Have we graduated?”

That was when the teacher revealed her true face. “Graduate? Who said becoming outstanding students meant you could graduate? You reported the school—you’ll never graduate!”

She then accused them of skipping class during school hours and began to hunt them down.

The players felt as though the sky had collapsed.

They had risked everything—offending every teacher and instructor in the academy—only to find that graduation was impossible.

Some began to resent An Yixiao, claiming she had never joined their plan because she wanted them to take the fall and bear the wrath of the school staff.

Song Ganlan snapped, “Enough! President An never said this plan was guaranteed to work. If you’ve got a foolproof one, show it.”

That shut them up—but trust had already shattered. Using “splitting up” as an excuse, they scattered to search for their own way to clear the dungeon.

Only a handful of Duan Jing’s loyal players stayed with Song Ganlan.

“Stick to the plan—head for the supermarket,” Song Ganlan said, pulling out the stun baton she’d bought there. Lightning cracked, sparks flew, and she fought her way forward.

But Mingde Academy was now surrounded by swarms of midges. It was like the end of the world—the visibility dropping by the second.

If it kept up, they’d lose their bearings and stumble straight into a trap.

Song Ganlan took the lead, but what blocked them wasn’t only the pollution—it was the monstrous teachers, the twisted instructors, and even former players who had become anomalies, trying to lure them back to class.

The people behind her fell one by one, and her body was covered with wounds.

At last, they spotted the supermarket.

As if unwilling to let them escape, the swarm of midges attacked with renewed ferocity just as they reached the protective barrier.

Blood streamed from Song Ganlan’s eyes. She gritted her teeth, clinging to consciousness as someone half-dragged, half-carried her into safety.

*

“Your eyes—are they injured?” Zhou Li asked, seeing blood tears running down Song Ganlan’s cheeks.

When Song Ganlan opened them, the bloated midges burst into the air, only to be crushed to dust by an invisible force.

“Come with me,” Zhou Li said, grabbing her arm.

She led her upstairs, laying her in the medical capsule and beginning the treatment sequence.

As the machine whirred and the medicine levels rapidly dropped, Zhou Li remarked, “Make sure you settle your medical bill before leaving the dungeon.”

Song Ganlan, who had been trembling from pain and on the verge of passing out, suddenly stilled. Even her hands stopped shaking.

With a faint laugh, she said, “If I can’t pay, does that mean I’ll have to stay and work off my debt like President An?”

Zhou Li replied, “This is a small supermarket. I don’t have that many job openings.”

“Then you can always create new ones.”

Zhou Li: …

A moment later, Song Ganlan stopped talking. The capsule had injected the anesthetic and begun the procedure.

Zhou Li left her in the capsule and went downstairs to check on the others—those with less severe wounds.

From their accounts, she pieced together more about the dungeon’s nature.

Apparently, neither the teachers nor instructors feared exposure.

The principal and director had both vanished, giving the illusion that the players were on the right track—but it was a trap.

One player, spotting Zhang Xiaozhi crouched in the stairwell, stormed over in rage. “It must be you! There’s no way an anomaly would actually help humans! You’re working with the school!”

“I’m not!” Zhang Xiaozhi protested. “Reporting the school only made them hate me. What good does that do me?”

“Helping humans doesn’t benefit you either! Why would you be so kind?”

Zhang Xiaozhi bristled. “Hey! You begged me for help first—and now you’re blaming me? Typical humans, always turning on others when things go wrong.”

They were seconds away from fighting, but everyone knew that starting a fight inside the supermarket would get them expelled from its protection, so they held back.

Zhou Li ignored the tension. She was thinking aloud: “Why aren’t the teachers and instructors afraid of media exposure?”

The players froze.

They realized they’d been so angry, they hadn’t thought about that.

“Maybe the principal’s got powerful connections,” someone suggested.

Zhou Li shook her head. “If that were true, he wouldn’t hide—he’d just make up a respectable excuse. Like when there’s undeniable evidence but someone still insists on camera that a rat head is actually a duck neck.”

“Rat head? Duck neck? What does that mean?” a player asked blankly.

“Just an example. Don’t worry about it,” Zhou Li said.

Then Zhang Xiaozhi spoke up. “What if the ones backing him are the parents?”

Everyone turned to stare.

Zhang Xiaozhi sneered. “None of us came here willingly. Our parents sent us. They know exactly what happens here, but they think this place can turn us into obedient puppets—filial children who’ll wash their feet and serve them. If public outrage ever threatens to shut the school down, they’ll defend it.”

Silence.

Because that explanation… fit too well.

What trapped these students wasn’t Mingde Academy—it was their parents.

Zhou Li muttered, “That’s just like those parents who defended that ‘Professor Yang.’”

She remembered the scandal of “Electroshock King Professor Yang,” whose anti-internet-addiction school was exposed for abuse. When reporters arrived, furious parents mobbed them, screaming that closing the school was the journalists’ fault.

And even after such institutions were banned, others—like Yuzhang Academy—rose in their place, torturing and imprisoning so-called “rebellious teens.”

Later, more schools like those surfaced in the news, each with dead students and grieving parents.

As long as there are parents who say, ‘I can’t control my kid, so I’ll hand them over to someone else,’ such schools will never disappear.

And as long as patriarchal “female virtue” ideology persists, institutions hiding behind “traditional culture” and “national studies” will keep reappearing.

“…But something still feels missing,” someone murmured.

“Missing what?”

“If this school isn’t officially accredited, and it denies running full-time primary and secondary programs, isn’t that technically illegal?”

Everyone fell silent.

“No wonder they’re not afraid of anything.”

“Then… there’s really nothing we can do?”

“Now you see why it’s called an S-class dungeon.”

Despair filled the room.

Zhou Li asked, “Where are An Yixiao and Duan Jing?”

The players shook their heads. “Who knows what President An’s thinking.”

Zhou Li gestured outside. “Given what’s happening out there, they must’ve triggered something big.”

That was her experience from the Dawn Village dungeon—massive environmental changes always meant someone had hit a key plot point.

They followed her gaze and instantly recoiled at the sight—distorted monsters filled the courtyard.

“Those are…”

Zhang Xiaozhi’s eyes widened. “My classmates! That’s Xiao Jun and the others!”

“You didn’t turn into one of them—why?” a player asked.

“I’m an anomaly,” Zhang Xiaozhi said.

“There are other anomalies out there too—mindless ones.”

Zhang Xiaozhi straightened her back. “I’m different. I’m an educated anomaly.”

Players: ?

They didn’t understand, so they simply assumed the supermarket’s isolation and purification field kept her stable.

Indeed—nothing felt safer than the supermarket.

Suddenly, there was a noise upstairs.

Just as panic spread, Zhou Li said calmly, “Song Ganlan’s treatment is finished. Someone go help her down.”

They blinked, realizing they’d forgotten about her.

Since Zhou Li hadn’t said where she was taking Song Ganlan earlier, they’d assumed she’d been sent out of the dungeon.

But no—she was upstairs the whole time.

So who had treated her?

Then came a weak voice: “No need. I can walk.”

Song Ganlan felt her way down the stairs, hand on the railing.

Her teammates rushed to her, eyes filling with concern. “Your eyes…”

Song Ganlan herself didn’t know what had happened.

She only knew that when she woke, her body was sore, her vision gone, and her wounds carefully bandaged.

Zhou Li glanced at the medical capsule’s report. “Your eyesight might recover, but you’ll need to follow the doctor’s instructions.”

“But I didn’t hear any instructions,” Song Ganlan said blankly.

Zhou Li replied, “I’m giving them to you now.”

That shut her up. She quietly listened to the rest.

When Zhou Li finished, one of the players couldn’t hold back. “Boss, who’s capable of fixing an eye that’s already destroyed?”

Even Blue Owl Guild’s famed healer Lü Chui couldn’t pull that off.

Zhou Li thought, That’s a next-generation medical capsule—if you’re still breathing, it can save you. Repairing an eyeball is nothing.

But out loud, she only said, “Trade secret.”

They didn’t press further.

As for Song Ganlan, she had felt something strange while inside the capsule, but since she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she kept her thoughts to herself.

☢️☢️☢️

Although An Yixiao and Duan Jing had planned their route to clear the dungeon, the experience in Dawn Village had taught her a harsh lesson.

She kept wondering—what exactly was the key to clearing Mingde Academy?

Every player who entered Dawn Village believed that the key to victory lay with the S-class anomaly, Wang Hui; that killing him would end the dungeon.

But in truth, the Dawn Village dungeon had been born from Wang Hui’s grandmother, Zhang Gucui—a world layered within another.

Only by uncovering the true past of that place and resolving Zhang Gucui’s lingering obsession could the dungeon truly be cleared.

Mingde Academy, however, was different. Despite its pervasive corruption and strange horrors, it didn’t seem to have a single pivotal figure.

Was it the principal? The director? Or one of the students?

So many people were trapped here—who was the one that had caused this dungeon to take shape?

The clue to clearance stated that one must become an “Outstanding Graduate.”

That could mean the principal’s demand of students, the teachers’ expectations, or even the students’ own desire.

Without finding the real breakthrough, the dungeon would never end.

An Yixiao walked heavily toward Mingde Academy’s tower—the library, and the tallest building on campus.

She used a tool to unlock the door and entered.

Normally, a librarian would be present, but with everyone’s attention on the chaos outside, the attendant had vanished.

Scanning the catalog, she found books like The Four Virtues for Women, and countless manuals teaching cooking, etiquette, embroidery, and household management—plus outdated “psychology” texts preaching the old doctrines of female submission.

But among them, she found something different: a set of privately printed textbooks, not officially published.

“Lan Xuan?” An Yixiao murmured when she saw the author’s name, frowning.

Was there someone named Lan Xuan at Mingde Academy?

Her instincts flared. Perhaps this Lan Xuan was the true key to the dungeon.

Using her “Right Eye of the Strange,” she swept through the school, reading every engraved stone monument listing teachers and outstanding graduates.

Finally, she came upon a bronze statue.

The black-painted lettering on its base had long faded from years of sun and rain; without close inspection, one would never notice that words had been carved there at all.

At first, the players had all assumed this statue must depict the academy’s founder, the principal Cao Xifeng.

But leaning closer, An Yixiao could now make out the name: Lan Xuan — Expert in Traditional Cultural Education.

Turning to the back, she noticed faint scratches carved by a blade—“Mother of Female Virtue.” The marks were so shallow that without careful attention, they’d go unseen.

Why was there no statue for Principal Cao Xifeng, yet one for this Lan Xuan?

Was it because she was the so-called “Mother of Female Virtue”?

An Yixiao stared at the statue, then made her decision—to risk using the “Left Eye of the Strange,” the one that could pierce all illusion.

The moment she activated it, whispers flooded her ears—clearer, sharper than ever before.

Normally, she would shut them out instantly, but now she needed to uncover the truth.

She let the voices pour in.

“A girl’s greatest dowry is her chastity.”

“Children must be filial—wash your parents’ feet.”

“I repent… I once had an abortion. I am a sinner.”

“A woman should keep her head lowered and serve her husband.”

…

Every phrase was another absurd relic of the Three Obediences and Four Virtues drilled into women for generations.

Perhaps, she realized, this was the true source of Mingde Academy’s corruption.

It was right there, in plain sight.

Everyone thought those ideas were harmless—like tiny midges buzzing around—so no one bothered to swat them away.

Until one day they bit, and people realized they were surrounded.

You could kill one, chase off another, but there were still thousands left.

Invisible, breeding in the dark, multiplying endlessly.

They clouded eyes, filled noses and mouths, crept through ears—slowly polluting the soul.

At first, the infected never realized what was happening.

Their faces twisted, their bodies festered and deformed.

Yet when they looked around and saw everyone else the same, they believed it normal.

They didn’t know that, to anyone still clear-minded, they had already become monstrous.

…

An Yixiao knew she couldn’t keep listening.

Hallucinations had begun—the statue before her was moving.

“This isn’t feudal dross,” said the bronze figure of Lan Xuan, its eyes fixed on hers. “This is traditional culture.”

An Yixiao closed her eyes, refusing to engage.

“Why won’t you answer me?” the statue demanded.

She thought, Because answering you means falling into your trap.

Right now, all she could do was focus on breaking free of the illusion.

The statue’s voice grew colder. “You disagree with me—then why not refute me?”

An Yixiao: …

An Yixiao’s silence ignited the bronze statue’s fury. Lan Xuan seemed determined to extract a reaction from her.

She began by unleashing a torrent of moral dogma—preaching the “Three Obediences and Four Virtues,” quoting The Rites of Zhou and Confucius, then segueing into Neo-Confucianism, the “Four Books for Women,” and finally lamenting how modern men lacked masculine vigor and women lacked gentle femininity. Only by returning to “traditional culture,” she claimed, could families remain harmonious.

Then came the attacks—rhetorical jabs, manipulative questions, and moral traps meant to provoke.

Anyone less composed would have snapped back by now.

But An Yixiao was someone who could remain clear-headed even on the verge of death, calmly setting contingency plans in motion. She endured it.

Finally, the bronze Lan Xuan began boasting of her own “success.”

She claimed her family was harmonious and her marriage happy, with hardly any arguments.

An Yixiao thought, Of course there aren’t—if your doctrine is that ‘a woman must not hit back or talk back,’ who could argue with you?

Gradually, though, her mind began to stall—as if the gears of her thoughts had rusted.

That moment of drag startled her. It wasn’t only speaking that would trigger the trap; even thinking along Lan Xuan’s logic led straight into it.

There was no defense against that.

Sweat trickled down her forehead.

Then, without knowing why, Zhou Li’s voice echoed in her memory—reciting the twenty-four-character mantra.

Her mind was sluggish, heavy, but she forced herself to repeat it silently.

Time lost all meaning. The bronze Lan Xuan’s voice went from clear to muffled, until it became an indistinct whisper again.

An Yixiao snapped her eyes open.

The living figure was gone; only an ordinary bronze statue remained.

She deactivated the Left Eye of the Strange, and the murmurs vanished.

But she didn’t relax.

Those who were deeply corrupted couldn’t tell illusion from reality.

The easiest way to check whether she’d been tainted was to visit the small supermarket.

Still, she didn’t want to leave just yet.

She gathered every textbook written by Lan Xuan, trying to piece together clues.

That was when Duan Jing found her. “What are you doing hiding here?”

An Yixiao asked, “You’ve been here a while. Ever heard of someone named Lan Xuan?”

Duan Jing raised an eyebrow. “Of course. There’s a statue of her in the west courtyard, the name carved right on it.”

“How much do you know about her?” An Yixiao pressed.

“Why would I bother learning about her? She’s not even a teacher here…” Duan Jing stopped mid-sentence.

An Yixiao looked up. “Realized something?”

After a pause, Duan Jing nodded. “Yeah. If she’s not a teacher, then why does she have a statue on campus?”

Sensing they might be closing in on the dungeon’s core, she joined the search. “I’ll look for the school’s founding records.”

Mingde Academy wasn’t that old, so a school chronicle might hold the answers about Lan Xuan’s connection to it.

To save time, Duan Jing even used an item tool.

Moments later, she exclaimed, “Found it!”

An Yixiao turned to her. Duan Jing was holding the school’s founding almanac, open to a photo of the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

According to the printed names below, the man seated in the center was Principal Cao Xifeng.

Behind him stood Lan Xuan, dressed elegantly like a socialite from the Republic of China era.

After a pause, An Yixiao said, “So the school’s entire educational philosophy came from Lan Xuan.”

From a business standpoint, she quickly understood Mingde Academy’s structure.

Cao Xifeng, though the principal, didn’t actually handle education. He treated it as a business.

Under the banner of “traditional culture” and “national studies,” he had founded multiple training institutes—from homework tutoring to calligraphy, music, and painting classes.

He even ran a website devoted to feng shui and mysticism.

Digging deeper into the links, one could find a sister site on “national studies.”

And its star figure? Lan Xuan.

She’d given herself countless titles: “Expert in Traditional Culture,” “Senior Lecturer at the National Studies Academy.”

She’d promoted her own seminars, summer camps, and women’s virtue schools.

But that website had stopped updating years ago.

“Something must have happened to her,” An Yixiao said quietly. “That’s how this dungeon came to be.”

Duan Jing’s scalp prickled. “Don’t tell me we have to earn her approval to clear it.”

An Yixiao had the same dread.

If Lan Xuan’s obsession was to spread her “female virtue,” then even if they broke the dungeon itself, they’d never follow her path.

Duan Jing took a deep breath, cracking her knuckles. “Then there’s only one option—fight our way out.”

[Author’s Note]
All events and characters in this story are fictional. Please don’t associate them with real individuals or institutions. [dog emojis]

Looks like the dungeon will wrap up in the next chapter.

I hadn’t planned to detail the dungeon this much, but perhaps An Yixiao had her own ideas. [smirk emoji]

☢️☢️☢️

When the players left, only Zhou Li and Zhang Xiaozhi remained, staring at each other in silence.

As soon as Zhou Li opened her mouth, Zhang Xiaozhi blurted, “I can study on my own. I don’t need to go upstairs.”

Zhou Li: …

Was the trauma from the medical pod really that deep?

Zhou Li decided not to press the issue. She simply nodded and handed her a phone, telling her to keep watching Study and Strengthen the Nation videos.

Zhang Xiaozhi fetched a small stool and crouched in the corner of the stairwell.

That spot wasn’t technically inside the supermarket, making it hard to be noticed, and there were no TVs or mirrors nearby—nothing the principal could use as a medium of contamination to frighten her.

Zhou Li didn’t bother to supervise. As long as Zhang Xiaozhi stayed within the supermarket’s range, she was relatively safe.

But after the players left, the shop became like forbidden ground. Even during breaks, hardly any students came by for snacks anymore.

Outside, however, the strange disturbances grew worse, and Zhou Li’s unease deepened with them.

That was when two students rushed in—both with long hair and wearing qipaos, but with clearly male features. They pleaded desperately, “Boss, please, you have to save us!”

“They’re… players?” Zhou Li, unfamiliar with their faces, turned to ask the system.

“Confirmed,” said the system. “They are indeed players.”

Zhou Li was surprised. Since arriving in this world, she’d rarely had players come to her for help. These two were only the second to ever do so.

“How exactly do you want me to save you?” she asked.

They spoke over each other: “The principal’s back! Only you can save us! If you managed to bring this supermarket inside the school, you must be a top-tier player! You’re the only one powerful enough to stand against the principal!”

Zhou Li: ?

You want me to fight the principal? You’re giving me way too much credit.

Expressionless, she said, “You’re overthinking it. I’m not a player. I don’t get involved in disputes between you and the anomalies.”

“You’re human, aren’t you?” one of them shouted. “How can you be so cold-blooded? Humans have to stick together if we want to survive!”

Zhou Li waited until they finished their moral lecture before replying calmly, “You done? If you’re done, leave. Out of respect for the fact that you were once human, I won’t hold your little scheme against you.”

Their faces twisted in anger. “You—”

“Do I need to throw you out myself?” Zhou Li asked.

In the end, the two left unwillingly.

From the stairwell, Zhang Xiaozhi poked her head out. “They know how powerful the supermarket is. They didn’t dare attack inside, so they tried to lure you out.”

“I know,” Zhou Li said.

“How did you spot the flaw?” Zhang Xiaozhi asked.

Truthfully, Zhou Li just had an excellent sense of self-preservation.

Still, she’d noticed some inconsistencies. “I knew they were players—but total strangers. Meaning they’d entered the dungeon earlier and, like Kong Ru and the others, had already been polluted.”

If they were like Song Ganlan, who often stayed in the supermarket and ate its food, maybe they’d have a chance to reduce their pollution and recover some clarity.

But these two came running in for the first time, immediately begging for help. Clearly, they weren’t genuinely seeking rescue.

They were just using their player identities to trick her into stepping outside.

“Besides,” Zhou Li added, “if they were truly afraid of dying, they’d hide here quietly like you. They wouldn’t even ask for help.”

Zhang Xiaozhi nodded. As an anomaly herself, she actually felt remarkably calm here—proof that this little supermarket was anything but ordinary.

Zhou Li continued, “My guess? The principal hasn’t come back at all. The teachers and instructors are just afraid I might help rescue other players, so they’re trying to kill me first.”

“The principal hasn’t returned? Impossible—I felt it!” Zhang Xiaozhi trembled.

Zhou Li said, “Think about it. If news about Mingde Academy reached the outside world, reporters would be all over it—investigating, probing. The principal showing up now would make him the perfect target. Those old foxes would hide instead, pretend they’re not around, refuse to give interviews… that’s how the real world works.”

Because Mingde Academy was, after all, a projection of the real world.

Even if the principal, teachers, and instructors were all anomalies, they still followed certain laws carried over from human society.

That was precisely why An Yixiao had planned for Zhang Xiaozhi to expose the school publicly—to force the principal’s attention elsewhere.

Even though the academy dungeon was sealed off from real-world access, its laws still existed.

It was like how, in Zhou Li’s home world, people said that whatever a ghost feared in life, it would still fear in death.

A kind of spiritual imprint.

By the same logic, since Mingde Academy was a reflection of the real world, it too carried such imprints—namely, the laws that governed society.

An Yixiao’s hypothesis that different dungeons were interconnected was rooted in this idea of social continuity.

For instance, the Dawn Village dungeon and the New International Department Store dungeon might seem unrelated.

But say, in the real world, villagers from Dawn Village had once shopped at that department store. Then an incident there caused a fatality, leading to its closure. The villagers stopped going.

The link between the two broke temporarily.

Once the department store dungeon was cleared, it would “reopen” according to the laws of society, and the villagers would return—reestablishing the connection.

In The Game’s system, though, they’d still appear as two separate, closed instances.

An Yixiao’s plan would have worked with any student willing to file a report against the school.

The only requirement was cooperation.

Players taking on the role of students could do it too.

But when acting as “students,” they were bound by the dungeon’s role-based restrictions—if the role forbade actions that contradicted its setting, they couldn’t act freely at all.

Most of the students were anomalies, so they were unlikely to help any players.

Only someone like Zhang Xiaozhi—who had enrolled not long ago and already formed a connection with the small supermarket—could be persuaded to lend a hand.

At first, Zhang Xiaozhi didn’t want to help at all.

She hadn’t even wanted to attend Mingde Academy in the first place, but since her parents had sent her there, even if the academy shut down, they’d probably just send her to a “new” Mingde Academy under a different name.

To give her peace of mind, An Yixiao decided to return to the Dawn Village dungeon and complete it.

Once that dungeon was cleared, the outside world would inevitably pay attention to issues like school bullying and the mental health of minors.

At that point, if Zhang Xiaozhi reported that Mingde Academy’s instructors were abusing students and teachers were leading acts of bullying, the outside world would definitely take notice.

Her parents, shaken by the tragedy in Dawn Village, would likely become protective and, under public pressure, transfer her to a legitimate school with proper accreditation.

After Duan Jing explained the pros and cons, and once An Yixiao cleared Dawn Village, Zhang Xiaozhi seemed to sense something. This time, she readily agreed to help.

…

When Zhang Xiaozhi learned that the principal might not be on campus, she visibly relaxed.

“The principal may be gone,” she said, “but the director will return. Can they even beat her?”

*

In truth, the players couldn’t defeat the director.

But they didn’t have to.

Someone had to deal with the swarm of reporters outside, and with the principal missing, that responsibility naturally fell to the director.

An Yixiao’s plan was to use that opportunity—while the director was occupied—to take down the teachers and instructors, earning the title of “Outstanding Student.”

But being an “Outstanding Student” wasn’t the same as being an “Outstanding Graduate,” which was what the game required for victory.

Fortunately, An Yixiao had noticed the difference.

So within just a few days, she completed her “assignments” and “assessments,” advancing to the Spring and Autumn Class—the one with the highest level of pollution.

Originally, Mingde Academy had nine classes, each corresponding to one of the Nine Classics explained in the Commentaries on the Nine Classics:
the Zhouyi (Book of Changes), Shangshu (Book of Documents), Shijing (Book of Songs), Chunqiu (Spring and Autumn Annals), Liji (Book of Rites), Yili (Ceremonies and Rites), Zhouli (Rites of Zhou), Lunyu (Analects), and Mengzi (Mencius).

However, the Liji, Yili, and Zhouli classes had already merged into a single “Three Rites Class.”

The Zhouyi Class had also been shut down after parents mistakenly assumed it taught superstition and feng shui.

Thus, Mingde Academy now had only six classes in total.

While the classes had rankings, none were explicitly labeled as the “graduating class.”

An Yixiao could only infer from the degree of pollution that the Spring and Autumn Class was likely the final one.

As for Kong Ru—already an “Outstanding Student” of the Spring and Autumn Class—why hadn’t he cleared the dungeon?

Probably because he didn’t want to graduate.

He’d already accepted himself as part of Mingde Academy, believed in its educational doctrine, and thus, even as an outstanding student, refused to leave.

Of course, this was only An Yixiao’s theory.

If she was wrong, she would lose her chance—and die in the dungeon.

*

“Instructor! There are so many reporters outside, and you still dare commit indecent acts against a student?”

Duan Jing appeared before the buzz cut instructor, holding up her phone.

The instructor froze, stunned, and the male player standing beside him immediately leapt away to distance himself.

Recovering, the instructor snapped, “That’s not true!”

“It’s all recorded,” Duan Jing said coolly. “Who do you think the reporters will believe—your word or the evidence?”

He understood the consequences all too well.

After a long silence, he ground out, “What do you want?”

“Give us top marks.”

His jaw clenched so tightly it almost cracked. “Fine.”

Once Duan Jing and the others received the stamped “Outstanding” seal from the instructor, they left.

Song Ganlan frowned. “Is this really going to work? It all feels way too easy.”

Their plan was to exploit each teacher and instructor’s weaknesses one by one—forcing them to give glowing evaluations.

If they could collect enough “excellent” ratings, they might unlock the condition to clear the dungeon.

But things were going too smoothly, and that made Song Ganlan uneasy.

She had entered the dungeon earlier than the others and seen far more of its horrors, yet because she’d been far from qualifying as an “Outstanding Student,” she hadn’t noticed anything wrong—just a vague, creeping dread.

Duan Jing said, “This is only Plan A. An Yixiao has Plan B.”

In fact, An Yixiao had prepared three plans.

Plan A was the one Duan Jing’s group was carrying out. Plan B was An Yixiao’s own operation.

And Plan C—known only to An Yixiao herself.

“If this plan fails, run straight to the supermarket,” Duan Jing instructed, handing her phone to Song Ganlan. “Only the boss can get you out of here.”

“Xiao Jing…” Song Ganlan’s voice trembled with worry.

“Go,” Duan Jing said firmly. “You’re no match for what’s coming. None of you are.”

The others exchanged uneasy glances. Duan Jing and An Yixiao were both S-class players—if even they couldn’t handle this, what chance did anyone else have?

…

Soon after, a bloodied Song Ganlan and three other players stumbled into the supermarket, beaten and gasping.

Zhou Li, who’d been playing Army Chess with Zhang Xiaozhi, frowned.

“What happened to you?”

“It was a trap,” Song Ganlan sobbed.

Zhou Li: …

This scene was starting to feel familiar.

“What kind of trap?” she asked.

“There’s no such thing as an ‘Outstanding Graduate,’” Song Ganlan said.

☢️☢️☢️

Sandy: If you enjoy this novel, check out another infrastructure/business management novel The World’s Number One Resort [BL] 😘