Author Archives: sandy

Ch 52: Opening a Survival School Before the Zombie Outbreak

Including Song Rushuang, the students had always treated each instance inside the simulation combat chamber as if it were a game dungeon.

They assumed it was fictional and unreal. So although rationally, for the sake of training effectiveness, they immersed themselves as though it were the real world, completing each scenario seriously and saving every resident within it, emotionally they still regarded it somewhere deep down as a fabricated story, merely special training environments deliberately created by the school to help them adapt to an apocalyptic future in advance.

Within these instances, they always held a subtly superior perspective, observing and judging the suffering and struggles of the NPCs.

Game after game, they watched characters repeat the same stories again and again, only to reach different endings each time based on the players’ choices.

It inevitably created the feeling of a god controlling fate.

They discussed on the forums which adventures were more exciting, which NPCs were unforgettable, and complained about troublesome NPCs who delayed their progress.

Kind and lovable NPCs received gentler treatment, while annoying or inconvenient ones were avoided with faint traces of guilt.

There was nothing inherently wrong with that.

Because inside the simulation combat chamber, they were players, the “Fourth Calamity.”

It was a game. Their training ground.

But what if that was not the truth?

……

Even as she entered the instance, Song Rushuang remained dazed.

The people in the hall had all been shaken by the revelation and forgotten to form teams. She ended up selecting a familiar instance alone and entering it by herself.

This was already her fourth time playing this instance. Because its setting closely resembled the neighborhood near where she lived, she believed it might someday become relevant and had intentionally practiced it repeatedly.

The scenario resembled Instance 004 somewhat, though set at a different point in time. Here, the zombie tide had already erupted, causing a massive chain-reaction car crash on the highway. The “protagonist’s” vehicle was trapped in the middle, and she needed to break free from the chaotic crowd, escape the congested roadway, and safely return to a residential complex one street away.

Having played the same instance many times, Song Rushuang had long developed muscle memory.

In a haze, she passed two hidden “plot triggers” purely by instinct, escaped from the crushed and deformed vehicle, and ran forward for quite some distance.

Not far away, zombies climbed onto car roofs, scrambling across collided vehicles on all fours. They pressed their faces against sunroofs, peering down at trapped passengers, creating scenes both grotesque and surreal.

Screams echoed everywhere. Flames shot skyward. Thick black smoke billowed upward. People behind her ran forward like mad, and from time to time someone was knocked down and devoured. Amid the chaos, only Song Rushuang, as a player, seemed out of place, staring at the hellish world with a detached, unreal gaze.

Had all of this once truly happened?

Was this a real world no different from the one she lived in?

Her limbs stiffened as her mind and senses overloaded, dissolving into indistinct noise.

Until a cry jolted her awake.

“Mom! Mom!”

Song Rushuang snapped out of her trance and looked toward the sound.

In the middle of the highway sat a sedan, tightly wedged between vehicles on all sides. Inside was a little girl, about four or five years old, her face streaked with tears as she desperately slapped the window with her small hands.

“Mommy!”

Her mother sat motionless in the driver’s seat, held in place by the seatbelt, head tilted sideways, blood flowing from her mouth and nose. She had clearly died in the crash. The little girl, secured in a child safety seat, had miraculously survived unharmed.

But if left alone, within minutes she would be swallowed by the zombie horde. Her ultimate fate would be infection or starvation.

This was a “fixed event.” To return home, the protagonist inevitably had to pass the car where the little girl was trapped.

The first time she played this instance, Song Rushuang had tried to save the child. But the car doors were completely warped and jammed. The only way to rescue her was to break the window, and when the protagonist awakened she had no suitable tools. After several attempts, Song Rushuang abandoned the effort as zombies approached too quickly.

Every time afterward, she rushed past this point as fast as possible, as if covering her ears could make the girl’s desperate cries disappear.

But this time, by sheer coincidence, Song Rushuang stopped.

The little girl’s cries carried on the wind, clearer than ever before.

Her heart pounded violently as she turned her head.

About forty meters behind her stood a stalled bus. There had to be window-breaking tools inside.

But the bus windows were covered in bloody handprints, and shadows moved within. They might already be zombies. Even if the bus were safe, going back forty meters meant deliberately moving closer to the zombie tide. Combined with the time needed to find tools, break the window, and rescue the child, her chances of survival would drop drastically.

“But…”

“To hell with it,” Song Rushuang cursed.

Without hesitation, she turned and ran toward the bus.

Two minutes later, Song Rushuang came running back, gripping a red emergency hammer in her hand, her face smeared with blood.

She smashed the window, reached inside to unlock the door, unfastened the little girl’s seatbelt, then hoisted the still crying and struggling child onto her shoulder. Facing the zombie horde closing in, she clenched her teeth and sprinted toward the residential complex at her fastest speed.

By the time she finally cleared the instance, her clothes were soaked with sweat, and she looked utterly disheveled.

Panting heavily, Song Rushuang stared at the results panel that appeared before her.

Because of the added burden of the little girl, her completion time had been delayed by a full eleven minutes. She had also failed the optional objective of gathering supplies along the way. Her rating dropped, leaving her with only a B-, worse than even her first attempt.

Every statistic looked terrible. Only one detail changed.

When she expanded the detailed list, the number under “People Rescued” silently shifted from zero to one.

It was not part of the instance’s grading criteria. It did not affect the rating or grant bonus points. In the past, Song Rushuang would have considered it as insignificant as all the other omitted data.

But now, she no longer thought that way.

That extra person mattered.

The dull ache in her shoulder from carrying the girl faded rapidly as the instance ended. Song Rushuang stretched instinctively, then suddenly paused. Lowering her head, she murmured unconsciously,

“I wonder… in the real world, did the person who passed by, someone like ‘me,’ stop to save her…”

Her voice grew softer and softer until it was almost inaudible.

Because she realized that regardless of whether the girl had been saved back then, within five years she would end up like everyone screaming, crying, and desperately struggling to survive on that highway. Either a walking corpse, or a handful of dust scattered across barren earth.

When Song Rushuang left the combat chamber, she still had not sorted out her emotions.

Only on the walk back to the dormitory did she remember to open her student watch and check the forum.

The forum had already exploded.

The homepage refreshed constantly as new posts appeared one after another, all centered around the simulation combat chamber instances and Teacher Lu’s identity.

[I’m confused. How could the instances be real events?]

[No. If both Teacher Lu and the instances are real, then this isn’t something that already happened.
It’s something that is going to happen.

What the instances show are futures that haven’t occurred yet.]

[So… the principal and teachers all traveled back from the future?]

The students, suddenly confronted with such shocking information, found it hard to accept.

In truth, the idea of “time travelers” had been raised before.

As early as the opening ceremony, people had questioned how Fu Qing could predict future events so precisely.

The fully immersive simulations, the holographic watches, technologies clearly beyond their era, combined with the mysterious restriction that prevented them from revealing apocalypse-related information, and the inexplicable decision they had all made to choose Fangzhou University during college applications… all these unbelievable events seemed explainable only if the principal were a time traveler or a novel-like protagonist possessing a system.

But the principal had never given an answer, so these theories remained speculation, growing increasingly fantastical through repeated private discussions.

Of course, others argued that time travel and prophecy sounded too much like fiction. They tried to find scientific explanations instead. Perhaps the principal was actually a secret agent sent by the state, secretly preparing civilian forces to resist an impending disaster, which explained access to advanced technology not yet released publicly.

As for why a group of students had been chosen, perhaps similar missions existed elsewhere, and schools like Fangzhou had already been established across the country.

Students, with their relatively simple social networks, would also be less likely to leak sensitive information abroad.

—The apocalypse might even be the result of actions by foreign nations. The predicted timeline might not be prophecy at all, but intelligence gathered by agents and analyzed by experts.

As for the inability to reveal information, perhaps it was some form of subconscious psychological influence. That part was left to personal interpretation.

Human instinct rejects the absurd and the irrational. Because this explanation felt more realistic, it gained many supporters. Until now.

The appearance of a younger Teacher Lu inside the Xiao Juan instance shattered that theory completely.

Guessing about time travelers and confirming that one truly existed nearby were entirely different things.

Knowing the apocalypse would happen and realizing someone around you had already lived through it were also entirely different.

The students were losing their minds.

Amid the chaos, many began trying to analyze and organize the overwhelming information.

[Everyone calm down. Based on dialogue between the protagonist’s teammates in the Xiao Juan instance, the story takes place about half a year after the virus outbreak, near the end of winter. And the Teacher Lu in the instance looks much younger than he does now. No one disagrees with that, right?]

In terms of appearance alone, aside from hairstyle, Lu Yan had not changed dramatically.

The greater difference lay in his temperament.

[So let’s assume there is at least about a three-year time gap between Teacher Lu and the Lu Yan in the instance. But in our reality, the instance’s events occur more than a year in the future, around February 2031.]

[Can we hypothesize that after the instance storyline ended, “Lu Yan” survived in the apocalypse for roughly three more years, then died and returned to our timeline, becoming Fangzhou University’s “Teacher Lu”?]

As soon as this analysis was posted, many agreed.

[That actually lines everything up… including the principal’s statement that humanity goes extinct five years after the apocalypse. Teacher Lu didn’t survive past five years…]

[Holy crap, I’ve got goosebumps.]

[Can the teachers see the forum?? Is it okay for us to speculate like this?]

[Reply: The principal has never stopped us from speculating, and they definitely know about the simulation instances, so I think we’re fine for now.]

Soon, dissenting opinions appeared.

[I don’t think this is time travel, for two reasons.

First, Teacher Lu’s appearance has changed. If this were time travel, it would mean physical time travel, not just consciousness transfer. That would mean the older Teacher Lu returned to the current timeline after surviving several years in the apocalypse. But then where is the younger version of Teacher Lu who should exist in this timeline?

Second, the instance worlds are not completely identical to ours. Has anyone played Instance 036? Its location, though censored, almost perfectly overlaps with the map of City B that I visited this summer. Even the street names match. I assume they’re the same city.

However, a famous century-old shop mentioned by NPCs in the instance does not exist in the real City B.]

Two minutes later, the same poster replied again:

[To make sure my memory wasn’t wrong, I checked the map again. I’m certain. I hid in that shop with NPCs during the instance. Someone even said it was a famous tourist spot, but the owner couple had turned into zombies and their craft would be lost.

But when I searched for that shop just now in the real City B, there was absolutely no information about it.

If anyone has a simulation reservation soon, try Instance 036 to verify.

In short, time travel implies movement within the same timeline. But I think the world the teachers once lived in might be a parallel world extremely similar to ours.

A parallel world connected to ours in time.

In that world, the apocalypse has already arrived and humanity went extinct. Our world has not yet reached that point. Everything the principal and teachers are doing… is to save our world.]

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Ch 51: Opening a Survival School Before the Zombie Outbreak

After the first aid course officially began, although it was met with plenty of complaints, some people gradually began to realize how practical the class actually was.

From handling everyday wounds, to medications and treatments for common illnesses, to methods of dealing with emergency situations… what the first aid course taught were the most essential things, yet also the ones most easily overlooked.

Once classes truly got underway, many people discovered just how little they actually knew. They did not understand the Heimlich maneuver, could not perform standard CPR, and even had only a vague grasp of how to use basic medications.

Some even realized that certain medicines they had been taking for years under their parents’ guidance had been used incorrectly all along.

Knowledge that should have been common sense had, over decades of education, been intentionally or unintentionally omitted.

“Why don’t elementary or middle schools teach this?”

“Can safety lectures held only once every year or two really make us remember any of this?”

“If I hadn’t come to Fangzhou, but gone to a normal university instead and continued living a ‘normal’ life, maybe I would never have learned these things. People only think to learn after suffering losses, but by then… it might already be too late.”

“What knowledge is truly necessary, and what knowledge is just a waste of time? Were our past standards of judgment wrong…?”

Similar voices echoed repeatedly across the forum. Some questioned, others reflected.

Some even looked back and realized that the method of “creating wounds on simulated zombies for practice,” though somewhat cruel, was remarkably clever.

Reading a book ten thousand times could never compare to personally experiencing a wound once.

When time was limited, this was undoubtedly the most efficient way to learn.

After going through several twists and setbacks, the first aid course quickly gained recognition from the vast majority of students.

At the same time, the infrastructure course also officially began.

Since the infrastructure course was not mandatory, the number of students was smaller, and with only one class per week, its first session started several days later than the first aid course.

By then, students’ impressions of the first aid class had already improved, and they welcomed the first infrastructure lesson with anticipation.

In their imagination, a course that had begun more than two months later than the others should have rushed through material at high speed from the very first lesson, just like the first aid class.

But unexpectedly, the first request made by the new teacher, who carried an unmistakable air of exhausted office-worker fatigue across her face, was for them to use class time to walk one full circuit around the campus.

“Every corner must be visited.” Xu Mingyue handed out printed copies of a large campus map. “If you can’t remember where you’ve been, mark it on the map.”

Holding the maps, the students stared at the familiar campus layout, confused.

Xu Mingyue showed no intention of explaining. After an awkward silence, someone finally could not help asking, “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Xu Mingyue nodded matter-of-factly, then glanced at the time. “Out of your two-hour class period, you’ve already wasted three minutes.”

“One class a week, two hours each, and we’re using it to go for a walk?” Hearing her mention “wasting time,” a student raised his voice. “Teacher, aren’t you going to teach?”

Moreover, although Teacher Xu was new, the students themselves had already lived on campus for more than two months. With frequent chase-style activities during physical education classes, they were already thoroughly familiar with every corner of the school. Since Fangzhou’s campus was not particularly large to begin with, many even felt they knew it better than the high school campuses where they had once spent three years.

Under those circumstances, spending two hours walking around seemed like the real waste of time.

Compared to the first aid class, which dove straight into fast-paced instruction with hands-on wound creation from the very beginning, the infrastructure course, slowly guiding everyone through campus exploration, appeared almost excessively unhurried.

The two new teachers represented complete opposites. If students had to choose, they would much rather pick Teacher Lu’s teaching method.

After all, they had less than ten months left. At such a slow pace, would there really be enough time?

Xu Mingyue herself was unhurried, yet the students began worrying on her behalf.

“You believe you understand this school very well—” Xu Mingyue repeated their words. She lowered her gaze to the map spread across the lectern, nodded slightly, and said, “Alright then. Can anyone tell me, if a zombie horde attacks and surrounds the entire campus, where is the most likely place for them to break through first?”

The student who had been leading the questioning froze.

Xu Mingyue did not pause.

“Tell me, if I wanted to dig an escape tunnel, which area of the campus has soil best suited for excavation? Where should the tunnel be placed to ensure the fastest assembly and evacuation of all teachers, students, and future shelter residents?”

“……”

“If zombies breach the walls and the campus falls, which building should be chosen for defense to hold out the longest before reinforcements arrive?”

“……”

“With less than ten months before the outbreak, where should we begin reinforcing the campus for maximum efficiency? Where should traps be set to stop the greatest number of zombies? Where would watchtowers have the best visibility? How much manpower and time would all of this require? …Who among you can answer these questions?”

The rapid-fire questions struck one after another, leaving the classroom completely silent.

Xu Mingyue scanned the room, spread her hands slightly, and said with some disappointment, “You know nothing, yet you tell me you understand this school very well—”

“Southwest corner.”

Her words were interrupted. Xu Mingyue paused and looked toward the corner of the classroom.

A thin boy sat there, wearing delicate, scholarly-looking rimmed glasses. Xu Mingyue remembered him somewhat, because when the maps were handed out, he had been the only one examining it carefully. Not only had he studied it seriously, he had even lowered his head and traced the map inch by inch with his fingertips, as though mimicking feet measuring the land itself.

Now the boy lifted his head. His voice was quiet but steady, as if the answer had come only after careful thought.

“If a zombie horde attacks, the most likely breakthrough point would be the southwest corner of the school—the section of wall south of the experimental fields. The brick wall there already has cracks. After wind and rain exposure, it won’t stay sturdy for long.”

“The second most likely point is the eastern side of campus. The terrain there is higher, and while there’s a river to the west, the city lies to the east. Zombies are more likely to approach from the east. Once their numbers increase, the brick wall won’t hold. Besides, the residential area with the dormitories is closer to the east side. Zombies have an instinct to move toward humans, and a large concentration of living people would attract them.”

His analysis was orderly and precise, combining detailed observation with an understanding of zombie behavior.

Xu Mingyue’s brows relaxed. She asked gently, “What’s your name?”

“Liang Yi,” the boy replied.

Xu Mingyue nodded, offering praise without hesitation. “Good answer.”

She then turned to the rest of the class. “Any other questions?”

This time, the voices of opposition disappeared. A few students scatteredly answered, “No,” while more lowered their heads, staring at the map in astonishment.

They understood what Teacher Xu meant.

It seemed they had never before looked at their current school, their future shelter, through this kind of lens.

And because of that, they had overlooked something very important…

Stimulated by Liang Yi’s example, the infrastructure class students quickly followed Xu Mingyue’s instructions. Holding their maps, they left the classroom and began “walking practice” around campus, eyes wide as they searched for answers to those questions.

But after circling twice, they soon found themselves completely lost again.

The familiar buildings before them, the familiar walls, the familiar flowers and greenery. How was it that, when described by Teacher Xu and Liang Yi, everything suddenly seemed filled with hidden meaning?

Why could they not see anything at all?

Meanwhile, Liang Yi had already set off with a clear objective the moment he left the classroom. Without slowing his pace, he moved swiftly from place to place. In a short time, the map in his hands was already covered with dense notes.

Behind his glasses, his eyes shone even brighter than usual, as if Xu Mingyue’s words had sparked a major realization. He muttered to himself, “How did I not think of this earlier…”

The people trailing behind him, ears perked up: “……”

They felt restless with curiosity. Think of what? Could he finish the sentence?

Before long, a long line of followers had formed behind the top student Liang, tagging along step by step while copying his notes.

Someone asked humbly, “Liang Yi, how did you figure out that escape tunnel question?”

Liang Yi stopped and gave him a puzzled look. “Didn’t you all see it just now? You dig it right there!”

Everyone: “???”

When did that happen? See what? Dig where?

A group who had all been considered top students back in high school now felt the helplessness of struggling learners who could see the answer but still could not understand the solution process.

Liang Yi sighed and began explaining.

“To decide where an escape tunnel should be dug, you have to consider multiple factors.”

“First, when an emergency occurs, people must be able to reach the tunnel entrance quickly from the residential area, so it cannot be too far from the dormitories. Ideally, we should estimate how long the shelter can withstand a zombie horde. If we assume the school will be breached in three minutes, then the time required for everyone, from the first person to the last, to enter the tunnel cannot exceed three minutes. That means we also have to consider evacuation speed and total population—”

“Second, manual excavation of an underground tunnel requires evaluating soil composition. If the soil is too loose and lacks cohesion, the tunnel may collapse. If it is too hard, excavation becomes too difficult, and ten months may not be enough. Wet clay is easy to shape but cracks after drying. Loess soil is porous and requires waterproofing… all of these factors must be considered. Also, since our school is near a river, groundwater must be taken into account, meaning the tunnel should be as far as possible from the western side where the river is.”

“Third, construction time. Assuming the first one or two months after the zombie outbreak remain relatively safe for digging, we would still have only about a year to complete the tunnel. While ensuring everyone can evacuate safely within xx minutes, we must calculate how long, wide, and tall the tunnel should be, how many cubic meters must be excavated, and assuming each person can spare one hour per week alongside their studies—”

Liang Yi spoke fluently and at length, leaving listeners’ mouths hanging wider and wider open.

While they had still been wandering around like headless flies, someone had already written an entire essay in his mind.

“This class… is it really this deep?” one person murmured weakly, clutching the map.

Liang Yi nodded seriously. “Yeah. The subject is incredibly profound.”

He had a feeling that if he mastered infrastructure studies, then not only Fangzhou, but any location could be transformed into a shelter in the future.

During wilderness exploration, or when trapped somewhere and unable to return on time, they would no longer panic over the lack of a suitable hiding place.

From the perspective of survival rates, this class was no less important than medical first aid.

Hearing Liang Yi say this, several students fell into thoughtful silence. Then, sighing helplessly, they bit the ends of their pens and hurried off with troubled expressions to study the different soil types he had mentioned.

……

The goal of the infrastructure course was not only to teach students how to build and maintain shelters, but more importantly, to help Fu Qing transform the campus itself.

In the system marketplace, a single escape tunnel cost 1000 teaching points, yet it was an essential facility.

Otherwise, if a zombie horde surrounded the area and the shelter fell, those hiding on campus would become trapped beasts in a cage.

Fu Qing suspected the system had deliberately set such a high price precisely because it knew how necessary the tunnel was.

But if more than two thousand students across the school worked together to dig it, then according to Xu Mingyue’s calculations, each person would only need to spare half an hour per week to complete an escape tunnel roughly one thousand meters long within eight months.

The manpower of over two thousand people was not something to underestimate.

The same applied to reinforcing the perimeter walls and constructing traps.

If properly utilized, a single infrastructure course could save Fu Qing several thousand teaching points, which could instead be used to purchase other essential facilities or upgrade buildings.

All of this had already been carefully discussed between Fu Qing and Xu Mingyue before the course curriculum was designed.

As the first aid and infrastructure courses gradually fell into rhythm, another voice began to emerge across campus.

After several days of classes, more and more people realized that Teacher Lu looked strangely familiar.

……

Within a vast space, the light suddenly warped, like the flickering signal of an old television losing connection. Translated on Hololo novels. A figure soon emerged from within it.

Song Rushuang’s feet touched solid ground as she opened her tightly shut eyes.

Bluish glowing particles floated through the air like jellyfish, expanding and contracting, creating a dreamlike underwater world tinged with an advanced futuristic atmosphere.

Two or three other students stood nearby, looking around in confusion just like her.

This was the open hall of the simulated combat chamber.

The four roommates from Dorm 1111’s women’s hall failed to secure reservations for the same time slot this week, so Song Rushuang had to come to the combat chamber alone. Students who did not have a “player” team and entered the simulation combat chamber by themselves but still wanted to play multiplayer instances would gather in the open hall to find others to connect with.

Since reservations for the simulation combat chamber were made through wristbands in scheduled time slots, students who booked the same period would usually log in at roughly the same time. During those few minutes, it was easy to run into others, and the chances of successfully forming a team were quite high.

If you arrived a little early, you might even encounter students from the previous time slot who had just finished their battles and were preparing to log out.

Song Rushuang had arrived three minutes earlier than usual today. Standing in the center of the hall, she waited patiently for more people to log in, hoping to spot someone she knew. Clearing a dungeon together with familiar classmates would naturally lead to better coordination.

Before the next group arrived, however, she encountered the last batch of players exiting.

Within the distorted lines of light, three figures appeared one after another. Their session had ended, and by all logic they should already have heard the warning prompting players to log off. Yet the three stood motionless, as if they had not heard anything at all, staring blankly ahead like people who had lost their souls.

What had they experienced inside the instance?

Curious, Song Rushuang recognized one of them as a classmate from her practical combat class and hurried over. “You Jia, what’s wrong?”

It took two calls before You Jia snapped back to awareness. Even upon seeing Song Rushuang, she still looked unreal, her pupils unfocused as she murmured, “Rushuang…”

Now genuinely worried, Song Rushuang grabbed one of her hands and squeezed her palm. “What happened? Which instance did you play? Why are you reacting like this?”

“Xiao Juan,” You Jia muttered.

“What?”

Song Rushuang frowned.

She had also played the Xiao Juan instance once after hearing others praise it. She had taken the role of the trusted female protagonist, but like most players who went in without reading a guide, she had failed to save Xiao Juan and had personally witnessed her death. The experience had left a strong emotional impact on her.

But that had been before midterms. After the intense pressure of exam preparation and exam week, many memories had blurred.

Hearing those two words again now stirred something within her, as though a forgotten memory had lightly brushed against her mind.

Seeing the commotion, others nearby gathered around.

Red and blue vertical lines began flickering across You Jia’s body, indicating she was about to be forcibly logged out. Yet she only stared at Song Rushuang, her voice heavy with dazed disbelief.

“Teacher Lu… he appeared in the Xiao Juan instance.”

Her voice trembled, speeding up as she spoke.

“…He was the one who treated the ‘protagonists’ and provided them with gasoline.”

“Lu Yan. That person was also named Lu Yan. He looks exactly the same as Teacher Lu!”

Memory flashed back instantly, freezing into a vivid image.

The man wore a barber’s white cutting cape, jumping up from his chair. As he turned and jokingly scolded the protagonists, his sharply defined profile appeared. It was Lu Yan, younger than he was now.

Song Rushuang had only played the Xiao Juan instance once, together with her three roommates. With more teammates, her attention had naturally focused on coordinating with them and protecting Xiao Juan, the mission objective. Besides, the Lu Yan back then differed from the present Teacher Lu in hairstyle and demeanor. Because of that, she had overlooked something: long before Teacher Lu ever arrived at the school, they had already had a “brief encounter.”

Like lightning striking overhead, Song Rushuang froze where she stood.

After a brief silence, shock rippled through the surrounding crowd.

“What did you say?!”

“What does that mean? Teacher Lu is someone from the instance?” someone blurted out. “But he clearly exists right in front of us… no, that’s not right.”

His expression suddenly twisted, turning as grim as the three others’, as though he had finally realized what this implied.

“It’s not that Teacher Lu is fake, but… the instance is real?”

“So those weren’t virtual plots and stories created by the simulation combat chamber,” he murmured dreamily. “They were things that actually happened?”

₊˚.🎧📓✩

Ch 8: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Cen Han’s gaze collided with theirs.

At the first-floor classroom windows, several students leaned out, grinning as they looked his way. One said gleefully, “Wanna bet on how he’s going to get up there?”

“How else? His legs don’t work. He’ll have to crawl up the steps with his hands! I bet ten Star Coins!”

“Pfft, that’s weak. I’ll bet twenty.”

“I’m in for twenty too—bet he’ll turn tail and slink back down.”

Their unrestrained jeers carried crystal clear into the boy’s ears. His fingers on the wheels froze. His jaw clenched hard.

Humiliation surged around him like a flood. His spine stiffened, nails digging deep into his palms.

In front of so many eyes, those few short steps of the ramp were no less than a sheer cliff face.

Someone passed by. Cen Han’s black eyes trembled, and for once, unable to restrain himself, he raised them. His usual indifference gave way to something close to pleading.

Tang Zhenzhen, backpack on her shoulders, was looking at him.

Her lips parted as if to speak, but she said nothing. Though she hadn’t wanted this, yesterday’s shame and resentment seemed somehow eased.

She turned her face away and jogged up the stairs.

The laughter at the windows grew louder. More faces turned to watch. His fingers slipped from the wheels, his face pale.

Cen Han rolled forward, trying to steady his weight. He bent, straining to push the crates aside.

Under his tense, veined hands, the heavy boxes shifted slowly. His posture was awkward, unsteady. Fear of toppling clung to him. The onlookers jeered, booing when he faltered. Cen Han squeezed his eyes shut.

He knew school would change nothing. He knew no higher academy would ever accept him. But because of one coward’s dying words, he had lived on as nothing more than a laughingstock.

Someone laughed at his contorted posture. Another said he looked like a twisted worm. They mocked his limp, senseless legs dangling uselessly.

Why had he fallen to this? Why punish him for crimes he never committed?

They—why didn’t they just—

His eyes filled with shadow. The taste of blood rose in his throat.

He dug his nails into his palms, almost to the flesh.

…

The next day, Qian Yuan woke, washed, ate quickly, and logged in early.

Her cub hadn’t come home for lunch yet. With her stamina full, she made two trips to the junkyard, spending ten points, and earned 15 Star Coins.

Added to yesterday’s 25, she now had 40.

—A quilt was within reach!

As the one-hour sign-in approached, she decided to stay in-game. She cleaned the floor and searched through his cabinet, hoping for clues about his background.

The cabinet held many things: textbooks, mechanical parts, the folded clothes she’d stashed before… but most striking was a badge.

A small round badge, finely crafted, bearing an inverted triangle. Inside it, a sharp sword, its hilt adorned with three diamond-like gems.

The delicate badge looked wildly out of place in this shabby room. Curious, she turned it over. Scratches lined the back, engraved in interstellar script. Thankfully, the system translated.

【Cen Zhengzhong】

The same surname as her cub.

Her dumpling avatar stroked its chin in thought.

She had thought his status was lowly. But this—this looked like a military insignia.

Uneasy, she set it back, glanced at the time, and went to sign in.

【Congratulations! You signed in and received: 1 Gacha Coin, 10 Star Coins!】

Fifty Star Coins now!

She opened the gacha machine, mind racing.

One stamina point every ten minutes. Two hours online meant another junkyard run. At this rate, six or seven more times, and she could buy the quilt.

The machine shook. A ball dropped—but this one glowed rainbow-bright, dazzling compared to the rest.

【Congratulations! You obtained Rare Item: Complete Kitchen Set!】

【Ding~! A mission is complete! Go claim your reward!】

—Eh??

The barrage of prompts stunned her. Eyes wide, she stared blankly at the kitchen set on the desk.

…The gacha prize had auto-cleared her mission?

The prompts faded. Heart pounding, she tapped the task menu.

The main quest reward lit with a 【Claim】 button. She tapped, receiving 50 EXP and 10 Star Coins. The interaction system unlocked.

【Congratulations! Profile updated!】
【You reached Level 2! Diary now tracks Mood Value!】
【Interaction unlocked! Go enjoy sweet moments with your cub! (Note: This feature is exclusive to your cub~)】

At the same time, a new quest appeared.

【Main Quest: Keep your cub in a good mood~!

Current Mood: 0/100

Goal: Maintain mood at 70/100 or higher for 3 consecutive days (0/3).

Reward: Unlock Communication System, EXP ×50, Star Coins ×10.】

Qian Yuan: “.”

Her dumpling avatar sprouted black lines overhead.

So she could interact—but not talk? She had to unlock another function just to converse?

If the forum post still existed, she’d downvote it into the ground.

But her thoughts shifted.

—Her cub’s mood was at rock bottom.

With a heavy expression, she opened the diary. Sure enough: 【Cen Han was bullied at school】 had been added.

Her profile now showed 120 EXP needed to level up, and stamina maxed at 15. She tapped the screen, wishing she could reach Level 3 immediately and go fight the villains at his school.

But she couldn’t cheat.

She sighed, checked the clock. He’d be home soon.

She thought: even if she couldn’t chase off bullies, she could still do something else.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Ch 7: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

The garbage truck slowly pulled away, and the vagrants scattered.

Zhang San wiped the sweat from his forehead, plopped down on the ground, and pulled a bottle of nutrient fluid from his oversized pants pocket. He drained it in one gulp.

One of his men sneaked a glance at the bottle in Zhang San’s hand. Something flickered in his eyes—a smirk he couldn’t hide—before he casually looked away and said, “Boss, today was lucky. We found some good stuff, should fetch a decent price.”

“I heard a few military academies in the Imperial Capital had a competition today. There are more off-world visitors around. Business will drop off in a few days.”

The underling rambled on, but Zhang San wasn’t interested. After a short rest, he hefted the bag and prepared to head to the black market.

Then he froze.

—The bag felt lighter.

Zhang San’s brows snapped together. He hurried under a streetlamp, yanked the bag open, and rifled through it. When he saw what was inside, it was as if lightning had struck him clear out of the sky. He stiffened, eyes wide in disbelief.

His men noticed the sudden change in his face and exchanged uneasy looks. One stepped forward, asking, “Boss, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?”

Zhang San let out a furious laugh, then flung the bag of worthless junk down in front of them.

…

Qian Yuan returned, clutching her little backpack.

Quest complete. She opened the pack and saw a 【Sell】 button at the bottom. Without hesitation, she tapped it.

【Items in backpack:

Fabric from an old dress — 1 Star Coin
Wind-up spring from a toy — 1 Star Coin
Medicine bottle cap — 2 Star Coins
Torn scrap of cloth — 1 Star Coin
…

Total: 15 Star Coins

[Tap to confirm sale]】

Qian Yuan: “…”

She stood frozen, thunderstruck.

Her dumpling head was filled with question marks.

The backpack only held ten slots. She’d collected ten items. How was that worth only 15 coins?!

Those villains had been noisy while scavenging, shouting “This looks great!” and “Big money tonight!” like their bag was brimming with treasure.

She didn’t want to believe they’d actually filled it with one-coin scraps.

After a long silence, she sighed and hit confirm.

—Fine. Fifteen wasn’t bad. After all, daily sign-in only gave her ten.

The confirmation screen faded. A little robot appeared.

Its shell was battered, joints rusted, limping as it waddled forward.

Qian Yuan stared curiously as it picked up her backpack. The thin arms looked frail, but they lifted the load steadily. The robot gave her a bow, then vanished into the void.

【Congratulations, you have gained: 15 Star Coins!】

Selling the scraps and completing the side quest netted her 25 Star Coins. With her daily sign-in bonus, her total funds now stood at 35 Star Coins and 1 Gacha Coin.

She used the coin right away.

The capsule machine appeared, just like before. Insert coin, twist the knob, and a colorful ball rolled out.

【Congratulations! You obtained: Braised Beef Instant Noodles · Four-Pack!】

Braised beef noodles—delicious!

The thought barely formed before she pressed it down. Too pitiful. Even her little boy had to suffer her own fate: living off instant noodles.

Her dumpling avatar quietly placed the pack on the desk.

She still had 35 coins, but not enough stamina to visit the store. To pass the time, she opened the in-game community and browsed posts.

By the time her stamina recovered to 10, she bought one bottle of low-grade nutrient fluid and spent 5 coins on a pair of wall hooks.

She had wanted to buy a wardrobe, but it was too expensive and there was no space in the tiny room. The hooks would do. She hung them low on the wall.

Comfort +3%. Progress: 63/70.

She saved the remaining 25 coins, eyeing a thick quilt for 90 coins. One day she’d buy it, but not yet.

…Why was she poor in-game too?

Qian Yuan muttered to herself, then logged off, satisfied after draining her stamina.

…

At dawn, before the alarm rang, Cen Han opened his eyes.

He had lived in this small room for three years. Even without his optic membrane, he could move through daily routines with practiced ease.

As if avoiding something, he left the bathroom carrying the case that held his membranes, and headed straight for the junkyard.

Most garbage trucks arrived at night. In the mornings, the junkyard was quiet, just a few recycling robots drifting between the annihilation containers.

The Imperial Capital’s junkyard had two levels: one above ground, one below. Broken mecha scraps, aircraft parts—things like that could all be found here.

For most, useless junk. The vagrants wandering here couldn’t make use of it.

But Cen Han was different.

Returning home, he moved himself to the shower stool and bathed. In the dark, he didn’t have to see his powerless legs. He no longer raged at the sight as he once had.

When it was almost time for school, he hesitated.

His wet black hair fell across his brow, softening the gloom in his features. He pressed his dry lips together, then placed his hand over his eyes.

The rough calluses on his fingers rasped against the skin around his sockets. He slid in the cool membranes, and light surged back into his vision.

Cen Han froze.

…Something new was on the desk.

Yesterday, nothing had been there.

He licked his lips, glanced past the nutrient fluid, and focused on a brightly colored bag.

Square and neat, covered in strange letters he couldn’t read.

He stared at it for a long while before exhaling softly.

This time, instead of wary suspicion, he drank the nutrient fluid of his own accord.

When he left, his gloom was strangely absent. His thoughts were fixed only on the inexplicable events of the past few days.

—That peace lasted until he saw the boxes piled on the school’s ramp.

His classroom was on the second floor. He always took the ramp. But now, crates blocked the path.

There was plenty of empty space nearby. Yet the boxes had been placed here—deliberately.

From a nearby window came mocking laughter. Cen Han turned his head slightly. Several unfamiliar faces crowded at the sill, watching him with glee.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Ch 6: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Early that morning, Cen Han didn’t go to the junkyard.

Nobody wanted him around, and being disabled, he couldn’t find work. Survival was hard enough as it was. For years, almost every morning, he had gone to the junkyard to dig for mechanical scraps, salvaging usable parts to assemble into various devices. Every so often, he would ask Uncle Tang to take them to the black market to sell.

The last batch had earned him nearly a hundred Star Coins, which he had almost entirely exchanged for nutrient fluid.

Now he was penniless. He had no food secured for the coming days, yet, unusually, he didn’t think much of it.

The boy sat at his desk, wearing his cheap optic membrane, quietly staring at the lamplight.

He tried to make sense of it all, to separate illusion from reality.

Last night, when he could not see, what had pressed the nutrient fluid to his lips? What had brought him that small glimmer of light?

Cen Han lowered his eyes, watching the clock tick away—morning, noon, dusk.

He left and returned, his eyes aching and swollen from the cheap membrane, but he didn’t remove it.

By nightfall, two empty bottles sat beside the lamp, the silence outside blending into the lifeless stillness inside.

Cen Han almost laughed. He didn’t even know what he was fooling himself with anymore.

He covered his eyes with his hand, expressionless, and lay down.

…

Qian Yuan spent the whole morning editing photos, then ran dungeons with her guild in the afternoon. She was lucky that day, looting a rare item she sold for good money at the Treasure Pavilion, enough to treat herself to a decent dinner.

That evening, scrolling her phone idly, she suddenly remembered her neglected little dumpling. Panicked, she logged back in.

Her child was still curled up in bed. This time, he was truly asleep, a little “Zzz…” bubble floating above his head. Qian Yuan melted at the sight, sat at the foot of his bed, and checked the diary.

【November 4th, 6:30 AM】
【Cen Han woke up.】
【Cen Han waited at the desk.】

【November 4th, 8:00 AM】
【Cen Han went to school.】
【Cen Han was bullied.】
【Cen Han didn’t pay attention in class.】

【November 4th, 12:00 PM】
【Cen Han came home for lunch.】
【Cen Han waited at the desk.】

…

【November 4th, 5:00 PM】
【Cen Han returned home from school.】
【Cen Han waited at the desk.】

…

【November 4th, 9:30 PM】
【Cen Han went to sleep.】

“…”

A drunk staggered past the window outside, crooning a slurred, off-key tune. Silvery light spilled through the half-shut curtain, dust floating in the glow.

The diary’s faint glow reflected on her dumpling face. Qian Yuan stared at the words.

…Who was he waiting for?

She didn’t need an answer. She knew.

This was a raising sim. He was her cub. He could only be waiting for her.

Yesterday, he had been tense and wary because of her. Today, he had waited all day.

From morning to sundown.

Moonlight draped the room in hazy gauze. An indescribable feeling wrapped softly around her heart, like soaking in a hot spring—warm all over, a little heady.

Her little dumpling avatar unknowingly pinched the corner of the blanket. For the first time, Qian Yuan felt a raising sim move her so deeply.

—Tomorrow, she must log in earlier to see him!

The thought took root. She nodded solemnly to herself, then reread the diary. This time, she noticed the other lines.

He had been bullied again.

The words “school” and “bullying” together sparked fierce disgust in her. She pressed her lips and, to distract herself, decided to go out exploring.

Her 10 stamina points had recovered. Remembering she hadn’t visited the junkyard last time, she chose that location.

Once again the barren planet flashed past, and she landed on solid ground.

The junkyard wasn’t as filthy or stinking as the word suggested. Sleek silver robots roamed about, dumping trash from their compartments into massive containers. At each console stood a uniformed robot.

Whenever it pressed a button, a container sealed, glowing blue circuitry patterns lighting up across its surface like flowing current.

When it reopened, it was empty.

Qian Yuan’s eyes widened.

…Efficient!

Homeless figures from the slums wandered the yard. She saw some pry open robots’ compartments, picking through scraps, and others climb ladders by the containers, fishing with long hooks as though casting lines.

Most simply sat at the entrance, gazing down the road like hungry beasts waiting for prey. Curious, Qian Yuan crouched nearby.

Suddenly, the rumble of wheels echoed. The vagrants stirred, instantly tense, pulling apart, their round dumpling faces hard and wary, scattering to either side of the gate.

【Ding~! Congratulations, player, you’ve unlocked a side quest! Go check the quest list!】

Eh?

Startled, Qian Yuan opened the quest menu.

【Side Quest: The junkyard hides salvageable treasures. The garbage trucks bring fresh loads untouched by others. Money-making opportunities lie ahead—be prepared!

Progress: 0/10

Objective: Recover at least ten items from the garbage trucks that can be sold.

Reward: EXP ×50, Star Coins ×10.

Note: Buy a one-time pass to hire a robot and instantly complete this quest!】

【You have entered: Junkyard. You now have temporary use of a small backpack, duration 30 minutes. Store all recovered items inside~!】

Qian Yuan: “…”

Qian Yuan: “.”

A small backpack appeared on her back. She tugged the straps, at a loss for words.

Still, a quest was a quest. She couldn’t waste it. And the EXP would help her level up, boosting her stamina limit by 5 each time. With two levels, she could finally accompany Cen Han to school.

Her dumpling clenched tiny fists, eyes locked on the approaching garbage truck.

One, two, three—charge!

Like how Cen Han’s wheelchair had once passed through her, the vagrants didn’t hinder her at all.

Glowing, she dashed to the front. But when she saw the mountain of refuse, she froze.

The slum dwellers’ eyes gleamed, pushing and jostling for the best scraps. Swept up in the frenzy, Qian Yuan grabbed a dark slab and glanced at her task screen.

【Progress: 0/10】

A silver panel.

【Progress: 0/10】

A bottle.

【Progress: 0/10】

Qian Yuan: “…” You’ve got to be kidding me.

As the vagrants pounced like starving wolves, she could only poke at items cluelessly, checking the screen after each.

Finally, she found one valid piece. Nearly crying with relief, she yanked the backpack forward and stuffed it in.

A voice rang out nearby: “Who the hell took that shard?!”

Nobody answered. In the dark, a fragment vanishing wouldn’t be noticed.

But Qian Yuan froze, turning sharply.

In the crowd, with his nest-like mop of hair and hulking build, stood the same dumpling brute who had stolen Cen Han’s nutrient fluid.

She hadn’t misheard—the voice was his.

He clutched a bag, flanked by cronies. Others kept their distance, not daring to compete. If they happened to want the same item, they swallowed their pride and backed off.

The villain and his lackeys tossed scraps into the bag one after another. Qian Yuan watched from the side.

A thought stirred.

…

Her dumpling eyes rolled slyly. Slowly, she started walking toward them.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Ch 5: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Cen Han sat in the dimly lit room.

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

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

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

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

Look at the state you’re in.

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

Cen Han rolled his wheelchair to the desk.

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

“…”

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

His eyelashes trembled.

Another hallucination? Cen Han thought coolly.

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

【This post has been deleted.】

Qian Yuan: “…Huh?”

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

Qian Yuan: “…” Wasn’t he hungry?

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

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

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

Qian Yuan: “…”

Her dumpling face puffed up.

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

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

“Grr—”

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

Qian Yuan’s eyes widened.

Wait.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So good!”

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

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

“I’ll come see you again tomorrow.”

…

Silence.

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

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

It felt too real—neither illusion nor dream.

In the darkness, his throat bobbed faintly.

Maybe he was dreaming.

Cen Han slowly lay back down.

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

…

Dawn poured across his face. The alarm clock blared.

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

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

Vision returned.

The first thing he saw was an empty bottle.

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

Memory from last night returned slowly. His eyes widened.

Not a dream.

Could imagination truly last so vividly, so tangibly?

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

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

Why?

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

—No.

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

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

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

When he came back, he ignored the remaining bottle.

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

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

He pressed it down.

“Click—”

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

His pupils contracted.

…Light?

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

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

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

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Ch 4: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

The in-game currency exchange rate was one-to-ten.

One game coin equaled ten RMB.

The little dumpling sat stiffly on the bed, her round, stubby fingers frozen midair, unable to react for a long time.

She wanted to quit the game right then and there, log into the forum, and sincerely submit her “valuable suggestions” to the developers.

Back on the menu screen, the daily sign-in icon flashed brightly.

Qian Yuan tapped it.

【Congratulations! You have successfully signed in and received: Gacha Coin ×1, Star Coin ×10!】

Her mood lightened a little.

She didn’t know what the Star Coins were for, but she had also received a gacha coin. The game had mentioned earlier that these could be used in the capsule machine lottery.

She tapped 【Capsule Machine】.

A translucent machine appeared in the room, plastered with cute, girly stickers. Inside, colorful glowing balls crowded together. Qian Yuan inserted the gacha coin into the slot and twisted the heart-shaped knob.

A ball rolled out of the chute.

【Congratulations! You obtained: Steamed Bun Lamp ×1!】

Qian Yuan: “…?”

After eating steamed buns for days on end, she was speechless.

The little lamp landed in her palm.

It was shaped like a steamed bun sitting on a double-tiered tray, soft and white, with a smiling face drawn on top. Qian Yuan stared at it and felt it looked suspiciously like her in-game avatar’s face.

On the first tray was a spoon-shaped lamp switch. Beside it, tiny letters showed the model of the built-in battery.

She placed the lamp on the desk.

【Ding~ Congratulations! You’ve found an effective way to increase Comfort! Buying more furniture for your child will greatly boost Comfort~】

A system message popped up. She checked the quest log and saw Comfort had indeed risen by 5%.

After diligently cleaning both the room and the bathroom, Comfort settled at 60%.

So simply tidying wasn’t enough—she needed more furniture.

Spending money was out of the question.

Qian Yuan sternly reminded herself, then suddenly remembered: following Cen Han to school required 20 stamina points. That meant she could use stamina to leave the room.

Since he wasn’t home, why not explore other game areas?

But how much stamina did she have?

She opened 【Profile】.

【—— Player Info ——
Nickname: Thousand-Paper-Crane
Birthday: January 15
Level: 1 (0/100)
Stamina: 10/10】

Ten points.

The little dumpling hopped off the bed, waddled to the iron door, and placed her hand on the handle.

【Please select your destination.】
【Junkyard (5 stamina total)】
【Street 19 Convenience Store (10 stamina total)】
【Newbie Tip: Unlock more storylines and gain EXP to level up, which will open more locations!】

The junkyard or the convenience store?

She had exactly 10 Star Coins, enough to visit the store and at least buy Cen Han some food.

The screen blurred. The ground beneath her shifted. Suddenly she was standing on a desolate planet.

Stars stretched endlessly above, dusty crates flashed past her vision—then her short legs touched solid ground again.

Qian Yuan blinked.

She was inside a small convenience store.

Shelves crowded the space so tightly there was barely room to walk. By the glass door sat a counter, behind which was a chubby-browed shopkeeper dumpling, reading news on his tablet with full concentration.

No other figures were inside. Qian Yuan curiously glanced at his screen, then wandered the aisles.

The setting was futuristic, but the shelves held a mix of strange, interstellar items alongside familiar modern objects. Yet she quickly noticed: the only food was nutrient fluid. No snacks, no drinks, nothing else.

The fluids came in three grades: low, medium, and high. With her meager funds, she could only afford low-grade—five RMB per bottle.

She bought two with her 10 Star Coins, reassuring herself that daily check-ins could at least guarantee Cen Han two meals a day. Maybe the developers weren’t that cruel.

【Dingdong~! Purchase successful: Low-Grade Nutrient Fluid ×2. Delivery robots will ensure safe arrival at the protagonist’s home!】

With her stamina spent and Cen Han not home, Qian Yuan logged off.

Meanwhile, the school bell rang. Break time was over.

The Imperial Modern History teacher entered the classroom, his gaze drifting idly, then fixing on the very last desk with pinpoint accuracy.

The desk was battered, covered in black graffiti, one leg crooked. Among the neat rows of new desks, it stood out like a sore thumb.

But the boy sitting behind it was even more conspicuous—not in a regular chair, but in a wheelchair.

The class buzzed with noise, but his head stayed bowed, as though none of it touched him.

The teacher, refined in demeanor, gave him a glance filled with disdain before quickly looking away, as though even one more look was unbearable.

“Cen Han, no homework. Get out.”

The room fell silent.

Cen Han’s fingers twitched.

Everyone knew the history teacher despised him, always inventing excuses to throw him out. Some had even seen the teacher toss his notebook into the recycling bot, then casually turn to chat with others.

But on this planet, no one would defend him.

Cen Han lifted his eyes briefly, offering no argument. His cold gaze swept over mocking faces, then he wheeled himself out.

It was winter now. His thin clothes couldn’t block the biting wind. His lips were blue. Still growing, his body demanded food, but he hadn’t eaten all day—his stomach burned with hunger.

He licked his cracked lips, pressing a hand to his stomach, knobby bones stark under dry skin. The pressure reopened a cut from that morning.

The dull ache became the best distraction from hunger.

People passing in the corridor threw him looks of scorn. He didn’t bother to look back.

Inside the classroom, Tang Zhenzhen, seated by the window, finally couldn’t resist glancing outside.

He sat there, profile exposed: sharp nose, defined jawline, lips perfectly shaped—the same dazzling features she remembered.

But the eyes hidden by his long bangs, the faded clothing, and the wheelchair all spoke of his downfall.

Tang Zhenzhen swallowed hard and jerked her gaze back to her screen.

Her desk mate whispered, “Zhenzhen, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head. “N-nothing.”

…

After the last class, Cen Han wheeled himself out of the academy.

“Look, that’s Cen Han.”
“Freshmen, you seen him yet? The traitor’s son.”
“Word is, his eyes and legs were ruined by radiation three years ago. Poetic justice, right?”
“Why’s he still coming here? If I were him, I’d just hang myself somewhere. Oh wait—that’s how his mom died, wasn’t it?”

From the crowd, a stone flew, striking his hand on the wheel. His motion faltered, veins bulging.

Tang Zhenzhen, not far away, clenched her teeth.

The impulse to act flared, but quickly snuffed itself out before she could move.

“Zhenzhen, why are you staring at that cripple?” her desk mate asked. “Didn’t you used to be classmates with him before he transferred here? Don’t tell me you…”

“Don’t—don’t say nonsense!”

She panicked, clapped a hand over her friend’s mouth, and darted glances around. Luckily the noisy school gate hid their words. “I don’t know him at all.”

Her friend grinned. “Relax, I’m kidding. I know you’d never pity someone like him.”

Tang Zhenzhen’s fingers curled as she nodded stiffly.

By the time they finished talking, Cen Han was gone. She parted ways with her friend, adjusted her scarf nervously, and slipped into a narrow alley leading to the slums.

Few at the academy knew he lived at the very end of the slums, but she did—her father had delivered things to him before.

The imperial capital had once been free of radiation, drawing people from across the galaxy. But with overcrowding came chaos, and the slums were born. After the radiation disaster three years ago, most residents fled, leaving it desolate.

That made it safer for her—no one would see her meeting him.

She jogged ahead, driven by guilt and impulse, heart hammering in her ears.

The wheelchair’s outline came into view. Cen Han leaned down, fishing keys from his side bag.

“Cen Han!”

Panting, she called his name. He turned slightly, messy bangs parting just enough to reveal dark eyes, slanted and sharp.

Her reflection shimmered in his pupils.

She had never dreamed of this moment. She looked at him with pity, pulling out her history notes.

“You missed class today,” she said softly. “I wrote down the key points, you…”

Her words froze.

The rust-stained iron door shut in her face.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Ch 3: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Qian Yuan’s finger froze midair.

The little boy in the wheelchair clearly didn’t want to open the door, but the pounding from outside grew heavier, rattling the iron door with each blow, laced with vulgar curses.

He let out a long breath, put the contact-like device back into his eyes, wheeled himself over, and unlocked the door.

The iron door swung open. A huge, burly dumpling figure loomed outside.

Qian Yuan shot up from the floor, ran behind Cen Han’s wheelchair, and peeked out with wide eyes, secretly observing.

The man looked like a middle-aged brute, with a scraggly beard, tattered clothes patched in several places, shoes with gaping holes, and messy hair. He looked more like a beggar than anything else.

He didn’t seem to see her either. Jabbing a thick finger at Cen Han’s forehead, he barked,

“Cen Han, I found a few crates of low-grade nutrient fluid at the junkyard this morning, and now they’re gone. Did you steal them?”

Qian Yuan frowned.

…That gesture was so rude.

Cen Han’s fingers twitched slightly. He raised his eyes and said in a low voice, “I didn’t.”

It was the first time Qian Yuan had heard him speak.

His voice wasn’t childlike or cute at all—it was deep and adult, which clashed strangely with his chibi appearance.

“Didn’t?” The man sneered, teeth grinding. “One of my boys saw you hanging around the junkyard this morning. You must’ve had your eye on my stuff then!”

As he spoke, he shoved Cen Han’s wheelchair hard.

The wheels spun out of control, slamming against the wall with a dull thud. The boy’s body jolted. His voice grew colder: “I said I didn’t—”

“Then what’s this?!”

The man tore open the cardboard boxes stacked by the stove and held up a bottle filled with strange green liquid. He roared, “You dare steal from me?!”

“That’s mine.”

Through clenched teeth, Cen Han said each word: “The day before yesterday, I bought it at the convenience store—”

The man barked a laugh like he’d heard the most absurd joke. “Bought it? You cripple, who’d sell anything to you?”

Cen Han fell silent.

The diary window, still open, updated in real time.

【November 3rd, 12:30 PM】
【Cen Han was slandered.】
【Cen Han is furious.】
【Cen Han refuses to speak. He won’t reveal who sold it to him.】

Reading the lines, Qian Yuan’s eyes darted between the two, her dumpling face scrunching up.

If she guessed right, this was a scripted event—designed to raise affection.

It was only a game, but seeing that nasty brute berate Cen Han, while Cen Han sat in silence, lips pressed thin, Qian Yuan bit her lip.

…The scene dredged up some unpleasant memories of her own.

The man gripped the nutrient bottle tighter, ranting and cursing with no end, spitting out every insult imaginable. Qian Yuan could only listen. In the chibi boy’s black, round eyes, it was as if a spark had lit.

In reality, she’d been powerless before. But here—in the game—she could do whatever she wanted.

Past and present overlapped. She surged forward, little fists clenched, and brought them down squarely on the man’s head.

“Duang!”

Like a hammer striking a whack-a-mole target. The man didn’t even notice.

Qian Yuan: “…”

This game was bizarre. Before unlocking interaction, she could touch anything and anyone in the game world—but nothing could touch her. She could push the wheelchair, but when the man shoved it, it passed right through her instead of crushing her against the wall.

Was that a bug? Or just player protection?

No time to dwell on it. Her eyes caught the man still holding the nutrient bottle. An idea struck. She lunged forward, twisting the cap open.

“Pssht—”

A sharp hiss. The liquid sprayed out like a jet, soaking the man’s head.

“Fuck—!”

The low-grade nutrient fluid worked like an even harsher hair dye. It clung to his messy mop, dripping everywhere, leaving him a dripping green mess.

He swore, grabbing a rag to wipe his head. But it was the same rag Qian Yuan had used earlier to clean the dust. Still filthy, it exploded in a cloud of grime, making him sneeze repeatedly.

Qian Yuan heard Cen Han give a short laugh.

She couldn’t help but smile too, a knot in her chest loosening slightly.

“What are you laughing at, cripple!”

Shamed by his ridiculous state, the man’s face twisted in rage. His eyes bulged, ready to beat Cen Han.

Qian Yuan’s heart leapt. She frantically searched for something to use as a weapon.

But Cen Han’s voice cut through, calm and cool.

“You’re applying for a new job, aren’t you? Yelling at me won’t matter. But if you hit me, that’ll be different.”

The man panted, nostrils flaring. Qian Yuan clutched the desk clock, watching him carefully.

He did seem to hesitate. With one last curse, he shouldered the boxes and stomped away, slamming a foot into Cen Han’s wheelchair as he left.

The chair tipped sharply. Qian Yuan instinctively reached to steady it, but Cen Han caught himself on the desk.

The room grew quiet again.

Qian Yuan turned to him.

The faint smile from earlier was gone. His face was blank, eyes fixed ahead.

After a long pause, he rubbed his eyes and buried his face in his hands.

【Cen Han is confused.】
【Cen Han sinks into depression again.】
【Cen Han doesn’t want to live anymore.】

Qian Yuan’s hands shook.

…What kind of storyline was this?!

She stared in disbelief. Cen Han lowered his hands, eyes staring into empty space, his voice low.

“Who are you?”

He said it casually, like an ordinary question. But the diary updates went wild.

【Cen Han is deeply depressed.】
【Cen Han falls into despair.】

—What was happening?

Had she made the wrong choice?

Though he couldn’t hear her, Qian Yuan watched his beautiful eyes turn red, rubbing at them stubbornly, on the verge of tears.

Before she could think of a fix, Cen Han lowered his head, stuffed the book into the pouch on his wheelchair, and rolled out of the room.

Qian Yuan, near despair herself, tried to follow—but bounced off an invisible barrier.

【Cen Han is heading to the academy. Requires 20 stamina points. Your stamina is insufficient~】

…Oh.

So he was going to school.

Qian Yuan let out a shaky breath.

Alone in the little room, she sat on the bed.

More muddy tracks stained the floor—the wheelchair marks, she realized. On the other side, green splatters from the nutrient fluid were still sticky—that part was her doing.

She checked the quest.

【Current Comfort: 40/100】

Her progress had fallen back.

After that heavy scene, she didn’t feel like cleaning anymore. Sitting at the bed’s foot, she replayed the man’s words in her mind.

Cen Han’s life was terrible.
He was truly disabled.
His status was precarious.
And that brute said no one would sell him anything.

…And he had stolen Cen Han’s only food.

Qian Yuan seethed.

She’d only meant to play casually. But after seeing this, her heart ached for him.

Nutrient fluid—if she remembered right, in this interstellar setting, it was people’s daily food.

Cen Han lived in a tiny, shabby room, wearing faded clothes. He clearly had little money.

With his food taken, what would he eat now?

Her mood sank, until a thought struck.

She looked at her stubby little legs.

This was a game. Money could solve everything.

Her fingers twisted the quilt nervously.

She herself was broke—yet here she was, worrying about feeding a game character.

Still—

“Games always have first-time top-up bonuses…”

Her eyes lit up. She muttered as she opened the menu.

【Recharge Rewards】 sat quietly on the list.

First-time purchases were usually the best deal. Cheap, with big bonuses. If it was only a small amount, she could manage.

She tapped the bundle and found it.

【First-time Bundle: Recharge 10 Energy Stones to receive a deluxe starter pack~】

…10.

That wasn’t much. Ten yuan, she could handle. Relieved, she smiled faintly, finger hovering to buy—then froze.

Slowly, she pulled back. Her chibi avatar rubbed its eyes with a fist.

She blinked, rubbed her eyes again, then looked once more.

Qian Yuan: “…”

The price for 10 Energy Stones—the so-called starter bundle—was 100 RMB.

Oh, god.

Qian Yuan was utterly shocked.

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐

Ch 2: My Disabled Virtual Lover’s Healing Diary

Qian Yuan’s eyes widened bit by bit.

The bright smiling face of her in-game character could not possibly reflect what she was feeling right now.

A little dumpling figure, just like hers, sat in a wheelchair and came rolling in from the door.

This little dumpling looked different from her avatar—more detailed, less round and puffy, with distinct facial features.

Qian Yuan leaned closer.

Black hair hung smoothly against his cheeks, a little too long, partially covering his pitch-black eyes. Under the outer corner of his right eye was a tiny tear mole.

His eyes slanted upward, his brows were thick and dark, his gaze distant and cold, giving off an unapproachable air. Yet like Qian Yuan’s character, he had no nose, and his mouth was just a thin line. That lack of definition softened the gloom, leaving him looking instead rather tsundere and cute.

—But that wasn’t the point.

Qian Yuan stared in shock as the little figure pushed the wheels with his stubby arms, entered the room, and placed something from his lap onto the desk.

He didn’t seem to see her… Well, of course. The interaction feature wasn’t unlocked yet.

This was a child who couldn’t use his legs.

Was he disabled? Or was it a temporary injury requiring the wheelchair?

The PV hadn’t mentioned this at all…

Qian Yuan silently watched. The boy rolled to the bed, used his short hands to push himself up, and moved onto it.

His legs remained limp, unmoving, as if completely devoid of sensation.

The supposedly cute, healing game had suddenly veered wildly in an unexpected direction.

Qian Yuan stood frozen a moment. She watched him lie down, eyes closed, exhausted. She quietly stepped closer, intending to pull up the blanket for him.

But before her hand touched it, his eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright, hands patting wildly across the bed.

What was he doing?

Startled, Qian Yuan drew back, puzzled.

His legs didn’t move. After patting the bed, he used his hands to inch himself to the foot, reaching about in all directions. That was where the pile of clothes had been—clothes Qian Yuan had folded and placed neatly in the cabinet.

His fingers brushed only air. His expression changed drastically. Quickly, he dragged himself to the edge, stretched out a hand, groped around until he found the wheelchair, and climbed back onto it.

Qian Yuan’s eyes widened again. A sharp guess pricked her heart.

…No way?

She followed him to the desk. He picked something up, lowered his head, and pressed his palm over his eyes. When he lifted it again, his sight no longer wandered blindly—his gaze locked straight on the bed.

The next instant, he pressed his lips tight, tiny fists clenching on the wheel.

Qian Yuan swallowed.

Her game child seemed not only unable to walk… but also unable to see.

A disabled protagonist wasn’t unheard of. The “tragic but beautiful” archetype was always popular.

But seeing such a soft, chubby little figure in a wheelchair, blind eyes staring blankly—even knowing it was just a game—Qian Yuan’s feelings grew complicated.

His frown deepened. He turned the wheelchair toward the bathroom. With him gone, her eyes fell back on the desk.

There were two new things there: a rectangular case resembling a glasses case, and a small name tag.

She leaned in.

It looked like a student ID tag, listing the academy name and his personal information. Skipping over the student number, her eyes stopped on the name.

【Cen Han】

His name was Cen Han.

His birthday was December 25.

December 25—that was Christmas. It was only early November now, so his birthday was about two months away.

Qian Yuan pulled her gaze away.

In two months, she might not even still be playing this game.

The sound of a cabinet opening came from the bathroom. She crouched down, opening the cabinet where she had put the clothes.

The wheelchair rolled across the floor. The boy came out, his dark eyes—just as she’d hoped—landing on the opened cabinet.

He stared at it, unblinking, fists tightening, face growing paler.

Qian Yuan’s heart jumped.

What was happening? What was wrong with him?

A sudden thought struck her. She quickly opened the diary.

It only began recording after she’d first entered the game, updating every thirty minutes, but each entry was written in real time.

【November 3rd, 11:30 AM】
【Cen Han didn’t pay attention in class.】
【Cen Han finished his homework at the academy.】
【Cen Han was bullied by classmates.】
【Cen Han went home for his lunch break.】

【November 3rd, 12:00 PM】
【Cen Han arrived home.】
【Cen Han lay down on the bed.】
【Cen Han felt something was wrong, got up to look for his clothes.】
【Cen Han discovered changes in his room. He was shocked.】
【Cen Han couldn’t believe what happened and fell into deep depression.】

Qian Yuan skimmed quickly, pausing on “was bullied by classmates.”

She tried to piece it together.

So, he saw what she had done and became depressed.

…

………

Was that reasonable??

Qian Yuan felt her worldview crack.

Fact: This was a raising sim.
Fact: The system’s first quest was to improve the child’s living comfort.

So she, the dutiful player following system prompts, had diligently cleaned his filthy room.

And the result was—the child became depressed.

Why!!

She was baffled.

What were the developers even thinking?

The boy wheeled around, seeming too restless even for a nap. He quietly closed the open cabinet, removed the thing from his eyes, and sat staring blankly at the desk.

Qian Yuan noticed—it looked like contact lenses.

But if it was just bad vision, he wouldn’t have been groping blindly.

Her head spun with questions. She opened the game menu again and tapped “Check-in.”

【Your online time hasn’t reached one hour yet. Check-in is currently unavailable~】

Qian Yuan: “…”

This was ridiculous.

The boy sat dazed at the desk. Staring at his dark little head, Qian Yuan suddenly had a thought.

Maybe the game secretly had an affection system. And since her affection with him was still too low, she couldn’t complete the task.

If so, to raise affection…

She walked up and tried poking his cheek.

But his skin didn’t feel soft like she expected.

And he had no reaction.

Did even poking require unlocking the interaction feature?

Cleaning made him sad, but without raising comfort, she couldn’t finish the quest.

She was stuck on the beginner mission. Frustrated, she bit her lip. Finally, she grabbed the rag again and wiped dust off the stove.

A noise slipped out.

The boy whipped his head around.

His eyes were dark, empty, the lenses gone. Yet he stared straight at her.

Qian Yuan froze.

The little figure began to tremble.

“…No way.”

Qian Yuan was bewildered, dropping the rag in a panic and opening the diary.

【Cen Han is extremely afraid.】
【Cen Han trembles with fear.】

…Afraid?!

Qian Yuan was stunned.

Wait—wait!

She thought she understood.

He discovered changes in his room. Fell into depression. Then terror.

“Fear” was the key.

If she were at home, suddenly realizing her clothes had been moved, then hearing strange noises in the room…

It made perfect sense. The little chibi’s soft fist striking his palm even seemed to affirm her deduction.

This raising sim wasn’t like any other. With this logic, his emotions actually made sense.

But she still needed to finish the quest. And without interaction unlocked, how could she make him accept the presence of this unknown little dumpling?

Qian Yuan sighed, sitting against the wall, cheeks in her palms, staring at the diary.

【Cen Han told himself, “None of this is real.”】
【Cen Han gradually calmed down.】
…
【Cen Han began reading.】

She turned, surprised to see him pull a book onto the desk, fingertips brushing the pages.

…He was surprisingly adaptable?

From the diary entries, he seemed to have fixed school hours. Now he was home on lunch break. Once he returned to class, she could use the chance to finish the quest.

And once interaction was unlocked, she could finally raise him properly.

With her plan made, she glanced at the time and prepared to log off, waiting until he went back to school.

But just as her finger reached the “Exit Game” button, the heavy iron door rattled with urgent pounding—bang, bang, bang.

The boy’s head jerked up. His fingers clenched the page until the thin paper crumpled.

A coarse, hoarse voice barked from outside, thick with impatience:

“Cripple, open the door!”

ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦋་༘࿐