Stonemare Middle School was nothing like a normal school, a rough stone set under a quiet sky.

Its name carried a “Saint,” yet it wasn’t a noble academy, more like a clay hut on Dreamwood Star’s poor outskirts.

From any angle, Stonemare felt cheap as rainwater, but skill could earn points like ripe berries picked at dawn.

Points paid tuition like little coins, and they bought small comforts—little buns, crisp noodle snacks, and neat little stationery, firefly-bright in hard times.

Top prizes even included a dainty, dazzling dress, like moonlight stitched with silk.

Back then, Yue Liuyi was still “a boy,” so shame fluttered like a sparrow, and the points mostly became books.

Many magic books at the Moon Post Bookstore carried the scent of ink and starlight, redeemed by Dongfang Chen at Stonemare.

“Oh… so your school ran on points?” Dixue’s voice drifted like soft wind through leaves.

“Mm! Points were like a second currency, flowing inside the campus like a small stream.”

“Sounds… like a very interesting school,” she said, eyes bright as lanterns.

“It was fun when we weren’t in class,” Yue Liuyi smiled, like sun after drizzle. “Fewer courses meant time to chase points.”

Stonemare’s ways to earn points split like a forked river.

One branch stayed steady as moss—grades, campus service, and social practice—small points, but stone-solid.

The second surged like a spring flood, rising and falling with wild skies.

For some reason, Stonemare loved innovation—make something new, and points rained down like meteors.

The principal once spoke before everyone, voice clear as bell metal: “Don’t trudge in old ruts or hug old frames—use your own strange gift to open new paths.”

So even today, little sparks still flickered—quick inventions born like swallows.

A desk lamp laced with chlorophyll and plant magic could glow under sunlight, no cord needed, like a leaf holding dawn.

A pen with a flow regulator could, in danger, spit ink once like a startled octopus, blurring a foe’s sight.

A cleaver-shaped phone case guarded the phone like iron bark, and at noon could slice vegetables on a bench.

They were mostly useless, not worth coin, yet each was one-of-a-kind, odd stars pinned on a dark cloak.

“Huh? So many fun things… Little Moon, you must’ve made plenty too?” Dixue’s curiosity rustled like bamboo.

“Uh… mine were ordinary,” Yue Liuyi murmured, voice thin as mist. “Nothing special.”

Embarrassment came first, cool as night rain; then she lowered her head.

Two inventions were hard to confess, thorny as briars.

A jacket that made the body look one ring broader, like armor puffed with wind.

Spring shoes that raised height by weight, bouncing like grasshoppers and tuning themselves to the wearer.

She told the teacher they helped short kids, a white lie floating like paper boats.

But truth was simple as moonlight: they were for herself, a bluff for nights when she accidentally became a girl.

“Hm… a little suspicious,” Dixue stared, eyes narrowing like a cat in crescent light.

“U-um… just ordinary things!” Yue Liuyi hurried, words tumbling like pebbles. “Anyway, thanks to Stonemare, my past wasn’t that hard.”

“Woof!” Kaka’s tail thumped like a drum. “School sounds fun! After we finish, Kaka wants to go!”

“If there’s a chance, I’ll sign you up,” Yue Liuyi said, hope warm as tea. “Oh? Kaka, are you middle-school age now?”

“Huh? How old is Kaka…?” The blonde girl counted on her fingers, like sparrows hopping, and kept losing the number.

“Wh-why!? Kaka can’t remember her age!”

“Every planet’s year is different,” Dixue said, voice gentle as night wind. “You’ve wandered, so dates drift like constellations.”

“In space, that happens,” she added. “But with cell data, we can pin it down, like fixing a star’s coordinates.”

“Linluo University should have the instruments,” Yue Liuyi whispered, a small sigh like steam. “We might need Sis Kiki again.”

Stonemare didn’t care about race or money—doors open like morning gates—but age had a line.

If you hadn’t passed childhood—human twelve—you couldn’t enroll, a rule carved like a boundary stone.

“Woof, woof! Kaka can go to school later? So happy!” She jumped, a golden spark under the lamp.

“Hehe… If we can, we’ll call Breeze and Zaocun to join, walk with you like twin breezes.”

“Woof? Other friends too?”

“Of course!” Yue Liuyi’s smile rose like a crescent moon.

If Breeze and Zaocun were here, they’d become good friends, hearts weaving like willow branches.

Same age, same class—daily greetings like morning bells, then after school, laughter trailing like kite tails on the walk home.

Just like me back then, footsteps warm as sunset on old stone.

“Mm…” The sound settled like dew on grass.

Night rain kept falling, soft as silk threads.

And the girls’ storytelling circle hadn’t reached its end, the hearth of words still glowing like embers.