“Dad, I’m back,” his voice a thin thread pulling through the quiet like dusk light skimming dust.

Dragging a body heavy as a rain-soaked coat, Luyao pushed the little door, its hinge whispering like old reeds by a river.

“Today I met a very cute girl—soft as willow fronds, yet inside, her heart was steel stronger than mine.”

He lifted his gaze to the sign that hadn’t glowed in ages—“Pork Knuckle Ramen 10 yuan, Beef Noodles 15”—letters asleep like cold embers.

A dull ache rose like fog after rain—when did everything start to bend out of shape?

Thinking with a storm in his chest, Luyao walked to the counter, his footsteps tapping the tiles like late-night drizzle.

He had loved that mix of vinegar and broth, a steam of sour and warm like plum blossoms in snow, gone for over a year.

The coin sorter was an ancient electric box, once a thunderbug cage to a child who thought it could spin money from air.

“Working a wage job? No way—never in this life!” His anger crackled like sparks, aimed at those exploiters in their glass towers.

Even starving, even with the ramen shop shuttered, he’d never bow, never kneel to the capitalists who killed his father—iron won’t bend to rust.

He moved to the memorial tablet and straightened the portrait, fingers steady as a guardian setting an old lantern true.

The accident’s compensation still hadn’t arrived, paper promises drifting like snow that never melts on warm hands.

So the red-haired youth gathered boys like scattered embers, and forged the Flame Ruins Gang into a rough hearth under a cold sky.

They did dark tasks at times, yet they held to their rules, lanterns on a night road to keep the path from vanishing.

First, they struck only the rich, letting coin flood back like a reversed river to the poor—rob the rich, aid the poor.

(Yue Liuyi once bought too much food at once, so they mistook her for a little rich lady, a sparrow dressed like a phoenix.)

Second, they never harmed ordinary folk; if forced, they only bound hands, ropes coiling like vines, leaving bodies and dignity intact.

Lastly, they refused crooked commissions; Luyao weighed right and wrong on a quiet scale, a beam steady as a mountain birch.

But now, a period may fall like ash at the end of their chapter—the Flame Ruins Gang could be winding down.

“Reopen… the ramen shop?” The thought cracked the dark like a door letting a blade of sun through.

He didn’t know why that blue-haired girl insisted, but he knew her lake-blue eyes held no fog, only clear sky.

“Come on! Be a man—no dithering!” His chest beat like a drum. “We’ll open it. The Lindream Council paid well anyway!”

Shedding his leather like a snake discarding old skin, Luyao chose to hunt for the answer where steam meets memory.

...

“Woah! So much happened on Dreamwood Star while I was gone!” Yue Liuyi sat on a first-floor bookstore couch, screen glowing like moonlight on water.

She rode the search engine like a wind over reeds, brushing through recent events until the pages felt like rushing leaves.

She hadn’t known; then the floodgates opened—one look, and surprises clattered like pebbles in a stream.

For instance, a nuclear leak at Xilin—five hundred li, roughly two hundred fifty kilometers, sealed off like a ring of salt around a wound.

For instance, the gas leak Luyao mentioned—twenty-one dead, one hundred thirty-eight harmed—numbers dark as beads on a mourning string.

For instance, the former Speaker assassinated; the old headmaster of Saint Shima Middle School stepped in, a chalk-white hair under a heavy crown.

For instance, medical reforms dug deep; Linluo citizens now show a work ID and receive drug discounts, help flowing like a gentle canal.

For instance, Council commissions are rising; the Council often taps citizens to guard the city, a net woven tight under storm.

...

“It feels… a bit better,” she breathed, a small warmth like tea at dawn spreading in her chest.

Much had gone wrong, yet she could feel it—the Lindream Council’s shield over its people, subsidies like rain, the Flame Ruins Gang tending streets and air, the Council shifting its roots.

“It’s the old headmaster as Speaker? That’s wild,” she smiled. “If it’s Principal Wang, he’ll seize this chance and grow a small ecosystem, a garden within walls.”

She looked at the necklace on her chest—Eternal Tear had dimmed after her transformation, its glow folded like a sleeping star.

But the power within hadn’t vanished; she felt it humming like a hidden spring under stone, waiting for time to refill it.

Given time to recharge, she believed she could cast another world-changing spell, a sky-wide stroke that redraws rivers and roads.

“Woof! Master! Little Rose needs you,” Kaka barked, tail cutting arcs like a reed fan.

“Huh? That little witch?” Her smile tilted like a crescent moon over a lake.

“Mm! And Sister Dixue,” came the reply, soft as snow landing on bamboo.

“Oh… must be Dragon Heaven business. I’m heading over!” Her resolve clicked like a clasp, light dancing in her eyes.

She set down her phone like a leaf on calm water, stood, and went upstairs with Kaka, steps climbing like a spine toward the next page.