The System wasn’t wrong: why should Wenquan love me just because I ladled her a few bowls of warm soul-broth?

Forget any hidden boost to Nesting Phoenix’s favor; in the urban plane, I won her variants because time stretched like a long summer.

With Wenquan, we’ve shared barely half a week; thinking I could pry open a shuttered heart this fast was pride swelling like a hot balloon.

Looks like wooing Wenquan is a long road with a heavy pack; I’ll need to speak with her more, like rain soaking stone.

Thinking that, Nana Toki shouldered her backpack and stepped into school, her stride a quiet stream cutting morning mist.

Class Two buzzed like a pen of ducks, chatter flapping like wings.

The next heartbeat, the noise collapsed like a snuffed candle as she crossed the threshold.

Got dirt on my face or something? Nana Toki stood at the door, one brow lifting like a hooked reed.

Class Two kept silent, mouths sealed like clams, eyes fixed like pins.

Qiqi, why’re you stuck at the doorway instead of going in? It’s not late yet. Song Qingtian peered past her like a curious sparrow.

One peek, and her legs nearly folded like paper; those stares pricked like cold needles.

Um... Classmate Lu, your desk... A nearby girl finally spoke, her voice stuttering like a teapot, her gaze skittering like startled fish.

Nana Toki could see anxiety smeared over her face like ash; even talking felt like holding a knife.

What about my desk? Nana followed the girl’s gaze, eyes sliding like ink over water.

From afar, she saw the desk she’d parked at the back, now drowned in ugly graffiti like mud on bark.

Even the drawer was jammed with dead insects, husks piled like brittle leaves.

Seriously? One day away and my desk’s become a junkyard idol, draped in filth like torn banners.

On the desktop, slurs were carved with a knife like thorns etched in bark, the gouges raw and glaring.

She could read the jagged three words clearly—Go die!—malice pooling like swamp water.

Typical for this age: even their hostility is distilled like harsh liquor, simple and burning.

Her reaction didn’t match the bullied script; inside, she was a winter lake, no ripples rising.

This was kids playing house with rocks; if that sparks fear, the heart’s already a collapsing shed.

No wonder these little cannon-fodder villains shine in self-destruction; even their death-seeking feels like fireworks misfiring in clear daylight.

System: ... This trick just doesn’t work on hosts like you; ordinary students lack the nerve to face this level of bullying.

Nana Toki stood at the back, gaze on the desk like frost on stone, her face calm as an old pine.

In her ink-dark eyes, cold air breathed now and then like winter fog, making onlookers shiver like reeds in wind.

So they’ve finally penciled me into the list of punching bags; fine, I can ride this current to reach Wenquan.

Talk more, chip away, stack favor like beads.

These jerks are awful—wrecking Qiqi’s desk, even spiking the chair with tacks glued like teeth, Song Qingtian fumed, cheeks flushed like chili.

Should we find Teacher Jiang and get help? Her worry fluttered like a moth at a lamp.

No, this doesn’t need to rattle the teachers, Nana said, her tone cool as rain on slate.

She was plotting to use this to approach Wenquan; she wouldn’t toss away a ripe peach hanging low.

I’ll settle it myself, and sweep up Wenquan’s share in the same stroke, like one swing clearing two branches.

But Qiqi... Song tried again, but her words sank like stones when they met Nana’s still, ink-black gaze.

In the end, no one mentioned the desk again, because Nana Toki carried that vandalized set back to Class Four like a storm rolling a log.

He Jiawen, just about to pull out her English book and slack off, went green like an unripe lime.

She never thought this maniac would ignore the teacher like a rogue wind crossing a courtyard.

What, never seen a bullied weakling bite back? Nana set the scarred desk down, her voice bright as a blade catching sun.

She turned and faced the room, drinking in their crooked looks like smoke.

To them, calling her a victim felt like calling a tiger a lamb, stripes stark as lightning.

Unsurprisingly, the Dean of Discipline caught it all from the corridor, his gaze a hawk circling.

Lu Qiqi! Are you crazy? His shout crashed down the stairs like thunder, rolling floor to floor.

Middle of the day, and you haul a broken desk to another class to stir trouble—what is this? His tone snapped like dry bamboo.

Even if you hate studying, don’t disrupt others. This is a school, not your idle playground. His words clattered like hail on tiles.

How did I disrupt anyone? she asked, tone flat as slate, standing in the office like a spear planted.

That desk was broken by He Jiawen’s crew. I returned it to its rightful owner, like a parcel back to its address.

What did I do wrong? Her question fell like a pebble into a pond.

Impossible. The Dean’s disbelief flapped like a torn flag. Why would He Jiawen break your desk?

She’s in Class Four; after school, doors get locked. How would she have your key? His logic tapped like a woodpecker.

You think I’m brain-dead enough to trash my own desk and then pick a fight? Nana’s laugh cut like a thin saw on bone.

They say bullies carry twisted minds; maybe He Jiawen’s just that kind, a vine coiling wrong around a pillar.

The Dean held his tongue for a beat, then jabbed the air like a rooster. Lu Qiqi, stop smearing other classes.

I already heard you might be bullying Class Four’s Wenquan; even if He Jiawen was involved, most blame sits on you like soot.

Five thousand words of self-criticism, and call your parents in. His verdict dropped like a stone into a well.

He wanted to meet the gardeners who raised such a strange plant, roots tangled like wild ginseng.

Heh, Nana didn’t argue, her smile frost on steel, eyes flat as still water.

No wonder He Jiawen swaggered around; this school’s dean is a fool, a lantern with no oil in winter wind.

Five thousand words and a parent call? He really thinks I’m fifteen or sixteen, she murmured, breath white as snow.

System: Uh... hate to clip your wings, but you currently are a bona fide sixteen-year-old high-school girl.

Nana Toki: ... Can you, broken System, stop cutting my stage ropes like a blunt knife?

The Dean scolded her until sunset, his voice a drum that wouldn’t quit, beating like rain on shingles.

When she finally stepped out into the corridor, she set her feet toward Class Four like a river finding its bed.

By chance, she ran right into He Jiawen and her four stooges, dragging Wenquan out like hunters tugging a snared deer.

Heh, Lu Qiqi, I warned you not to meddle between us, He Jiawen sneered, lips curling like a knife.

You didn’t listen. Now you’re carrying our blame—how’s that feel? Her gloat hung like smoke under cold lamps.

The flavor was textbook villainess, so strong it felt like cheap perfume; Nana found it gaudy, like someone stealing her spotlight on stage.

Was she actually waiting here to read her lines, script fluttering like a crow’s wing?

So what’re you trying to say? Nana tilted her head like a fox gauging wind.

You think this high-schooler fears you? Her words padded forward like a cat’s soft paws.

I’ve nothing more to say. He Jiawen leaned in to whisper, her smile planted like a thorn.

Some people are meant to be underfoot; know your place, like chalk under a boot.

She fancied herself the queen of this school, crown a paper sun wilting in drizzle.

Despite students passing by like a stream, none heard them; her voice was thin smoke fading in air.

So the desk carving and locking Wenquan in the abandoned stadium storage yesterday were yours? Nana lifted a brow like a blade.

Her face stayed calm as dusk; she waited for an answer the way a bow waits for its string.

A nod that would give her clean license to act, like a seal pressed on paper.

Yeah, and what of it? Gonna run to the Dean? He Jiawen’s contempt flicked like ash; she didn’t sense the weather change.

No. You’re overthinking. Nana’s hand shot out and clamped her wrist like an iron trap.

You’re right—people need self-knowledge; if I’m branded with filth and can’t be the model student loved by all, I’ll be the notorious tyrant remembered like a storm.

You accused me of being a bully. Fine. Today, I’ll teach you what school violence really looks like. Her tone was ice on a blade.

With that, Nana yanked He Jiawen’s arm upward, force snapping like a hook hauling a carp toward sky.