“Put me down!” Her voice fluttered like a sparrow beating its wings against a cage.

“Nope~” His reply curved like a fox’s tail in the snow.

“We’re still in class!” Panic buzzed like a trapped bee in her chest.

“It’s fine. I’ve got a leave slip.” His calm fell like light rain on tile.

“That—that’s not the point! It’s still class time!” Her words clattered like chalk on a blackboard.

“Twist any more and your skirt’s flipping up.” His warning flicked like a playful breeze under a curtain.

She froze, a kitten mid-pounce. Seeing Ye Weibai’s smiling eyes, she realized she’d been tricked; the truth slid in like cold water.

They were on the stairwell landing, a quiet island of concrete in a river of footsteps.

Ruan Lin’s feet hung in the air, small as two swallows. Ye Weibai’s arms hooked under her armpits and locked behind her back; he held her close, face to face, like cradling a warm loaf fresh from the oven. She knew she was helpless against him; the feeling crawled like ivy.

She puffed her cheeks, then head-butted his chest, stubborn as a little ram nudging a tree.

What a cute creature, he thought, like a pocket-sized red panda. It didn’t hurt at all; her protest floated like dandelion fluff.

Ye Weibai pretended to wince. “Ah, so painful—struck by Knight ‘Liadrin’s’ headbutt.” His dramatics swirled like theater smoke.

Like a cat whose tail got stepped on, the girl’s eyes sprang wide. “Don’t call me that name at school!” Her panic flared like a match.

Ye Weibai grinned, sly as moonlight on tiles. “Eh? Why? ‘Countess Liadrin’ fits the princess-knight class perfectly.” His tease glinted like a blade under silk.

“Ahhhhh! It’s—it’s so embarrassing! Being called my online handle at school!” Her shame burned like autumn leaves.

“Hmm? Shy? That’s unlike the princess-knight Countess Liadrin, famous for wild PK that terrified the whole server.” His words prowled like a tiger in tall grass.

“SSSSSSSS—STOP!” Her shout cracked like thunder in a small valley.

“That loud will disturb other students and teachers.” His reminder dropped like a bell tone.

Ruan Lin pressed her lips, cautious as a deer in bamboo shade. She scanned the corridor; seeing no one, she let out a breath like steam in winter.

She tilted up her small face. Her ear-tips flushed crimson, bright as ripe cherries. Her eyes were glossy, melting like spring water. “D-Don’t bully me…” Her plea floated like a paper lantern.

That face makes me want to bully you. The thought leapt like a spark. Ye Weibai’s heart thumped like a drum under silk.

He wanted more of that almost-crying look, sweet as plum wine, but he reined himself in like a rider at a cliff. If she really cried, that’d be troublesome; tears flood fast, like summer rain.

A memory flashed—he’d made her cry before, and he’d been a mess, flailing like a fish on shore.

“Down you go.” Ye Weibai set her on the ground, careful as placing porcelain.

Freed from his warm arms, Ruan Lin felt oddly bereft, like stepping from sunlight into shade. “W-What’s wrong?” Her gaze trembled like a leaf.

“I don’t mind,” Ye Weibai said, blinking with mischief like fireflies. “Want me to carry you out the school gate?”

She reddened, a rose at dawn. “O-Of course not!” The refusal snapped like a twig.

...

“D-Don’t hold hands. It feels childish.” Her protest was a thin kite line pulled taut.

He had scaled the wall like a stray cat to get in, but with the leave slip, walking Ruan Lin out raised no questions. The gate guard looked at him like a weary grandpa at a naughty grandson; the gaze was soft and helpless, like old wool.

Ye Weibai had a rap sheet of pranks; he and the old man were familiar, like chess partners on a park bench.

At the crosswalk, the light blinked green like a pond in wind. Ye Weibai naturally took her hand and led her across. Their height difference made interlocked fingers impossible; their grip looked more like a parent leading a child through a river of steel beasts.

“Eh? So Rin-chan wants the interlocked kind?” His tease hopped like a sparrow.

“N-No! Hand-holding just feels childish.” Her denial scuffed the ground like a shoe.

“Hand-holding to cross is ‘the rule’.” His tone settled like a stone in water.

That’s true—so kids don’t get distracted and step into traffic; a guiding hand is a rope across the current.

Mention “rule” and Ruan Lin couldn’t refuse; she obeyed rules like a monk keeps vows. She placed her small hand in his palm, a plum blossom in a bowl.

“By the way, after crossing, to celebrate humans surviving the steel beasts, cheek-kissing is also ‘the rule’.” His grin shone like a fox under lantern light.

“There’s no such ridiculous rule!” Her retort snapped like ice.

“Aww, no? What a pity.” His eyes laughed; mischief poured like tea.

Ruan Lin puffed her cheeks, a pufferfish showing spikes, signaling her limits.

Ye Weibai shifted topics like turning a fan. “Oh, look at the time. I already bought movie tickets. Before the film, let’s eat.”

They weren’t picky. In the mall by the cinema, they found a family restaurant, warm as a hearth. After they’d eaten their fill, the waiter cleared plates, leaving only tea that steamed like mist on a lake.

Ruan Lin held a glass too big for her hands, sipping in tiny mouthfuls like a dormouse.

Ye Weibai watched her, smiling; his gaze draped like a silk ribbon.

She pretended not to notice, but the stare pressed like sunlight on closed eyes. “What?” The word hopped like a cricket.

He answered at once, as if he’d been waiting, like an archer loosing. “You’re adorable.” His voice was a soft bell.

“W-What!” She almost choked; the tea rippled like a pond struck by a pebble.

She glanced around, frantic as a sparrow looking for branches, but his eyes didn’t let her escape; they held her like a net. She surrendered, settling like snow, then sighed. “Feels like you’re worse than usual today.”

“Am I?” His surprise flickered like a candle.

“Absolutely.” Her certainty clicked like Mahjong tiles.

“But—it’s fun, isn’t it?” He looked at her, steady as moonlight. “This ditching-class feeling. Breaking ‘rules’.” His words tasted like forbidden fruit.

“Y-Yeah.” At “breaking rules,” her cheeks flushed with a bright excitement, like embers waking.

“Complete the ‘skip class’ quest and you get a ton of EXP. Count earlier quests—phone in class, sneaking texts. Hmm, let me calculate.” He pulled out his phone, fingers tapping like abacus beads.

After a moment, he smiled. “Rin-chan, level up!” His verdict rose like a banner.

Her ears perked like a fox’s; she stared without blinking, caught by the drumbeat.

“You’re already Lv30.” His tone rang like a gong.

“Only Lv30? Not even the first job change.” She sounded disappointed, but her lips curved like a crescent moon and betrayed her.

“First job change” is net slang for the first class transfer. He didn’t puncture the act; for once, he let the theater breathe like incense. He was happy too: back then, before they were like this, Ruan Lin treated his words like air, blank as a wall. Now she broke rules and smiled—how much had he invested? Every coin felt like a seed that sprouted.

Worth it. The thought settled like dew.

...

You might not believe it, but Ye Weibai met Ruan Lin in an internet café, neon buzzing like cicadas.

Home net was down, so he came to update his novel; for quiet, he booked a single booth, hushed like a study.

While he was squeezing words out like toothpaste—painful, inch by inch—a knock tapped the door, crisp as bamboo.

He opened it and saw her: white baseball cap, pale coat. Really, he saw the top of her head and a ponytail swinging like a horse’s tail. She was short, a sapling among trunks.

When did net cafés start hiring child labor? The thought drifted like smoke.

He was still dazed when the little girl walked in, bold as a cat. She shut the door, raised bright eyes that gleamed like stars, and spoke with cool calm.

“I’ll pay you double.” Her words fell like coins.

“Give me this booth.” The demand stood like a little flag.

“How about it?” She tilted her chin, a sparrow acting eagle.

“A bargain, right?” The smile tried to sharpen, like a toy knife.

A grade-schooler using a mature tone—Ye Weibai was surprised; curiosity rippled like wind over rice.

Looks fun, he thought; mischief sprouted like bamboo. He smiled. “You can have it. Free. Actually, I’m more interested in you.” His line slid like silk, edged like paper.

Her pupils shrank, a dark ring tightening; she stepped back, light as a cat. She raised her phone. “My phone has a one-button emergency call.” Her voice trembled like a chime.

“Oh, impressive.” Ye Weibai’s smile didn’t waver; he studied her like a painter studies a model.

“In that case, I should grab your phone first.” He stepped forward, a shadow lengthening.

She hadn’t expected him to be fearless; her eyes widened like full moons. She backed up; her voice quivered like willows. “I checked. The booth soundproofing is bad.”

“Then I can’t give you the chance to call out.” His words closed like a fan.

“I—I—” Panic cracked through; her composure crumbled like stale bread.

Ye Weibai smiled, eyes half-mooned. “Any other defenses?” His question pricked like a thorn.

She held the phone out, hand shaking like a leaf. She backed up step by step, then—bang. She fell onto the sofa; the cap flew off, a white gull, and dark hair spilled like ink. She lifted her face, helpless, terror bright as frost.

Bang. He sat down too, beside her; the cushion sighed like reeds. She squealed, curled up like a hedgehog, teeth chattering like hail, hiding in the corner.

He watched her; his mouth curved, slow as a river bend. He delivered the nasty line. “By the way, doesn’t the AC feel high? Take off your coat; you’ll feel better.” The suggestion slid like oil on stone.

“I-I-I—I—” Her voice shattered like glass.

He didn’t even have time to react.

Tears pooled in her eyes, round as dew, then burst like a spring. “I-I-I don’t want—don’t take it off—uwaaa… don’t take off my clothes… uwaaa…” Her cries swelled like storm rain.

“...” He stared at the downpour; his face stiffened like clay.

He’d overplayed it. The realization dropped like a stone.

It took half an hour to explain to the staff; words stacked like bricks. After, Ye Weibai lay on the sofa, drained like a wrung cloth, and watched her sit at the computer, bright-eyed, mouse clicking like cicadas. The game menu opened—a gateway glowing like a shrine.

“Only one hour.” His warning hung like a lantern.

“Hmph. That’s the price for making me cry.” Her pride puffed like steam.

“A little grade-schooler, guts so small, yet trying this stunt.” His tease rapped like a fan on a palm.

“Hmph. There’s nothing I don’t dare—” Fifteen seconds later, she’d logged in; she turned, wearing a feral grin like a young wolf, and said the line she’d be ashamed of forever:

“I’m the mighty princess-knight—Countess Liadrin!” Her declaration rang like a warhorn.

“...” Ye Weibai went blank, eyes glassy as lake water. Then the game music rose, drums and brass like banners flapping, and on-screen a proud female knight appeared, bearing the ID “Countess Liadrin.”

Ye Weibai smiled gently, warmth like tea. “Alright. I had that phase too.”

“W-What!” Her sputter popped like a bubble.