So-called amnesia—memory lost. Strip away physical blows, and it’s the mind shielding itself.

When a recollection cuts like glass at a touch, the mind turns it into bramble. A hopeless tangle of thorns blooming in the skull, good for nothing but fresh wounds. Instinct steps in. The body shields the heart. That memory gets blurred, dimmed, erased.

Ye Weibai forgot what happened on Day One because that shield slammed down. His last moments were too savage, too soaked in blood. Like a thorn-ball twisted from briars, lodged at the throat—neither swallowed nor spat out. Pain flared, and his reflex was to purge the death itself. The purge took the whole first day with it.

What Ye wrote on the paper—“got eaten”—wasn’t being gulped whole by some dragon, dead before he could blink. It wasn’t bleeding out with a slit throat and frantic gasps.

It was crueler, stranger, more warped, and drenched in [Misfortune].

...

Timeline: [Day One].

“Hi. I’m Ye Weibai. You can call me Little White.”

He offered his hand. The girl stared, eyes dazed, lashes fluttering like moth wings near a lamp.

“Uh, you folks don’t do handshakes?” He took her startled hand, set it in his palm, and pumped once.

“There. We’re friends now.”

“F-f-f-friend—?” Her cheeks were crimson, her struggle messy as a bird in a net. But at that word, she stilled. She looked up at him, and in her red eyes a bright firework rose and bloomed.

He knew at once he’d hit a plot trigger.

He smiled, gentle as spring sun on water, squeezed her hand, and said, “Yes. Friends.”

His sure answer lit her face like dawn breaking after rain.

“I, I, I’m—”

She beamed and spelled out her name, one careful syllable at a time.

“Phi—li—a!”

His stomach felt like a hollow drum. “Then, Philia, could you treat me to something to eat?”

She nodded hard. “O-okay! Th-then, c-come to my house?”

Philia tipped her chin up, hope rising like a clear flame. The purity of that gaze made him ache, then smile. “Okay.”

“Th-then f-follow me~”

With his yes, twin red suns seemed to burst in her eyes. She whirled, light as a finch, and hopped down the path.

He followed, smile tucked at his mouth. He didn’t need to see her face to know her lips arched into a wide, sweet crescent.

What has Philia lived through?

Call her “friend,” agree to visit her home, and she glows as if handed the rarest treasure in the World.

If she’s under a storm of misfortune, how can she laugh so bright, so clean, with no shadow in it?

As he’d told Little Ash about [Misfortune], Ye Weibai is sharp. He reads truth in the seams—between fidgets and smiles, beneath the masks people learn to wear. And right now, he sees no storm. Philia is living simple, sunny days, free of gloom.

A girl like that… how do you draw out despairing, genuine tears?

He won’t smash her happiness to pieces. He won’t kill her parents, won’t play the brute. That’s a blunt club dressed up as “strategy,” the kind that only summons [Misfortune]. Tears might fall, but they’d be hollow—no truth in them.

That is not Ye Weibai’s way.

This thought pressed on his chest like low cloud. His steps slowed.

Ahead, the girl had nearly skipped clear of the trees. She stopped, glanced back through the green, and called, bright as a bird, “H-hurry u-up—”

She paused, gathered courage, and sang out, “—Li-l-little W-white! H-hurry~!”

Her soft, sticky-sweet voice pulled him up and forward. She stood right where sun met shade, a bright seam across the ground. Red hair streamed in the wind like silk banners. Her white dress swayed, and a pale calf shone with tender light, painted green by grass.

“Not now.”

He shook his head, set the worry aside. He needed more threads. First, learn what kind of World this is.

Decision made, he quickened, came up beside her, and grumbled, “It’s Little White, but not that little.”

She puffed her cheeks like a steamed bun. “I-I-I kn-know! I-I’m n-not d-do—”

“I know you don’t mean it.” He laughed, pressed a hand to her head, and tousled with intent. “But—don’t think stuttering gives you privileges.”

She swayed under his hand until the world wobbled. When her balance returned, she looked up without a speck of sulk. Her eyes were brighter than before, sweet as honey that melts straight into the heart.

“What? Want a fight?”

“Li-li-li-li-li-little White!” she chirped.

“Hey, don’t take me for a fool. That one was on purpose.”

She dodged his hand with a giggle, dashed ahead, and scattered silver-bell laughter on the path.

Only she knew why joy rose so high.

After “that incident,” people had always treated her “special.” Hearing “don’t expect privileges,” said like a tease and not a cage, warmed her more than any gift.

...

Xibei Village—that’s the name of this small, far-flung place.

It sits far from the central town, tucked in a quiet fold of land. Fields ripple around it like green seas. Forest hems it with deep shade.

The village is modest, a few dozen households. Life moves slow and content. They grow what they eat. Only on big festival days do carts rattle down the bumpy lane between fields, splash through streams, and head to town for goods.

The Xibei River is its lifeline. The village takes the river’s name and stretches along its course, slender as a willow branch, trailing beside water with gentle grace.

From any angle, it’s calm and ordinary.

With Philia leading, Ye Weibai stepped from the thick forest into early spring wind. They followed a clear tributary, a small brook with pebbles like fish eyes under the glass. They crossed wide green fields. They passed a tall archway carved with the words “Xibei Village,” and entered the village proper.

And in this ordinary place, among ordinary faces, he felt something… off.