Ding-ling, ding-ling, ding-ling—

A crisp landline chimes to life.

In a room white as fresh snow and empty as a winter field, a desk phone with its severed cord starts ringing.

No doubt about it—this is bad.

He stares at the black handset, ringing to itself like a crow on a branch. Faced with the uncanny, Ye Weibai smiles and murmurs:

“By novel logic, the lead dumped into a white room only meets the Goddess of Fate by answering. That’s how the plot starts. The line probably says, ‘Sorry, due to our oversight, you’re dead. But you can choose compensation.’”

“Then what—cross into another World? Reborn in the past? Leap into the future?”

“But… what if I choose not to accept? I don’t pick up. I refuse the plot. Then—what happens?”

He circles the phone, words trailing like incense, as if chatting with a watcher hidden in the walls.

“If I choose not to move, you—the so-called—Goddess of Fate—will—eh?”

Bzzzzzzzz—

You know this: when speed is high enough, running water turns sharper than a blade. It can kill. Steel wire needs no argument.

A waspish buzz detonates by his ear.

It’s like a thousand steel wires scything the room at insane speed.

Then the Void flares; red floods his sight, then drains away. His vision shatters for a heartbeat. A cold snap bites his body, like each joint has shifted by a hair. The feel is not new to Ye Weibai.

In the World of Philia, as a Monstrosity, he learned this the hard way—an Exorcist woman who killed with thread spun a flawless Cocoon and ended him cleanly.

If speed is high and edge is keen, even a neck cut by a long blade may live—if you stay still and keep the rim aligned perfectly.

In that moment, your body feels brittle as crystal, a glass doll that shatters at a touch.

“So that’s how it is.” Time seems to freeze. He holds still, watching the phone trill on, and breathes out a long sigh inside. “So—don’t answer, you die. The Goddess of Fate has quite a temper.”

Boom—

The next breath, his body explodes.

Papapapapa—

Red flesh, white bone chips, yellow brain-matter—like bullets, they howl outward, stamping the room with wet impact.

The pallid room goes crimson in a blink, except for the black desk phone, now silent.

Ye Weibai—was dead.

…

…

Attempt [2].

“Still—alive.”

White light swallows him a second time. Ye Weibai opens his eyes and speaks first.

The snow-pale room remains. The lonely table. The phone dark as ink.

Nothing has changed. Not a hair different from seconds ago.

The agony of being minced in an instant feels like a trick of sleep, a nightmare that lasted a heartbeat.

“But it isn’t. Is it?”

“If I’m right, this is a do-over.” He clenches his fists and counts under his breath. “Next comes the ring, right?”

As the words fall, the bell flares.

Just like memory: ding-ling, ding-ling, ding-ling. A classic ring, now so eerie it could bleed.

From eyes open to bell start, the span is… fifteen seconds.

He keeps the count from the second he woke. He marks the time in his head.

“Don’t answer, you die.” He steps up, face blank, and reaches out. “Then what if I do?”

He lifts the receiver to his cheek.

The handset feels like carved jade—cold seeping straight into the skin.

Click.

Anyone who’s answered knows this: the instant you press connect, even before a word, the line breathes into your ear. You know the call has bridged.

It’s the hum of current and the impatient rush of air from the other side pouring down the wire.

Ye Weibai hears it clearly.

“This sound…”

For a beat, he seems to catch something. His eyes narrow.

Before he can chase it, a voice arrives.

“Hello.”

A plain opening. No thunder of war. No creepy background music. None of those worn-out lines: “I’m a Deity,” “You’re already dead,” or “Congrats, you’ve won a cross-world lottery.” Just the everyday greeting—hello.

The voice belongs to a normal girl. Not ethereal. Not ice-cold. Just the soft, youthful, tender tone of a girl of eighteen.

Like the desk mate who says hi in your real life.

Ordinary. Plainly ordinary.

Truth is, real voices are unique yet rarely that branded. Trying to judge a person’s trope from voice alone—tsundere, queen, deviant? That’s a novel trick to sharpen character, not reality.

In the real world, people shift.

So here’s the question. When the other side says “hello,” what would an ordinary person say back?

Ye Weibai chooses—

“I’m not.”

He says it with a smile.

Bzz—

The hum snaps to life.

“I just died once—”

Bzz bzz bzz—

The sting grows, filling his ears. Ye Weibai acts deaf and keeps smiling.

“I don’t feel the least—”

Bzzzzzzzzzz—

Boom—

The voice cuts off.

What follows is a body shattered, drumming the walls with wet pops.

Ye Weibai—died again.

…

…

Attempt [3].

Click.

Ye Weibai connects the call. He props one hand on the table and lounges, the receiver at his lips, a smile at the corner.

He looks like he’s catching up with an old friend. At ease. Light as wind—not like he’s speaking to whatever has maybe killed him twice.

“Hello.”

As always, the other side greets first.

It’s that same ordinary girl’s voice. Neither warm nor cold.

“I’m not.”

His smile carries a hint of complaint. “Not to be rude—”

Bzz—

“Your temper’s a bit much.”

Bzz bzz—

“Couldn’t you let a guy finish before you—”

Bzzzzzzzz—

Cut.

Ye Weibai—died, again again.