Have you ever wondered.

If your consciousness could touch the real World, would a thought need to dive into the soul’s abyss, or must you lay your dearest treasure on the altar?

Imagine this: you hate school, burrow under a quilt like a sleepy hedgehog, pray for a typhoon. You roll over, glance outside—blue sky snaps to lightning and howl.

A ding follows, a text like a gull cutting wind: sudden typhoon, classes canceled.

That’d be farcical, a paper kite steering a storm.

You don’t know how your stolen nap ripples out. Umbrellas flip, shifts are missed, satchels vanish, knees find mud. And sometimes—homes splinter, families scatter.

Fate is a loom; threads snarl and snag.

But sometimes, it’s just like that.

You never guess what the Deities of the World are brooding over.

Maybe it’s not suffering. Maybe it’s play.

No vows. No obsessions. No blood, flesh, or soul on an altar. Pure fantasy could tilt the World.

“And the price—the price is paid after you change the World.”

…

…

Yexiaobai felt himself fall into a kaleidoscopic dream.

In it, he wasn’t a senior about to graduate. The anvils of classwork were gone. It was the scene he’d pictured a thousand times, three months out from the final exam.

Skip prep. Skip those three grueling days. Dive straight into summer, straight into being a college kid. What a breeze.

Better yet—Yexiaobai once let a greedy wish unfurl—better yet, get into a solid, key university. That would be perfect.

Outrageous? Sure. But fantasies can be overripe and still sweet, he told himself.

Which university?

Say… Qingya University, in Qinghai City? Then he could stay with Yuhan—stay near her, stay friends. Even in a dream, his cheeks warmed; he left the secret name unsaid.

Deity had spirit; in the dream it heard and nodded. He became a university student. He had a cute jiejie who seemed to be his little sister. He was surrounded by several young girls who adored him.

Closest of all was an elementary schooler named Ruan Lin. Heaven help him. By the Deity above, Yexiaobai was no lolicon. No shade for those folks—he just didn’t like lolis. Simple as that.

Strangest of all, his name had shifted to “Ye Weibai.” Odd, like a mistyped star. Who had written it?

Still, the dream-life felt good. College days floated light, like leaves on a mild stream.

Until a gray-haired, gray-eyed, short-haired little girl descended.

Nightfall. Riverbank. Lamps wavering. Breeze stroking water.

Her short hair lifted; her twin eyes glimmered. She called softly—

“Xiaobai! Hey! Xiaobai! Yexiaobai! Teacher Xu’s here, she—”

Bang!

An English book, rolled into a cudgel, thumped his occiput. Thunder cracked at his ear. He jolted upright like a fish from a net.

The dream World shattered. Vision flipped. Nightfell back; light surged. No cute gray-haired loli in sight—only an English teacher in her early thirties, kept like a campus rose.

Dream shards and reality overlapped; half his soul still lagged in the fog.

Blankness swelled first. Then he turned, eyes skimming the room.

Westering sun glared gold. The fan croaked and swung. Heat pressed like a steamer. Chalk dust danced in light spears. Familiar-yet-strange faces smirked.

In a flash, Yexiaobai knew: he was back. Back to senior year. Back to the last three months of prep, tight as drumskin.

He also knew: he was dead meat.

“Awake?”

Teacher Xu’s fine features smiled, the corner of her eye twitching like a bowstring.

“Awake.” Knowing her temper, Yexiaobai shivered first, then answered straight.

“Awake, then straighten that head!” Her face flipped like a storm front. She barked, “Three months left! Slacking already!? After class—my office!”

“Okay.” Faced with the evil empire, Yexiaobai bowed his neck.

High heels tapped; Teacher Xu returned to the podium.

“Today’s grammar points, as I just—”

Class rolled on. Pages whispered, noses near paper, pens rasped like cicadas.

He was awake, posture prim, the model student. Yet inside, he drifted in dream fog. Eyes fixed on board and teacher, but the hollow ache rose like tide, close to spilling.

Why? What was he disappointed by?

And that gray-haired, gray-eyed girl… who was she?

What had she been trying to say?

She—

Pain.

Third vertebra down his spine, a sharp grain of fire.

A light, teasing voice chimed.

“Lucky you, Xiaobai.”

Left ear—warm breath brushed his skin. Lips near his ear, a whisper soaked in citrus shampoo. The scent was clean, river-bright.

He was used to it. He stared forward, a stone in a stream. He didn’t want to encourage the girl behind him. Her overfamiliar tricks sparked neither blush nor sprinting pulse.

It wasn’t that she was plain. Honestly, the girl—Mu Xiaowei—wore shoulder-length short hair, and moved like a sparrow-boy, bold and breezy. So lively you’d doubt the birth chart.

But deny it? No. With those clear, glass-deep eyes—if she tidied herself and stilled her fire—she’d be striking. Yexiaobai had glimpsed a hidden side; he could swear to it.

As for their bond—names alike, hearts aligned. He couldn’t dislike Mu Xiaowei. Quite the opposite: they were good friends.

So good that, on a night of high wind and low moon, with both sets of parents away, they’d leap onto one bed, share one blanket—play video games till dawn birds sang.

He also knew her nature. Start a chat, and she’d run the sky-road. Not alone—she’d drag you along, feet off ground, class off rails. He didn’t want Teacher Xu catching him again.

He shuddered, remembering punishment on the track—cosplaying Han Meimei, reciting the textbook in shame. It had been brutal.

So the best tactic with an over-lively sparrow?

Don’t feed it.

Yexiaobai played deaf and mute.

“Tsk. Boring.” As expected, Mu Xiaowei blinked bright eyes, let disappointment flicker, then her face lit again. She leaned closer; hair brushed his neck like grass.

In a mock-sultry tone, she murmured, “Xiaobai. I saw it in the bathroom—Teacher Xu’s underwear today is black lace.”

“Pfft—!”