Her ponytail came loose, breath ragged, at that crucial heartbeat.

Zhaomingming slipped into memory, like a stone dropping into deep water.

It was the first time, a first cut in the timeline.

A day in summer, same as any other, sun heavy as gold.

Some day in the past, inside that endless summer, heat wavering like mirage.

Drawn by a secret call, Zhaomingming drifted to the senior building’s rooftop, like a moth to a bare sky.

The sky was flawless; the sun hung like a white-hot coin. She lingered, shaken out of herself. Then her pupils tightened. In the searing, transparent light, she saw herself—another Zhaomingming.

That was the first time she knew she was Zhaomingming—and not only Zhaomingming—like a mirror revealing a second face.

It was also her first death. No—the other Zhaomingmings didn’t call it death. They called it “updating the [Save].”

The [Save] was her—countless Zhaomingmings, stacked like pages.

She—the one who called herself No. 9679 from a future time node—said, “We are the [Save], storing this [World]’s infinite possibilities.”

Zhaomingming didn’t doubt. She believed at once, like rain soaking dry earth. As No. 9679 spoke, a stream of data rose in her mind. It felt etched there since her making, burned into every nerve—her identity and task.

She was Zhaomingming and the [Save] of this world, recording what was and what had been. Her task was simple: keep the world’s course on its set path.

The preset path meant this: make sure Yexiaobai and Mu Xiaowei reach the scripted ending.

Sounds like a dating sim? Maybe. But she wasn’t the player—only a shadow at the console.

She couldn’t pick dialogue, couldn’t choose scenes, couldn’t raise anyone’s affection, no matter how the wind changed.

She was only the [Save]. Her one function was to be [Replaced]—replaced by a new Zhaomingming.

Replacement—put bluntly—meant being [Killed], like a candle pinched out.

When the [World] trembled and the worldline wavered, the story blurred from clear to mist. The ending flickered in fog. Then the future Zhaomingming would appear.

That meant this iteration wasn’t enough, like a compass gone erratic.

If she failed, she’d be killed, trash kicked back into its bin.

When the old Zhaomingming died by the new one’s hand, the wrong track shattered like thin ice. Time snapped back to the fatal node. The [World] realigned.

The new her inherited the old her’s memory. She became her, and lived on in this [World], a river carrying the same name.

“Live… on, huh.” Her voice shook like a loose string.

She remembered her first killing by her future self. She fell here, clawing the concrete. Her nails scraped; blood spread like dark petals, then cooled with her body.

She died many more times. After that, she stopped struggling, like a fish stilled in a net.

Because the settings were fixed. Once an [Error] was confirmed, the new her killed her. With rules like iron, struggling was useless.

But still—though she said that—

“But still…”

Zhaomingming murmured, breath like frost.

“It still hurts. Suffocation, falling, a ruptured heart, bleeding out… whatever the way, death hurts.”

Her pupils drifted, like smoke across water. “And the worst is—dead. Dead means nothing left. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. If no one remembered me, if each me was me, then update me a thousand times—still me. But now—”

Her pupils, moonlight shattered into ripples on a lake, gathered into a full moon as she spoke. “It’s different. Even if the [World] resets and time rewinds, my trace isn’t erased. Xiaobai—still remembers me, even if only in part.”

“So the me that gets updated isn’t me anymore. In this state, 9679 and 0493 aren’t the same. Even if all memory and settings pass on, I only seem to live. It’s different—so different—like twin stars with different names.”

Light flared in her eyes, then fractured to haze. Tears rolled, clear as glass. She clutched her chest. Pain crept across her face.

“When I think of being killed by some future self, replaced by a string like 0763 or 3840, it hurts. It’s ten thousand times worse than the instant before the fall—the worst death.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathed, the words falling like ash.

“I—I want to live. I want to live as No. 07498, not as any other number.”

“So, I’m sorry—” her voice drifted like a torn leaf.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to die.” Her plea quivered like a reed in wind.

“Please—please die for me, No. 0844.” The request was a blade wrapped in paper.

No. 07498 Zhaomingming said it and shoved hard, like a storm gust.

The other her, disbelief still bright in her eyes, went over. Her uniform sleeves flared. Her body dropped like a watermelon, toward the ground below the seventh floor.

A dull thud rose, like a drum struck in a hollow chest.

—The [World] broke, like a mirror dropped.

...

...

“Lin,” she called, the sound a soft bell.

In the afternoon classroom, two girls sat facing each other, sunlight pooling like warm syrup.

“What’s up?” Ruan Lin answered, distracted, her head on her arm like a folded wing.

“You look tired,” Xia Chan said, worry like a thin veil. “Didn’t sleep well?”

“Eh. Lots of reasons,” the girl muttered. “Last night, mid-game, a [Save] died during replacement. I worked all night, couldn’t fix it, finally gave up.”

“Wow… that’s rough.” Xia Chan reached out and smoothed Lin’s flipped bangs, fingers like a feather. She didn’t get Lin’s games, so she just comforted her.

“That’s the easy part! The real reason I didn’t sleep—another episode of that serial dream!” Ruan Lin shot upright, teeth set. “That red-haired, red-eyed woman—so infuriating.”

“A serial dream,” Xia Chan sighed, a wry smile like a bent reed. Lin had told her about it—she became a golden-haired, golden-eyed knight. She climbed a towering snow mountain toward the black dragon at its peak.

“Lin, maybe you’re playing too many games.”

“Chan, you don’t get it. That woman named Philia talks awful. She’s sharp-tongued and totally unreasonable.”

Ruan Lin fumed. “She said stuff like, ‘With that, you’ll never save Xiaobai.’ Who even is Xiaobai? Why can’t I save them?”

She kept bristling. “Then she says, ‘Even Aerin is better than you.’ Who even is Aerin! Does she know me? She just denies me like that. It—makes me furious!”

“Lin, are you getting mad at your own dream?”

Xia Chan fell speechless. Lin was all fluffed up, like a cat with its tail stepped on. She laughed—then her smile faltered. A distant, hazy image flashed through her mind.

“Xiaobai…”

That name felt so familiar, like a bell rung long ago.

...

...