Eyes shut, Zhaomingming lowered mind and body to frost-point, like winter sealing a pond. If her inborn self-check stamped her “Fail,” the conveyor would dump her into the recycling pit.

She—Unit 07498 Zhaomingming—wanted to live, wanted to keep living, like a stubborn ember under snow.

Fear pressed first; action followed. She sank into ink-black dark. Something unknown watched her—no, not peeking, but a brazen stare, close as breath.

It was only the second time since birth she’d felt a torch-hot gaze pin her. Where did it come from?

A guessed face drifted up, like a mirage on ripples. She wiped it away. That gaze, gentle as breath, suddenly rose—mountains stacking, a tree spearing cloud and sky—turning cold, remote, star-high.

Someone looked down at her from the vast sea of stars.

“—Is this the [World]?”

Unit 07498 asked herself in silence and answered like a stone sinking.

“It is. Who but the [World] carries a feeling like this?”

Dread surged; then weight followed. The [World]’s stare grew solid, pressing her back like slate. She’d shuttered every sense, yet that fragile hush snapped, and breath rasped like wind through reeds.

She sat on a trash-can lid, folded so low her forehead grazed her knees, like a bird hiding its beak. A mountain seemed to squat on her spine. Cold sweat glazed her skin; drops slid down her cheeks and fell, big and bright, onto the pleats of her school skirt. Her fringe hung wet, a curtain that hid eyes tightened by pain.

Cornered, Unit 07498 felt the thorn again, a thought pricking up.

“Why me?”

Once it sprouted, more shot up—like first weeds breaking soil, spring wind whipping them into a tangle.

“Why am I the one to face this?”

“Why am I the unlucky one?”

“Why do these threads of [Misfortune] knot around me?”

“Why—me. I—what am I—”

The muddle blew clear, not gone, but gathered into one strike. A question split her mind like lightning.

“What am I?”

Eyes clamped shut, in cave-dark, she asked herself.

Then—whoosh—the wind spoke.

At first there was only sound, a thin wire humming in the night.

A crushed beer can bounced on red brick—clink, clatter—mixed with a drunk man’s heavy huffing.

To dodge the pain and racket inside, Zhaomingming tuned herself to those sounds, like following a brook through brush.

Then light and shadow arrived.

A blade of glare sliced the dark and skimmed past her eyes—the can’s slick skin flinging the flicker of a streetlamp straight into her pupils.

The light cut only for a heartbeat. After it came shadow, dense with alcohol, creeping closer like spilled ink.

“Who?”

Panic surged first; then she fought to act. Her lids wouldn’t part, glued shut. Her body felt bound in invisible silk, layer on layer, and she couldn’t move.

But in the scramble, imagination took the reins, and she “saw”:

A drunk, defeated middle-aged man—who knows from home discord or a job gone wrong—wandering the street like a stray dog in rain. He’d spent this night in a bar and now, by chance, drifted past this corner, bracing against the wall and gasping.

He turned his eyes—and saw her.

A high school girl out too late, alone under the streetlamp.

He froze, swept the empty road, then stared into an inner alley with no cameras, moonlight pooling like cold water. A thought rose, hot as a match, and it lit his breathing.

The breath that had been dying flared, harsh and hot, like a furnace catching. Dragging heavy steps, he walked toward her.

Heat shone oddly on his face, yet his feet wavered. Only five meters lay between them; a few steps would do.

The bright moon hung like a silver coin, and his shadow stretched, inch by inch, over Zhaomingming.

…

…

Ye Weibai had been staring at her all along, his gaze steady as a still lake.

It wasn’t the first time he’d watched her, but it was the first time a strange déjà vu stirred—looking at Zhaomingming, Ye Weibai felt he’d met this girl somewhere.

Was it because he’d “encountered” countless versions of her across countless mirror-lens [World]s? Or had he unconsciously slipped into Yexiaobai’s role?

To his surprise, Zhaomingming felt familiar, like a neighbor’s lantern seen every night.

He drew a long breath and scraped off the odd warmth, like frost on glass.

He focused on the question he’d raised: What, exactly, is Zhaomingming?

Then he saw it—the scene she imagined overlapped with the real [World], light and shadow dovetailing like two panes sliding into place.

“What is that?” Lina’s voice cracked in astonishment. “Coincidence?”

Why had a drunk man appeared right now, kicking a can through this frame? Ye Weibai had only piped in sound from another lens-[World]—sound alone, no images, no light.

So where did this flickering can and that middle-aged, broken man closing in on Zhaomingming come from?

Remembering Ye Weibai’s words, Lina caught on in a flash.

“Is this her fantasy-made?”

Ye Weibai nodded, small and firm, like a pebble dropping.

“More exact, it’s association-made—sound birthing images.”

“Demon King. Is this the [Protagonist] effect you spoke of—will made into reality?”

“It is… in principle.” Seeing exactly what he’d hoped to see, Ye Weibai’s eyes went briefly blank, but he kept reasoning. “Lina—once a [Deity] of a [World], you know this. If this [World] truly holds a [Protagonist], what would she be like? In most tales, the protagonist is child of fortune, liked by all, or— the [World] orbits her and shifts for her. As just now: imagination alone can trigger a [Creation]-like miracle. But—”

“Hmph. You’re right. As a [Deity], I can answer yes.” Lina snorted. “But—what’s your ‘but’?”

For certain reasons, Ye Weibai didn’t speak plain. He was indeed testing for a [Protagonist]’s presence. It was his first try, and he’d expected it might be a wash. Yet the setup now—his words turning omen the moment spoken—felt too sharp.

Words-made-omen. The phrase pricked him, but he had no time to mull.

“What ‘but’ do you need! If she’s a [Protagonist], then go to your next step, Demon King.” Lina straightened with remembered pride, cutting him off, voice edged with mockery. “Demon King, you schemed hard to build this scene. And then?”

“Then, we wait.” Ye Weibai pulled his thoughts back like a kite string.

“Wait for the next chance. If this blood keeps pouring, I’ll actually die.” His black clothes were soaked red, his face paper-pale. Thankfully, once he let go of the shard, the wound began to knit under the residue of the Demon King’s power.

“Who cares.” Lina had no intention of pity; she only laughed louder, sharp as metal. “Sounds like you don’t have a next step at all.”

“Honestly, I don’t.” He said it clean.

“Lina, you’ve seen it already. I’m running trial and error—on the mirror-[World]’s data to sift true from false, and on how to interfere. In the end, we’re not true insiders. Even with perfect intel, if we can’t interfere in the mirror-[World], it’s useless.”

“Interfere—and then what?” Given rare candor from the Demon King, Lina paused, then kept the barb.

“I don’t know.” He ignored her tone; his gaze turned grave. “For now we default to this: by interfering in the mirror-[World], we can break the current bind—like the [World]s I’ve walked before. Break a setup, unpick a riddle, uncover a [Misfortune], receive a girl’s sincere and desperate tears—and the task completes.”

Ye Weibai held that default—without proof, because he had nothing else.

While speaking, he looked back into the mirror-[World].

A [Misfortune] was unfolding.

Shadow swallowed the girl whole, like night tide overrunning shore.