“Ah—! … It’s that ending again!!!”
“Lin! Keep it down! It’s ten o’clock at night!”
“Ah… okay.”
The long‑haired girl clapped a hand over her mouth, nerves fluttering like moths. She slid a side‑glance at the shut door, a slab of stone in the hallway. Seeing no turn of the knob, relief ebbed like a tide, and she dropped her hand, baring a teeth‑gritted scowl before cutting her gaze back to the glowing screen.
On the monitor, pink petals whirled like spring snow, a heart‑stirring end scene. But that sugar‑sweet tableau already felt cloying to Ruan Lin, nausea rolling like a wave.
No matter how she bent the game’s flow, chasing threads like fireflies to unlock side routes, the finale always snapped back like a bent reed. It jumped to one fixed end—Yexiaobai and Mu Xiaowei drifting apart like two boats on a widening river, then, after graduation, each finding another half, and never crossing paths again.
“Ugh… so unsatisfying. What does it take to change this damn ending?”
She kicked off her slippers, two white little moons of bare feet flashing. Planting a heel against the table leg, she let the chair slide and spin like a lazy current, then bounced and flopped onto the bed like a cat falling into sunlight.
Fresh from the shower, her long hair fanned out like seaweed in clear water. Alone, Ruan Lin never bothered with image; her pajama cuffs rode up like rolled waves, exposing skin still rosy from hot water.
Purring into the soft mattress like a content kitten, she lazed a while, then paddled across the bed like a dog in a pool. From the corner, her fingers hooked a tiny, furry white “paw.” She yanked its owner from under the pillow—a small dog Doll, white and plush, a snowball in her hands.
She rolled onto her back, lifted the Doll high, and stared at it like facing a sworn enemy. After a beat, her voice came out in a sighing breeze. “Hey, Xiaobai, how do we change the ending?”
She’d bought the pup with Xia Chan at a con, not tied to any specific anime. It had just sat in the corner, a white little dog, and the name “Xiaobai” fit it like dew on grass—so she bought it.
When Xia Chan asked why, Ruan Lin said exactly that, and Xia Chan could only blink, confusion a cloud over her face.
The Doll didn’t speak; it only met her gaze with innocent, glassy eyes, clear as a pond.
Ruan Lin muttered to herself, frustration pricking like thorns. “It shouldn’t be like this. I followed the walkthrough. According to that guru—two parallel lines, no matter how close, never truly touch, so you need ‘impurities’ to crack the plot’s still water and tilt the scale.”
Her arms aching, she rolled and hugged the Doll, pressing the dog’s head to her runway‑flat chest like a pillow of foam.
“I did follow the guru’s method and brought in a new character—Yuhan—then set Yexiaobai’s favor toward her sky‑high. I don’t know why it later turned into Suzhiaoyao, but the plot did shift like wind—triggering conflict between Yexiaobai and Mu Xiaowei.”
When she saw them clash, Ruan Lin was so moved she nearly cried, tears like warm rain. Not because she craved angst, but because breaking the fixed track had wrung her mind dry; even the last math problem felt easier than this knot. Fresh plot felt like a sunrise—she truly cried with joy.
Too bad the joy faded fast, like a rainbow after rain. As if an invisible hand moved behind the curtain, any deviation, no matter how wild, got corrected back onto the original rail.
The leads fought and then made up, but friendship stayed as friendship, the bottleneck to lovers like a glass ceiling.
So the ending remained a dose of poison.
“Damn it!”
She puffed like a little furnace and squeezed the Doll hard, as if it were Yexiaobai himself.
“You dense male lead! You can’t even confess on your own? Xiaowei’s so cute—how can you hand her to another guy? Some stray man from nowhere—what nonsense!”
“And Xiaowei too—since she’s aware of her true feelings, how can she settle for the calm surface?”
Just picturing that end—two childhood friends, two saplings grown together—failing to become lovers, their bond shattered like cracked ice. Not even nodding acquaintances; straight to strangers.
The more Ruan Lin thought, the hotter she burned, anger flaring like dry tinder. If not for midnight and a neighbor’s complaint looming like a storm, she’d have rolled on the bed like an evil dragon and let out a feral howl.
“Even hate‑born from love would be better—strangers, what even is that? Who can stomach that?”
Hair flying like dark banners, she sprang off the bed, dragged the chair, and dropped before the desk, eyes blazing.
“No way! I don’t buy it! I can fix you! A mere ga—”
Her voice cut off. She stared at the screen, her defiance cooling like embers and then crumbling to ash. Shock surged in her eyes like a spring flood.
“My—my saves? Why are they all gone—ahhhhh?!”
“Lin!!! Go to sleep, now!!!”
…
…
The black that had swallowed the screen faded like night thinning before dawn. Broken colors seeped back into sight, and the soundscape filled—crowd murmur like a river, car horns like geese calls.
“Lina, little Lina, can you hear me?”
“Ye Weibai, I’m behind you.”
In the tide of traffic, the black‑haired boy turned.
A fist‑sized purple flame floated behind him, silent as a moth, hovering in still air.
In a blink, déjà vu slammed in like a gale, blowing through long Time and many Worlds. Ye Weibai reeled, vision swimming, as if he “saw” the beginning again—why he was dragged into the Deities’ game, why he chased a girl’s despairing yet earnest tears, why he fell into today’s tightrope, why he was racing the Reaper for seconds.
That black Deity—the girl whose true form bore black hair, black eyes, and a black scythe, Xiaohei—was the starting spark for every bizarre story wound around Ye Weibai.
His heart shivered—if she was the start, could she also be the end?
He recalled the Deity’s words, the prize she sought in this game of gods—not death itself, but the despair and pain people wear when facing death, like dusk over water.
“What’s wrong?” came Lina’s voice from the purple flame, snapping his thoughts like a twig.
“Nothing.” Ye Weibai gave a bitter little smile, a shadow on his lips. “I just thought I saw another Deity.”
“Absurd.” Lina’s flame flickered. “Since I came in, I can only keep this form. They shouldn’t be able to see me.”
People glanced over now and then, but their eyes slid past the purple firefly, landing on Ye Weibai, a lone figure standing on the street like a dark pine.
He drew a deep breath, summer heat rushing into his lungs like wildfire, reigniting blood that had cooled in the white Void. He lifted his head and strode forward. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Lina drifted close, a violet lantern at his shoulder.
“Qingya Middle School.” Light flowed in his ink‑black eyes like river glint. “Let’s enter the Board.”
…
…
Qinghai University.
A café.
A long‑haired woman’s fingers stilled over the keyboard, tapping silence like rain paused.
“Xiaokong, what is it?”
Across the table, the short‑haired woman was a classic beauty, fair skin and fine features. Side by side, they cast different lights, and you’d never guess both were already past thirty, blossoms late and bright.
“Xiaoyuan, do you know the happiest thing in life?” Yexiaokong smiled, clarity like a spring.
Familiar with Yexiaokong’s nature, Fang Mengyuan teased, laughter a breeze. “Isn’t it the time with your brother?”
“Sure. But this—this is even happier, like joy doubled.”
Fang Mengyuan blinked, surprise rippling. “There’s something you, a full‑on bro‑con, enjoy more than your brother?”
“Of course. That is—” Yexiaokong’s lips curved, radiant as sun on water. “Meeting two brothers in one World.”
“Huh? I have no idea what you mean.” Fang shook her head, bemusement fogging. “But isn’t your brother’s big life event coming up? Aren’t you helping with the prep?”
Yexiaokong yawned, boredom drifting like smoke. “No. It’s happened so many times already; missing one won’t matter.”
“So many times—what, marriage? Then your brother’s committing bigamy.” Fang laughed, a tinkling chime. “Funny, your brother’s getting married, yet you’re still single.”
“I’m not single. I have my brother.”
“After he marries, you two can’t live together.”
“Then we’ll take it back to the origin.”
“Ha? Origin?” Fog deepened in Fang’s eyes.
The long‑haired woman tilted her head, hair flowing along her slender neck like a dark stream. She squinted and smiled. “Yes. Let everything return to the beginning. But this time—”
“This time?”
“This time, I want to visit my other brother.”
