At some point, society embraced a brutal truth—looks rule all.

It sounds unbelievable, even chilling. Yet in this appearance-obsessed world, it’s painfully accurate.

When strangers know nothing about you, your face becomes your first message.

Billboards and digital ads always feature stunning models.

Under public gaze, men flaunt sculpted abs and athletic curves; women reveal porcelain skin and springy legs, their suggestive angles teasing the eye.

Pleasing to watch, right?

People stare openly at these "perfect" displays.

No disgust arises—only buying urges, despite zero connection to the models.

That’s the power of looks.

And I? I wield that power.

No bragging: my near-flawless face could star in ads itself.

Since childhood, my mistakes earned forgiveness—even stumbling into the girls’ restroom while half-asleep required no explanation.

*"Gale Splendor must be in trouble."*

*"He seems distressed. Let’s help him."*

*"He carries burdens we can’t imagine!"*

Without a word from me, girls invented excuses. How thoughtful?

Not.

Pure lookism.

By this logic, I could waltz into the girls’ bathhouse unchallenged.

(Not that I’d ever do that. Just proving appearances warp judgment.)

Imagine an ugly guy tied up and dumped in that restroom—he’d face glares, maybe police custody and a free meal of *zhupafan*. Truth? No one would believe him. They’d sneer: *"Why didn’t you escape? You wanted in!"*

Same act, different faces—different outcomes. This world makes no sense.

So yes: handsome privilege. *Handsome-only privilege.*

Fairness? Equality? Empty words. Wolves survive only if lambs die. To gain one thing, you sacrifice another.

I know this deeply.

Which is why I’m certain about my next move.

Who rejects a pretty face?

…

"Are you an idiot?"

Her voice—soft as a pro voice actor’s—echoed in my ears. No time to appreciate it.

Before me stood a black-haired girl.

Silky strands fell straight to her waist. Uncovered skin gleamed like fine porcelain. Her lips, pale cherry-red, parted slightly under long lashes. Amber eyes held aristocratic grace.

"You dragged me out just to say that nonsense?"

Yao Star妍 gripped my uniform collar.

"N-nonsense?"

"We’ve never even spoken."

Like a fish hooked through the gills—I couldn’t move. I nodded weakly.

I knew her name, though. Just as my fame came from looks, hers came from beauty.

She released my collar, smiling gently. "Asking a stranger out on our first chat? I’ll call you ‘Hungry Guy’ from now on."

Casually branding people with nicknames.

This wasn’t the script!

"...So I’m rejected?"

Yao Star妍’s smile didn’t waver. "Why would I accept a stranger’s confession? Especially from someone so... *eager*."

She turned away, majestic to the end—a dazzling girl I couldn’t look away from.

Rejected.

Troublesome.

Head down, I walked home. This wasn’t in my plans. I’d simulated every scenario, prepared counters for all outcomes—but not this.

Impossible!

Where was handsome privilege?!

Passing a bookstore, I glanced at the bestseller display. Front and center sat *Beneath the Starry Sky: Final Volume*—a shoujo novel by "Feng Hua."

Same pronunciation as my name.

No coincidence. I wrote it. Student by day, shoujo novelist by night.

In middle school, I submitted youth fiction to publishers. My editor loved it.

One day in eighth grade, she suggested shoujo novels. *A guy writing girly stuff?* I thought. But I took the challenge.

Debut success.

First serialization: *Phantom Bubbles* in *Ruoshui* magazine. Then *Sparklers*. Now this solo release.

A legit shoujo author.

Smooth debut made me think I was a genius—unlike struggling writers. That illusion just shattered.

Truth is, I’m a guy. How would I know a girl’s heart?

This harsh reality proved research matters.

But…

"...Is understanding a girl in love really this hard?!"