It was an incredibly long dream…
I dreamed I sat in the corner of a classroom, watching our homeroom teacher deliver a passionate lecture from the podium.
I couldn’t quite catch his words—the voice felt distant and faint (though even if it weren’t, I still wouldn’t have understood).
Startled, I stood up and realized I was still wearing that tattered wetsuit.
Classmates around me seemed utterly unaware of my presence. Even when I stepped into the center of the room, no one glanced my way.
I stood frozen, staring at faces both familiar and strange, a deep unease tightening my chest.
…
Then I noticed someone new sitting in *my* seat—a girl bent over a notebook, long hair shielding her profile.
Without thinking, I walked closer to peek. The moment I reached her side, she jerked her head up—
Her face wrapped in yellowed, torn bandages. Hollow eye sockets. Sharp fangs glinting faintly.
I screamed and stumbled back two steps.
The hell? Wasn’t this the “goddess” from the Dragon-Taming Undercrypt? What was she doing here…?
My eyes snapped to her notebook: two bold characters stood out—“WILL.”
Panic surged. The classroom shifted. The teacher fell silent. Every pair of eyes locked onto me.
All faces ghastly pale, twisted into eerie, sinister smiles…
Suddenly, the “goddess” seized my hand. Brute force yanked me close. Her fang-filled mouth opened wide—and sank into my neck.
…Then I woke.
Cold sweat drenched me. Gasping, I stared into the pitch-black room. *Just a dream.*
Too vivid. Sleep vanished. Then—a savory aroma drifted through the air. Someone was having hot pot.
Starving, I threw off the blanket. A sharp ache shot through my body, forcing me back onto the bed. Memories surfaced…
*This is Wei Qiuying’s place…*
…
After a long struggle, I groped my way to the door and pulled it open.
Light and the irresistible scent of hot pot flooded in—piercing my soul like Jiang Ziya’s legendary straight hook.
*So damn good.*
…
A black-haired girl watched me cautiously, wide-eyed.
She wore a thin Pikachu-patterned summer pajama top, wrapped in a red blanket. Shivering by the open window, she sat curled on the sofa, hugging her knees.
Steam rose from the electric hot pot on the table, surrounded by neatly arranged ingredients.
…
“Are you Wei Qiuying?” I asked tentatively.
“Wei *what* Qiuying? *You’re* Wei Qiuying! Ugh—just come eat if you’re hungry!”
She looked fierce, yet oddly cute. She dipped her chopsticks and began adding food to the pot.
I painfully shuffled beside her. Only then did I notice my fluffy winter pajamas.
…
“Yan Heiming. Call me Sister Ming.”
She clicked the TV on with the remote.
Up close, her bare face stunned me—flawless, with a hint of mixed heritage.
“Hm? Never had hot pot? Need me to feed you?” She frowned at my staring.
I snapped back, grabbed my bowl, and shoveled in scalding meatballs—blew twice, swallowed whole.
We ate in silence. Yan Heiming was starving too; she kept burning her tongue and sticking it out.
…
Later, I leaned back on the sofa, patting my full belly. A satisfied burp escaped.
Yan Heiming, already finished, scribbled in a small blue notebook.
Curious, I peeked: *Wei Shenji, one hot pot meal, 1000 yuan. To be repaid.*
*So she’s keeping tabs.*
I turned back to the TV, pretending not to see. She muttered calculations under her breath—I didn’t listen.
…
During dinner, I’d noticed: the Whispering Maiden’s bite on my arm and the cut on my calf were neatly bandaged. Fresh gauze. Stinging clean—disinfected, stitched.
…
Yan Heiming stood, closed the window, and handed me a torn handwritten bill.
“Medical fees, lodging, rabies vaccine—all included. You know the drill.”
I glanced down. Saw the circled six-digit number. Didn’t bother counting further.
I tucked the bill away, grinned through gritted teeth. She took a breath, jerked her chin toward the messy table, and grinned back—equally strained.
…
After clearing the table, my back felt ready to snap.
“Your stamina’s trash. Are you *really* Wei Chuanyi’s son?”
She lounged on the sofa, legs crossed, sipping tea with clear disdain.
I plopped beside her, stretching stiffly.
“Yep, yep. How could I compare to Miss Yan? Hot pot chef, homeowner, gorgeous, tomb-raider… such perfection.”
I said it with sarcastic bite.
Yan Heiming snorted. “Why so passive-aggressive? What the hell, are you some two-faced snarker? …Though you’re not wrong.”
I ran a hand through my hair, too tired to banter.
“Anyway… thanks. For saving my life.”
I murmured it softly. Without her, I’d be reunited with my ancestors by now.
“Tch. Just doing Sister Yanzi’s job. If you died, my commission vanished.”
Classic tsundere. I smiled helplessly, unsure how to reply.
“Oh—tomorrow I’ll take you home. Someone’ll escort you to safety.”
She’d just remembered, casually switching the TV channel.
“So tonight… anything you want to know? Ask.”
She let out a strange chuckle.
“I’ll tell you everything.”
…
…
