After stepping out of the car, Secretary Long proactively added Lu Li on WeChat. “Message me if anything comes up,” he said. Lu Li, just a high school student, couldn’t imagine what kind of trouble he’d ever face. What exactly did “anything” mean?
Home at last, he replied to his sister’s message. No immediate reply—she was likely deep in practice. How was Sis Yameng holding up? He unzipped the laptop bag and pulled out the brand-new device. Obviously bought by Chu Xiaodong. Yet a tiny bear sticker adorned the casing. Had Chu Jingyi picked this out and sent it through him?
Thorough as ever, Chu Xiaodong included a slim film keyboard and a plain mouse. The laptop felt premium—flawless craftsmanship. The logo was nearly invisible, beside it faint text: “Official order. Custom-made.” Though a notebook, its specs crushed most desktops. More than enough for gaming. He installed essentials, launched the game engine. Zero lag. Perfect. Ideal for indie development.
Still, Chu Xiaodong’s request weighed on him. He knew too well how many kids in this low-rent district shared his struggle. If he could help—even without being asked—he would. He drafted a list. Many had dropped out to work; some vanished entirely, rumored trafficked.
His pen felt heavy. Mood somber. The world always strikes the heart’s softest spots in forgotten corners. He thought of the class monitor’s cramped home, those missing children. Long silence. Could anyone truly say that family deserved to be strung up? Maybe not. The world was too tangled. Lu Li stopped thinking.
He opened the browser, searched the Six Provinces League, and voted—with practiced ease—for Sis Yameng. Zou Yameng’s popularity stemmed not from skill but beauty. Public favor flowed freely.
Scrolling further, today’s field report appeared.
Reporter: “Hello! Thoughts on the competition?”
Unknown Player: “What thoughts? I watch with my eyes.”
Reporter: (chuckles) “How confident are you?”
Unknown Player: “I’m cannon fodder. Go interview He Ping.”
Lu Li couldn’t help but smile. Refreshingly blunt.
Reporter: “Miss He Ping, a moment?”
He Ping: “…”
Reporter: “Confidence level?”
He Ping: “Ten out of ten.”
Reporter: (covers mouth) “So sure?”
He Ping: “Not confidence. They’re just weak.”
Reporter: “Some call you the Divine Realm’s next Pan Xiaochun?” (Pan Xiaochun: national table tennis icon, globally dominant.)
He Ping: “I’ll surpass her.”
Reporter: (covers mouth again) “No wonder you’re trending. What about Zou Yameng? Her popularity rivals yours.”
Lu Li tensed. In his past life, Sis Yameng fell to He Ping right here. Could rebirth rewrite that outcome?
He Ping: “Zou Yameng’s mindset is flawed. Not my opponent.”
Lu Li’s fists clenched. How could she speak so calmly while belittling *his* Sis Yameng?
Reporter: “If you faced her, win ratio?”
He Ping: “Ten for me. Zero for her.”
Lu Li’s brow furrowed. Had rebirth changed nothing? Was another crushing defeat inevitable?
What could he do? He couldn’t bear seeing her shattered again. Was *that* loss the seed of her later despair? Powerless. All he could do was clench his fists before a screen.
He hated this weakness—not just in body, but in wealth, status, power. He refused to accept it. Yet he was still just a student. What *could* he do?
Beep beep beep.
Sis Yameng replied.
[Sis Yameng: Sorry, training this afternoon…]
No emojis. Mood low. He typed: *“Sis, have you faced He Ping?”* Deleted it. Sent instead:
[Lu Li: Sis, I miss you.]
A happy smiley popped back.
[Sis Yameng: Hehe #LOL How much?]
[Lu Li: As much as you miss me.]
Three laughing GIFs flooded in—she was clearly cheered.
[Sis Yameng: #smirk But I don’t miss you. Not one bit.]
[Lu Li: I’m the exact opposite.]
[Sis Yameng: Hehe, good boy. Gift waiting when I’m back~]
Lu Li exhaled. Relief. At least He Ping hadn’t shaken her. He feared her stubborn nature would shatter after a loss.
[Lu Li: When are you back?]
[Sis Yameng: After the tournament. Top eight, at least~]
[Lu Li: When’s your match?]
Silence. He knew she hesitated—no confidence, yet unwilling for him to watch. A loss would leave her too ashamed to face him.
[Zou Yameng: Focus on studies. Don’t worry about me.]
*Same words as last life.* He’d believed them then. She returned, locked herself in her room, weeping in sleep: *“Don’t want to lose…”* Sis Yameng craved speed, strength, height—being *better*. That defeat carved deep.
Never call suffering a blessing. No pain is deserved.
They’d endured enough coldness. Detachment wasn’t cynicism—it was helplessness. He could dream of *Starry Night*, of *Sunflowers* after death… but never claim dignity while alive.
Only then did he see: his sister wasn’t a hero. She had fears, tears, fragility. She was just a girl. She should’ve strolled flower fields with Chuanhai No.1 High School girls, chatting cosmetics, sipping sweet drinks, basking in admiration.
[Lu Li: Okay. Come home soon. I’ll wait.]
He closed the phone, stared at the dark screen. Then shut the laptop, killed the hotspot, and searched trains to Lingyue City.
A fire ignited in his chest—a wild, swelling need: *Go to Lingyue. Go to her.* Even if he could do nothing, he’d stand beside her in the valley. To cry together, laugh together—that was treasure.
Reason vanished. He let emotion gallop free across passion’s plain.
Earliest train: tomorrow, 8 a.m. 27 hours. Standing ticket. 223 yuan.
Green train standing tickets were brutal. Last life, startup days: clutching luggage in the corridor, dodging pickpockets, shoved by crowds. Sweat, urine, curses, wailing kids—a waking nightmare.
But what was that against seeing her sooner?
Then the screen flashed: *“Complete real-name verification.”*
His ID wasn’t standard—just a policy-issued student hukou, valid only through high school. No ticket possible. He tapped customer service. Robotic voice. Chose live support.
A distorted ringtone blared. *Who still uses this?*
“Service busy. Call back later.”
He quit. Trusting this was self-torture.
His eyes landed on the new WeChat contact. Needed already?
No “Are you there?” He typed straight:
“Uncle Long, I need a train ticket to Lingyue City!”
Only two types ask “Are you there?”—borrowers, and ghosts. He was neither.
Secretary Long replied instantly: “Is it urgent?”
“Something I *must* do!!!” Three exclamation marks. He drafted a plea—no right to demand help, only to try.
Before sending, another message arrived:
“Earliest is a flight tomorrow at 8 a.m. Acceptable?”
His mind went blank. Words failed. He deleted the draft. Typed one word:
“Thank you.”
Chu Jingyi. I owe you.
