Tonight’s dinner was lavish—steamed perch, sweet and sour pork ribs, beef stir-fried with radish, and a winter melon soup. Xue Ji and Ling Xiaoxiao ate happily, especially Xue Ji, her cheeks puffed up like a little hamster. Unconsciously, everyone’s gaze drifted toward her.
Feeling the weight of their stares, Xue Ji gradually slowed her chewing. Finally swallowing her bite, she looked up to see her parents and Ling Xiaoxiao all watching her with dreamy smiles, sending a shiver down her spine.
Xue Ji set down her chopsticks and asked softly, “Why is everyone staring at me?”
“It’s nothing, keep eating. Mom just thinks the way you eat is especially cute. By the way, did you tie those twin tails yourself?”
“A classmate did it while playing with my hair. Does it look weird?” Xue Ji tensed slightly, her voice uncertain.
“Not at all! It’s adorable, don’t you think? You look like a character straight out of an anime—even the way you eat is cute. I could watch you eat all day and forget about my own meal.” Xue Ji’s mother smiled blissfully, as if her heart was full just from watching.
Xue Ji’s father didn’t speak, but he nodded repeatedly in agreement. Unlike them, however, Ling Xiaoxiao’s smile carried a different kind of heat—something predatory, like a hunter admiring its prey. Noticing Xue Ji’s glance, she chuckled and said, “Truly a feast for the eyes.”
To Xue Ji’s parents, it was just a playful joke, and they laughed along. But to Xue Ji, it felt entirely different.
Remembering the “reward” she had promised Ling Xiaoxiao for tonight, Xue Ji couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of vulnerability. Even though they were both girls now, the intensity in Ling Xiaoxiao’s gaze made her imagine herself disheveled, flushed, and utterly ruined. She did not want to become “broken goods.” Shaking off the thought, she quickly averted her eyes.
No matter what, I was once a full-grown man! I can’t let myself get flustered like this. Who’s taking advantage of whom tonight is still up in the air!
Bolstered by this thought, Xue Ji looked back at Ling Xiaoxiao with renewed confidence—only to find her already focused on her meal, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. Realizing Ling Xiaoxiao had already mastered the art of the hit-and-run, Xue Ji started contemplating whether it was time to “cure” her of her internet addiction. The last thing she needed was for Ling Xiaoxiao to turn into some meme-spouting gremlin, tossing around words like “cringe,” “copium,” or “ratio” unironically.
“Can you all stop staring? I can’t eat like this,” Xue Ji finally complained, her brow furrowing under the weight of their attention.
“Ahem, right, let’s eat. You two should have more.” Xue Ji’s mother quickly changed the subject, placing a piece of rib into both Xue Ji and Ling Xiaoxiao’s bowls.
As dinner wound down, Xue Ji noticed her father hesitating, his expression conflicted. Recognizing his unease, she asked directly, “Dad, is there something you want to say?”
Her father exchanged a glance with her mother, who nodded encouragingly, before sighing. “Well, since you asked… we’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
“Xiao Ji, your awakening didn’t go as planned. How are you feeling now? Is your body alright?”
“Of course I’m fine. I feel great.”
“That’s good. Your mother and I were really worried. Don’t dwell on the awakening—even with the spiritual resurgence, ordinary life goes on. We just want you to live happily and safely.” Her father spoke carefully, each word measured, while her mother chimed in with reassurances—encouraging Xue Ji to move past the “failed awakening,” focus on her studies, and confide in them if she ever felt down.
No running off without your phone again, they added.
Without my phone? Xue Ji suddenly remembered—she’d been using the special communicator from the Supernatural Task Force all day. Her actual phone had been left in her storage space this whole time. Sneaking a glance at it, she was met with over fifty missed calls and a flood of unread messages.
If not for the fact that they’d called her homeroom teacher—who confirmed Xue Ji had gone to school—they would’ve called the police.
During the days Xue Ji had been unconscious, her parents had agonized over what to do. They’d assumed her awakening had failed and left her injured, spending those days brainstorming how to comfort her. When she finally woke up, only to lock herself in her room, they’d given her space—only to panic when she suddenly vanished today.
The sheer worry in her parents’ eyes made Xue Ji’s throat tighten, her nose stinging. In the past, she’d brushed off their concern with careless replies. But now, it hit differently.
After a long silence, Xue Ji’s voice wavered. “I… I’m sorry.”
This apology was the first perfect lie she’d ever told them. What she was truly sorry for was failing their deepest wish—because the Xue Ji they knew, the ordinary girl, had ceased to exist the moment she crossed into another world.
Her parents hadn’t expected such an emotional reaction. Seeing Xue Ji’s tearful face nearly brought them to tears as well. Sensing the moment, Ling Xiaoxiao quietly excused herself, leaving the family to themselves.
The three of them sat together on the sofa, Xue Ji leaning against her mother’s shoulder. Right now, she just wanted to lose herself in this unconditional, selfless love.
Let me keep lying. Let the two people who love me most in this world live inside this lie.
“Dad… Mom… I couldn’t… live up to your expectations.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, tears finally spilling over, tracing twin paths down her cheeks.
Seeing Xue Ji cry so bitterly, her mother’s heart ached—she wanted nothing more than to march over and throttle the person responsible for the awakening ceremony. “No danger,” they said. Yet my child was out cold for three days. The way this system preyed on kids’ hopes, leaving them crushed under pressure… She couldn’t bear to imagine how other families were coping with similar “failed awakenings.”
Her mother’s right hand gently stroked Xue Ji’s trembling back, while her left dabbed at her tears with a tissue. The scene reminded her of Xue Ji as a child—a little girl who cried easily yet never hesitated to stand up for others. Back in kindergarten, when she saw Zhao Cheng being bullied by older kids, she’d charged in alone, weathering their punches while biting and clawing at the tallest one until the bullies fled.
Of course, the injuries gave her away at home. But when pressed, little Xue Ji had stubbornly insisted she’d “just fallen.” Her swollen face made the lie obvious, and under her mother’s furious interrogation, she’d burst into tears—just like now. It wasn’t until Zhao Cheng’s mother called to thank her that the truth came out.
Funny how back then, she held back her tears until the very end… but the moment I apologized, she sobbed like a broken dam. The memory had stuck with her mother, something she’d often teased Xue Ji about.
A perfect lie doesn’t need perfect logic. Those who want to believe you won’t scrutinize the details—they’ll only care about you. These two middle-aged parents, seasoned by decades of life’s deceptions, found themselves in an unfamiliar role: carefully preserving the fragile bubble of a lie, not for their sake, but for hers.
“Silly child, you’re lying again.”
Her mother kept the words to herself, holding them close in silence.