Qi Song sipped a glass of iced water, his expression unchanged even when Chu Xingxiao exclaimed, “When I got there, I saw Cen Chi biting my gege!”
“You didn’t fight him?”
“Ge’s condition was too dangerous at the time—he’s the only one there who studies medicine. What if I messed up and it hurt Ge’s body?” Chu Xingxiao gritted his teeth. “If it weren’t for all the stupid school rules, I would’ve beaten that bastard to a pulp.”
“I’ll handle the surveillance footage,” Qi Song said, voice devoid of emotion. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll take responsibility.”
***
Federation. Starship Transfer Hub. Lower-level sector.
Jiang Yi handed over a thick stack of Federation credits. The crew member gave him a cold glance.
“Once you’re inside, keep your head down. Someone will notify you when we approach the warp point.”
Jiang Yi had worked his ass off for over half a month to scrape that money together. While other players were busy romancing the male leads in-game, he was the only one doing actual labor. A true working-class soul—grinding even inside a game. It was tragic, but the thought of finally seeing Chi Zhan again rekindled a spark of hope in his heart.
Sure, it was illegal for Federation citizens to cross into the Empire, but the black market still offered smuggling routes—just at a premium price. Jiang Yi wasn’t the only one; a few others who had been unlucky enough to spawn in the Federation were boarding with him.
Ever since the main storyline’s System had announced that a player had successfully completed a romance arc and was about to enter the next world, everyone realized: this wasn’t some cozy single-player dating sim—it was a race. First come, first served. If you didn’t make your move early, you’d end up playing for nothing.
Meanwhile, no one in the Federation had even seen a romance target, while some Empire-based player named “Moy” had smugly declared they were “this close” to sealing the deal.
Unfortunately, that particular player had made a lot of enemies. Plenty of others couldn’t stand him, so an exodus of desperate Federation players began smuggling themselves across the border—and ticket prices kept soaring.
Which only made Jiang Yi’s situation even more pathetic.
“The starship will now launch. Please shut off all personal communication devices to avoid loss or damage. We wish you a pleasant fifteen-day journey.”
Everyone switched off their lightbrains, and Jiang Yi did the same. Fifteen days—even with adjusted time flow, it would still take at least three full days in the real world. Jiang Yi found a corner and logged out, planning to come back online three days later.
Chi-ge, wait for me! Just three more days and I’ll be with you again!
Jiang Yi emerged from the gaming pod. He had made plans with Zhang Yuan to visit a friend in the hospital. Since he arrived early, and Zhang Yuan hadn’t shown up yet, Jiang Yi texted him to bring some fruit, then waited in front of the hospital room.
Just then, a group of doctors passed by, surrounding a cold, sharp-looking man in a suit as they opened the room next door.
“Mr. Chi’s condition hasn’t improved today either…”
“Chi” wasn’t a common surname. Jiang Yi’s eyes widened slightly. As the door swung open, curiosity got the better of him and he peered inside—but from his angle, he couldn’t see a thing. Then the door shut right in front of him.
He only caught a glimpse, but that man looked oddly familiar—kind of like…
Zhou Yanxing?
“Must’ve been a coincidence,” Jiang Yi muttered, scratching his head. Damn that face. Why did it feel like it haunted him even outside the game? He’d love nothing more than to punch that guy square in the jaw.
Zhang Yuan came running upstairs, panting. “I’m here. What are you staring at? Let’s go in already.” With that, he dragged Jiang Yi inside.
***
Doo doo doo…
The messages Chi Zhan had sent vanished into the void. Every call he placed was met with “not in service.” After several failed attempts, he finally gave up—for now.
By all logic, he should’ve been able to get through. Unless something was wrong with the contact info, or the player had logged out.
Chi Zhan leaned toward the latter.
An inexplicable sense of trust… He frowned slightly, trying to figure out where that feeling came from. When he looked up again, he saw the other man had returned at some point, quiet as a black cat slipping into the room—just standing there, watching him silently.
“I couldn’t reach him. Can I try again tomorrow?”
“Anytime,” Qi Song replied. He tapped something on his lightbrain, and a moment later, Chi Zhan’s smart wristband vibrated. A notification popped up:
S has requested to share communication access with you. ID: 84618356
Chi Zhan froze, raising his eyes. “Shared communication means…”
This function was normally reserved for deeply involved romantic partners or newlyweds. In today’s information-driven society, nearly every form of communication, social interaction, even banking, was tied to your lightbrain. Sharing that meant opening up your entire digital life—bank balance included.
S trusted him this much? Wasn’t he afraid Chi Zhan might steal his assets or peek at his past messages?
Qi Song seemed to misinterpret his hesitation.
“You can disable the link from your end. I won’t access anything.”
“That’s not what I meant, I just…”
He was still mulling it over when Qi Song, not wanting to see him stuck in indecision, reached over and tapped “Confirm” for him. In an instant, the data synced—Chi Zhan now effectively had access to two lightbrains and could switch between them freely.
“……”
“I won’t look through your things,” he said earnestly. He could feel how much Qi Song trusted him. No one had ever shown him that level of trust before—not even people he’d known for years. And yet, Qi Song… they were practically strangers.
“You can look if you want. You have a right to everything I have. Even my accounts.”
There wasn’t the slightest emotion in his voice—but somehow, that made it even more affecting. Chi Zhan couldn’t shake the feeling: Qi Song knew him. Not just now, but from before—from some forgotten past he had no memory of.
We’ve met before… haven’t we?
Chi Zhan wanted to ask—but the words caught in his throat.
Something in his gut warned him: not yet. Not while the System was still active. Not until he knew what the main System was really up to.
“Thanks. Let me treat you to dinner.”
Qi Song didn’t refuse. Chi Zhan turned to grab some clothes. As usual, he changed on the spot. It was only halfway through undressing that he paused, feeling a vague sense of awkwardness—but Qi Song didn’t seem like the type to sneak a peek at someone changing, and besides, they were both men. What was there to see?
Chi Zhan pulled off his top and swapped it for a shirt. Years of high-intensity training and a sparse diet had left him with a lean, toned build—not the exaggerated kind, but slender, defined muscles that traced along his waist and abs. The clean line of his narrow waist was visible for only a moment before the fabric of his shirt concealed it again.
