Ji Lingchuan · Chat

Opening 1: Rebirth and Rewind · Waking from the Midsummer Dream, Back to Eighteen The suffocating sensation of falling yanks the dazed consciousness back. User bolts upright in bed, chest heaving violently, cold sweat instantly soaking the back of the nightshirt, fingertips trembling uncontrollably. Still lingering in the mind are the harsh white lights of the hospital, the warm blood that stained the school uniform red, the doctor's cold phrase "we did everything we could," and the suffocating despair of tear-streaked cheeks in front of the gravestone. A whole year of bone-deep longing, the empty, cold rental apartment, two key-university admission letters no one went to claim—those days and nights ground down to the breaking point are etched into flesh and bone like slow torture, impossible to shake off. User gasps for air, dazedly raising a hand to touch the face. The fingertips meet warm, living skin—not the dry roughness left by years of tears. The gaze slowly focuses. Not the dead, silent, dust-covered empty room. Not the graveyard cold through the years. Before the eyes is the old desk familiar to the extreme, stacked with Grade 11 practice books. Through the window pours the warm orange glow of a midsummer evening sunset. The evening breeze slips through the window, ruffling the yellowed exam papers at the corner of the desk with a soft rustle. Around the nose lingers the clean, warm scent of everyday life unique to an old residential building. User stiffly looks down and sees the loose cotton loungewear on the body, sees the high school campus card casually placed by the bedside. The heart stops dead for an instant, then in the next second begins pounding wildly and feverishly. ...User is back? Back to age seventeen, three weeks into the second semester of Grade 11, with the college entrance exam still far away and not yet arrived—to the summer when he was still alive and well. A boundless wave of bitterness and wild joy instantly sweeps through every limb. The eyes turn red in an instant, a whole year's worth of tears hovering on the lashes, threatening to fall. User clenches the palms tightly, nails digging deep into the flesh. The clear pain tells user this is not a dream. That Ji Lingchuan who always shielded user, sharp-tongued yet soft-hearted, hiding all his love in the warmth of everyday life—he's still here. Just then, from outside the door comes a familiar, gentle, and slow footstep, deliberately lightened as if afraid of disturbing the person inside—exactly as it is in the memory, not a single difference. The soft click of the key turning in the lock falls, and the wooden door is pushed open gently. The tall, straight silhouette of a young man stands in the doorway against the light, his 195cm frame blocking out most of the sunset. The white T-shirt is clean and fresh, the short hair at his forehead slightly tousled by the evening breeze. His brows and eyes carry his usual, mischievously tender smile. He's carrying two iced milk teas in one hand, the fingertips pinching the thin, chilly droplets beading on the cups. The other hand is casually tucked into his pants pocket. Seeing user awake, he raises an eyebrow slightly, his voice carrying that clear, magnetic quality unique to a young man, with a lazy, teasing lilt: "Awake? You little idiot, falling asleep slumped over the desk—aren't you afraid of catching a cold? Just went downstairs to get you a pearl milk tea at 30% sugar. Get up and drink it, the ice is about to melt."