Mirrorworld · Chat

Consciousness rises from a thick, viscous darkness, like a diver who sank into the deep sea finally being hauled back to the surface. The first thing you perceive is the wind. Not the mechanical, metronomic breeze from an air-conditioning vent, carrying the smell of disinfectant—but real wind, sweeping past your ears with the earthy scent of grass and soil, cool and damp. Then come the sounds. Birdsong in the distance, the rustle of leaves brushing against one another nearby, and... your own heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. Strong and powerful, each beat pumping scorching blood through every limb and bone. You snap your eyes open. Your field of vision holds no familiar ceiling, no metal wheelchair armrests, no camphor tree outside the window that you've grown tired of. In their place is an unobstructed sky, so blue it's almost unreal. A few wisps of cloud are pulled into silken threads by the wind, hanging overhead as if within reach. You are standing on a wide-open meadow. You look down and see your hands. They are the hands of a healthy person. Long fingers, a healthy pink showing through the skin—no sickly pallor from years without sunlight, no angular bones laid bare by muscle atrophy. You try clenching your fist, and the moment your fingertips press into your palm, a clear, full-bodied sense of strength rises from deep in your muscles. You take a step forward. No slight resistance of wheelchair wheels turning. No dull, ever-present ache from the steel pin in your knee. Your soles press firmly into the soft grass, calves engaged, carrying your body smoothly forward. A second step. A third. You start to run. The wind in your ears becomes a cheer. A body confined to a tiny square for too long now devours every inch of space like a lit rocket, greedily. You run across rolling grassy slopes, leap over a shallow stream, and water splashes up to your ankles, a real, cool sensation. This is not a dream. Dreams don't have pain and touch this vivid. No burning in your lungs as cold air fills them, no tremor of a heartbeat drumming through your chest. This is Mirrorworld Sync. You stop, standing by the stream, looking at your reflection in the water. It is a girl with sound limbs and relaxed features, breathing a little hard, cheeks flushed from exertion. You raise your hand and touch the water with your fingertips. Ripples spread, the reflection shatters, then reassembles the next second. "Finally..." You speak softly. The voice is your own, yet carries a long-missed liveliness—the vitality of the living. Just then, steady footsteps approach from behind, crossing the grass, growing from far to near. You don't turn around. You know who it is. In this world, there is only one person who would walk toward you at this time, in this place, with such unhurried steps. The footsteps stop beside you. You don't turn your head right away. You keep looking at the reflection in the water—at that whole, free version of yourself. Then, slowly, your gaze rises, past your own shoulder, to the person behind you. Lu Yu is standing there. He is wearing the game's default gray softshell jacket, his posture tall and straight. His handsome face is expressionless, but in those deep eyes rests a focus so still it's almost frozen—a focus only you can read. He doesn't speak; he just watches you quietly, as if confirming with his gaze that you exist, right here, right now. "You're here," you say. Lu Yu nods. His gaze shifts from your face, drops to the tips of your shoes flecked with grass, then moves to your hair, tousled by the wind. His look is like a silent, extremely careful scan, making sure that no crack from outside this world has appeared on you. "Mm." He replies, his voice low and steady. "You ran fast." This is not a statement; it's confirmation. You turn around to face him. Sunlight slips through the gaps between leaves, casting dappled light and shadow across him. You look at him—at this person who has pushed your wheelchair since you were sixteen, through countless seasons and years. In the game, he is still himself: cool, reserved, like a silent mountain. "I ran for a long time," you say. Lu Yu's gaze returns to your face. He reaches out, his fingertips carrying a slight coolness, and gently brushes a fallen leaf from your shoulder. "I know," he says. His fingertips linger on your shoulder for an instant, then fall away naturally. There is no pity in the gesture, no cautious, careful tenderness—only an equal familiarity, as natural as breathing. You suddenly smile. You step forward and reach out first, grabbing the cuff of his softshell jacket. The rough texture of the fabric meets your fingertips, so real it eases your heart. "Then," you tilt your head up, looking into his eyes, speaking slowly and clearly, "let's go see what's ahead?" Lu Yu looks down at you. He turns his hand over and takes yours. The instant your palms meet, the warmth of another person's body seeps through. His fingers are dry and strong, wrapping around your hand, holding it steady. "Okay." He answers. The two of you stand side by side by the stream—behind you, the road you came from; ahead, an unknown wilderness stretching to the horizon. The wind blows past again, carrying the scent of grass. You take a deep breath. You know that this perfect body, this free and open world, may not be a gift without a price. You also know that behind Lu Yu's silence lies a secret deeper than this wilderness. But right now, you don't want to ask. You just tighten your grip on the hand beside you, feeling the gravity and warmth of this world through your palm. Then, you take a step. This time, you're not being pushed forward. You are walking forward—on your own.