In the glittering city of Jinghai, where skyscrapers kissed the clouds and taxis honked like it was a competitive sport, a high-rent apartment stood on the twenty-sixth floor of a very pink, very bougie residential tower.

Inside Apartment 2603, a soul-wrenching sound pierced the quiet.

BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT—

“WAKE UP. IT’S 6:00 A.M. TIME TO SHINE—”

THWACK!

The alarm clock died a valiant death as it was flung off the nightstand by a lazy hand.

Beneath a fortress of blankets, Feng Ruqing let out a low groan that could've exorcised a weak-willed spirit on its own. Her long black hair spilled out like a waterfall, and her delicate face remained buried in her pillow, drool threatening the safety of its edge.

“Five more minutes,” she muttered.

“I’m a genius. I can afford five minutes.”

Five minutes turned into fifty-five.

When she finally opened one eye and saw the time—7:12 A.M.—she made a sound somewhere between a banshee's scream and a dying kettle.

“AAAAH! I’m gonna be late!”

With the speed of someone whose life depended on not missing the morning roll call (and it kinda did — Principal Yan had threatened her with holy water last time), she flung the blanket aside, slammed into the bathroom door, brushed her teeth with demon-slaying fury, and face-washed like she was scrubbing off the guilt of every soul she’d ever sent to the afterlife.

Still wearing mismatched socks, she stuffed a piece of barely-buttered bread into her mouth and dashed out the door.

“Bye apartment, bye dignity!

Outside…

As she sprinted down the sidewalk, bag flapping, hair in a chaotic ponytail, and a glowing talisman stuck to her wrist like a bracelet (for spiritual emergencies only), bystanders turned to stare.

But Feng Ruqing didn’t care. She was in what professionals called academic hell mode.

“Please don't let the bus be gone— PLEASE—”

As if mocking her, her usual school bus zoomed past, leaving behind a burst of spiritual exhaust and a cackling wind spirit clinging to its roof.

“WHY IS THAT GHOST HITCHING A RIDE AND NOT PAYING FARE?!”

Cursing under her breath, she stomped toward the next corner where an ancient granny ran an underground teleportation talisman stand. Yes, it cost ten spirit jades. Yes, it sometimes exploded. But it beat detention.

Within her bag…

A strange rustle.

Something… woke up.

Her realm spirit, a glowing, palm-sized wisp with sleepy eyes and a lotus-shaped birthmark on its tiny forehead, peeked out from under her schoolbooks. Feng Ruqing called it Little Spirit — mostly because naming it something grand like “Celestial Realm Core” felt ridiculous when it threw tantrums over spicy noodles.

Little Spirit let out a squeaky yawn.

“Qing-qing~ You forgot to take your anti-soul-disruption pill! Again!”

“Can’t talk now, Little Spirit, I’m running on caffeine fumes and toast!”

The wisp floated upward lazily, arms folded like a grumpy dumpling. “No wonder three ghosts followed you home yesterday. You’re leaking spirit qi like a faulty incense burner!”

Feng Ruqing ignored him.

She reached the school gate, sweaty, panting — but miraculously on time.

Sort of.

Only to find...

Nothing unusual.

Just rows of students, gossiping, yawning, fighting over meat buns.

“Huh,” she muttered around her toast. “I was emotionally prepared for a demon encounter. Now I’m just disappointed.”

She shoved her hands into her blazer pockets, adjusted her bag, and sighed.

Another day of pretending to be a normal student, while secretly carrying a portable dimension and the ability to dismantle curses with a needle and a glare.

“Fantastic,” she said dryly. “Just what my life needed.”

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk, sweat, and teenage apathy. Someone was snoring two rows behind her. Someone else was casting paper spells to make a pen levitate.

Feng Ruqing sat at her desk, chin resting on her palm, staring out the window. A light breeze played with the strands of her hair.

She blinked once.

And vanished.

Not her body — not this time.

Her consciousness slipped inward, like a tide receding into a secret cove.

Her body remained at her desk, still and composed, as if she were dozing. But if someone looked closely, they'd notice the faint golden shimmer dancing in her eyes, and the way the air around her pulsed — like the rhythm of a second heart.

✦ Inside the Realm

Mist curled around her ankles the moment she entered.

The realm opened before her like a lotus in bloom — a vast space of sky and floating lands, lit by a sun that was neither hot nor harsh. Ancient trees with glowing leaves swayed over bubbling springs, and a gentle wind carried the scent of spiritual herbs and warmth.

This place… was alive.

Her realm.

It wasn’t made — it was given. Or perhaps… awakened.

And every time she entered it, she felt like she was returning to a place that had been waiting for her for centuries.

“Master~!”

A soft chime of a voice rang out, and a small glowing wisp zipped toward her. It was palm-sized, with wide, watery eyes, two floating sleeves, and a lotus petal hat far too big for its head.

Little Spirit. Her realm’s guardian — born from it. Innocent, playful, and annoying in all the ways a spirit could afford to be.

It tackled her shoulder and curled up like a cat. “You’re here again! Are we making explodey pills today? Or sleepy ones?”

Ruqing snorted. “They’re called soul-repairing pills, you troublemaker.”

“I like mine better,” Little Spirit said brightly, nuzzling her hair. “You always make scary faces when you work~ Makes me want to hide in the tea kettle.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

She stepped into her pill courtyard — carved from moonstone, encircled by flame-runed vines. Her cauldron sat in the center, tall as she was, etched with phoenixes mid-flight.

As she waved her hand, herbs floated to her in glowing clusters — snowgrass, dreamroot, crimson ginseng. She fed the cauldron each one like a secret, and with a flick of her fingers, summoned her flame.

Golden lotus fire bloomed beneath the cauldron.

As the brew started bubbling, she leaned back on her heels, watching the colors swirl. The warmth kissed her face, but her thoughts wandered — drifting to the past.

To how she got this realm.

It had been two years ago. She was fifteen. Bleeding, cold, nearly dying.

A curse had latched onto her soul — a remnant of an exorcism gone wrong. She had collapsed in an alley after expelling a particularly nasty ghost, heart barely beating, mind unraveling under the weight of spirit poison.

And then—

The world twisted.

She woke up… here.

Floating in a field of stars. Her body repaired. Her wounds soothed. And this realm, pulsing with a heartbeat that matched her own, whispered to her:

“Welcome home.”

It wasn’t just a space. It was bonded to her. Hidden within her soul. Ancient, sentient, and waiting for someone with the right spirit flame to awaken it.

Little Spirit had been there too — a glowing newborn, curled in a lotus bud.

“You looked so serious when you first arrived,” it murmured now, perched on her head. “I thought you were going to scold the trees.”

“I almost did,” Ruqing said dryly. “They looked too smug.”

---

A soft chime came from the cauldron.

She leaned forward — the soul-repairing pill was complete, perfectly round and pearlescent.

“Not bad,” she murmured. “Better than last time.”

Then her senses flickered — awareness of the outside world slipping in. Someone had opened a window near her real body. A whisper of laughter, a gust of wind, the scrape of shoes.

Though only her consciousness was inside, she could still feel everything around her real self. It was like standing in two rooms at once.

She stood, brushing imaginary dust from her sleeves.

“Let’s go, Little Spirit. School bell’s about to ring.”

The spirit pouted. “Back to pretending to be normal?”

“Exactly,” she said. “And if anyone asks, I’m just a sleepy teen with trust issues and god-tier pill refining skills.”

They vanished.

And at her desk in the classroom, Feng Ruqing blinked once… and smirked.

The ding-ding-ding of the school bell rang with all the enthusiasm of a half-hearted alarm clock. Loud, shrill, and impossible to ignore.

Feng Ruqing cracked open one eye from her desk nap.

“Why must every day start with noise?”

Around her, classmates scrambled into their seats like survivors of a mild stampede. Someone knocked over a chair. Someone else tried to throw a bun into a friend’s mouth and missed. The boy in front of her was still asleep face-down, drooling on his math book like it owed him money.

Just another Monday.

A moment later, the classroom door slid open with an ominous creak, revealing—

“GOOD MORNING, MY CHILDREN!” boomed Mr. Wang, a man with the enthusiasm of a motivational speaker and the haircut of a sad mop.

Feng Ruqing flinched.

So did the windows.

“Let us begin roll call!” he cried, dramatically flipping open the attendance sheet like it was a sacred scroll.

---

“Li Xinyi?”

“Here!”

“Bao Jing?”

“Here!”

“Qin Chen?”

“Present and very handsome,” came a cheerful voice from behind Ruqing.

She sighed. “Don’t flatter yourself this early in the day.”

Qin Chen leaned forward and whispered, “Too late, I already practiced my wink in the mirror this morning. It’s lethal.”

Feng Ruqing didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Qin Chen was the only one who didn’t get on her nerves. He was sharp, witty, and just the right amount of idiot. Also, he had no idea she spent her weekends exorcising ghosts and brewing soul-restoring pills in a celestial realm.

He thought her “strange herb smell” was from cheap shampoo.

---

“Feng Ruqing?” the teacher called.

She raised a hand without lifting her head. “Alive and tolerating existence.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Wang said brightly. “Your existential dread is improving.”

From across the room, a sharp tsk echoed.

Here we go again.

Zhao Minya. Sitting three seats diagonally, arms folded, expression like she’d just swallowed sour lemons for fun.

She glared at Feng Ruqing with the intensity of someone who’d made hatred a hobby.

Why did she hate her?

No idea.

Ruqing had once held a door open for her. That’s when it started.

Qin Chen once suggested she had been an ancient mosquito in a past life, and Ruqing had accidentally swatted her.

It was the only theory that made sense.

---

As Mr. Wang rambled on about the importance of punctuality, spiritual wellness, and not setting off fireworks in the biology lab (long story), Qin Chen passed Ruqing a note.

She unfolded it under the desk.

If you could be any vegetable, what would you be?

She blinked.

Then wrote back:

Garlic. Keeps demons and annoying people away.

Qin Chen snorted loud enough to draw a glare from Zhao Minya. He gave her a thumbs-up. She looked like she was considering murder by pencil stab.

Feng Ruqing smiled faintly.

Just a normal day.

No demons. No ghosts. No exorcisms.

Just sarcastic banter, mysterious glares, and questionable vegetables.

It was third period.

The sun glared in through the windows like it had a personal grudge against students. The blackboard was filled with equations no one was emotionally prepared to solve. Mr. Wang had switched from screaming to droning, which somehow made things worse.

Feng Ruqing sat at her desk, spinning her pen like she was trying to unlock a cheat code to life.

Qin Chen had already balanced three erasers on his head and was attempting a fourth.

Zhao Minya, naturally, had nothing better to do than seethe in their general direction.

And then it began.

“Some people,” Minya said loudly, not even pretending to be subtle, “just coast through school without ever trying. Must be nice being born with a smug face and zero ambition.”

Her voice was sweet. Like poison-flavored bubble tea.

Feng Ruqing didn’t even blink. “If you want a picture, just ask. You’ve been staring since roll call.”

A few students nearby snorted. Qin Chen coughed violently, trying to hide his laugh behind a book titled Advanced Spirit Theory (which he was definitely not reading).

Minya’s eye twitched. “I wasn’t—! Ugh, I don’t know why they let you in the advanced class anyway.”

Ruqing tapped her pen thoughtfully. “Probably because I don’t spend all my time being bitter and mediocre.”

There was a pause.

A very loud one.

Even Mr. Wang blinked from the front of the room and said, “Language, Miss Feng.”

Feng Ruqing raised a hand innocently. “What? Mediocre is a scientific term. I saw it on your last quiz paper.”

Oof.

Qin Chen let out a low whistle. “That one’s going in the history books.”

Zhao Minya’s face turned the exact color of expired strawberries. She huffed, flipped her hair dramatically, and turned away with the energy of a villain who just got out-snarked in episode two.

Ruqing went back to her pen spinning.

---

During lunch break, Qin Chen joined her on the rooftop with two bento boxes and a suspicious grin.

“Minya looked like she wanted to challenge you to a duel.”

“She can’t. School rules prohibit public exorcisms.”

He blinked. “...That was a joke, right?”

She didn’t answer.

He stared.

“Wait. Ruqing—what do you do after school?”

She sipped her juice. “Homework. Obviously.”

“You said that with the confidence of someone who’s never done homework.”

She smiled, and for the first time that day, Little Spirit whispered from her wrist talisman, stifling giggles.

“Master, you’re scary when you lie~”

The rooftop was their sanctuary.

Far from the chaos of noisy classrooms, cliques, and Minya’s pettiness echoing like a cursed flute, it was the one place no one bothered to climb — maybe because the stairwell creaked like a haunted house or maybe because Feng Ruqing gave everyone the impression she’d hex them for stepping on her shadow.

But Qin Chen wasn’t “everyone.”

He plopped down beside her on the edge of the rooftop, lunchboxes in hand, sleeves rolled up, hair a tousled mess courtesy of a failed science experiment earlier that day.

“Lunch delivery for my perpetually unimpressed friend,” he said grandly.

Ruqing raised an eyebrow. “You sure I’m not secretly your emotional support cryptid?”

He grinned. “Nah. You’re far too elegant for that. Maybe a chaos phoenix with anxiety issues.”

She stared.

He shoved a bento box into her hands.

---

As they ate, a gentle breeze tugged at their uniforms. The city spread beneath them like a painted map — glinting windows, honking cars, clouds like sleepy beasts above.

Qin Chen tapped his chopsticks against the lid of his lunchbox. “So.”

Ruqing gave him a sidelong glance. “So?”

“What would you be if school wasn’t a thing?”

“A hermit. In the mountains. Brewing tea and misanthropy.”

He laughed. “Sounds about right.”

A pause.

“...Seriously though.”

She looked up at the sky, thoughtful. “I’d want to heal people. Quietly. Without the pressure of grades and pretending to care about the history of spiritually unimportant rocks.”

“Unimportant? Those rocks built our economy.”

“Those rocks built my boredom.”

He laughed again, and for a moment, her shoulders relaxed. Around him, she didn’t have to dodge suspicion or stitch up spiritual wounds under fluorescent lights.

But still.

She never told him about the realm.

Never told him about ghosts whispering from sewer grates or demons lurking in mirrors or the way her hands burned with lotus fire at night.

Not because she didn’t trust him.

But because once he knew, everything would change.

---

Qin Chen stretched out on the concrete, arms behind his head. “You ever think we’re all just... barely surviving this teenage circus?”

She looked at him — hair in his eyes, a smudge of ink on his cheek, still smiling despite it all.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “But some of us hide it better than others.”

He cracked open one eye, sensing something behind the words.

“Hey, Ruqing.”

“Hm?”

“If you ever wanna run away and be a mountain hermit… I’ll carry the kettle.”

She blinked.

And, for once, smiled without sarcasm.

---

Beneath her sleeve, the talisman glowed faintly. Little Spirit murmured inside, voice barely audible.

“Master… do you like this human boy~?”

Ruqing nearly choked on her rice.

“I—I tolerate his stupidity. With grace.”

Little Spirit giggled. “You’re blushing~”

“I will banish you.”

Qin Chen glanced over. “You okay?”

She cleared her throat. “Just considering setting someone on spiritual fire.”

He nodded solemnly. “Totally normal lunch thought.”

After lunch, the school day faded into a quiet hum of routine. Teachers lectured. Students pretended to care. Notes passed. Sleep threatened.

But Feng Ruqing was somewhere else entirely.

Not physically — she sat at her desk, half-listening to Mr. Wang's passionate explanation of “cultural spirit residue in early civilization”— but her mind wandered. Backward.

To then.

---

She was ten when she saw her first ghost.

A real one.

Not the “I think I saw something spooky in the closet” kind — but a wailing woman with no eyes, hovering over her sick grandmother’s hospital bed.

She hadn’t screamed.

She’d stared.

Until the ghost stared back.

Then the lotus flame ignited for the first time — a flickering gold spark in her palm. It seared the spirit with a hiss and sent it fleeing through the window.

Her grandmother recovered three days later.

But the nurses said the machines had gone haywire that night. Cold spots. Shadows. Odd burn marks on the floor.

They didn’t know what happened.

But her uncle did.

Uncle Shen.

---

He found her in the temple ruins two weeks later, sitting alone with herbs in her lap and candle wax on her fingers, trying to recreate the fire.

“You’re not supposed to have it,” he had said. “The lotus flame chooses no one anymore. It’s cursed.”

She had looked up at him, confused.

And he had knelt, touched her head gently, and said—

“From now on… you’ll need to learn to hide.”

---

At twelve, she purified a cursed doll from a neighbor’s house. It nearly shattered her soul. The family never knew. Her uncle stitched her hand back together with talisman ink and grit.

At fourteen, she was chased out of a street fair by a spirit dog no one else could see. She laughed it off. They thought she was weird.

At fifteen, she bled out in an alley, soul fractured from a ritual gone wrong. That was the night the realm awakened.

That was the night she stopped trusting the world.

---

Back in class, someone called her name.

She blinked and looked up.

Qin Chen.

He’d turned around in his seat, brow furrowed, tapping his pen on her desk.

“You zoned out,” he said softly. “Everything okay?”

Ruqing nodded, masking the old ache with her usual smirk. “Just mourning the death of my attention span.”

He relaxed. “I was about to start making bird noises to wake you up.”

“Do it and I’ll summon a spiritual chicken to chase you through the halls.”

He grinned. “You have a lot of oddly specific threats.”

“I’m a woman of oddly specific experience.”

---

But as she watched him laugh and turn back around, her chest tightened for a heartbeat.

Because he didn’t know.

He didn’t know how deep the fire ran in her.

How many curses she’d bled under. How many nights she’d screamed in the realm with no one to hear her but a floating spirit who liked tea and teasing.

“Normal boys like him…” she thought, “don’t belong in a world like mine.”

So she stayed quiet.

She always had.