Chapter 6

After the bed, Wen Xi browsed the rest—mostly decor and wall art, not very useful, and his gold was low anyway. With no urge to shop, he left the map soon.
“Bro, what’re you playing?” Someone leaned in behind him.
Wen Xi swiped up and killed the screen in one smooth motion, turned back blandly. “Nothing.”
“If you’re not busy—can you carry one game for me? One star to Diamond—please please please.” Pei Jin was almost begging.
Wen Xi took the tablet from him. “No. Your mom said one hour of games—that’s about up. Let’s go—out of the car.”
Pei Jin pouted. “Fine fine—I’ll climb on my own!”
“Oh, that motivated?”
Pei Jin swore, “Yeah!”
“I’ll have your dad get you two practice tests later.”
Pei Jin chased him in panic. “No—I just finished homework—no tests…”
Back at the hotel, Pei Jin behaved—stopped nagging his mom for devices—and ran off with kids his age to feed fish in the courtyard.
Wen Xi chatted with his grandparents and had them laughing.
After dinner, he cited streaming and declined his uncle’s evening plans.
The family knew his job—no one forced him to stay.
Wen Xi got home around eight.
He usually went live six or seven p.m.; today he’d told the fan group nine.
Before stream time, he cooked chicken breast and broccoli for Fuzai, chopped it fine, added fish oil and a bit of kibble, and put it in the bowl.
Fuzai ate happily; Wen Xi squatted beside him, snapped two photos, posted to Moments with the caption: Cooking skills visible to Fuzai only.
Before Fuzai, he’d never cooked. Online he’d read that kibble-only diets were too one-note—so he learned dog meals.
Not hard—simpler than cooking two dishes for himself—and he didn’t mind the time.
Done with Fuzai, he went to the study to prep work.
The moment he went live, fans flooded in; viewer count spiked.
Danmaku filled the screen.
【Streamer’s late—apologize!】
【Can you stream longer today?】
【Ever think about face cam?】
【Don’t—let me live in his voice.】
【Heard the streamer’s a middle-aged basement dweller?】
【Skill streamer—not a face streamer.】
【Qigui’s doing a face reveal tomorrow I think.】
【Honestly curious what he looks like.】
Wen Xi adjusted gear and picked questions. “Family stuff today—started late.”
“Face reveal at three million followers.”
“Not fat—definitely a shut-in.”
“Looks? If I face-cam you’ll spam me like I’m a model.”
His tone was flat; the lines were always funny.
His stream gave both high-level play and fun banter.
Skilled, chill, voice like a top voice-room host—which fan wouldn’t like it?
He opened the game and queued for ranked.
While matchmaking, he thanked gifts on screen; new danmaku still debated the earlier topic.
【For real? Model treatment?】
【Guys who say that usually… y’know.】
【Fragile male ego.】
Wen Xi didn’t reply—he focused on the match.
Maybe he’d offended the calendar—every team was chaos.
Every game had flaming—ADC flamed support, support flamed mid, mid inted, top lane hard-stuck whining.
To protect the stream, Wen Xi muted voice chat and went full immersive jungle—ganking, 1v2, 1v3—every game he hard-carried as loss MVP, heartbreaking losses.
At midnight, the ranked queue closed.
Three hours of effort—his rank dropped from ninth to eleventh.
Rough night, weird teammates—but Wen Xi’s mindset held.
To calm fans who raged on his behalf, he opened flex queue and random carry games.
Hot takes got buried under “+1” signups; the chat went wholesome again.
Near two a.m., he ended stream.
He really was getting old.
Early streaming days—he’d go till eight a.m. sharp; now his stamina wasn’t the same.
He rested eyes-closed in the gaming chair, then rallied to walk Fuzai.
No rain tonight, but the night wind was cold.
Wen Xi strolled with Fuzai, stopping while the dog marked everything.
Silence around him; Wen Xi looked at Fuzai’s warm vest and remembered—the uniform and bed he’d bought for the sprite never got delivered. Without the uniform, tomorrow the kid’d get laughed at again.
He pulled out his phone and opened “City of Succubi.”
The moment he loaded in, the sprite sat at the round table, head down, wiping tears.
He looked wrecked—shoulders shaking, sometimes punching his own head.
Wen Xi frowned. What happened?
Bullied? Or… still upset from today’s mockery?
With no way to talk, Wen Xi opened the recorder for the truth.
New text walls explained the tears.
【Today’s lesson was basic human phrases and writing his new name. Wen Siran couldn’t get it right—the name was too hard—he felt anxious.】
【His deskmate learned fast—Teacher Eric praised him and gave magic candy.】
【Wen Siran watched enviously. He looked at the deskmate’s workbook, then his own—it felt unfair.】
【His deskmate’s name is Ding Yiyi.】
【Wen Siran was the only succubus in class who still couldn’t write his name by dismissal—he was crushed.】
【Wen Siran swore he’d stay up to get the characters neat.】
【The more he wrote, the wronger it felt—he punched his head and felt stupid.】
【Sadness burned energy—he got hungry.】
【He missed you and thought you didn’t show because he couldn’t write his name—he cried—afraid you’d abandon him.】
Wen Xi: …
Wen Siran.
A lot of strokes.
Poor kid.
Author’s note:
The sprite went from quiet sniffles to wailing at the ceiling.
Tears gushed like two fountains; his bubble scrolled: 【Waaah… my workbook’s empty—why can’t I write it? I’m an idiot… waaah…】
【Idiots get hungry too—how can idiots be hungry?】
【I ate so much yesterday—why doesn’t food grow brains…】
While crying, he tore pages from his workbook and stuffed them in his mouth.
【Eat it—all of it—if I eat it no one’ll know I’m dumb.】
【Waaah…】
Wen Xi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
He patted the sprite’s shoulder, poked his mouth—signal to spit the paper out.
The sprite startled; half a workbook slapped to the floor—cheeks puffed, tear-streaked, looking up.
The fountain tears turned to pearls—prettier, somehow.
Wen Xi looked at the fallen book—the scrawl was hard to read; curious, he tapped the book on the ground and found he could drag it.
He wanted to see what could break the kid this badly.
He dragged the torn page midair; as it zoomed, the strokes clarified.
Besides the three dots of “Wen” and the four dots under “ran,” the rest split apart or smeared together—kindergarten doodles.
Still—Wen Xi couldn’t blame him. Kids learned “one two three” first; throwing three hard characters at a beginner with zero base was cruel.
Maybe because Wen Xi stayed silent, Wen Siran—under “review”—cried harder.
He spat out the wad, smoothed it with his hands, laid it neatly on the desk.
His bubble scrolled apologies and promises—to eat less “food” and spend more time studying hard.
Wen Xi didn’t know how a game character got emotions this real—insecurity, fear, waiting for a scolding like any kid who didn’t finish homework.
Maybe to hook players? Emotional bonds were hardest to drop—sympathy or fondness for a character tanked uninstall rates.
If so—this game had won, at least with Wen Xi.
Wen Xi tried to return the workbook; pushing it, he accidentally brushed the sprite’s face—triggering the wipe-tears interaction.
So besides no voice chat yet, a lot of comfort actions worked.
Room props were usable too.
No tissue—he used workbook paper, pressed it to the sprite’s face, dabbed gently to say don’t cry.