"Just like sunlight breaking through the night, dawn quietly cuts across the horizon..."

The stirring anime theme song echoes endlessly around.

Next, the cheers and running footsteps of a little boy are heard from the stairwell.

The sound shakes the floor of this old self-built house, making even the bed frame tremble slightly.

Fang Cheng turned over, adjusting his sleeping position.

A few seconds later, he suddenly opened his eyes, his gaze lingering on the mottled, yellowing ceiling for a moment.

"Where... is this?"

He squinted his eyes, supporting himself with his hands on the hardboard bed, and slowly sat up.

The quilt on him was somewhat damp, pressing heavily on his chest.

His head felt stuffed with wet cotton, making his thoughts sluggish and heavy.

Fang Cheng lowered his head, his gaze falling on his own hands.

These were the hands of a youth.

Thin fingers, slender wrists that seemed as though they’d snap with a forceful twist.

The skin on his palms was pale and delicate, without the slightest hint of calluses.

Fang Cheng tried to clench his fist.

The feedback from his muscles was extremely weak, with no trace of explosiveness throughout his body, as feeble as if he had just recovered from a serious illness.

A strong sense of physical misalignment surged in his heart, a persistent feeling that something was not quite right.

He clearly remembered his name was Fang Cheng, fifteen years old, a third-year student at Pingjiang County’s Third Middle School.

Yet this frail shell made him feel extremely unfamiliar, as if he had put on clothes two sizes too small.

"Fang Cheng, what time is it? Still lazing in bed? Hurry up and get up for breakfast!"

A piercing female soprano came from downstairs, interrupting his thoughts.

Upon hearing this voice, memories of his mother instinctively surfaced in Fang Cheng’s mind.

She was a loud, short-tempered, ordinary middle-aged woman, constantly preoccupied with household chores.

"Got it!"

He replied, rubbing his temples, lifted the quilt, and stepped into the plastic slippers by the bed.

Then he walked to the door, grabbed the verdigris ball-shaped doorknob, and twisted it down forcefully.

"Cre-eak—"

The door opened.

The sizzling sound of hot oil in the iron pot was mixed with the rich aroma of frying eggs wafting up.

Fang Cheng walked down the narrow wooden stairs.

The not-so-spacious living room on the first floor was filled with the distinctive morning bustle.

Several clothes that hadn’t been folded yet were piled on the old fabric sofa.

Opposite, the tube TV was playing ’Ultraman Tiga’.

"Take this! Dynamic Light Wave!"

A seven or eight-year-old boy with a bowl cut suddenly leaped out from behind the sofa.

Holding a chipped plastic toy gun, he charged like a cannonball into Fang Cheng’s calf.

The impact wasn’t strong, but Fang Cheng’s body was so weak that it made him stagger back half a step.

His shoulder bumped against the wooden door frame, producing a muffled thunk.

"Xiao Rui, stop it."

Fang Cheng looked down at his snot-covered younger brother, stretched out his hand to hold his head, and pushed him aside.

"What are you doing? Running around the house so early in the morning!"

A middle-aged woman wearing a floral apron came out of the kitchen, holding a plate.

Wrinkles gathered around her eyes, her hair was casually pinned back, as she walked briskly to the dining table.

With a "clunk", she placed a plate of golden fried eggs heavily down.

She turned to glare at the little boy, then her eyes landed on Fang Cheng, her brows furrowing:

"Why are you still standing there? Go wash your face and brush your teeth, always dawdling."

"Look at you, as thin as a stick, toppled by the wind, not resembling your father at all."

Despite her constant nagging at her son, she picked up chopsticks and placed the two most perfectly fried eggs directly into Fang Cheng’s rooster-patterned bowl.

Fang Cheng walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and quickly washed his face with cold water.

Drops of water dripped from his chin, the cold sensation sharpening his mind. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

After drying his face with a towel, he walked briskly to the dining table and pulled out a wooden chair to sit down.

Across the table, a middle-aged man in a yellowed tank top was holding a bowl and sipping porridge.

The man’s skin was rough, his beard unkempt, and he held half a youtiao in his hand.

He glanced at Fang Cheng, took a big bite of youtiao, chewed and spoke:

"You’re in the third year now, focus more on your studies. Last week’s quiz, your math barely passed."

"Listen carefully in school today, don’t be listless all the time."

Fang Cheng picked up his chopsticks, prodding the white rice porridge in his bowl, steam wafting up, warming his face slightly.

"Got it."

He responded softly.

"Cough, cough... cough, cough, cough..."

From outside in the yard, comes a series of intermittent dry coughs.

Through the half-open sliding glass door, an elderly man with graying hair can be seen lying in a rattan chair, holding an enamel teapot, bent over to spit into a spittoon.

"Dad, the wind’s strong outside, put on a jacket!"

His mother shouted across the living room, then urged Fang Cheng again:

"Eat up, the eggs will have a fishy smell once they’re cold."

Fang Cheng picked up a piece of fried egg and placed it in his mouth.

Crispy on the edges, soft inside, with the salty aroma of soy sauce and scallions.

He swallowed the food, taking a big sip of warm rice porridge afterward.

The warmth slid down his esophagus into his stomach, instantly dispelling the morning chill.

The smell of food, his family’s chatter, the slurping sound of his father drinking porridge, and the explosion sound from the TV as the monster fell.

Everything was so vivid, so real.

So real that the sense of incongruity in his mind was forcibly suppressed, and his body instinctively blended into this mundane routine.