Thud.
Chen Li Huang woke up to the unmistakable sound of his sister falling out of bed again.
He didn't even flinch. Just blinked once, stared at the ceiling for a second longer than he meant to, and sighed.
"If the Elegant Princess of Hanlin University could see herself now," he thought. "Oh wait, she is herself. Never mind."
There was another thump, followed by an exasperated groan from upstairs. Something wooden rolled across the floor. Probably her hairbrush. Again.
He dragged himself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom.
The mirror, in its typical cruelty, offered him a puffy-eyed, bed-headed sixteen-year-old who looked like he hadn't slept well in months—which, to be fair, he hadn't.
He rubbed his face with both hands and stared at himself.
"Honestly… I'm not any better."
His hair never sat right. His uniform was wrinkled. And the one time he'd actually spoken in class last week, he'd mispronounced "chimera" and earned exactly three chuckles and a snort from the back of the room.
"High school: the greatest fantasy of all. A land where the mobs ignore you, the royalty don't see you, and the background NPCs still get better grades."
He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face.
Today wasn't going to be any different.
The house was already a battlefield.
Chen Li Huang stepped over a half-packed tote bag, narrowly avoided a pair of his sister's shoes, and made his way into the kitchen without a word.
"—You're going to be late again, Qing!" his mother shouted over the sound of a pan sizzling.
"Two minutes! Chill!" came the reply from upstairs, accompanied by the unmistakable thud of a closet door slamming.
"Where are my socks?" his father called, somewhere between the front room and the washing machine.
Chen silently opened the fridge, pulled out the milk, and poured himself a glass. He didn't flinch when his mother bumped into him mid-shout. Didn't say anything when his father walked in, one sock on, the other missing, scanning the floor like he expected it to magically appear.
He sipped his milk, quietly reached for a sandwich on the counter—egg and something, he didn't look—and slipped it into his bag. No one said good morning. No one noticed him leaving.
Not that he expected them to.
The walk to school was uneventful. Same road. Same sidewalk. Same song stuck in his head from two days ago. He munched the sandwich without tasting it and watched the cracks in the pavement go by like train tracks—one step, two steps, escape.
He made it to class before the bell and slid into his usual seat—back corner, second row from the window. A good spot. Unseen, but not suspiciously isolated. Just invisible enough.
The teacher walked in and started talking about biology. Or maybe it was chemistry. Chen kept his eyes forward, nodding occasionally, lips pressed in a faint line of interest.
But in his mind, an elf girl was scaling the obsidian cliffs of Dragon City, her long coat whipping in the wind. She wasn't the chosen one—just a dragon herder, one of the few licensed to guide the younglings through their first firestorms. Her name hadn't come to him yet, but she had a curved dagger and a scar shaped like lightning across her cheek.
"…and that's why the cell membrane—"
The bell rang. Another teacher replaced the first. History this time. Chen blinked once, then mentally rewound the elf girl to a better cliffside pose. Maybe give her a pet dragon. Small. Red. Mischievous.
By the time break rolled around, Chen filed out with the rest of the class and headed straight for the cafeteria. He picked up a tray, loaded it with minimal effort—rice, miso soup, fried something—and made a beeline for the corner.
He ate alone. He always did.
When he finished, he didn't wait for the bell. Instead, he cut across the corridor toward the old wing of the school, where unused rooms sat like sleeping relics. One of them still bore a fading sign: Fantasy Literature Club.
He opened the door and stepped into his sanctuary.
Dust motes swam in the air. Old posters curled at the corners. Shelves leaned under the weight of forgotten manga volumes, faded light novels, and fan-made maps of worlds long since abandoned.
Chen let the door close behind him and wandered toward the back shelf.
Near the end, he spotted a manga volume he hadn't seen in years—The Golden Beast of Iron Sky, Volume 1. The same one his grandfather had bought him when he was eight. The very beginning.
His hand trembled a little as he pulled it from the shelf. The cover was a bit water-damaged. He flipped it open anyway, skimming the opening panels.
"A beast born of metal, tamed by courage…"
He sat down on the floor right there, back against the shelf, and let the memory wash over him—his grandfather's warm voice, the laughter, the shared theories, the childish excitement.
He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years.
But when the bell rang, he stood up slowly, closed the manga, and placed it back with a care it hadn't received in a long time.
No one noticed when he returned to class.
The day dragged on like it always did.
But after school, his class in-charge stopped him near the stairwell, holding a clipboard and an annoyed expression.
"Li Huang, you're still listed as the only active member of the Fantasy Club, right?"
Chen blinked. "Yes, ma'am."
"Then keep it clean. It's a mess in there. Go handle it before I report it to the committee."
"Yes, ma'am."
And that was that.
The clubroom was still warm from the afternoon sun when he returned. He dropped his bag near the door and rolled up his sleeves, prepared to sweep, dust, and make a few things look presentable—at least enough to avoid trouble.
While rearranging a row of books that had half-fallen over, something caught his eye.
A thin, dark volume wedged deep between two larger tomes.
It didn't look like a manga. Or a novel. Or even something that belonged on the shelf.
Chen tugged it free.
It was heavy, its cover carved in the shape of a miniature wooden door, complete with a small handle—real wood, old and smooth, but still in perfect condition. No title. No markings. Just the shape of a door.
Curious, he ran his thumb along the edge—and winced as a small splinter pierced his skin.
He dropped the book with a muttered curse, blood beading on his thumb.
Shaking his hand, he left the book where it fell and walked off to find a bandage in the desk drawer.
He never saw the faint glow that shimmered across the book's surface once his back was turned.
Nor the soft click as the wooden door cover slowly creaked open.