Back at camp, Yumei tucked the massive egg near the fire, drying it gently with a spare towel while Fan Hanji roasted chestnuts over a flickering energy coil.
"Still think we should eat this thing," he muttered, sulking beside the flames. "Nice mystical qi omelet. Boost lifespan to 395. Shiny hair. Zero stress."
Hanji watched her adjust the egg's position closer to the warmth, then sighed—more gently this time.
"You really are your father's kid."
"I'm my own kid," she said, not looking up.
He grinned, tossing another chestnut into the pan with a lazy flick.
Nearby, her old Federation comm buzzed faintly. The built-in soul-tech sensors, set to passive scan mode, picked up a heartbeat—soft, rhythmic, and definitely not hers.
She glanced at the readout… then ignored it.
Instead, she opened her messages and caught her dad up.
⸻
🌸 Tiny Tornado Soldier 🫡:
hi dad. i just survived 3 near-deaths, 2 emotional breakdowns, and 1 overcooked noodle bowl.
how's your day going 😇
🧢 Papa_wasOwl_There:
That sounds like a normal Tuesday night in college with your uncle.
Did the noodles make it? 🍜
🌸 Tiny Tornado Soldier 🫡:
the noodles did not make it
they fought bravely
we hold them in our hearts 😔
🧢 Papa_wasOwl_There:
Tell them I said thank you for their service.
Also, drink water. Or I'm sending Grandma-drone after you.
🌸 Tiny Tornado Soldier 🫡:
I'M DRINKING IT OKAY
half tea
half guilt
all hydration 💦
🧢 Papa_wasOwl_There:
Proud of you, hydration goblin.
Now go do your core thingy. Cleanse your inner goblin.
🌸 Tiny Tornado Soldier 🫡:
working on it 🧘♀️✨
core now 75% cleansed
but i'm still 100% chaos 😌
🧢 Papa_wasOwl_There:
That's my girl 💪
⸻
After their goodnights, Fan Yumei scrolled the Netsphere for a bit before settling into her core-cleansing techniques.
Her qi-core pulsed—78% pure, free from the lingering discharge grime. She hadn't missed a single session. Not once.
Sleep tugged at her, slow and warm.
Later, as the rain softened and the firelight danced higher, she curled beside the heat, the egg cradled close.
Tomorrow, they'd reach town.
And maybe—just maybe—something inside her would start to hatch, too.
⸻
Fan Yumei was in the middle of a very important dream—one full of slow-motion, shirtless military heroes, dramatic lighting, and unnecessarily epic wind gusts—when it all shattered.
Her uncle tried to sneak.
Tried.
The dream cracked like a holo-screen under a sledgehammer. She heard him shuffling, muttering, clanking around like an elephant trying to sneak through a sensor maze.
She cracked one eye open.
There he was. Uncle Hanji. Hunched beside the tent. Holding twigs. A lit match. And aiming it directly under her egg.
"UNCLE HANJI! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
He jolted like he'd been hit with a stun bolt. "Nothing! Just… warming it? Gentle toasting?"
"Toasting?! It's not a dumpling—it's a mythical beast egg!"
She launched out of the tent, hair wild, fists flying. Hanji flailed, twigs soaring, match snuffed.
"No roasted omelets today!" she shouted, delivering a flurry of satisfying smacks.
"Yuyu! Mercy!" he gasped. "I was helping! Cold could hurt the embryo!"
"Fine! I'm calling Father!"
He froze. Then sighed and muttered with that guilty smile, "You really don't know your father's black history, do you?"
She blinked. "What black history?"
Hanji stretched, cracking his knuckles like a story was loading. "Just a little thing about him nearly burning down our camp during his final exam in a secret realm. Back after Profession Academy. He tried to roast an egg. Just like me."
Her eyes widened. "No. No way. My father? Gentle, wise, zen-dad?"
Hanji laughed. "Zen now. Back then? Fire gremlin."
Her mental image of her dad—noble, composed, scarred from battle but unshaken—rippled like a corrupted file.
"…What even is a realm meet?" she asked.
Hanji's eyes lit up. "After four years at Federation Academy, you go to a Profession Academy. When you graduate, they throw you into a secret realm. It's not a sim—it's an actual fragment of reality. Uncontrolled. Broken worlds full of old treasures and forgotten death traps. Based on your survival and performance, big-time Colleges and orgs recruit you."
"Most people die?" she echoed.
"Yup. But until you awaken, you don't have to worry."
He clapped her back.
"Which means no roasting the egg until after we save the world."
She tackled him again.
⸻
For the rest of the hike, Fan Yumei walked like a mother hawk, glaring every time her uncle glanced at the egg.
Hanji sulked, gnawing on jerky, occasionally whispering nonsense to the egg like it was a forbidden love he couldn't eat.
By the time they reached DenMark City, the sun was high and their legs were screaming. The outer walls towered—massive alloy-stone slabs fused with glowing script runes and semi-sentient glyphs.
Surveillance spheres floated lazily overhead, scanning for threats. Security drones zipped past.
They'd made it. The egg intact. Only minor emotional trauma.
She was exhausted from lugging the egg, so she dipped into the 1,000 Federation coins her father had loaded into her vault. After authenticating with her biometrics and core signal, she bought a hover-cart for 47 coins—ugly, but stable.
With funds left over, they stumbled into a breakfast nook tucked in Safe Zone 3—neon signs flickering above cobbled paths, the smell of soy steam and grilled onion in the air.
The shopkeeper stared.
Coins did the talking.
"One rice porridge, three buns, and absolutely no roasted anything," Yumei ordered, wrapping an arm possessively around the cart like a dragon over her hoard.
⸻
After breakfast, they wandered the market. Yumei marveled at neon-dyed silks, bioluminescent spices, and floating trinkets, while Hanji kept trying to spend money on mystery skewers.
The egg, of course, drew attention.
"Is that an egg?"
"A relic?"
"A prop?"
Then trouble approached.
A woman, dressed in glittering robes and confidence, hair stacked like pastry swirls, glided toward them. Her entourage of assistant bots and pale-eyed staffers buzzed behind her. She raised her spirit-comm, scanning.
"I want it," she said flatly. "How much?"
Hanji lit up like a kid on sugar day.
"Well, since you asked—"
THWACK.
Yumei kicked him in the shin. "My uncle's… developmentally outdated. It's not for sale."
"1,000 coins," the woman said.
"Still not."
"10,000."
"No."
"50,000 and two 2-star C-Class beasts."
Yumei's eye twitched. "NO."
The woman narrowed her eyes. "100,000 Federation coins."
Gasps rippled.
Hanji's soul nearly left his body. "Yuyu… we could buy a palace!"
"It's. Not. For. Sale!"
The woman took a step forward, servants murmuring behind her.
"You're being selfish."
Yumei scanned the crowd. Too many people. Too much heat.
So she pointed behind the woman and screamed:
"BEAST RAID!"
Silence. Then chaos.
Everyone turned just in time to see a random beggar scratch his butt. He looked up, panicked, and bolted.
Screams. Pandemonium. People ran, overturned carts, tripped over smart-chickens.
In the mess, Yumei grabbed the hover-cart and bolted, dragging her uncle and their breakfast haul with her.
⸻
Two alleys, one fish barrel detour, and several apologies later, they stumbled onto the quiet stretch of Gu Road.
"I can't believe that worked," Hanji wheezed.
"I can't believe you tried to sell my egg, cheap uncle."
At the end of the road stood a wide villa—walls fused with obsidian-blue alloy and silver runes, gates etched with sigil-coded locks.
Master Sun Wanghe's home.
They knocked. Then again.
The gate's spirit-lock clicked. An old man opened it—plump build, hair neatly combed, beard wild like an ancient forest.
His eyes twinkled. "Welcome. Got charisma. And a niece who makes up for both our bad ideas."
Yumei smirked. "You're dodging."
"I'm warning. Big difference."
"Ridiculous."
"Ridiculously wise." He winked. "Now help me carry this giant breakfast-to-be—I mean, miracle."
⸻