Staring at the child’s tiny back, kind-hearted Auntie Zhāng (Zhāng dàmā，张大妈) grew melancholic. Her thoughts wandered, her mind unsettled—until the faint rustling sounds snapped her back to reality…

  She turned around and saw two chubby kids holding the delicious food ājùn (ājùn，阿俊) had carefully packed earlier: juicy chicken legs, rich chocolate cake, and fizzy soda.

  Of course, the food was clean—no different from a buffet. After all, food shouldn’t be wasted. Besides, these two classmates looked adorably plump. Clearly, Auntie Zhāng hadn’t served them enough earlier.

  They smiled sweetly at her, their cuteness irresistible. But Auntie Zhāng wasn’t easily swayed. Calm and rational, she reached out with both hands, took the leftovers away, and declared she’d feed them to… something. Who could tolerate that?

  Later, when Auntie Zhāng returned with fresh food to feed the hungry students, a group of parents rallied the principal—demanding she be dealt with. Thus, kind-hearted Auntie Zhāng was forced to step down, reassigned to the back kitchen.

  Still, thanks to her excellent diplomacy, ājùn continued receiving generous, high-quality meals. Though this change made him feel more relaxed, he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

  After enduring the day at school, ājùn felt mentally drained. Yet after class, he didn’t rush to leave. He lingered at his desk, studying something quietly.

  His homeroom teacher, surprised, checked on him from time to time—asking if he felt unwell or needed someone to pick him up. Only after all the students had gone home did ājùn grab his neatly packed bag, say goodbye, and slip away.

  On the way home, the scene was just like the morning. That zoo-like feeling lingered. But after a full day of “training,” his immunity had improved somewhat.

  Following Big Brother-in-law Yì’s (Yì，毅) advice, ājùn imagined the staring people as pumpkins, watermelons, and other fruits. Gradually, it felt like watching a cartoon—almost fun.

  Of course, it was just a way to find joy in hardship. It couldn’t erase the day’s exhaustion. Once home, ājùn forced a smile, greeted Yì and Little Sister, then retreated to his attic.

  Then came the second day, the third…

  Day after day, ājùn grew under pressure. Each school day brought new experiences. Teasing, cold stares, mockery—those were nothing. The real stress came from Auntie Zhāng’s deluxe lunch offerings.

  Every lunch hour, Auntie Zhāng fought off opposition—waving her ladle, shooing away troublemakers, urging the servers to pile food onto ājùn’s tray.

  But ājùn felt his classmates couldn’t understand his true thoughts. If only they knew he didn’t actually like getting so much food, maybe they wouldn’t target him so much…

  Each school day, whether before dismissal or at home, he carefully studied strategies—how to gently ask Auntie Zhāng to ease up. Her kindness was overwhelming, but it led to waste.

  Finally, one evening after dinner, with both Qīng (Qīng，青) and Yì at home, ājùn couldn’t hold back. He asked his seniors for advice. And his small wish… came true the very next day.

  As usual, he arrived early at the cafeteria, scanning for Auntie Zhāng—hoping to catch a moment when someone else could serve him. Just once…

  But based on past experience, that was unlikely. She always caught him red-handed. He even suspected she’d been a detective—knowing his habits and timing perfectly, grabbing him like a criminal.

  Strangely, this time, the cat-and-mouse game didn’t happen. At the cafeteria entrance, ājùn sensed something different. The head server… was someone new.

  When it was his turn, he saw a new auntie across the counter. She smiled, let out a soft “hmph,” flicked her wrist—and barely any food landed on his tray. His classmates clapped and cheered.

  But ājùn didn’t care. He was used to this.

  From then on, every lunch came without the love-filled portions. Just tiny scoops—smaller than small. So little. So unfair! Yet every time, ājùn smiled and ate his rice happily.

  The audience expecting drama was sorely disappointed—mouths agape, refund requests soaring.

  Why? Because for ājùn, rice had always been his must-have staple. One bowl, a splash of soy sauce, and he was content. Even with fewer side dishes, nothing went to waste.

  This quiet resistance—choosing simplicity over spectacle—may one day become his greatest strength.

  That evening, when ājùn learned Auntie Zhāng wouldn’t be returning to the cafeteria, it felt like something tugged at his heart. Could it be… because of what he’d said to his family? Had he caused her to lose her job?

  Later, Big Sister Qīng (Qīng，青) explained that some parents had reported Auntie Zhāng’s “authoritarian behavior,” and the school couldn’t withstand the public pressure. That eased ājùn’s guilt a little—but not completely.

  If he hadn’t spoken up, maybe she wouldn’t have been fired. But a few days later, Big Brother-in-law Yì (Yì，毅) told him Auntie Zhāng had found a better job—a golden opportunity where she could truly shine.

  That finally cleared the blockage in his heart. He even felt a bit relieved. At least now he didn’t have to worry about lunch anymore and could focus on other challenges—because there were plenty ahead.

  Time flew by. ājùn endured a stretch of not-so-pleasant school days, filled with challenges. But thanks to his effort and persistence, things gradually became more bearable.

  After a while, Qīng brought him a special baseball cap. With it, he could finally lift his head—no longer needing to keep it down to avoid hostile stares. And the cap had a magical feature: it could carry Xiǎofēi (Xiǎofēi，小绯), his kitten, to school with him.

  Speaking of Xiǎofēi, she was unlike other cats. She couldn’t sit still at home and always wanted to go out. But the family didn’t allow it… So she meowed constantly, leaving scratch marks everywhere. Even Qīng grew anxious—was the kitten becoming depressed?

  So the house rules were adjusted. From then on, Xiǎofēi’s happiest moment was waiting at the door every afternoon for ājùn to come home—climbing onto his shoulder and nuzzling his face. Even if she couldn’t roam outside, it was better than being locked in.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  When ājùn first got the cap, he hesitated. It looked small. Would Xiǎofēi be cramped inside all day?

  But he was overthinking. Qīng confidently explained that the cap was custom-made—unlike regular ones, it had a spacious interior, enough for the kitten to stay comfortably all day.

  —That’s amazing…

  ājùn examined the cap curiously, then tried it on. It looked ordinary, but the wine-red color was quite nice. Then he let Xiǎofēi crawl inside—and something magical happened. Two cat ears popped up on top, and a little tail appeared at the back.

  After a while, Xiǎofēi emerged, meowing happily. She was very pleased. Yì, ever thoughtful, had even packed a day’s worth of snacks into the cap for them.

  For several days, ājùn wore the magical cap to school. With his kitten by his side, he happily ignored the sharp, weary stares around him.

  But his joy was short-lived. His school life soon changed again. The opposition upgraded their tactics—switching from eye attacks to verbal pressure. Voices rose. Whispering surrounded him every day on his way to school.

  Gradually, ājùn began to understand the words. They were bizarre insults—“shorty,” “weirdo,” “melon-head”—and those were the polite ones.

  Even classmates started mimicking adults, keeping up the verbal barrage. Day after day, the torment continued. The cat ears on his cap drooped or disappeared altogether.

  Over time, ājùn lost his composure. He even regretted the change. Maybe things were easier before.

  Seeing him struggle again, Qīng stood firm. “Don’t let them crush your spirit,” she said. Then she had a new set of gear custom-made for him: a pair of earplugs, two nasal filters, and a pair of glasses—all branded with the Nangōng Family (Nángōngjiā，南宫家) logo, just like the cap.

  The nasal filters could adjust the air entering his nose—humidity, temperature, and more. The Sacred Healer Clan’s manual emphasized monitoring weather changes and adjusting indoor air systems. Rainy days always made ājùn look pale and weak—especially since starting school. Now, he could finally relax a bit.

  The earplugs were clearly essential. With just eye attacks, ājùn had developed avoidance techniques. But sound? That was different. No matter where he hid, harsh words always reached his ears, then his brain, then his heart. At one point, he even wished he couldn’t hear at all—though that was just frustration talking.

  As for the glasses, he was puzzled. He wasn’t nearsighted—why wear them? But Qīng proudly explained: they were a new Nangōng Family product—limited edition!

  Made from superalloy, polymer lenses, and microchips, they were ultra-light and extremely durable. Nearly impossible to break. They prevented nearsightedness, worked as sunglasses, and hid advanced tech—night vision, data scanning…

  For ājùn, the most exciting part was their compatibility with the latest game console and a AAA motion-sensing title developed by a tech company. Of course, game time was still strictly limited.

  He was thrilled. As a gaming fan, he could now experience cutting-edge gear and gameplay—even if only for a short while.

  He eagerly grabbed the gear, choosing the glasses first, and pulled Qīng and Yì into a gaming session. The whole family had fun—except Qīng, who was slightly annoyed. She wasn’t great at games and kept losing to the AI. As one of the top players in the capital, her pride took a hit. The Elder often reminded her: stay humble.

  This new gear was truly magical. But it left ājùn feeling… uneasy. Once bitten, twice shy. He couldn’t relax like before.

  This cautious joy—born from past pain—may shape how ājùn approaches every future gift.

  Early the next morning, ājùn (ājùn，阿俊) firmly put on his gear and carefully made his way through the streets, observing reactions and changes around him. As usual, people pointed and muttered—but the voices were noticeably quieter.

  After a few days of testing, ājùn discovered that the earplugs had been actively filtering out the gossip as noise. Even more magical, the glasses transformed the people in his view into pumpkins, winter melons, and other vegetables. Though their behavior wasn’t exactly refined, it was undeniably amusing.

  The same applied at school. ājùn felt much more relaxed. But this time, he played it smart—pretending to be affected in front of others. Inside, he was calm and quietly joyful.

  And so, his student life finally began to feel normal. The seats around him, once empty, gradually filled—except for the one beside him.

  This shift was purely due to his academic performance. During exams, it became obvious. Classmates started eyeing his spot, hoping to move closer.

  But somewhere in the shadows, a pair of eyes watched him—not with admiration, but with jealousy.

  A week later, the long-awaited desk mate finally arrived. The new kid had previously sat next to another top student—but his grades were terrible. The teacher had hoped pairing them would help both improve. But after multiple complaints from the top student, who couldn’t handle it anymore, the teacher had no choice but to assign him to ājùn—no one else was willing.

  Unexpectedly, this reluctant decision cast a shadow over ājùn’s newly stabilized school life.

  It started the moment the new desk mate arrived. Having grown used to being surrounded by classmates, ājùn had hoped for a desk mate of his own. But deep down, he disliked this one. They knew each other too well.

  After failing to negotiate with the teacher, he chose to wait and see. At first, the new desk mate behaved well—even the homeroom teacher thought it might work. But ājùn couldn’t shake a strange feeling. Something was off.

  His instincts were spot-on. Not long after the teacher let his guard down, the new desk mate began acting out—mimicking ājùn’s eating habits, chewing loudly during class, annoying even the teachers. He hogged the desk’s center line, squeezed ājùn’s study space, and constantly poked, bumped, or kicked him—little tricks meant to distract.

  It wasn’t physically harmful, but it was deeply insulting. ājùn endured for a few days, then decided to talk it out. He understood the teacher’s dilemma.

  But he was too na?ve. When he brought it up, the desk mate turned hostile—threatening him with harsh words, claiming to have powerful connections. “Don’t push me. Know your place.”

  This was a first for ājùn. As a child, he chose to endure a bit longer and think things through.

  He was the type to shoulder problems alone, not wanting to trouble others. But this decision began to weigh on him—hurting both body and mind.

  One night, Yì (Yì，毅) noticed something was off. He asked around and uncovered the truth. The next morning, Qīng (Qīng，青) learned the details and wanted to storm the school. But after consulting with others, she held back—choosing instead to talk with ājùn and help him stand up to the bullying.

  Coincidentally, that day, ājùn seemed to sense her thoughts. Pushed to his limit, he decided to break ties with the desk mate. The process, however, was complicated.

  At first, the desk mate kept up his antics. But when he saw ājùn preparing to report him, he rushed to complain to the teacher first. Though most teachers and classmates didn’t believe him, the lack of evidence left them helpless. The teacher went to consult the homeroom teacher.

  The moment the teacher left the room, the desk mate flipped—trying to use force to intimidate ājùn. He came from a respected Guardian family, trained from a young age. Though his talent hadn’t awakened, his basics were decent.

  But he overestimated himself. Thinking ājùn was weak, he launched a “Tiger Heart Strike”—only for ājùn to dodge, grab his arms, and sweep his legs, sending him crashing to the ground.

  The injury wasn’t serious for a trained Guardian child. He quickly stood up, full of righteous fury, and launched a flurry of punches and kicks—his “Wild Dance Fist” looked terrifying.

  Luckily, ājùn had solid fundamentals. Normal attacks didn’t work on him. He dodged, then sidestepped and used a gentle-looking palm strike—hitting the desk mate’s side and knocking him down, howling in pain. The seemingly soft blow carried all the pent-up emotion from days of restraint.

  The desk mate’s eyes bulged, spit flew—he couldn’t believe the sickly kid had such power. His pride shattered.

  Lying on the floor, he glanced around. No backup. No support. His image ruined. In a flash, he rolled over, threw a tantrum, and cried for his mom.

  The whole class burst into laughter. Clearly, they approved of ājùn’s actions. It was satisfying.

  This moment of standing up—after long silence—may mark the beginning of a new kind of strength.

  Trouble came swiftly. When the homeroom teacher arrived and saw the scene, she was stunned. She tried to quiet the class while stifling a laugh, unsure how to defuse the situation.

  Just as the teachers were at a loss, a soprano voice rang out from the hallway. A curvy figure entered—radiating wealth, even over-nourishment.

  She was the wife of the City Lord’s relative. Her figure alone showed she’d been well-fed. Children of noble families were naturally proud. Her family ran a business, lived luxuriously, wore mink coats, and traveled with bodyguards…