They say a person's character is shaped by their environment and the people around them—the whole nature versus nurture thing. If that's true, my parents must've been playing the long game, shaping me from afar. They weren't around much. Both worked overseas, leaving me in the care of my grandparents. It wasn't bad—just… different. My grandparents lived an old-fashioned life. Sunrise marked the start of their day, and by sunset, everything slowed to a halt. No TVs, no smartphones, no flashy distractions. To a kid growing up in that world, it was peaceful, if not a little lonely.
I didn't have much in the way of toys. Just three, to be exact. Sounds tragic, right? But my parents didn't see it that way. They had a plan. Their philosophy was simple: If you want something, figure out how to create it yourself.
And so, I did. My first toy was a big box of Legos—just the basics, nothing fancy. Red, yellow, blue, green—blocks as plain as could be. But to me, they were infinite. With every set they sent—boats, castles, cars—I wasn't just playing; I was building. By fifth grade, I wasn't just stacking blocks; I was making furniture. No joke—I built a Lego bed big enough to lie on. My parents never handed me ready-made solutions. If I wanted fun, I had to engineer it myself. And I liked it that way.
When I hit sixth grade, my mom decided to mix things up. She sent me a Dungeons & Dragons Starter Kit. I think she thought it was just another "challenge" for me. My grandparents, however, were horrified. They didn't get it. They thought it was devil worship or some nonsense like that. But I didn't care. That kit introduced me to a whole new world.
DnD wasn't just a game; it was a crash course in creativity and critical thinking. Every campaign was a puzzle: Do you fight the dragon or talk your way out? Do you split the party or stick together? For the first time, I wasn't just creating things; I was creating stories. It drew me to people older than me—college kids, seasoned players who didn't care that I was just some sixth grader. Heck, even my grandfather got curious. One day, he sat down with a grimace and joined a session. I'm convinced he just wanted an excuse to skip dominoes, but we bonded in those games in ways I hadn't thought possible.
DnD taught me lessons that no classroom could. Think ahead. Adapt. Turn scraps into solutions. And when you fail? Learn from it and try again. That mindset stayed with me. By the time high school rolled around, we'd moved to the city. My parents were more present, and my mom leaned into the modern conveniences we'd once gone without. Suddenly, I was surrounded by kids who had everything, but their idea of "problem-solving" was asking their parents for money.
By then, I'd discovered Yu-Gi-Oh!—another game of strategy, but with cards instead of dice. Building decks, calculating moves, reading your opponent's strategy—it all reminded me of DnD campaigns, only faster. And just like before, the people mattered as much as the game. Finding the right players made all the difference.
For a while, life felt good. I was thriving, outsmarting older kids in games, impressing teachers with my problem-solving skills, and building things no one expected. But that's when everything shifted. Suddenly, I wasn't just Kris anymore. I became "the smart kid," "the overachiever," "the weird one who builds Lego furniture." People started treating me differently.
At first, it felt good—like I was special. But then it started feeling like a cage. Teachers expected me to have all the answers. Friends stopped seeing me as one of them and started treating me like some sort of curiosity. Even my parents, when they were around, seemed more interested in how I was living up to their ideals than who I was becoming.
So, I stopped trying.
I let my grades drop just enough to blend in. I stopped building Lego masterpieces and never touched them again. I stop playing Yu-Gi-Oh! and DnD. I became what people wanted me to be: ordinary.
It was easier that way—no expectations, no pressure, just mediocrity. But over time, I started to lose touch with the lessons I'd once cherished. The creativity, the resourcefulness, the thrill of figuring things out—they were still there, just buried beneath layers of "normal."
---
**Longevity Realm Limit Broken!**
**Rewarded 500 points. Cell vitality increased by 10 points. Immunization strength increased by 50 points!**
---
**Hidden God's Quest Complete!**
**As a new player, you have survived three breakthrough challenges in the face of horror and come closer to humanity's next step in evolution.**
**Rewarded 3000 points, a Rank B reward, and an Upgrade Certificate!**
---
**Upgrade Certificate!**
*A rare certificate given to players by God, allowing the upgrade of a low or intermediate-level non-genetic enhancement without points or reward requirements. Consumable: (3).*
---
The incessant, imaginary ding of a notification snapped me out of my thoughts. Opening my eyes felt like waking up after a FIFA finals bar crawl. A blinding ball of white light greeted me. If I were a little more sane, I'd think I'd been abducted by aliens from *Skyline*, but that's impossible… right?
Then I heard Jie's voice talking about something to do with human creations, and Glasses Girl stormed off toward what was probably her room. As I sat up, I patted myself down, checking for missing limbs or unexplained stitches (just in case my organs had been harvested or something). Everything seemed intact.
I could almost hear the narrator from one of those cheesy books saying, "And in that moment, Kris knew the system had healed him."
Got to wonder, though, was the T-Virus cured when I drank the antidote, or was it the ball of light that healed me?
By the time I was done with my little introspection. Jie and his wife already left for their room.
I walked over to Zheng and the high school kid. "What's up, guys? Watching something naughty? Hope you're not into yaoi or anything, 'cause I'm just saying, I don't swing that way."
The high school kid immediately denied it, a little *too* emphatically. I shrugged, "Hey, no judgment. It's a crazy world, man. Who am I to judge what you're into?"
He calmed down and explained what they were actually up to, and that the first human creation is free. "My name's Li Xiaoyi. I'm a high school student. Nice to officially meet you."
Right—I hadn't been paying attention during introductions. I replied, "Name's Kris Wu. Things I like-, things I hate-, I don't feel like telling you. My dreams?-, Never really thought about it. And my hobbies-, I've got a lot of those." I shook his hand, giving him my signature "eye smile," Kaka-style.
When I let go, he went on about wanting to create his dream girl and got right to it. I glanced at Zheng, who seemed completely engrossed in designing his woman, then shrugged and headed to the nearest door. I pictured my usual setup—a bed, a nightstand, and an air cooler on a wooden floor. Opening the door, a sign appeared: *KRIS'S ROOM—ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.*
As I stepped into the room, the door clicked shut behind me. The air felt different here—fresher, maybe? Or maybe it was just the change in atmosphere. Either way, I knew the second I closed the door that I was no longer playing by society's rules.