"I guess I didn't need to burn a hole in my wallet to get a girlfriend after all," Oliver muttered, head down, counting each step as he made his way back to the wardrobe. His movements were effortless, guided by a basic walking technique most young cultivators of the Fang Clan mastered before entering the Great Seclusion Forest—or, as most knew it, by another name:
The True Seclusion Formation.
The very formation he had now spent almost a year in.
"It's a shame I couldn't find any abodes—or steal a cultivation technique that actually fits me," he thought with a sigh. He still couldn't explain how a formation array that should've existed only in his dreams had manifested in reality.
Well… that was assuming this wasn't still a dream.
But something deep in his gut told him otherwise.
The same way he knew no one else was trapped in there with them. It had felt strange at first—as if his mind had stretched across half a continent, aware of everything yet connected to nothing: the birds, the rabbits, and countless other flickers of life.
Along with those who had slipped into this world like Mika but weren't as lucky. At this moment, their five corpses were scattered too far for even him to reach, yet he could feel them: a woman impaled by a jagged tree branch, a man suffocated to death in a narrow cave, another drowned in a large river, and a family of three splattered below a cliff.
Reaching the wardrobe, Oliver looked through the fresh uniforms hanging from the hangers and began getting changed, grabbing his school uniform—a crisp white shirt, a navy blazer, and matching trousers.
After he buttoned his shirt, he slid his small brown-leather notebook into his blazer—not noticing its cover was etched with an invisible pattern. If Oliver had noticed, he would've grown wary. It would have meant recognizing not only the strange glyph but also that the notebook he thought he left under his pillow was now in his blazer.
And somehow, without realizing it, he'd placed it into his inner pocket, violet swirling faintly in his eyes.
"Maybe I should ask Ren and Akari for more Dream Patterns," he mused aloud, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
But that'll have to wait. For now, let's get something proper to eat, other than berries and wild catch...
A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts, the sound reaching him just as he stepped through the wardrobe.
His eyes flickered toward the door.
"Oliver, your five minutes are up!" Yumi's voice carried a teasing edge.
He smiled. Hearing a familiar voice for the first time in ages took him a moment to recover, but he eventually answered, "Yeah, yeah, I'm almost done!"
"Not almost—you are done. Breakfast is waiting, and if you don't hurry, Kaito or Yui's gonna eat your portion," she warned.
A small smile tugged at Oliver's lips. "Those little traitors," he playfully replied as he slipped on his school shoes and hurriedly finished getting dressed.
"Hey, Yumi?" he called out as he adjusted his blazer.
"Did you take my bag again?"
The wardrobe door clicked shut behind him—the sound of it locking, even though he wasn't near the key. For a brief moment, the silence in the room felt... strained. Like the air had thickened. He blinked and shook his head.
"Yeah, I grabbed it without thinking," Yumi's voice floated back through the door—casual, but just a little breathy.
He stepped closer and opened it.
She stood there, his school bag hanging from one hand. Her other hand was on her hip, and the morning light filtered through the hallway window behind her, turning her slightly damp shirt just translucent enough to reveal the curve of her bra.
Her lips curved into a smirk. "You forgot to ask nicely."
"Please, mighty bag thief, grant me my belongings," Oliver said dryly, though his eyes did flicker for a second—not out of lust, but curiosity. Her nipples were faintly visible, perked slightly either from the chill or the warm flush that had risen to her cheeks.
Wait... Didn't I tell her to change out of that shirt?
Yumi noticed where his gaze fell. Her smile didn't fade. She held out the bag but leaned in slightly as he reached for it, brushing her fingers against his when he took the strap.
Something smells... different.
As he reached for the bag, her fingers brushed his, and the faint scent clinging to him hit her all at once. It wasn't just sweat or the usual blend of ocean air and mint soap he always carried after bathing. No—this was... warmer. Musky. Faintly sweet.
What is that? It's not his cologne. It's not shampoo either...
Her gaze flicked up to his face, calm and casual as always. But something in her chest tightened unexpectedly. Is that perfume? No... it's skin. It smells like someone.
The realization made her stomach twist—not with certainty, but with a slow, rising unease.
She didn't understand why it bothered her. Not really. They weren't together. He teased her, sure, and sometimes their touches lingered a second too long—but it wasn't like that.
Was it?
Her fingers clenched the strap of the bag tighter without meaning to.
Why am I thinking about this? It's none of my business.
Still, the scent lingered. So did the heat in her cheeks.
"I'm heading downstairs," she said quickly—too quickly—masking her thoughts behind a practiced smile.
She turned without waiting for a response, the hallway swallowing her quiet footsteps as she walked away, heart beating just a little faster than before.
Oliver watched her retreating back, his gaze lingering longer than it should have. The morning light trailed behind her like a spotlight through the hallway window—catching the ends of her hair, the swing of her hips, the slight rise of her shirt over her back.
Then—
She flickered.
For a heartbeat, the hallway was no longer lined with polished wood and framed family photos. Instead, the walls twisted into trunks—gnarled and ancient—and the golden light fractured into green beams filtered through leaves. Where Yumi walked, a girl with brown hair stepped barefoot through moss.
Mika.
Oliver's breath caught. He blinked hard.
Yumi was gone.
The hallway had returned to normal.
But his heart had already leapt into a sprint.
He turned and darted into his room without another word, the door shutting with a soft thunk behind him.
The hallway stood still, untouched. Shadows shifted quietly along the floor as wind stirred the curtains. Dust drifted lazily through the sunlight. Somewhere downstairs, a kettle began to whistle faintly.
A minute passed.
Then the door creaked open again.
Oliver stepped out, his expression unreadable—somewhere between distracted and drowsy, like someone who had just shaken off the remnants of a dream.
He was no longer wearing his blazer. In its place hung a soft, navy school sweater, sleeves slightly rumpled at the wrists. He tugged them straight as he walked, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes downcast.
He didn't say a word.