A Master’s Advice and a Streamer’s Rant

The bell had just rung, signaling the start of the long break. As was my habit, I found myself daydreaming at my desk, while the student on duty diligently wiped the notes from the blackboard, making way for the next teacher. With a generous interval between the second and third periods, many of my classmates had already dispersed, some heading out for refreshments, others wandering to different classrooms to chat with friends.

Consequently, the classroom was enveloped in a rare tranquility, bathed in the gentle afternoon sun — perfect conditions, I thought, for a quick nap. Huang Zhouyu, however, had kept me up late last night, dragging me into a series of Pokémon battles. The more he lost, the more stubbornly he insisted on a rematch, ensuring I got little to no sleep.

To make matters worse, the morning had consisted of two back-to-back math classes — a truly dreadful subject that, after even a momentary lapse into slumber, would become utterly incomprehensible. It was only through sheer willpower that I had managed to fight off the encroaching drowsiness until this very moment.

No sooner had I settled my head onto my arms, however, than my deskmate leaned over to speak.

“Master, yesterday I staked out the corridor, patiently waiting for the class president to pass by on her way to help the teachers with files.”

The familiar address immediately told me it was Gao Qinghong. Despite his words, my head remained buried in my arms; I had no desire to stir, yet I listened intently. It was true, the class president’s diligent figure was a common sight, bustling back and forth along the corridor.

“And I didn’t have to wait long,” he continued, “I just feigned a casual stroll past her, then offered, ‘Let me lend a hand.'”

“And the outcome?” I inquired.

“The outcome,” he sighed, letting out a long breath and slumping dramatically onto his desk, “was that the class president said it wasn’t necessary, that she could manage perfectly fine on her own.” I lifted my head from my arms and turned to see Gao Qinghong, looking utterly defeated, like a ghost.

“Might I ask,” I began, “why you feel compelled to emulate my methods? Is there no conventional approach to pursuing the class president?”

Gao Qinghong’s gaze drifted towards the class president’s empty seat. Tang Xiaoxiao wasn’t present; perhaps a teacher had summoned her for a task, or she was occupied with something else entirely. In any case, she wasn’t there. Having confirmed this, he lowered his head in contemplation, carefully formulating his thoughts. Soon, he had composed himself, his emotions settling, his feelings clear. His eyes shone with a newfound clarity, and his expression was resolute.

“I, too, once followed the common path,” he began, “dating for myriad social reasons, simply to fit in. I used to believe that getting together first, then cultivating feelings, was the way. So, until now, my interactions with girls typically involved them asking for my WeChat while I was playing basketball, or exchanging contact details during outings with friends, simply swept up in the moment…”

In this fast-paced era, affection has morphed into a mere embellishment of oneself, a deceptive credential used to package and present an image. Love is no longer a profound yearning from one soul to another, but a calculated demand, a utilitarian endeavor to extract something from the other, rather than an ardent desire to offer something in return.

I, for one, would never presume to critique the shifting tides of the era, for I remain detached, an observer rather than a participant in the world’s constant flux. Yet, Gao Qinghong, it seemed, had discerned a fundamental flaw in this modern approach. It was his serendipitous encounter with Tang Xiaoxiao, he implied, that had illuminated the truer, more genuine essence of love.

“It wasn’t until high school that I finally, unequivocally, fell in love with someone. Yet, I found myself utterly at a loss on how to pursue her. She’s so exceptional, completely outside my social sphere; our lives simply don’t intersect, and I have no friends who could possibly set us up.” His voice was thick with emotion, tinged with the despair of realizing just how distant his beloved truly was. “Even when I deliberately play basketball at the court near her home, she never spares a glance when she passes by. Even when my team clinches a championship, she offers no more than a casual word. Though I managed to add her on WeChat as a classmate, I’m perpetually stumped for a reason to message her.”

We’re in the same class, yet our lives remain utterly devoid of common ground. Is forging connections with others truly such an arduous task? Perhaps it is. Even when we yearn to bridge the gap, our distinct lifestyles and divergent interests conspire to ensure no intersection. After nearly a year spent within the same classroom walls, I confess I haven’t committed many classmates’ names to memory, and I suspect the feeling is entirely mutual.

“Therefore, Master, you are my sole hope,” he declared, a fervent fire blazing in his eyes. His spirit, once extinguished by the harsh light of reality, had rekindled with such intensity that it commanded a reluctant admiration.

“If even *you* can find yourself entangled with the future campus belle, then surely, with your guidance, I stand a fighting chance.”

‘Was he subtly mocking me?’

“Is that so? Well then, keep at it.”

I, for one, remained utterly clueless when it came to matters of the heart. While I’d certainly played my fair share of dating simulations, those virtual experiences offered scant practical wisdom for the real world. I could only wish him the best of luck.

I had intended to resume my nap, but Gao Qinghong clearly wasn’t finished with me. He pressed on, “So, how are things progressing with you and Yu Tianman? Share some of your experiences; I’d like to glean some of your successful strategies.”

“Truth be told, I’m quite out of my depth in such matters. Forming this kind of relationship with someone is a first for me since high school. Perhaps I should be asking *you* for advice on how to navigate it.”

“Don’t be so modest, Master,” he exclaimed, his voice inexplicably rising in volume. “To conquer such a formidable fortress, to pluck this seemingly unattainable high-mountain flower — you are already a venerated elder in the annals of our romantic lives!”

‘Was it really as exaggerated as he made it sound…’

“So, esteemed elder, please enlighten me: how do you typically interact?”

Though I was utterly at a loss for words, his expectant gaze unexpectedly placed a burden upon me. I tried to recall my interactions with Yu Tianman, yet nothing particularly remarkable came to mind.

“Well, we usually just sit and chat, and then after school, we’ll walk part of the way home together…”

“Hey! What’s all the chatter about?” A sharp, somewhat painful slap landed squarely on my shoulder. I looked up to find Huang Zhouyu’s signature cheeky grin plastered across his face.

“Ah, right, the drink I promised you,” he chirped, setting a bottle of Assam milk tea on my desk before sliding into the seat directly in front of me. “Still on the topic of romance?”

Gao Qinghong shot him a look of utter disdain. “You bloody nuisance, you couldn’t have picked a worse time to show up.”

“Why the cold shoulder?” Huang Zhouyu whined. “I’m quite adept at discussing matters of the heart, you know.”

“Oh really? And how many relationships have you had?”

“None,” he declared, with an almost dashing nonchalance. “However, I’ve been dumped over twenty times. When it comes to the vast, humbling chasm of ‘not knowing one’s place,’ I consider myself something of an authority.”

This pronouncement rendered Gao Qinghong utterly speechless. Perhaps a sudden, unwelcome comparison to his own pursuit of Tang Xiaoxiao left him unable to either scold or laugh. Ultimately, his expression softened into one of profound sympathy, his gaze filled with a quiet concern.

“Enough with the melodrama. What exactly were you two discussing, anyway?”

“Gao Qinghong’s agonizing over how to get closer to Tang Xiaoxiao,” I explained.

“Ah, that old chestnut. I thought it was something serious. In that case, I have a suggestion.”

Gao Qinghong’s interest was visibly piqued; in his desperate quest to win over the girl he admired, he was willing to grasp at any straw. “Alright then,” he conceded, “I’ll listen without any particular expectations.”

“Just give up already,” Huang Zhouyu chuckled, “It’s a lost cause.”

“Go to hell!” Gao Qinghong retorted, “I knew you wouldn’t have anything decent to say, you jerk.”

Watching Gao Qinghong’s outburst, Huang Zhouyu burst into boisterous laughter. A considerable portion of the break had already elapsed, and classmates were steadily trickling back in. Spotting the rightful occupant of his borrowed seat entering the classroom, Huang Zhouyu swiftly rose, preparing to retreat to his own desk.

As he left, I noticed him cast a glance at Gao Qinghong, shaking his head with a look of genuine pity.

I didn’t bother to delve into the deeper implications of that gesture, for something far more pressing had captured my attention. The figure now standing at the teacher’s podium was not our usual subject instructor, but none other than our homeroom teacher, Brother Hai.

“My apologies, students, for taking up a moment of your time.”

With those words, Brother Hai descended from the podium and led Huang Zhouyu, along with his entire retinue, straight to the office.

“Alright, everything’s fine now. You can all continue with your class.”

****

Midway through the next lesson, the students who had been escorted away by Brother Hai finally returned to the classroom. Some wore sullen expressions, while others sported mischievous grins, leaving it impossible to discern the true nature of their ordeal.

As soon as the bell rang for the next break, Huang Zhouyu once again seized the opportunity of my front-row neighbor’s absence to plop down directly before me.

“I’m utterly miserable, Brother Yi! My phone’s been confiscated,” he wailed dramatically before me.

“And why is that?”

“I got caught playing on my phone during class.”

‘Serves him right, then.’

“So why are you bothering me?”

“Lend me your phone, won’t you~?” he pleaded, adopting a deliberately cloying tone that I found rather nauseating.

Having no compelling reason to refuse, I unhesitatingly unlocked my phone and handed it over. What he intended to do with it held little interest for me, though I was soon to discover the answer regardless.

He promptly navigated to a certain pink-themed video website on my phone. After a flurry of keystrokes, a distinctly feminine voice emanated from the device – a voice so saccharine and delicate, I couldn’t decide if it was charming or utterly contrived. It struck me as vaguely familiar, though perhaps all voices adopting such a high-pitched affectation sounded alike.

“What female streamer are you watching *now*?” my deskmate, Gao Qinghong, interjected.

“Please,” he scoffed, “I wouldn’t stoop to watching something as vulgar as a female streamer.” With an air of defiant pride, he openly displayed the content on my phone.

To describe it from my perspective, the main screen displayed gameplay — specifically, *Resident Evil 9*, a game I had just purchased yesterday with money earned from my part-time job and allowance from my father. What seemed utterly incongruous with the game footage was the animated character in the bottom right corner, shaking its head, its expression frequently contorting in rough, exaggerated shifts, its mouth opening and closing in sync with the human voice.

“Thank you so much, Brother Yi,” he exclaimed. “I almost missed Linglongzi’s livestream.”

A virtual streamer. I had only recently come across this term. While they had been popular for a while, it seemed they were only just gaining traction domestically.

“How short is our break? Is it really necessary to scramble for every second just to watch a VTuber?” Gao Qinghong grumbled.

“Ah, but this is where you don’t understand. Linglongzi is holding a giveaway in her stream today. If you win, you get to chat with her for ten minutes tonight!”

‘Could that even be considered a prize?’

“Oh, Brother Yi, you don’t mind if I follow Linglongzi with your account, do you?” he said, his fingers still furiously typing comments on the screen. “She’s also planning a big fan giveaway once she hits 100,000 followers.”

“Suit yourself.” Though I didn’t quite grasp it, seeing him so happy, I let him be.

“By the way, your BiliBili ID is the same as your WeChat, ‘A Rain’. That’s hilarious.” I ignored his teasing comment.

Honestly, I do have an interest in researching things I don’t understand, so I watched along with him for a while. I had previously stumbled upon clips of virtual streamers, most of whom were clumsy at games, appearing to deliberately make mistakes, or perhaps genuinely lacking skill. In any case, I found it somewhat frustrating, wishing I could just take over and play myself.

However, the streamer Huang Zhouyu was watching played quite well. Her aim with firearms, her quick-time events, her overall controls were excellent. She reacted quickly to puzzles and even remembered the map intimately. Was this what they called a ‘skill-based’ streamer?

Beyond the game, the streamer also interacted and chatted with her audience. Perhaps because the current level wasn’t particularly challenging, she was effortlessly collecting resources on the map while simultaneously discussing other topics with her viewers.

As for what they were discussing:

[Truly infuriating, such parents. Completely disregarding their children’s psychological well-being, yet constantly pushing them to achieve, scheduling this and that for them. People like that don’t deserve to be parents, you know?]

It seemed certain segments of the game’s plot had prompted her to express her opinions on reality.

[They haven’t even achieved these things themselves, yet they expect their children to do it for them. How shameless is that? Oh, these people only have children with such ulterior motives. In that case, I can only say the children suffer. It’s purely the children who are suffering. These parents only continue to exert pressure when their children are on the verge of a mental breakdown or feeling lost in life. They don’t care what their children are truly thinking inside. Honestly, pure trash, these parents.]

The visuals of *Resident Evil 9* were already dark and oppressive, and combined with the streamer’s sharp complaints and criticisms, the atmosphere became even more stifling. Even some classmates eavesdropping around us seemed to have their own wounds pricked, their faces clouding with melancholy.

Yet, Huang Zhouyu watched on, thoroughly entertained. “This is exactly the style I watch her for,” he declared.

I didn’t quite understand. But with class not yet resumed, I continued to watch for a while. It was only after a significant amount of time that I finally noticed the streamer’s virtual avatar: a vampire girl dressed in Gothic Lolita attire, with pale skin, sharp fangs, crimson slit pupils, and pointed ears. What truly surprised me, however, was her pale hair paired with the Gothic Lolita outfit, which instantly brought to mind the girl I had encountered last night.

‘It seems this kind of clothing is really popular,’ I mused to myself.