Journey Through Dimensional Worlds

Chapter 11 Goodnight

Six months later.

The late summer sunlight streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, filling the entire living room.

The curtains were newly replaced, light beige. A breeze blew in through the half-open window, causing the corners of the curtains to flutter slightly before slowly falling back down.

The refrigerator door was covered with pictures.

The drawing paper came in various sizes, some held in place by magnets, others by transparent tape.

The content of the paintings ranged from three people holding hands in a crooked pose, to three people standing in front of a building, to three people and a cat.

They didn't own a cat, but Fubuki felt they should, so she started raising one in the painting.

The newest one is pasted in the center of the refrigerator door, and it depicts three people sitting on a Ferris wheel.

The Ferris wheel wasn't painted perfectly round; it looked like a flattened orange, but the three people inside the gondola were all smiles.

Fubuki drew a sun above the three people's heads with a yellow crayon, and the sun's rays stretched to the edge of the paper.

He Quan stood in front of the refrigerator and looked at the painting for a while. Then he reached out and moved the magnet up a little to make the painting stick straighter.

"He Quan—"

Fubuki ran out of the room, holding a picture book in her hand, and ran barefoot on the wooden floor.

Her short black hair had grown a bit longer than it had been six months ago, now just reaching her shoulders, and the ends would brush against her cheeks when she ran. She had also grown a little taller, but was still quite small, only reaching above He Quan's knees when standing next to him.

"I've finished reading this story!" She held the picture book above her head. "Tell me a new one!"

He Quan looked down at her. Chuixue tilted her head back, her black eyes sparkling, and the corners of her mouth slightly upturned.

"Wait until tonight." He bent down and ruffled her hair. "I'll tell you tonight."

"It's a promise!" Fubuki ran back to her room with the picture book in her arms.

The living room fell silent again.

The sunlight moved slowly across the wooden floor, the edges of the light spots creeping from the sofa legs to the coffee table legs.

Outside the window, I could hear the distant traffic, very faint, like a low-pitched bass line at the bottom of the city.

The sound of a door opening came from the other end of the corridor.

Tornado floated out of the room, her long green hair cascading over her shoulders. The length was about the same as it had been six months ago, but the ends were smoother than before.

She was wearing a light-colored loungewear dress with tiny floral details at the neckline, which He Quan had bought this month.

The skirt hem fell just below the knee, revealing her calves clad in white ankle socks.

She floated to the sofa, landed, and her feet touched the wooden floor. The movement was very light, almost silent.

"Where's Fubuki?" she asked.

"In the room." He Quan sat down on the sofa and picked up a book from the coffee table to open it.

Tornado hummed in agreement and sat down next to him.

The two were a short distance apart, neither too close nor too far.

She turned her head and glanced at the book in He Quan's hand. It was a book about financial investment, which she didn't quite understand and didn't ask about.

She was used to He Quan occasionally watching things she couldn't understand, just as she was used to He Quan occasionally saying things she couldn't understand.

There was a moment of silence.

Tornado pulled her legs up onto the sofa, resting her feet on the edge of the cushion. Her slender ankles were encased in white socks, and her arches were slightly raised. She didn't speak, just sat there, as if waiting for something.

He Quan turned two more pages, then closed the book and set it aside. He reached out and grasped her ankle.

Longjuan's eyelashes fluttered. She didn't retract her foot or say anything, but simply shifted her gaze to the window.

He Quan's movements were the same as before, light and unhurried.

Many things have changed in the past six months.

The tornado will no longer be stiff, no longer blush to its neck, and no longer have its eyes closed with a death-defying expression.

The sofa cushions were soft, and Tornado slowly leaned back, sinking into them. Her hands rested on her knees, her fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of her skirt.

Six months ago, after He Quan's strength and physique both reached 9.9, his free attribute points stopped increasing. The number on the system panel seemed to be frozen, and no matter how much he "cultivated," it remained unchanged.

But he still persisted in practicing every day.

He Quan glanced at the back of his hand. The skin was smooth, the knuckles were distinct, and the muscle lines were faintly visible beneath the skin, not exaggerated, but with clear contours.

Strength 9.9, Constitution 9.9.

These two numbers represent physical abilities far exceeding those of ordinary people; their senses are so acute that they can hear people turning pages in the next apartment.

This also brings a side effect.

It's too conspicuous.

It's not just about physique. Changes in temperament are even more noticeable than changes in physique.

Walking down the street, he doesn't need to do anything; eyes will automatically follow him. When he goes shopping, the cashier's movements will be a beat slower.

When shopping for clothes for Tornado and Fubuki in the mall, the sales assistant's voice unconsciously softens as she introduces the styles.

Talent scouts often stopped him on the street.

The man in the suit handed over his business card with both hands and said quickly, "Sir, your qualifications are very suitable. Have you ever considered becoming a model? Our company can offer you the most generous contract."

"Another woman called you," Tornado suddenly said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

He Quan couldn't recall giving his phone number to anyone. It must have been leaked by the apartment management. Resident information is worthless to some, but very valuable to others.

"Don't worry about it," he said.

Tornado tucked her foot into his palm, as if adjusting its position, or perhaps expressing some kind of attitude. As for what that attitude was, she probably couldn't quite put her finger on it.

A few days ago, one afternoon, Fubuki witnessed a scene that puzzled her.

She came out of the kitchen with a water glass in her hand and saw her sister floating on the sofa, one foot rudely pressed down on He Quan's face. He Quan just lay there, eyes closed, letting the foot in white socks press down on him, his expression calm, even a little relaxed.

Fubuki froze, nearly dropping her water glass: "Sister... why did you step on He Quan's face?"

Tornado recoiled as if burned, her long green hair practically exploding, a blush spreading across her face. She stammered, "B-because he did something wrong! This is...this is punishment! Yes, punishment!"

"Did you do something wrong?" Fubuki tilted her head, even more confused. "What did you do wrong?"

"He...he..." Tornado stammered for a long time, glared at He Quan, and noticed that he still had his eyes closed, with a very slight smile on his lips: "He put my clothes in the wrong place! A very important punishment!"

This reason sounds very weak.

Looking at her sister's flushed face and flickering eyes, and then at He Quan lying motionless, Chuixue felt that something was "wrong" in her little head, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

Tornado felt uneasy under her gaze and added fiercely, "What are you looking at! Don't ask!"

Fubuki said "Oh," and slowly walked back to her room with her water glass in her arms, but a small question mark remained in her mind.

Even after Fubuki left, Tornado's embarrassment hadn't subsided.

She glanced down at He Quan; his eyes were still closed, and the curve of his lips was even more pronounced.

He is laughing.

Enraged, she stomped her foot on his face.

It's worth mentioning that during these six months, He Quan would occasionally take Long Juan out on dates.

It was supposed to be a date, but it was really just about finding some weirdos for Tatsumaki to practice on.

As a result, tornadoes gradually gained fame.

The afternoon sun veered to the west, its light shifting from golden yellow to orange-red. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the entire wall of sunset like a painting.

Dinner was barbecue.

It didn't appear out of the food tablecloth; He Quan made it himself in the kitchen.

The meat was bought from a nearby supermarket, and the seasonings were homemade.

He wore a dark gray apron with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the muscle lines on his arms were particularly clear under the light as he flipped the meat.

Fubuki stood at the kitchen doorway, looking up. She wasn't learning to cook; she was just watching He Quan. She thought He Quan looked beautiful while cooking.

Tornado used telekinesis to place the bowls and chopsticks on the table. Plates, cups, chopsticks, and placemats floated out of the cupboard and landed neatly on the table.

She floated in mid-air, gently hooked her finger, and the last pair of chopsticks landed precisely on the right side of the placemat.

"Fubuki, go wash your hands," Tornado said.

Fubuki said "Oh" and ran into the bathroom.

She turned the tap on and off, and in less than ten seconds she ran back, her hands still dripping wet, and wiped them on her skirt.

The grilled meat was still sizzling with oil when it was served.

Fubuki's eyes lit up, and she picked up her chopsticks to grab the biggest piece.

She blew on it twice and then stuffed it into her mouth, her cheeks puffing out as she chewed vigorously, a little sauce getting on the corner of her mouth.

Tornado glowed from her fingertips, controlling a tissue to wipe the sauce from Fubuki's lips.

He Quan sat opposite them, watching them, his chopsticks resting on his bowl, untouched.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Tornado looked up at him.

"eat."

He picked up a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.

The meat was grilled to perfection, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, with the flavors of the seasonings permeating the meat's texture.

Fubuki finished eating the meat in her bowl and reached for more with her chopsticks. Ryujin pushed her bowl towards Fubuki, letting her take some.

As the sunset faded outside the window, the city lights began to illuminate the city one by one.

At night, Fubuki, wearing pajamas with a rabbit pattern, climbed into bed with a picture book in her arms.

He Quan leaned against the headboard, took the book from her hand, and opened it.

After three pages of the story, Fubuki started yawning. By the fifth page, her eyes were closed. By the seventh page, her breathing had become even.

He Quan closed the book and placed it on the bedside table, then gently moved her further into the blankets.

Fubuki turned over, her hand unconsciously groping for the edge of the blanket, clutching it in her hand, before continuing to sleep.

Tornado was washing up in the bathroom. The water stopped, the door opened, and she floated out, her hair still damp, green strands clinging to her cheeks. She was wearing a light-colored nightgown, the hem reaching her calves, and she was barefoot.

She floated to the bedside, glanced at the sleeping Fubuki, and then dimmed the floor lamp by the bedside, leaving only a warm yellow halo.

He Quan lay down. Long Juan also lay down.

The bed was large, and the three of them each occupied a space.

But once they fall asleep, their positions will be messed up. Tornado will move towards He Quan, and Fubuki will roll into his arms. In the middle of the night, He Quan will be pressed against by two small bodies at the same time, unable to move, with two different colors of hair, black and green, scattered on the pillow, intertwined together.

Tornado had her eyes closed, but she wasn't asleep. She could feel He Quan's body heat seeping through the blankets. He was always warm, whether it was winter or summer, cloudy or sunny. That warmth wasn't oppressive; it was a constant, inextinguishable warmth, like a stove that would never go out.

She liked this warmth.

The warmth of his body as he held her. The weight of his hand on her head. His last "goodnight" before she fell asleep. Every morning when she woke up, he was the first person she saw.

She never said these words to anyone.

I probably won't say it again.

But liking someone is liking them, even if you don't say it out loud.

In the darkness, she moved very slightly toward him.

She stopped when her shoulder touched his arm.

"Good night." He Quan's voice came from above, deep and soft.

"Goodnight," Tornado replied with her eyes closed.

(End of this chapter)