Little Pink Starfish

Kong and Boss Yu

Staring at his reflection—so heavily made-up that even his own mother might not recognize him—Kong turned around blankly and looked at Boss Yu.

Boss Yu was smiling, clearly satisfied. “Although the foundation isn’t that great, you actually suit makeup surprisingly well.”

Kong: “…”

What do you mean, ‘foundation isn’t that great’?

“All right, time to warm up your voice.”

Kong: “?”

He couldn’t be blamed—he had never been exposed to this kind of thing before. As a foreign player, he had no clue what this was all about.

Only then did Boss Yu realize that this person sent over from “that side” might not be very reliable.

“But there’s no time. Even if we look for someone else now, it would take time to train them,” he sighed, studying the young man’s remarkably striking appearance after the makeup. A good seed like this would be hard to find again. “Forget it. I’ll teach you myself. We still have some time. Even if I teach you one line at a time, I can get you on stage.”

Kong was already hesitating. He was thinking about giving up this task entirely. The only reason he was still here was the sheer stubbornness of a hardcore gamer who refused to give up.

After all, it was only for a single show, not like he was being molded into a true star. That’s why Boss Yu thought the problem was still manageable.

“Don’t worry. As long as you’re willing to learn, it’s not that hard,” Boss Yu said gently.

He was naturally good-looking, and when he looked at you with those glittering, watery eyes, Kong forgot the complaint he was about to voice.

When Kong logged off, a friend he had met online—also playing the game—eagerly messaged him asking if he had finally given up on the quest. The tone was gloating.

“Every time we play a game, you’re better than me. This time, I’ve finally beaten you.”

Kong stayed silent for a while, then took a deep breath. “I haven’t given up yet. I might still complete it.”

“What? That quest of yours? Now that would be a miracle. You’re really hanging on.”

“No.”

Kong was a homebody who loved gaming. He didn’t like socializing or going out. Usually quiet and introverted, the few friends he had were all from games, and even then, not particularly close.

He’d always been better than others at gaming. While he wasn’t on the level of professional players, among amateurs he was definitely top-tier. Many of the “friends” around him would occasionally make snide remarks—this was common where he came from.

He wasn’t a success in real life. Gaming was the only place where he felt triumphant. He didn’t want to lose even that.

Though he had been hesitating, Kong decided to keep going.

Singing? Just a different kind of song. I was in the church choir as a kid—what’s there to be afraid of? Kong gritted his teeth.

And besides, Boss Yu seemed like a gentle person. He should be a good teacher.

But soon, Kong realized he had been way too naïve…

Gentle? Not a chance.

Knowing he had to train Kong to stage-ready level in a short time, and that the guy sent over had non-ordinary physical attributes, Boss Yu doubled the normal training load.

Ordinary people might not be able to take it, but Boss Yu had already checked—those people wouldn’t send someone who couldn’t handle it. And with time being so tight, there was no room to play the “kind and gentle mentor” role.

So, yesterday, Kong had seen a gentle and elegant beauty.
Today, he met a cold and merciless strict master.

“Again!” The thin bamboo stick snapped against Kong’s back with a sharp smack.

Kong had set his pain threshold to 30%. He didn’t like how many players just turned it off altogether—he believed a bit of pain was part of the game experience.

That strike should’ve hurt, but with most of the pain dampened, all he felt was a strange tingly itch. Just a faint hint of pain.

Suddenly, his emotions became complicated.

Boss Yu raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you hear me? Again!”

This was how he trained his own disciples. His own master had trained him this way. Pain sharpened focus—that was an old saying.

Kong obediently resumed singing. Boss Yu taught line by line, and Kong repeated line by line. Slowly, he started to get the hang of it.

But just when he felt like he could breathe again, Boss Yu’s standards tightened. He began nitpicking every syllable, every tone.

That bamboo stick kept falling on Kong’s back. Each time made him flinch—not from pain, but from that increasingly strange feeling. The light pain somehow made his whole body feel itchy and uncomfortable.

Boss Yu showed no mercy. He didn’t soften just because Kong trembled. He could tell Kong’s condition was actually very good. Besides, this kind of striking wasn’t serious. The pain faded quickly and left no marks.

It was a technique—not just random beating. That slightly worn bamboo stick was a precise instrument.

Again and again, Kong started to feel increasingly odd. Boss Yu no longer had that stunning allure from their first meeting. Of course, he was still beautiful, but as a strict teacher, the elegance was gone—replaced by cold dignity.

Kong was genuinely focused on learning. But when Boss Yu stood behind him correcting his posture by hand, and that bamboo stick fell rhythmically on his back…

Thoughts started to creep in.

This is just an NPC. And not even the type I like—no big-busted fantasy girl with Western flair. I mean, except for his looks, Boss Yu doesn’t fit any of that.

Right.

“What are you thinking about?” Boss Yu’s voice was cold. Being so close, Kong could see every eyelash.

“I told you—no distractions.”

The bamboo stick landed precisely again. Kong shivered.

It was that stick—it was messing with him!

Just then, an attendant came tumbling in. Boss Yu frowned and turned.

A group of soldiers escorted a young man in a modern uniform into the room. He looked over Boss Yu with a critical eye.

“So you’re the famed Boss Yu of the south?”

Boss Yu glanced at the groaning attendant on the floor—not the slightest anger on his face. Instead, he smiled faintly.

“That’s me.”

People like him, scraping by in the lower rungs of society, didn’t have the luxury of pride. He had been a celebrity, a guest to nobles and high officials. But ever since his voice had been ruined, that former glory had faded. Now he barely kept the Jade Butterfly Theater afloat.

Kong looked at him. The cold and ruthless master from moments ago had once again become the dazzling, androgynous beauty from their first meeting.

“Take him!”

The young officer didn’t say much more. Soldiers surged forward and, in Kong’s dazed gaze, took Boss Yu away.

He didn’t even have time to react.

As he was being led away, Boss Yu turned and said, “Keep practicing.”

The young officer glanced at Kong with disdain. Without makeup, he looked like any thin, plain youth—utterly unremarkable. Unlike Boss Yu, whose beauty turned heads no matter the angle.

They didn’t see Kong as worth anything. They came with force and left just as fast.

Kong waited in the Jade Butterfly Theater.

But Boss Yu never came back.

Without him, Kong couldn’t practice. He stared at the bamboo stick Boss Yu had always held, then at the still-bruised attendant nearby.

“Boss Yu’s not back yet?”

“No,” the man said, uneasy. He whispered, “Don’t know if he’ll come back safe this time. Those men… they didn’t seem kind.”

That was all he dared say. He fell silent immediately after, afraid to bring trouble on himself.

Kong stared blankly at him, then at the suddenly desolate theater.

He’d only been here just over a month.
But somehow, everything here felt… familiar.

The courtyard, the scenes, the people…
That bamboo stick…

Only the most important person was gone.

Is this what immersion feels like? Kong wondered. It’s like I’ve fully role-played this part—so much that I’ve merged with the character. That’s why it all feels familiar?

He was still analyzing the situation—

Until chaos broke out outside, with the sounds of soldiers and even faint sobbing.

Snapping out of it, Kong rushed outside.

He never expected what he saw:

Boss Yu, barely alive.

Pale-faced, clothed only in thin fabric, he was carried into the theater by fellow performers.

Kong saw them crying around the bed.

Once again, he felt that paralyzing confusion.

“You—come here.” Boss Yu’s voice was very weak. But the moment he spoke, everyone turned to look at Kong. Before he knew it, Kong was already at his side.

“I’m afraid I can’t teach you anymore,” he whispered. Kong leaned in to hear.

“I’ll have them give you your payment. Go back.”

Kong said nothing. His fists slowly clenched.

He’s just an NPC. He told himself again and again. Just an NPC!

“I know you’re from ‘the other side.’ You’re probably not ordinary,” Boss Yu said, word by word. “We only knew each other briefly. You don’t owe me anything. But… maybe you feel like avenging me…”

“Please don’t. It’s not worth it.”

“My name is Yu Chunhe. I was a lowly person. Dead or alive, I’m not worth doing anything for.”

“But maybe… maybe I’m overthinking. Once you’re back, live your life. Forget everything that happened at the Jade Butterfly Theater.”

“Ah, but… maybe not completely forget. If you think of me someday, you could visit my grave and sing that play I taught you…”

“It was my favorite…”

“Sorry… I’m talking nonsense again…”

“You…”

His consciousness was slipping.

Kong’s mind buzzed. The cries around him were too loud.

What were his last words?

Oh, right. He told him not to seek revenge.

He’s just an NPC, Kong told himself. I won’t avenge an NPC.

Besides, it had only been a month. How deep could any bond really be?

NPCs die all the time. Every game does it. Nothing strange about that.

He calmly took his payment and returned to the Society to turn in the quest.

But for some reason…

He quietly took that bamboo stick with him.

You were supposed to be just an NPC.

And yet… I still want to avenge you.

Yu Chunhe—

I miss you.