The Zhao family's dining room looked more like a museum than a home. White marble floors gleamed under the chandelier's cold light, the long glass table stretched like a thin blade between the parents at one end and the children scattered along its length. Every surface reflected wealth—crystal bowls, imported flowers, fine porcelain plates that cost more than most people's rent. Yet for Zhao Lian, seated halfway down with her chopsticks poised, it was a place of suffocation.
Her father, Zhao Feng, adjusted his cufflinks as though they mattered more than the people in the room. He had the kind of voice that could command boardrooms, low and resonant, but to Lian it always carried the sharp edge of judgment.
"You're quiet again, Lian," he said suddenly, eyes narrowing over his wine glass. "Have you nothing to report? You've been out of university for months now. Surely something worth mentioning has happened in your life."
Her chopsticks paused above the rice bowl. The silence that followed was weighted, deliberate. Across from her, her elder sister, Zhao Mei, hid a satisfied little smile behind the rim of her teacup.
Zhao Lian placed her chopsticks down gently. "I'm working on something, Father. You'll hear about it soon enough."
Her mother, Madam Lin, clicked her tongue. "Working on something? That is not an answer. Look at Mei. Already she has two projects under her belt, her name mentioned in industry news, and people—important people—praising her. And you?" She gestured with a dismissive wave. "Always vague. Always secretive. As though you are afraid of being measured."
Lian pressed her lips together. She had expected this, the same script they had been performing for years. Mei's successes were recited like scripture; her own attempts were dismissed as fumbling shadows.
"I'm not afraid of being measured," Lian said quietly.
"Oh?" Mei's voice was soft, honeyed with false innocence. "But little sister, if you are confident, why keep it hidden? Unless… you fear disappointing Father again?"
The servants hovering near the walls stifled smiles, though their eyes flickered with curiosity. Zhao Mei had mastered the art of striking without appearing cruel, her words dressed in silk but carrying knives beneath.
Zhao Feng set down his wine glass with a sharp clink. "Enough games. Lian, you must learn something Mei already understands: results speak louder than excuses. If you truly have ambition, prove it. Otherwise…" His gaze swept her like a judge considering a condemned prisoner. "You are wasting our name."
The words stung, though she had braced for them. For a moment, the chandelier's light seemed to waver, and she wondered—not for the first time—if this house had ever truly been her home.
"Father," Mei said, her tone gently pleading, "don't be too harsh on her. Lian has always been… sensitive. She may crumble under pressure."
A cold laugh slipped from Lian's throat before she could stop it. "Don't pretend to care, Mei. You've never wanted me to succeed. You want me small so you can shine brighter."
Madam Lin gasped, setting down her spoon. "How dare you speak that way? Your sister only looks out for you. She has always been patient with your shortcomings. Instead of gratitude, you lash out."
Shortcomings. Gratitude. The words cut sharper than any blade.
Her heart hammered. She pushed her chair back, its legs scraping against marble. "I'm not hungry anymore."
"Sit down," Zhao Feng barked. His tone brooked no argument. But for once, Lian did not obey.
Her hands trembled at her sides as she straightened her back. "I've listened to your comparisons my whole life. No matter what I do, it is never enough. Mei breathes, and you call it brilliance. I bleed for recognition, and you call it failure."
The room chilled. Mei's lips curved into the faintest of smirks, just visible behind her lowered lashes.
"You dare raise your voice in this house?" Zhao Feng's voice thundered.
"This house?" Lian whispered. "This glass cage you call home? It was never mine."
And with that, she turned and walked out, leaving the chandelier light flickering behind her.
-----
Zhao Lian slammed the door of her room and leaned against it, her chest heaving. The argument downstairs still echoed in her ears, every word sharp as glass.
"Why can't you be more like your sister?"
"You always find trouble."
"You should be grateful we even let you stay in this house."
Grateful. The word knifed deeper than any insult.
Her room was small compared to Zhao Mei's grand suite, but it had been hers since childhood. The wallpaper still bore faint outlines where she had taped up her drawings years ago, long since peeled away. A single bed, a desk cluttered with notebooks, and the glow of her aging laptop — this was all she had claimed as her own in a house where nothing else belonged to her.
She pressed her palms against her face, willing herself not to cry. Crying only gave them another excuse. They'd call her weak. They'd call her dramatic. They'd call her ungrateful again.
Her gaze fell on the cracked mirror beside her desk. For years, it had shown her reflection in fragments, a broken version of herself that seemed all too fitting. "Not enough," she whispered at the girl staring back. Not pretty enough, not smart enough, not obedient enough. Never enough.
Footsteps creaked outside her door, then the careful, practiced knock of her sister. "Lian," Zhao Mei's voice floated in, soft and syrupy. "You really shouldn't make Mother upset like that. She was only giving you advice."
Advice. As though Mei hadn't stood downstairs minutes earlier, soaking up their parents' praise while Lian was scolded like a servant.
"Go away," Lian said hoarsely.
Her sister sighed, the sound of one pitying the pitiful. "You always make things harder for yourself. If you just listened more, maybe people would like you."
The footsteps retreated, leaving silence that felt heavier than words.
Something inside Lian snapped. She crossed the room, yanked her old suitcase from under the bed, and threw it open. Clothes tumbled out of her wardrobe in armfuls, some folded neatly, some shoved in haste. The sound of hangers clattering echoed like a war drum in the small space.
Her hands shook as she stuffed belongings inside. She didn't even care what she was packing — shirts, socks, notebooks — anything she could grab.
"You'll come crawling back," her father's voice replayed in her head. "You're nothing without us."
Her lips twisted. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was nothing. But if she stayed here, she'd never have a chance to become something.
By the time she zipped the suitcase shut, her heart was pounding so loud it drowned out the house's silence. She grabbed her phone, her wallet, and finally her laptop, sliding it carefully into its worn case.
Opening the door felt like stepping into enemy territory. The hallway stretched long and dim, lined with family portraits. Smiling faces stared back at her — portraits where she barely appeared. Zhao Mei at piano recitals, Zhao Mei on her first overseas trip, Zhao Mei in her graduation gown. Lian was the shadow on the edge, cropped out, half-smiling, always in the background.
Her suitcase wheels bumped against the carpet as she rolled it toward the stairs. The sound must have carried, because voices drifted up from below.
"—she'll calm down," her mother was saying. "Lian always makes scenes, but she knows she can't survive on her own."
"Exactly," her father agreed. "She doesn't have the spine. Let her go sulk."
Zhao Mei giggled faintly. "Should I go comfort her later?"
The casualness of it, the ease with which they dismissed her life, burned more than any cruelty.
Lian tightened her grip on the suitcase handle and descended the stairs. Their heads turned toward her in surprise — her mother with lips parted mid-sentence, her father with brows furrowed, her sister with mock concern.
"Where do you think you're going?" her father demanded.
"Out," Lian said flatly.
Her mother stood. "Don't be ridiculous. Put that bag back. You're being childish."
"I've been childish long enough," Lian said, surprising even herself with the steadiness of her voice. "I'm leaving."
"You can't survive out there," her father barked.
"Then let me fail," she shot back. "At least it'll be my failure."
For a heartbeat, silence swallowed the room. Her words hung in the air like shattered glass.
Her mother's expression softened — not with love, but with the smugness of someone certain of her own victory. "Go, then. You'll come back."
Zhao Mei tilted her head, eyes glinting. "Just don't embarrass us."
Lian dragged her suitcase across the polished floor and pulled open the door. A gust of night air swept in, cold and biting. She paused only once, her hand tight on the doorknob, heart hammering.
But she didn't look back.
The door slammed behind her, louder than any goodbye she'd ever wanted.
-------
"Fit@up," she had called her typed it in in her new gaming project. Up Miss Bratz yesterday, just before she collapsed in exhaustion at the office. The word lingered like a curse—or perhaps a cruel joke.
She no one knew about her upcoming game. Because she knows that her family would sabotage it, just like they've always done for her older sister.
Not her co-workers, not even the one or two colleagues who seemed sympathetic to her endless overtime. Who would believe her? The rational part of her mind kept insisting she was overworked. And yet, there was that glint in the corner of her screen yesterday—a shimmer, like pixels bending reality for just a moment.
Her manager's voice snapped her back.
"Zhao Lian, the report for Project Echo. On my desk by noon. No excuses."
She forced a polite smile. "Yes, sir."
Her stomach twisted. The project had been sabotaged twice already—first by a mysteriously corrupted file, then by an anonymous rumor spreading through the office that she'd mishandled company funds. Both times, she had clawed back her name with evidence, but each battle left her thinner, more invisible. To the company, she was dependable precisely because she didn't resist. A pushover who would carry every burden until her shoulders cracked.
-----
By lunchtime, she passed by the break room only to hear them—two colleagues, their voices sharp as knives.
"Did you hear? Her sister's company nearly landed that contract before Zhao Lian's team took it."
"Of course. Zhao Yue always was the better one. She doesn't have to slave like Lian does. The Zhaos only keep Lian around out of pity."
Lian stopped in the doorway, fingers tightening around her folder.
The taller woman smirked when she noticed her. "Oh, Lian. Didn't see you there. Must be all that quiet, hard work you're so famous for."
Lian's throat tightened, but this time she didn't bow her head.
"My results speak for themselves," she said flatly. "If you want to compare me to Zhao Yue, then at least compare our work—not my existence."
The room went silent for a breath. Then, as always, they laughed it off and walked away, leaving her to swallow her anger alone.
That night, back in her tiny apartment, Zhao Lian collapsed on her futon, every limb screaming with fatigue. She didn't bother changing out of her office clothes.
The silence was heavy, only the hum of the fridge filling the room.
Then—
[User recognized: Fit@up.]
The words shimmered in neon across the air above her.
Her eyes flew open. "...No."
[System initializing.]
[Questline preparation: Gathering Fragments.]
[Reminder: Threads of Truth, Handle Flaw, and Mirror of Self are uncollected.]
"What—" She pushed herself upright, heart hammering. "What are you?"
[System is not permitted to answer all questions.]
[But System acknowledges: You have been chosen. A world awaits you.]
She stared. "A world?"
Her phone buzzed, but when she looked at it, the screen was blank. No, not blank—pixels melted like candle wax, collapsing into a whirlpool of light.
Her chest seized. This was no hallucination.
[Warning: Transfer imminent.]
[Username: Fit@up.]
[Do not resist.]
"Wait!" Zhao Lian scrambled back, hitting her shoulder against the wall. "I didn't agree—!"
The world tilted, the ceiling stretching into infinite glass threads, the air vibrating with a sound she couldn't name. Her apartment dissolved.
She felt herself ripped from gravity, as though her body had been deleted. For one horrifying instant, she saw both lives at once—the sterile office cubicles, and beyond them, mountains wrapped in clouds, golden palaces, and shadows of blades that hummed like living creatures.
Her scream tore into silence.
When she woke, the ground beneath her was not her futon. It was cold earth, damp with mist. The smell of pine needles and distant fire cracked the air.
She pushed herself up, breath shaking. Around her, the sky was not the city's pale gray but endless indigo, broken by two moons.
Zhao Lian staggered to her feet. She touched her arms, her face, her body. Nothing was missing, but everything was wrong.
A faint glow hovered before her—the same shimmering script.
[Welcome to the Realm of Broken Heavens.]
[Fit@up, your journey begins.]
She stared at the words, her lips parting. For the first time in her life, Zhao Lian had no clever retort, no shield of silence.
Only a single thought echoed in her mind:
Where am I… and why me?