Cen Mingchan hadn’t expected to receive that video.
It began when her eighteen-year-old self sent a photo, sharing her Best Debater certificate.
After a few joking replies, Mingchan remembered the dream the other had mentioned before—her eighteen-year-old self on the debate stage, while her twenty-seven-year-old self sat in the spectator stands.
So she sent a message, half-serious, half-teasing.
[What a pity I can’t see the Best Debater tearing everyone apart.]
The other side seemed to hesitate. The “typing…” indicator lingered for a long time, appearing and vanishing, vanishing and appearing again.
At last, a message arrived.
[Does Sister really want to see?]
[If Sister praises me, I’ll show Sister.]
Mingchan had no idea what she was up to, but she played along.
[Mingchan is the best, the most well-behaved.]
Then, about ten minutes later, a video came through.
Mingchan downloaded it, and once it finished, she tapped to play.
By today’s standards the resolution was poor—clearly shot on a phone, the frame a little shaky.
The setting was a university classroom, and the camera was aimed right at her eighteen-year-old self.
“Next, the Affirmative’s Fourth Debater will give the closing statement. Three minutes.”
On screen, Mingchan rose, nodded with a smiling greeting, then spoke—opening with words achingly familiar: “Thank you, Chair…”
“…In summary, our side maintains that it is harder to let go on the road of life.”
The video ran a little over three minutes. Mingchan watched closely, headphones on, head bowed.
The room was well lit, the background noise minimal. Her eighteen-year-old face was young and plain, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, looking sharp and composed. Her words were crisp, her tone unhurried, her emotion on point.
If one had to find fault, it was that she fidgeted too much—and you could still hear the nerves in her voice.
None of that really mattered.
Mingchan still remembered: right before the finals, a last-minute rule had demanded that the Chinese Department and the Economics and Management Department each work a slogan into their introductions.
Theirs had been adapted on the spot by the Second Debater.
“Heaven wears its blue, earth treads its yellow. Chinese debate sweeps the eight directions.”
They’d rehearsed it only a handful of times before going on.
Mingchan had been terrified something would go wrong. So she’d secretly written those sixteen characters on her palm.
She couldn’t remember the Economics and Management slogan anymore—only that the Fourth Debater, that young girl, suddenly froze, forgot her lines, and the air turned unbearably awkward.
Remembering it now, a strange feeling rose in her heart.
Would fate still follow the script?
Her eighteen-year-old self, on the night a few days from now after the debate against the Physical Education Department, led by the Debate Club senior, would meet the Economics and Management crowd who had just won their own match.
Apart from the Fourth Debater, the Economics and Management team was all male; the four debaters of the Chinese Department were all female.
They would introduce themselves on the open ground below the Comprehensive Building, shake hands, get to know each other early.
Even the seniors a year above believed it.
They were each other’s toughest opponents.
They would meet in the finals.
So would her eighteen-year-old self still fall in love at first sight with that refined, elegant Fourth Debater?
When the time came, would her eighteen-year-old self still write those sixteen characters on her palm before the finals?
Mingchan had no answer.
She couldn’t help replaying the video.
She remembered Shen Huan’s assessment—brimming with spirit. Maybe Shen Huan was right.
Her eighteen-year-old self truly was radiant on the debate stage, a light in her eyes.
Debate was something she loved. She loved hunting for logic, loved matching wits with others.
Thinking this, Mingchan replied in the chat window.
[Best Debater, richly deserved.]
But her eighteen-year-old self took no joy in the praise.
[Cry cry, next match is Friday, so little time, tomorrow the senior goes to draw lots.]
Since it was a competition between departments, lots decided the opponents, the topics, and which side you’d argue. Of course, the draw wasn’t entirely fair.
In the early rounds, the Chinese Department and the Economics and Management Department were deliberately arranged to avoid facing each other.
The school assigned dedicated classrooms for the matches. The Chinese and Economics and Management teams played at the same time, both starting at seven in the evening, and the audience was drawn from the two competing departments.
So to gauge an opponent’s level that year, you had to sneak someone into their match room to scout.
Looking back, it was a bit funny.
Recalling the amusing moments of those debate days, Mingchan smiled and replied.
[Then I’ll give you my good luck. May you draw a good lot.]
[qaq still gonna cry cry, so little time]
Followed by another sticker of a dejected Samoyed with drooping ears.
Mingchan stared at the sticker, questioning life. Had her eighteen-year-old self always been this fond of acting cute?
She figured it was time to raise her eighteen-year-old self to be steadier, cooler, smarter.
Looking so dumb and easy to fool—that wouldn’t do.
If it were anyone else, would she just casually send a video of herself like that? Wasn’t she afraid of leaking her privacy?
At that thought, Mingchan instantly became a strict teacher, convinced she needed to educate on cybersecurity and personal privacy.
The immediate priority was stopping the someone currently pestering her with every kind of cuteness.
[No crying.]
[Sister’s being mean to me, so I gotta cry cry.]
Mingchan stared at Sister’s being mean to me, scrolled back through the log, and couldn’t find where she’d been mean at all—only that the other was being utterly unreasonable.
So she replied.
[No acting cute.]
[Sister, hug—]
Looking at that message, Mingchan knew that unless she played along, the other would keep whining and rolling around for ages. In the end, she gave in.
[Hug hug.]
[Mingchan, be good.]
The next second, a colleague called her over. Mingchan put down her phone at once and got to work.
By the time she finished, she had completely forgotten about being a strict teacher.
＊
After work, on her way to the subway, Mingchan opened her phone and scrolled through the log.
Her eighteen-year-old self had been leaving messages in the chat window on her own.
[The school cafeteria is so bad, never eating there again]
[I’m just a little fool who got cheated at the cafeteria, shedding sad tears on the spot]
[How can hot and sour shredded potato be such a simple dish and still taste so bad]
[Damn it, they even put cilantro in it]
[I hereby declare anyone who puts cilantro in food is guilty]
The last line of the log was:
[If there were a vote for species extinction, I’d vote cilantro with both hands and both feet]
Without a second thought, Mingchan copied and pasted it back.
[If there were a vote for species extinction, I’d vote cilantro with both hands and both feet]
The next second, three exclamation marks came through.
[!!!]
[Sister doesn’t like cilantro either?]
[Finally met one of my own 5555555]
[Cilantro tastes like stinkbug, so gross. Why’s it even called “fragrant greens”? Where’s the fragrance?]
Mingchan felt every word was exactly her own inner voice, so she replied with just two words.
[Seconded.]
Her eighteen-year-old self seemed well-versed in the art of stopping at the right moment, and immediately changed the subject, fussing over her and squeezing in questions.
[Is Sister off work—miss Sister so much!]
Mingchan was rushing to catch her train, so she answered briefly.
[Yep.]
[Does Sister want to game with me tonight?]
[Sure.]
[Sister’s so cold today, did you have a change of heart, stop loving me, feelings fading?]
Mingchan stopped walking and replied in three words.
[Never loved you.]
The reply came quickly, half-serious, half-joking.
[Please, that’s even worse than a change of heart!]
[So heartbreaking.]
Mingchan wasn’t in a hurry anymore. A very important question had surfaced—her eighteen-year-old self’s feelings for her now were plain at a glance.
She seemed to really like her.
And all this time, knowing her own amorous nature, Mingchan hadn’t made much effort to correct it.
But what if she got competitive—growing bolder the more she fought?
Mingchan couldn’t help worrying.
Then, just as quickly, she stopped.
In three days, her eighteen-year-old self would meet the Economics and Management Fourth Debater, and naturally her affections would shift. Then Mingchan would guide things in time and build a normal friendship with her.
The plan was solid.
Now she just had to hope the Economics and Management Fourth Debater rose to the occasion! Best if she won over her eighteen-year-old self in one clean sweep.
＊
Back home, after dinner, Mingchan logged into the game, connected voice with her eighteen-year-old self, and kicked off their so-called “sweet duo queue.”
Once in the ban/pick screen, she heard her eighteen-year-old self clamoring, “Sister, Sister, pick Pandora and follow me.”
Pandora—known in the community as the freeloader hero, the accessory hero, the kind anyone with hands could play. Her ultimate latched onto a teammate, floating above their head in the form of a half-open box, granting them shields and other buffs.
Mingchan was happy to slack off. Low-tier ranked matches like this were child’s play to someone who’d nearly gone pro, so she instantly locked in Pandora without a thought.
Her eighteen-year-old self picked Zeus, a jungler mage.
The opening went as expected—smooth. Start blue, clear the jungle, head to the red buff jungle to farm monsters and level up, then help gank the bot lane.
Mingchan coasted the whole time. Once she had her ultimate, she played the accessory role to perfection, clinging to Zeus and never coming down.
When their own blue buff was down to a sliver of health, her eighteen-year-old self said, “Sister, come down and take blue.”
Mingchan didn’t comply. She knew Zeus was a hero starved for mana. “You take it.”
“I’ll take theirs.”
Seeing Sister still wouldn’t come down, her eighteen-year-old self whined again: “Sister, this blue buff’s hitting me—are you gonna do something about it? I’m gonna get beaten to death by it, wuwu—hurry and kill it to protect me!”
Helpless, Mingchan detached and used her first skill to secure the blue buff.
The other was clearly pleased. “Now that’s pretty! This blue buff matches Sister’s skin perfectly! Watch me slay ten of them in one game, Sister!”
Turned out she wasn’t bragging.
She carried Mingchan on a rampage, slaying until the enemy team’s mentality exploded and they started cursing in public chat.
[All] Which Page of Poetry: Enemy Zeus, boosting your girlfriend?
[All] Which Page of Poetry: Fun, smurfing?
[All] Which Page of Poetry: Think you’re something, huh?
Then a string of censored words.
Mingchan saw the messages and said quietly, “Mute him. Don’t engage.”
Her eighteen-year-old self seemed obedient. “Okay, Sister. I won’t trade insults with him.”
No insults—but she hunted him down and slayed him specifically.
On the results screen, Mingchan saw her eighteen-year-old self had been the match MVP, a dazzling 14-0-5.
Yet the other seemed less than happy, staying silent, not speaking.
Mingchan knew her own temperament too well. She guessed that because she’d told her not to engage, the other had mistaken it for her taking an outsider’s side.
She was about to explain when the other spoke. “Sister, we’ve known each other so long, and we’ve never bound an intimate relationship in the game. Let’s bind one, okay?”
Mingchan instinctively opened the other’s profile to check her relationship list, only to find it all hidden.
“Sister, I know a lot of friends, and most of my relationship slots are full. Look…”
Mingchan could hear the tremor in her voice. She said nothing.
“Look, is this relationship okay?”
The next second—
A binding request appeared on the game screen.
“Zangchun Goes Solo has applied to become your lover.”
“Accept” “Decline”
