The gentle "Xanthia" in this simuted memory segment was clearly fabricated by the system, specifically embedded into the customized "Heroine" tempte.

  To extract deeper pain points, the system undoubtedly "prescribed the right medicine," designing a scenario to make her completely enter his heart. Every pivotal moment of his life was meticulously orchestrated.

  Sometimes, a person's despair doesn't stem from endless darkness but from the moment they reach for the light—only to be thrust back into darkness.

  Those pain points—ah, those who understand, understand.

  During his three years of high school, Dematero thoroughly disappointed his teachers and parents, who eventually gave up on him. His cssmates chose to keep their distance, leaving him isoted.

  Except for Xanthia, the slender girl with whom he briefly shared a desk—a friend he reluctantly acknowledged—who never left his side. During his darkest and most confused moments, she was like the sole ray of light in his life.

  Yet he treated this acknowledged friend just as he treated Glen, deliberately rejecting her and speaking with venomous words.

  He wanted Xanthia to do what he had chosen for himself—descend into darkness, far away from him. Farther and farther! Couldn’t she learn from Glen?

  Clearly, she had a bright future ahead of her—excellent grades, a kind and gentle personality—a happy girl full of positive energy.

  Why would someone like her involve herself with someone like him, a person he saw as worthless, wallowing in the dust?

  When some nosy cssmates exposed his dream of becoming a writer, seeking fame and success through words, their reactions were cruel. They looked at him with mockery, occasionally whispering behind his back:

  "Someone like Dematero, a loser, wants to become a writer?""The future great writer who got a zero on his essay? Hirious!""This failure wants to escape reality with writing because his grades are so bad.""All he writes is so negative—pure trash. Does he think he’ll actually earn royalties?"

  No one believed in his dream.

  Except Xanthia.

  While he endured relentless ridicule, she stood by him unwaveringly, smiling and encouraging him. Even if the entire world trampled him into the dust, she was willing to lift him up, no matter how dirty her hands became.

  The kinder she was to him, the worse his attitude grew.

  Yet, he would often turn away and write in his notebook:

  That light once shone on me, and for a fleeting moment, my heart dared to feel bright.Here, in this barren pce where nothing should bloom, her arrival stirred something impossible—life where there was none. My heart, too, blossomed then, against all odds.

  I cannot recall the exact moment or the precise word, the gnce that held me captive, or the smile that unraveled me. By the time I noticed, I was lost—too far gone to remember what it felt like to stand alone.

  Now, I look to the skies, and all I see is a ghost of you, haunting its cold glow.

  The memories of youth elude me. They’re scattered, shattered, slipping through my grasp, but each shard, without fail, reflects you.

  Dematero’s negativity subtly affected Xanthia.

  Though she continued to stay by his side, she was no longer the cheerful girl she once was. Her previously improving health began to decline.

  But he, slow to notice, failed to perceive these changes because, in his presence, she always appeared as the same happy, gentle girl who loved to smile.

  She only wanted to show him her best side, to leave all her happiness with him.

  Her grades began to plummet. While Dematero pursued writing, Xanthia ventured into music, where her considerable talent led to smoother progress than his own tumultuous path.

  She wanted to earn money for Dematero because he had decided not to participate in the tertiary entrance exams, dropping out of high school to focus on becoming a writer.

  Of course, his parents didn’t approve. His defiance was unbearable, so they cut off his financial support. In this fabricated memory, he always made the worst decisions.

  He needed time to earn money through writing. At his lowest point, for the sake of survival, he reluctantly accepted financial help from Xanthia.

  However, while she supported his writing, he couldn’t accept her deviation from academics to pursue music. She even joined a band led by the heir of a financial empire, taking on the role of lead vocalist. Was she throwing herself into a fire pit?

  His tone was harsh, his words excessively cruel. He berated her, even though she was clearly a bright student. Why was she abandoning her studies for this?

  If he had chosen to fall into ruin alone, why did she insist on being his "accomplice"?

  Was she insane? Why couldn’t she just stay far away?

  Dematero dropped out of high school without graduating, determined to write a "masterpiece" to prove his worth.

  Then, one day, he impulsively attended one of Xanthia’s live performances. There, he discovered the tremendous energy within her frail body. She seemed to be burning herself out.

  She performed an original pop-rock song titled Endless Summer:

  "I’ve crossed deserts for miles,Swam waters for time,Searching pces to findA piece of something to call mine (I’m coming),A piece of something to call mine (I’m coming home)."

  In that moment, Dematero felt she was dazzling. The song resonated deeply with him—a piece of something to call mine.

  He resolved to rebel to the very end, to prove he could carve his pce in the world through writing.

  At that moment, he noticed she had grown her hair long. On stage, she was radiant, having broken free from her cocoon.

  But it was the excessively handsome guitarist that unsettled him. The guitarist’s gaze toward Xanthia was filled with admiration—clearly captivated by her beauty, talent, and voice.

  Dematero knew who the guitarist was: Santos El Zanthos, a wealthy heir who had funded the band. The contract he offered Xanthia was unusually lenient, suggesting ulterior motives.

  A wave of panic and jealousy surged through Dematero.

  He had grown used to Xanthia’s care, her extreme indulgence. She had been a constant presence throughout his youth—always there.

  But one day, she would become someone else’s girlfriend, maybe even someone’s wife.

  As for himself, he couldn’t even dare to imagine such things. He was still relying on her money. How could he even dream of being her boyfriend?

  This was cssic literary youth thinking—proud yet self-deprecating, cowardly when it mattered most.

  Santos was tolerable. But what truly broke Dematero was what happened next.

  After the performance, a man even more radiant and confident appeared on stage. His eyes were filled with warmth as he affectionately tousled Xanthia’s hair.

  And Xanthia responded with a gentle smile.

  Dematero immediately recognized the man.

  His name was Dionysius El Papadopoulos.

  The pain was unbearable.