Heart of the Ocean (27): It’s all you

Tan Xiao’s soul returned to his body, and his once-transparent form gradually took on contours with this kiss, transforming into a living, flesh-and-blood human.  

He didn’t utter any sweet nothings, only deliberately indulged his lover, making this longing-filled kiss even more lingering and tender. Though he said nothing, this gesture alone was enough to convey to Wen Yi his affection and yearning.  

Humans cannot withstand the terrifying water pressure in the deep sea, nor can they breathe underwater due to lack of oxygen. But Tan Xiao, who had been thoroughly fused into a certain deity’s body, clearly had no such concerns.  

Though they had spent many times together in bathtubs and even tried soft water beds, those experiences couldn’t compare to the dark depths of the ocean.  

Tan Xiao remembered that there were other creatures in the deep sea and couldn’t help feeling a little shy. Yet, at this moment, Wen Yi was unexpectedly domineering, refusing to allow any interruption: “It’s fine. The other creatures can’t see us, and they can’t get close.”  

The deity, his divine power restored, effortlessly conjured a massive whirlpool around them. The area where they were remained calm, but any creature outside the vortex would be torn to shreds if they ventured in.  

The deep-sea creatures weren’t foolish—they naturally kept their distance from the whirlpool.  

Perhaps it was because there were too many translucent tentacles, softly clinging to Tan Xiao’s limbs, or perhaps because this instance was nearing its end and their time together was fleeting—his resisting hands shifted into gentle caresses. He silently allowed those celestial ribbon-like tendrils to grow bolder.  

After all, Wen Yi had suffered so much. The thought of him lying dormant for years, enduring so much pain, even becoming a foolish simpleton—deceived, his heart dug out and trapped, turned into a jellyfish and made into an experiment—filled Tan Xiao with heartache.  

As oxygen was continuously shared between them, Tan Xiao cupped the deity’s face, naturally gentle and sorrowful, his own mind clouded with passion as if searching for a familiar trace in those features: “Dr. Wen?”  

The deity’s face shimmered in the rippling deep-sea light, shifting subtly as he swallowed Tan Xiao’s whisper: “It’s me.”  

“Classmate Wen?”  

“Still me.”  

“President Wen?”  

“Also me.”  

“Y12-9116-X42-0118?”  

Wen Yi smiled, delighted. “You even remember such a long serial number? But I still prefer the name you gave me back then—Wen Yi. ‘Wen’ as in gentle, ‘Yi’ as in radiance.”

Tan Xiao pressed against his chest, listening to the deity’s heartbeat—now perfectly in sync with his own. “That was always your name.”  

Though he hadn’t remembered his past with Wen Yi at the time, the moment he saw that familiar face, the name had surfaced in his mind almost instinctively.  

“Though, ‘Tan Yi’ wouldn’t be bad either—following your surname.”  

Tan Xiao asked, “Were you a player too? Why didn’t you remember?”  

His own memory loss might have been due to a game bug or the aftermath of being struck by that red meteorite. But if Wen Yi had been a player, why had he forgotten? None of the players on the forums had mentioned memory loss.  

If players forgot everything each time they entered a new instance, veterans would be no different from newcomers. Among all players, it seemed Tan Xiao was the only one subjected to such difficulty.  

But perhaps it was for balance—after all, even without his memories, he had always completed his missions flawlessly, earning the highest ratings.  

Wen Yi shook his head. “By your definitions, I should be considered an NPC in the game.”  

He hadn’t always played the role of a boss. Apart from the instances where he was Dr. Wen or Classmate Wen, he had mostly been an antagonist. In the parasitic entity instance, the leader of the parasites was the true boss, and in the AI uprising, Abyss, the AI overlord, had been the original final enemy.  

He didn’t belong to those instances—he was merely a powerful intruder. This forced confrontation might have been the system’s deliberate retaliation against him.  

“Even if I didn’t remember you when we met, I still fell in love with you again and again, didn’t I?”  

The deity, having reclaimed his heart, seemed to have regained his wits as well. Though his face remained breathtakingly beautiful, the air of a ditzy, naive charm—like that of the jellyfish version of him—was gone. Now, he looked sharp, the kind of intelligence that would make any sapiosexual swoon.  

But no matter what form he took, Tan Xiao was utterly spellbound.  

“Me too,” Tan Xiao affirmed.  

Yet tender moments were always fleeting. Though they longed for more time together, Tan Xiao had already received the game’s clearance notification. It was only by Wen Yi’s divine power that he had been held here a little longer—but if Wen Yi truly cared for him, he couldn’t keep him indefinitely.  

As the white light of departure began to envelop him, Tan Xiao shouted, “Will you remember next time?”  

Wen Yi nodded firmly. “I will remember!”  

Tan Xiao waved with all his might, forcing his brightest smile. “Then, see you next time!”  

Since this was only a temporary farewell, he wanted to leave behind his best self—not tears, as if this were some eternal separation.

The little white dog, knocked unconscious by the mischievous sea god, woke up in the system space. It instinctively barked a few times and, upon seeing Tan Xiao, seemed furious: “Woof woof woof! (Why are you covered in so many injuries?!)”  

Injuries? He wasn’t injured at all. Tan Xiao looked puzzled until he bought a full-length mirror from the system store and understood what the dog meant.  

Normally, no matter how severe a player’s wounds were in an instance—even if they were on the verge of death—once they exited, all injuries would revert to their pre-instance state.  

But Tan Xiao was different. His soul had intertwined with Wen Yi’s, and certain marks deliberately left by the deity couldn’t be easily erased, even by the system’s power.  

Not that they were actual wounds—just a few red marks from kisses, and some faint bruises that stood out starkly against his pale skin.  

Xiao Bai was a childcare robot, and even now that it had transformed into a real puppy, its mind remained as innocent as a child’s. Of course, it wouldn’t understand the meaning behind these marks, assuming instead that Tan Xiao had been tied up and beaten—there were even clear, rope-like bruises around his wrists!  

Tan Xiao’s ears burned, his fair skin flushing crimson as belated shame washed over him under Xiao Bai’s pure gaze. He quickly brushed it off: “You’re seeing things, I’m fine. Here, Xiao Bai, you must be hungry—go eat something.”  

He splurged on premium pet food from the shop, stuffing the puppy’s mouth with delicious treats to keep it from asking more questions.  

Luckily, Xiao Bai was a simple-minded dog. Though it no longer had its robot health-scanning functions, as Tan Xiao’s bound pet, it would have sensed and shared any serious injuries its owner suffered.  

Its nose twitched—no scent of blood, just the strong, oceanic aroma clinging to Tan Xiao. Not the fishy kind, but that distinct jellyfish scent, overwhelmingly potent!  

Since Tan Xiao wasn’t hurt, all was well. Xiao Bai buried its snout in the food: “High-grade dog food is the best… munch munch munch…”  

Tan Xiao re-entered the instance from the system space, once again earning an S+ rating.  

The system’s score was comprehensive. Truthfully, Tan Xiao’s completion of the main mission had been average—he hadn’t fought much against the mutated sea creatures. But his performance in other areas was exceptional.  

Over half of the island’s natives had been saved because of him, and many had expressed genuine gratitude. That alone warranted an S-rank. The extra “+” came from unlocking the special map—a difficulty beyond the instance’s original scope—so the system upgraded his score as compensation.  

Out of the 200 players who entered this instance, fewer than 20 made it out—a survival rate of just one-tenth.  

More could have survived, but despair had driven some to reckless, suicidal actions. Poor mental states led to early eliminations, while others perished in player-versus-player schemes.  

Not that they could be blamed. The moment they’d been dumped into that hellish map, most had resigned themselves to death. The difficulty was clearly designed to be a no-return slaughterhouse. Facing certain doom, they’d lashed out or gambled wildly.  

Who could’ve predicted a twist of fate? Even after failing the main mission, their revival items worked, and they made it back alive.  

Tan Xiao thought of Xu Xu, the player who had rallied others to attack him. He searched the name—only to find it grayed out.  

A darkened player ID meant death. Xu Xu was dead?! When did that happen?  

Of course, it was Wen Yi’s doing. When Xu Xu’s protective barrier shattered, before his revival item could activate, Wen Yi had drowned him with seawater—not even needing to lay a tentacle on him.  

Letting Xu Xu revive once had already been a mistake on Wen Yi’s part. The deity could overlook harm done to himself, but anyone who dared threaten Tan Xiao’s life was unforgivable.  

The pre-reunion Wen Yi might have spared those who hurt him—but harming Tan Xiao? Absolutely not.  

However Xu Xu had died, his demise was good news for Tan Xiao, who didn’t dwell on it.  

With this instance’s conclusion, the forums buzzed with new posts about Tan Xiao.  

“I was in the same instance as Tan Xiao this time. I failed the main mission, but he got S+! Boss, please accept my kneel of respect!”  

“Got to witness the boss in action—not sure if it’s his in-game avatar, but damn, he’s insanely handsome. I admit it: Tan Xiao is the most good-looking man alive, even slightly surpassing yours truly, Li.”  

Though they didn’t know exactly what Tan Xiao had done, they’d all benefited from him. And with Xu Xu dead, only an idiot would dare criticize Tan Xiao openly now.  

The forums were full of discussions about him—some praising others at his expense, but most were admirers, fans drawn to his strength. Tan Xiao had seen all kinds of comments, good and bad, and none stirred him much anymore.  

What truly shook him was a newly lit button on the forum.  

It had always existed—but until now, it had been grayed out.  

Now, it glowed brightly.  

An exit button.  

Not just to leave the game—but to leave the system space entirely.  

After being trapped for so long… he could finally return to reality.