Meieruita wasn’t meticulous with his own hair, nor did he choose lengths for aesthetics.
It was all for practicality.
Semi-long hair best fit his needs—no frequent trims, easy to wash.
But An Luo seemed quite particular about his hairstyle.
Meieruita didn’t roughly hack away like he did with his own. He was like a gardener pruning the branches of a precious, beautiful flower—every step precise and careful.
Fine black hairs drifted down. Meieruita’s gray-green eyes were mostly veiled by lowered lashes.
He had never admitted the shock he felt upon first seeing An Luo’s true appearance.
Though Meieruita repeatedly claimed he wasn’t the type to place the Creator on a pedestal, when he saw the Creator’s full visage, he still fell silent.
Perhaps because he had lived too long in a peaceful world, An Luo always thought too simply, naively believing that signing the contract meant Meieruita couldn’t harm him—that he was safe from then on.
But reality wasn’t like that.
If Meieruita truly wanted An Luo dead, he had plenty of ways.
The simplest was to borrow a knife.
Veteran apprentices hated talented newcomers. Meieruita could easily portray An Luo to them as “gifted yet scheming, disguising himself as ordinary.”
Within three days, those veterans would strike at An Luo, and he would have no way to escape.
Meieruita wouldn’t violate the contract. He just needed to show his talent, then act like he sought revenge on An Luo but ended up gravely injured instead.
He wouldn’t hint at anyone killing An Luo or bribe anyone.
No direct harm, no indirect harm.
But by striking that pose, the veterans would act on their own.
It would have nothing to do with him—the contract couldn’t touch him.
Meieruita could even use the excuse to feign damaged talent and depression, slipping out of those old apprentices’ sights.
There were many such methods.
Moreover, just as he had said before, if he only wanted to extract information from An Luo first, squeeze out all of An Luo’s value, and then kill him, he could have easily done so by depriving An Luo of his five senses, or locking him up long-term in a cramped space, or brewing potions that benefited the body but came with various tolerable yet hard-to-endure side effects and forcing An Luo to drink them.
Coaxing with gentle methods?
There was no need to go to such lengths.
Yet Meieruita never did any of that.
The cold scissors pressed against An Luo’s nape, but he still kept his eyes closed. Even with the most vulnerable spot touching the metal blade, he remained utterly relaxed and defenseless, as if it never occurred to him that Meieruita might use this chance to harm him.
Meieruita often thought An Luo was too naive—his temperament and appearance didn’t match his age at all.
He knew this was probably thanks to the world where An Luo had grown up, but no matter how he racked his brain, Meieruita couldn’t make his imaginings or deductions feel reasonable.
It was utterly impossible, something only the heaven preached by church priests could claim, a completely unrealistic world.
Human nature was complex. As long as desires existed, the world would always be dominated by chaos and strife.
To raise an ordinary person this naive, there must have been higher beings shielding him from darkness and all sorts of dangers.
But the problem was, in the real world, it should have been the opposite.
Ordinary people should face the darkness and dangers, earning the naivety and peace for those higher beings in exchange.
What kind of place was it, where those higher-ups willingly shouldered the darkness and burdens themselves, trading for the naivety and tranquility of the common folk?
Moreover, from An Luo’s scattered remarks, it wasn’t some act of benevolence from a single superior—it was systemic, at least the guiding principle of most higher-ups.
And this principle wasn’t something worth kneeling in gratitude for; it was just common sense, a widespread phenomenon.
Higher-ups sacrificing for the commoners.
It was more laughable than a fairy tale.
The Jia Mansion from that Dream of the Red Chamber An Luo mentioned was still fresh in his mind—a six-year-old girl had to be cautious and careful, proving the nobles weren’t benevolent at all.
So how did the moneyed nobles, who rose by violently purging the old power-holding aristocracy, suddenly become so merciful?
Meieruita had tried speculating countless times, but he could never find a logical motive for these higher-ups’ behavior. It was utterly anti-human nature—impossible.
In the end, he could only helplessly conclude that “those higher-ups were crazy.”
Or perhaps…
Hadn’t An Luo said that the Small World Meieruita was in was a resource point for some even more powerful Ancient Wizard?
Maybe An Luo’s world was the same—ordinary people raised like ignorant livestock, harvested once they met certain standards, with no one knowing the truth.
Indeed, this guess held water.
An Luo had also said his job was grueling, hyper-competitive, and his income couldn’t even support marriage and kids.
Most of the money he should have earned was siphoned away in subtle ways.
The moneyed nobles willingly blocked dangers and darkness to protect the commoners, raising people like An Luo to such naivety, yet unceremoniously squeezed wealth from them—to the point of stifling their desire to reproduce.
It was like split personality.
Too contradictory—utterly impossible.
There had to be something wrong, some dark truth lurking beneath, one An Luo simply hadn’t noticed.
Perhaps…”Traveler Meierita” had uncovered the truth and brought An Luo here to spare him from disaster.
Meieruita leaned down and gently blew away the stray hairs on An Luo’s nape.
Oh, my poor Creator.
You knew nothing, still dreaming of returning to that false utopia—a hell disguised as paradise.
Unaware that beneath the sweet candy lay deadly poison.
Maybe… I’ve already saved you once.
The sudden breath made An Luo shrink back a little. He suddenly felt a chill on his back, but before he could dwell on it, Meieruita’s calm voice rang out: “All done.”
A gust of wind followed, gathering all the scattered fine hairs into one spot before a flame incinerated them.
The scorched hair smell was a bit pungent, but it didn’t last; the wind soon carried it away.
An Luo checked himself in the mirror and thought, The protagonist lives up to his name—reliable as ever. “Thanks, Meieruita.”
“You’re welcome.” Meieruita put away the scissors and said flatly, “Perhaps you should consider growing your hair long.”
An Luo was first taken aback, then fell silent.
…Yeah, this wasn’t the modern world anymore—no quick and easy haircuts.
He could rely on Meieruita now, but what about after he left the Wizard Tower?
Besides, short hair needed trimming every so often. Once or twice was fine, but too many times would just be a hassle for Meieruita.
Though he’d been in the wizard world long enough to adapt somewhat, the differences between worlds were too numerous. Little details would pop up now and then, like a needle hidden in clothes, pricking unexpectedly.
“Don’t misunderstand.”
Meieruita’s hands pressed on An Luo’s shoulders. He drew close from behind, nearly enveloping him, his voice soft: “I don’t find tending your hair troublesome. It’s just that the fine clippings from short hair are hard to clean up completely—they pose a hazard.”
An Luo: “…Thanks, you’re the best.”
His mood was a bit complicated right now:
Who could’ve guessed that in just a few short months, his relationship with Meieruita had progressed so quickly, so oddly.
Being forced into the “mother” role was ridiculous, but whenever dissatisfaction bubbled up, recalling Meieruita’s character setup and the dark elements he’d written instantly calmed him.
Just like Mr. Lu Xun’s house-demolition effect—Flower Country people’s temperament always favored reconciliation and compromise. For instance, if Meieruita insisted An Luo become his “mother,” An Luo would’ve refused outright. But if Meieruita argued that An Luo knowing the plot posed a threat and should be killed off early, An Luo would accept the compromise and agree to be the “mother.”
Before that conversation, Meieruita had subtly fueled An Luo’s suspicions to create distance, lest they grew too close and he inevitably sank completely.
Hard to say if he hadn’t intended a high-pressure scare followed by easing off.
Meieruita himself wasn’t sure if he’d had such thoughts. Sometimes he’d deliberately spook An Luo—no malice, just because An Luo’s fearful, wary look was amusing.
But over time, he discovered a reaction more to his liking.
Compared to “An Luo cautiously distancing himself after being frightened by him,” he preferred “An Luo, frightened by the outside world, forced to rely on him.”
Night deepened, but contrary to the plot, no “cannon-fodder villain” came smashing the door.
Meieruita’s gray-green eyes looked profoundly dark in the candlelight.
Though he’d anticipated it, when reality matched his guess, displeasure still washed over him in waves.
In the dim shadows away from the firelight, Meieruita secretly activated the rune pre-engraved on the stone brick by the door.
Suddenly, a heavy pounding shook the door, accompanied by impatient cursing.
An Luo jumped in fright.
He’d forgotten about this.
“Come out!” The voice outside was vicious. “Let me see if you really have the skills, An Luo! Stop hiding behind your puppet and trembling!”
“No need to worry.”
Meieruita draped an arm around An Luo’s shoulders and guided him to sit on the bed, his tone calm and steady: “I’ve set up precautions ahead of time. He can’t get in.”
An Luo followed his gaze and saw intricate rune patterns emerge on the stone brick by the door.
Meieruita wasn’t concerned—An Luo couldn’t read them anyway.
“I’ve told you, I’ll handle everything.”
In the darkness, Meieruita smiled faintly.
He met An Luo’s eyes, his words carrying unclear meaning:
“No one but me can touch you.”
