Six in the morning, Eastsea Academy faculty apartments.
Lu Menge was awakened by Little White Tiger's tail. Little White Tiger perched by her pillow, tapping her face again and again with the tip of its tail. The force was light, but the rhythm was incredibly steady—this was its fixed routine for waking her every morning. Lu Menge rolled over and buried her face in the pillow, mumbling, "Give me five more minutes." Little White Tiger did not give her five minutes. It simply curled its tail around her wrist and tugged. Lu Menge sighed, resignedly sat up, and rubbed her eyes. Sleep still lingered in her amber fox-like eyes. Looking down at her rumpled cotton nightgown, then at the cactus on the windowsill that she was about to kill with neglect, she suddenly felt that today ought to be a good day.
Six-thirty, kitchen. She stood at the stove frying eggs—two in the pan, one cooked through and one runny. The fully cooked one was Wu Changkong's, while the runny one was hers. The porridge in the rice cooker was already done: preserved egg and lean pork porridge, the rice soft and creamy, the shredded pork marinated the night before. As she flipped the eggs, she poured a bowl of goat's milk for Little White Tiger. It crouched on the counter and lapped at the milk, its tail dangling and swaying. She had taught at Eastsea Academy for so many years and led countless classes for Class Zero, but whenever she cooked in the morning, this was still when she felt most like herself. Not the Nine-Headed White Tiger, not Class Zero's instructor—just a woman frying eggs at the stove.
Seven sharp. There came three knocks at the door. Wu Changkong stood outside, dressed in white as snow, a new