My Avatar Is Becoming the Final Boss-Chapter 1: Sleep Talk

“Restricted-level Esper, ID number 1002—‘Ji Minghuan’. Your instructor is here. Prepare for interrogation immediately.”
From a speaker mounted high in the ceiling, a cold, hard voice cut through the long-standing silence in the cell. Rows of glaring white fluorescent lights snapped on one after another, their cold glow blanketing every corner of the room.
The sudden burst of sound and light hit like a torrential downpour crashing into a lonely lake, stirring the fish resting at its depths.
On the sterile, paper-thin bed, Ji Minghuan stirred from his sleep, lying curled on his side like a fish.
He slowly rolled over, his gaunt face turning toward the ceiling.
The boy in the hospital gown blinked, his eyelids twitching slightly, as if the flood of light was a bit too harsh.
His bloodless lips parted with a yawn. Then, like a machine running a programmed routine, he stiffly and sluggishly lifted his hand to rub his temples.
“…Might as well just die.”
He mumbled quietly, sighing listlessly. The hand rubbing his nose bridge drooped down beside the pillow like a severed kite string, hanging limply off the edge of the bed.
He lay there like a corpse, unmoving, drained. Only when an annoying set of footsteps echoed in his ears did he stir from his less-than-five-second nap and abruptly open his heavy eyelids.
Blink.
His unfocused pupils shrank under the cold light, and in an instant, his retinas snapped into focus.
With his bright eyes open, the boy in the hospital gown stared blankly at the familiar silver-white ceiling.
Ji Minghuan’s eyes lingered on the surveillance camera under the ceiling.
His face was expressionless, as if still half-asleep. As the footsteps grew nearer, his nose twitched slightly.
Maybe it was because his sense of smell was freakishly sharp—like a small animal’s—so his first impression of someone was always scent before anything else. Honestly, he didn’t like the "Instructor’s" smell. That sterile, cloying disinfectant made the man seem pretentious, and it always reminded him of the doctors who used to come to the orphanage to give immunization shots. They wore masks, only exposing their cold eyes and noses, always holding syringes, always radiating detachment.
Recognizing the visitor by scent, Ji Minghuan turned his head on the pillow and glanced at the door.
In his line of sight, several heavy metallic doors opened one after another to either side. At the end of the corridor, a man in a white lab coat and slicked-back hair stepped forward, right on cue. That same sterilized smell clung to him as he walked in.
His steps were slow and quiet, but every footfall echoed clearly in the cell.
Ji Minghuan sat up against the headboard, pushing aside the quilt covering his legs.
After a moment, the man passed through the layers of open electronic doors and finally entered the cell.
“Evening, Instructor... Do you always have to show up while I’m dead asleep?”
Ji Minghuan greeted him lazily, turning his head toward the man with a tone as casual as chatting with an old friend.
What he saw wasn’t some cold, sterile puppet like that disinfectant smell might suggest. On the contrary, the man had a warm, almost friendly face. He could easily be cast in any TV drama as the symbol of intelligence and justice—maybe a wise and gentle elder, maybe a sharp-minded mentor.
Didn’t matter. Ji Minghuan still hated him.
Back in the orphanage, whenever he ran into someone he didn’t like, Ji Minghuan would play the “orphan card.” He’d raise hell, throw tantrums, make a scene—anything to get out of the situation.
Of course, there was a downside to that. It usually got him locked in the attic above the library—basically the orphanage’s “solitary confinement.” The kids all feared it, especially at night. But Ji Minghuan didn’t care. He wasn’t scared of spending the night there alone, and he always managed to get the Director mad as hell.
Now, even though he was still technically a “parentless brat,” the venue had changed—and this time, the orphan card didn’t work.
The reason was pretty obvious: Ji Minghuan was locked up in this weird, metal-box kind of place. Everything he said and did was under surveillance. There were no windows here, only vents. He couldn’t see the sky, couldn’t tell day from night. When the lights were off, the black box of a surveillance cam on the ceiling looked like a devil’s eye, sending chills down his spine.
The bigger question was—why was he locked up here in the first place?
Even Ji Minghuan himself couldn’t figure it out. It was absurd.
Every night, he lay in bed with his arms folded under his head, staring at the pitch-black ceiling and going over it again and again.
—About a month ago, he’d still been living in an orphanage in Lijing, the capital of China. One night, he went to bed in his dorm. The next thing he knew, he woke up here, in this cell. The scariest part? He had no memory of how he got here. It was like he’d teleported. Well, that or someone drugged him.
Later, voices from the ceiling speaker gave him the bad news: this creepy place was an experimental facility.
And Ji Minghuan… was their test subject.
Yep. A test subject. They kept repeating it—Ji Minghuan was a “restricted-level Esper,” ranked at the very top of the UN’s classification system. They said he harbored incredible, indescribable potential. Some even predicted he might destroy the world.
So they wanted him to cooperate with their research. If he didn’t, they warned, the consequences would be... unspeakable.
Ji Minghuan was baffled. First thing he said when they brought him here: If I really was some dangerous top-tier Esper, how the h**l would I not know about it?
Nobody cared what he had to say.
Every time they questioned him, he could only lean his cheek on his hand, roll his eyes, and insist he didn’t have any damn powers. He was just a regular guy—about as rare as a dirty stray dog. Plenty of people like him on the street. Was it really so hard to believe they’d grabbed the wrong “Ji Minghuan”? Sure, it wasn’t a common surname, but it wasn’t that rare.
Too bad no one believed him. They dismissed it as meaningless excuses and treated him with a cold, unbending attitude.
So now what could he do?
Nothing, really—except submit. Every day, like a mummy, he’d lie on the stiff bed, stare at the ceiling, and zone out.
No TV. When he got bored, he just traced circles on the floor with his finger, trying to keep his imagination alive—but even that felt caged in this steel box. His brain was like a broken music box, stuck on a loop with a constant ringing in his ears.
It was hard to even breathe here. Yell at the ceiling cam? Throw a tantrum on the spotless floor? No one responded. But if he ever tried anything remotely self-harming, the collar around his neck would zap him with a jolt of electricity, paralyze his whole body, and then inject him with tranquilizers to knock him out.
Eventually, Ji Minghuan gave up resisting. Anyone with claustrophobia would’ve gone mad in here. Even a normal person would probably end up with a split personality after long enough.
The only time he got to talk to someone was when the “Instructor” or the “Officer” came by. He didn’t mind those visits—they were the only form of social interaction he had.
Between the two, Ji Minghuan found them oddly entertaining.
The “Instructor” claimed he was here to help Ji Minghuan master his abilities. He looked like a good guy—gentle, understanding, always patient.
The “Officer” was exactly what his title suggested. Military uniform, harsh attitude, stern and aggressive. He’d punish Ji Minghuan physically and yell at him all the time.
One played good cop, the other bad cop. Classic “carrot and stick” strategy—works wonders on dogs and kids alike.
But Ji Minghuan wasn’t your average kid. He saw right through their act. The one he really kept his guard up around wasn’t the cold, intimidating Officer. It was this so-called Instructor, who looked kind but was far more dangerous.
He understood one thing clearly: the Instructor was the one trying to tame him. The Officer was just there to play the bad guy. Once he figured that out, the Officer’s cruelty lost all its sting.
Whenever the Officer yelled at him, the Instructor would put on a concerned face behind him—sighing, adjusting his glasses, acting like he couldn’t bear to watch.
Of course Ji Minghuan noticed. That was the whole point—they wanted him to see it.
He scoffed inside, but didn’t show it.
Funny thing was, the Instructor never outright criticized the Officer in front of Ji Minghuan. Maybe he thought that’d be too fake, too obvious.
Even when they were alone, all he’d say was stuff like: “He’s just like that. None of us really agree with how he does things. Everyone thinks he’s too rough, too impulsive. But you don’t need to let it get to you. We’re doing this for your own good. If you could just understand how dangerous your powers are and work with us, things would go much smoother.”
Ji Minghuan just leaned on his hand and gave a lazy nod. He didn’t believe a word of it. To him, whether they played good cop or bad cop, they were all the same: the kind of people who’d lock up a kid for half a month without a word.
And so, whether it was day or night, the cell once again welcomed a visit from the Instructor.
The tall, slim man in the lab coat pulled out a chair, sat down at the desk near the bed, adjusted his glasses, and looked at Ji Minghuan.
“Sorry for disturbing your rest.”
“No big deal. You do this every time anyway. Bet next time it'll be the same—no warning at all.”
Ji Minghuan shrugged as he teased, stepping off the bed.
Barefoot on the cold floor, he dragged his thin body toward the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat across from the Instructor. Chin in hand, elbow on the table, he said lazily, “So… why don’t we skip the small talk and get to the point?”
“Alright, I’ll keep it short. I contacted your old orphanage recently and asked around. They told me you used to lock yourself in and wrap your body in rolls of tissue. The kids there called you a freak. Is that true?”
“Huh…? That happened? Can’t really remember.”
Ji Minghuan tilted his head, mumbling to himself as if trying to recall. After a moment, he looked up, scowled at the Instructor, and replied with a weird tone, “But even if it is true—Instructor, don’t you think it’s normal for kids to do dumb stuff sometimes?”
“I suppose that’s fair.” The Instructor smiled. “I also heard from the nurses that back at the orphanage, you used to sneak into the computer room to play games?”
“That one’s true.”
“What kind of games did you like best?”
“Let me think... What Remains of Edith Finch, or Dystopolis, maybe?”
The Instructor shook his head.
“Too bad, I’ve never heard of those.”
“Oh yeah, real shame.” Ji Minghuan lowered his eyes, answering indifferently. He tapped the table with his finger, glancing between the ceiling camera and the Instructor. Then asked, “By the way, since you guys insist I’ve got powers, what exactly are they? Are they really as scary as you say?”
“Based on our tests, you’re most likely a ‘reality-altering’ Esper. That’s also the most dangerous category in our classification system.”
The Instructor paused. “And since you said you like video games, there’s a high chance your ability will manifest in a form that’s related to ‘games.’”
“Why?”
Ji Minghuan raised his brows and looked up, sounding a little intrigued.
Seeing the boy’s drifting gaze finally settle on his face, the Instructor chuckled softly, clearly amused by his own sense of mystery. He waited until Ji Minghuan’s eyes started to show impatience before he began tapping the table with his finger, finally offering an explanation.
“Every type of Esper ability finds a way to help the user understand it.”
“For example, if an Esper was a fashion-forward woman before awakening, she might one night dream of a massive LED billboard flashing images that highlight her power’s ‘features’ and how to use them.”
At that, the Instructor clasped his fingers together and looked Ji Minghuan in the eye.
“As for you... since you like video games, your ability might take the form of a game level—something that tests you, guides you, and helps you understand how to use it.”
“A game level…” Ji Minghuan repeated, deep in thought.
He looked at the Instructor, confused. “Why does it sound like you're saying these abilities have minds of their own, like they’re helping us get used to them?”
The Instructor shook his head, adjusted his glasses, and said,
“I was going to say no… but maybe you're right. Maybe abilities do have a will of their own. After all, this stuff is beyond the realm of science. Throughout history, Western cultures have often treated Espers as divine beings, and their powers as miracles. They believed abilities carried the will of the gods—and those who lost control of them were punished for angering the heavens, driven mad by divine wrath.”
“I see...” Ji Minghuan murmured, only half-understanding.
After a moment of thought, he added, “Come to think of it, besides computer games, I also like card games. Honestly, in the orphanage, those were the only fun things we had. Still beats this place, though.”
“Oh? Then—”
“Then one day I might dream of a deck of cards, and each one tells me how to use my ability?” Ji Minghuan cut him off.
“Exactly.”
The Instructor picked up his thermos and took a sip of the warm tea inside. As he screwed the lid back on, he looked across the table with a smile and asked,
“What got you interested in your ability all of a sudden?”
“Because I’m bored out of my mind,” Ji Minghuan said flatly. “It’s not like you guys gave me anything fun to do. What else can I do here besides stare at walls? I’m dying of boredom, okay?”
“I’m sorry. We didn’t have much choice.”
The Instructor’s tone was apologetic.
Smiling gently, he looked at Ji Minghuan for a while before continuing,
“By the way, the mute girl who came in with you... I heard she’s an albino. That’s pretty rare.”
His expression sobered a little as he asked, “Would you like to know how she’s doing?”
At that, Ji Minghuan froze. His gaze dropped to the tabletop and stayed there for several seconds.
In his thin hospital gown, he sat perfectly still like a statue—pale, frozen in place, like a paper cutout pulled from an old picture book.
After a moment, he opened his mouth, lips moving without sound.
“She…”
His hair hadn’t been cut in a while. With his head down, his eyes were completely hidden beneath his bangs.
Strangely, he couldn’t quite hear whether the voice echoing through the cell just now had actually come from his own throat.
“Hmm?”
The Instructor looked up from behind his glasses, giving him a puzzled glance.
“She has a name.” Ji Minghuan finally said, voice low.
“What was that? I didn’t catch it.”
“She’s not ‘the mute girl.’ Her name is Kong Youling. I hope you’ll remember that.”
“Oh, right—sorry, I didn’t mean to be careless just now—”
“How is she?” Ji Minghuan interrupted him again.
“She’s…”
The Instructor gave him a warm smile. He lifted his head to reply—but stopped halfway. He’d just met Ji Minghuan’s gaze.
Across the table, the boy had dipped his head slightly, shoulders slumped. His hands, like broken reeds, rested out of sight beneath the table. His face was blank, but his eyes were terrifyingly empty—dark pupils like something monstrous waiting to devour, hidden deep in a bottomless pit.
The Instructor snapped out of it, glanced aside to avoid the stare, and said,
“She’s safe. She’s been identified as a rare mental-type Esper, but compared to you, her danger level is far lower. So she’s got a bit more freedom. Her movements aren’t as restricted.”
He paused for a beat, then looked back at Ji Minghuan and asked quietly,
“Do you want to see her?”
“When?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll bring her here to see you.”
“You’re not lying?”
“No,” the Instructor said, shaking his head calmly. “There’s no reason for me to lie to you. You and her are both good kids. I’ll do what I can to make the meeting happen.”
But the moment those seemingly sincere words left his mouth, he was met with nothing but silence.
Seeing Ji Minghuan still unresponsive, the Instructor picked up his thermos again and said,
“Well… that’s all for today. Get some rest.”
With that, he stood and turned toward the exit.
“Goodbye, Instructor.”
Just as the words left his mouth, Ji Minghuan suddenly looked up again and called out,
“Wait… I have one more question.”
The footsteps stopped. The hem of the Instructor’s white coat had just brushed past the metal threshold.
He paused, half-turning his body.
“What is it?”
“When can I leave this place?” Ji Minghuan asked softly. “I… want to go back to the orphanage.”
The Instructor didn’t answer right away. He stood there with his hands behind his back. After a moment of silence, he adjusted his glasses with a familiar smile.
“If you behave yourself and work with us, then maybe… when you grow up, you’ll be allowed to leave.”
That vague answer was all he left behind before walking away without another word.
Ji Minghuan sat in silence, watching his figure disappear.
He knew deep down that he’d probably never leave this facility. Or maybe, by the time he was “allowed” to leave, he’d already be a cold, lifeless corpse.
The tapping of footsteps faded down the hall. Not long after, the thick metal doors closed behind the Instructor. Then, one by one, the room’s lights went dark—if you could even call this steel box a “bedroom.”
Back in that familiar boredom, Ji Minghuan stood up from the chair.
Pitch black. Couldn’t see a thing. But he’d already memorized every inch of the cell. He made his way to the bed, turned, stretched out his arms, and flopped down onto the mattress in a big X shape.
Didn’t even bother pulling the blanket over himself. Just shut his eyes. Oddly enough… he didn’t feel sad anymore. He was used to it.
The silent cell. The cold, reflective camera lens. The soft-spoken Instructor. The volatile Officer. That was Ji Minghuan’s life for the past month.
In the dark, his consciousness began to blur, drifting toward some unknown dimension.
A sudden weightlessness wrapped around him—like falling from the rooftop of a skyscraper. The sunset painted the glass facade golden, reflecting a twisted body plummeting through the air. Then, suddenly, he was plunging into a frozen Siberian sea. A lone moon hung above, and beneath the icy surface, codfish shadows glided in the moonlight.
And in the end, there was nothing but blue.
A cold, numbing blue. No feeling left at all.
He was dreaming.
[Welcome, our top player.]
[“Infinite Split” game has been loaded. You will now enter the character creation stage.]
That was the last voice he heard.