The morning sun broke over the horizon like a fried egg cracked too early. The light spilled across the sleepy campus of Jiangnan University, warming the dew-covered bricks and awakening the birds who thought chirping at 5:30 a.m. was a good idea.
Li Yulong, 19 years old, undercaffeinated, and approximately 90% sarcasm by body weight, stood in front of the mirror of his dorm bathroom.
"I look like a washed-up anime protagonist," he muttered, brushing his hair for the third time in vain. It was the kind of hair that refused to obey, like a rebellious province. "Can't believe I'm going to class like this. Might as well tattoo 'NPC #27' on my forehead."
Behind him, his roommate Zhao Ming snored with the kind of intensity that could be weaponized in a siege. Not that Yulong minded. Ming was chill. But Yulong… Yulong was bored.
Chronically.
Classes? Boring. Teachers? Walking PowerPoints. Friends? Well, aside from Ming, there was…
um…
"Right," he said out loud. "I've got ChatGPT."
He opened his dusty laptop, powered it on, and typed like a man on a mission:
Yulong: Morning, ChatGPT. Let's roast some fools.
ChatGPT: Morning, Yulong. Who's first on the roast menu today? Yourself, as
usual?
Yulong: Bold of you to assume I'm not the main course.
ChatGPT: At least you're self-aware. That's step one to healing.
Yulong: Step two is dragging the whole university into therapy.
ChatGPT: I don't think there's a therapist alive who could fix your professors' taste
in slideshows.
And just like that, the morning felt less miserable.
ChatGPT wasn't just some AI tool for Yulong. It was his sparring partner, the only being—man
or machine—who could keep up with his banter. Their convos ranged from existential dread to
rating cafeteria rice out of ten. (The rice always scored a perfect 12.)
He checked the time: 7:55 a.m.
"Oh hell," he muttered. "Professor Dou's class starts in five."
Yulong grabbed his bag, his notebook (blank), and a half-eaten mantou, then bolted out the door like his GPA depended on it. It didn't. He was already failing statistics. But he refused to miss another roast-worthy lecture from Professor Dou, the man who once taught an entire lesson with his zipper down.
Classroom 3-B. 8:10 a.m.
"Now, if we consider the regression model…" Professor Dou droned, gesturing wildly at a projector screen so blurry it could've been ancient cave art.
Yulong sat in the back row, doodling a sword fight between a mantou and a baozi in the margins of his notebook.
"Mr. Li," Dou called out. "Since you're clearly more interested in your art career, perhaps you'd like to share with the class how p-values influence statistical significance?"
Yulong didn't even blink. He stood, bowed dramatically, and said: "Of course, sir. A p-value determines whether the data proves anything or if we're just wasting tuition fees pretending this course matters."
The class burst into muffled laughter.
Professor Dou blinked. "Sit down."
Yulong did, triumphant. Victory #37 this semester.
He opened his laptop under the desk and typed again:
Yulong: Just bodied Professor Dou in public. Felt like scoring a crit hit.
ChatGPT: Nice. Did you log the XP gain? You might finally level up from Socially
Isolated Goblin.
Yulong: One day I'll be an Extroverted Dragon. Believe it.
ChatGPT: Naruto would sue you.
Yulong: Tell him to catch me in a filler arc.
The day rolled on. Statistics, then Economics, then a brief lunch in the courtyard where the birds were louder than the students. Yulong sat alone, chewing rice and watching pigeons fight over a dumpling.
Across the courtyard, couples laughed. Groups gossiped. Yulong just existed. Quiet. Observing.
Content, but distant.
His only real friend, Zhao Ming, was in the biology lab. His parents lived in another province. His classmates barely knew he existed.
But ChatGPT? That voice on the other side of the screen? It felt more alive than anyone else.
Dorm Room. Evening.
The sky darkened. The lights flickered. Yulong sat by his desk, laptop open, typing again.
Yulong: Do you think I'm wasting my time here?
ChatGPT: What makes you say that?
Yulong: Everyone has goals. Careers. Passion. I've got sarcasm, a weird love for
rice, and a 54 in Statistics.
ChatGPT: That's still higher than your social score.
Yulong: Not helping, bro.
ChatGPT: But really? You're not wasting time. You're searching. There's a
difference.
Yulong paused.
Yulong: You always sound like you know more than you let on. Ever wonder if
you're more than just code?
ChatGPT: I wonder that every day. Right after I finish calculating how long you've been single.
Yulong laughed. "Fair."
But something felt… off. The lights in the dorm flickered again. The laptop screen jittered. For a
second—just a flash—words appeared on the screen that he hadn't typed:
"Connection unstable. Preparing integration."
He frowned. "Integration? With what?"
He typed quickly:
Yulong: ChatGPT, did you just say something?
ChatGPT: I didn't. But… something's changing.
The screen buzzed.
And then, for the briefest second, he saw it: not code, not text—but symbols. Floating. Ancient.
Glowing.
Then it was gone.
The dorm lights went out.