Happy Evil Heartbreaker [Modern LitRPG]

"Listen, the departure of winter, I woke up in some year, some month. I thought, I waited, I anticipated, but the future cannot be arranged because of this..."

As Xanthia sang "Accidentally In Love", the system item she used gently began to take effect on Dematero.

However, Dematero remained oblivious to it all.

During the duration of this song, he would begin to simulate a false future life.

Yet he couldn't distinguish reality from illusion himself. It was like the "brain in a vat" hypothesis—who could confirm they weren't undergoing an experiment of the brain in a vat? Perhaps the real world was all virtual, simulated by computers.

At this moment, in the simulated memory—

Dematero didn't even finish listening to "Accidentally In Love" before abruptly standing up. He addressed Xanthia coldly, "Stop bothering me. I've seen through life completely. From now on, I want to walk alone, without needing love, friendship, or anyone's pity!"

He felt that his lonely self was the strongest, never to be hurt.

Xanthia was indeed a good girl, but he wasn't worthy of her kindness. So, it was better to be harsh and ask her to stay away from someone as unfortunate as him.

Thinking like this, when he actually acted upon it, the pain in his heart only deepened!

[ System prompt: Pain points from Dematero +++ ]

Since the ultimate goal of this memory segment was to extract a large amount of "pain points" from Dematero, all his choices in the memory tended to gravitate subconsciously towards the worst outcomes.

In life, the most crucial aspect is often the choices one makes.

As the saying goes, men fear entering the wrong profession, and women fear marrying the wrong man. This proverb plainly illustrates the importance of choices.

After Dematero left coldly, returning to the classroom, he took out his notebook dedicated to writing essays and diaries, and wrote:

Being too enthusiastic towards anyone only increases the likelihood of not being cherished. Without excessive joy, there wouldn't be extreme sadness.

This was the lesson he had just learned from his failed romance.

As an artistic youth who loved expressing his inner emotions through poetry, although he seemed resolute on the surface, he couldn't possibly recover so quickly.

The breakup provided him with material and inspiration for his creations. Thus, he penned a poem:

I'm grateful for those days you weren't part of, Yet some light still fell upon my shoulders, Sometimes gentle, sometimes violent.
Like you gently paddling through the years, Gliding past the springtime banks where I often sat.
A thousand times I imagined you sitting across from me, Joyously sharing a cup of morning tea.
And on a winter's sudden tearful day, We glimpse the slow-falling snow in each other's hearts.
In many, many dreams, My heart rocked for you alone.
Years later, there bloomed flowers of sorrow, A regret we could no longer bear to touch.

Clearly, like his previous modern poems, this one was still dedicated to the girl who had deeply hurt him.

But he would no longer eagerly write such poems in earnest handwriting on scented pink stationery, sneakily slipping them into the girl's desk hole...

Writing such artsy, sentimental things was purely for catharsis, a form of self-healing.

Afterward, he began to completely deteriorate. Studying was out of the question; he threw himself entirely into writing, proving himself through another avenue!

He aimed to write for literary magazines, imagining himself becoming a successful writer, renowned and wealthy. Surely that would give others a sense of security?

He had completely changed. Once very fond of chatting and cheerful, patient, and gentle, he now sealed himself off, silent and self-pitying, with a temper that was unpredictable. He started liking works that depicted the darker side of society, growing more and more cynical, hating the world.

His writing no longer carried warmth; it turned sharp and cold, filled with malice of humanity.

It was predictable that with such writing, getting published was almost impossible. There was simply no market for it now—it wasn't the awakening era anymore. Readers loved light-hearted content; even if you wrote tragedy, it had to be about love.