I Heard That I am a HeartBreaker - Chapter 47

Gu Su’s shout finally snapped her soul back into her body.

Gu Lingxi’s tantrum had run its course. She was beginning to realize, deep down, that she was already being phased out of the game. But humans are stubborn creatures; as long as the other party clearly projects a “single” status to the world, it feels like an open invitation.

To Gu Lingxi, it was bait. As long as the other person didn’t announce a partner, she felt she still had a chance. No matter what advantages others held, she believed everyone was on the same level playing field—all just candidates in a race.

Only after seeing Gu Lingxi regain some semblance of clarity did Gu Su continue. She stepped back into the role of the “Love Mentor,” a position she hadn’t wanted in the first place.

“And are you even sure you actually like her? If I’m not mistaken, you only noticed her at first because you thought being with her would bring you some sort of ‘glory,’ didn’t you?”

Gu Su’s words hit Gu Lingxi’s heart like a sledgehammer. She wanted to argue, but she found herself voiceless because it was the truth.

She was a “Sea Queen”—a player. In the past, Gu Lingxi lived by this philosophy of love and wore it like a badge of honor.

No strings, no drama. If it’s over, it’s over. Bye-bye, on to the next one. That was the lesson she had mastered over the years.

“That was my problem. I’ll change, and besides…”

Gu Su ignored her. She held onto a firm principle: a leopard doesn’t change its spots, and a person who has spent their life wandering doesn’t get tied down easily. Even if they did get together, once the initial passion faded, Gu Lingxi would likely end up resenting the very person who “caged” her.

“You’re always like this. No matter how many times I tell you, you never listen. You treat love like a game. You think if you find out someone’s likes and spam them with gifts, you’ll unlock the ending you want.”

“But real life isn’t a game. Lingxi, do you have any idea how much pain normal people feel when they break up? You don’t. You treat everything as a pastime. You don’t care about ‘love’; you just want the dopamine hit. But are you actually happy?”

As Gu Su peeled back the bloody layers of the truth, she watched her sister’s expression. Gu Lingxi just kept her head down, silent, seemingly accepting the critique.

“Qiu Shuang isn’t right for you. She is a very steady, earnest girl. If you keep this up, you’ll only break her heart. I’m advising you: figure out your own heart before you try anything else. And if I’m not mistaken, she’s been keeping her distance from you, hasn’t she?”

Hearing her sister’s accusations, Gu Lingxi was completely speechless. What could she say? She wanted to deny it, but the reality was undeniable. No matter how she tried to get close to Qiu Shuang, the response was always the same—polite, flat, treating her like a casual acquaintance, or perhaps even less than that.

She was indignant, but what could she do? Feelings are a two-way street. Just because Gu Lingxi wanted to be with her didn’t mean the other woman was obligated to respond. The world didn’t work like that, even if Gu Lingxi hated to admit it.

Seeing the silence—and the lack of an immediate explosion—Gu Su knew her words had at least partially sunk in.

In truth, Gu Su felt a pang of sadness too. As family, of course she wanted her sister to find happiness. But she knew the current Gu Lingxi wasn’t ready. Getting together now would only lead to a more tragic end.

A libertine who treats love as a game is destined for a hollow life. They dance alone in the cycle of “love games,” chasing short-lived highs. Once they become addicted to that rhythm of fleeting pleasure, there will come a day when they finally want to offer their soul to someone else, only to find they no longer know how to survive without the chase.

“I…”

“Lingxi, just stop thinking about this for a while. Consider it letting yourself off the hook, or use the time to seriously think about a real future. You need to cool down.”

Silence followed. The lights went out, marking the start of what would likely be a sleepless night.

In a dark dormitory room, Xin Zhu hadn’t turned on the lights. She sat in the shadows, staring intently at her phone screen, her eyes fixed on a chat window. She was pondering a single question.

Who took that outfit before I could?

At this moment, Xin Zhu only regretted that she hadn’t majored in Computer Science. Her self-taught skills were decent, but they fell just a bit short. If she had known, she would have studied harder; then it wouldn’t have taken her two days to track down all the information.

As she traced the “production line” of this incident—the connections and the people involved—Xin Zhu smiled.

Qi Sijiao was trying to use her as a blade, but fools like Gu Lingxi and Song Ya had unwittingly walked right into the trap as well.

Soon, things were going to get very “lively” again. The thought of these idiots amused Xin Zhu. With brains like theirs, the idea that they could compete with her for her Senior was nothing more than a pipe dream.

Xin Zhu tossed her phone aside and opened her laptop. On the screen was Qiu Shuang’s detailed class schedule.

Tomorrow… where should I “accidentally” run into her?

After finally dealing with her sister, Gu Su immediately dove back into work. She didn’t have time for romance; her priorities were building her empire and reclaiming all of her power.

Meanwhile, Song Ya was having a rough time. She had just returned to school and laid down when she received a message from a “sidekick” trying to be clever. After reading it, Song Ya nearly lost her mind.

“Are you insane? When did I ever tell you to steal someone else’s clothes? What gave you the right to act on your own? Or do you think my skills are so poor that I couldn’t beat her fairly?”

Originally, Song Ya never intended to become an art student or a dancer. Back in high school, when she realized her intellect and grades could never catch up to Qiu Shuang’s, jealousy took root.

Chen Wanjun, Lu Chen, and Qiu Shuang—the three of them were top students who maintained a long-term “scholar friendship” and eventually got into the same university.

And what about her? Was she supposed to just fade away? Song Ya refused to accept that. That was when she found the “shortcut” of the arts. At first, she didn’t take the field seriously.

In Song Ya’s mind, the arts were for people like her—average students looking for a back door into a better college. But she soon discovered that even in that world, there were people who were truly extraordinary.

She realized that some people truly loved art and were willing to give their lives for it, while she was like an ignorant child, fumbling across a river by feeling the stones, clumsily tracing the path of those who came before her.

It wasn’t until she achieved glory that Song Ya gradually fell in love with dance. Fate was so unfair: the sincere lovers of the craft lacked talent, while those with breathtaking talent wasted it all.

She could easily perform movements others couldn’t; her flexibility was superior, her proportions better. Perhaps it was cruel, but in this world, the entry threshold of certain industries simply shuts many people out from the start.

Everyone claims to be a genius—a “hidden gem”—but in fields where results are visible, most “geniuses” are just ordinary people.

Song Ya felt a headache coming on. She never hid the fact that she was wealthy, and many girls flocked to her. She didn’t mind the flattery; after all, someone’s sycophancy sounds much better than their insults.

Letting just a little wealth slip through her fingers was enough. Song Ya gave them money, and they provided emotional value. It was a fair trade; she was simply purchasing their validation.

With a major competition approaching, everyone was tense. But Song Ya wasn’t worried. She had the talent, the famous mentors, and the money for elite training. She was already far ahead of the rest; the championship was practically in the bag.

However, there are exceptions to every rule. She wasn’t the only genius in the world. For instance, at Qiu Shuang’s university, a formidable talent had emerged this year—one described as a “once-in-a-century” prodigy.

Song Ya’s knowledge of Tang Yulin was based only on hearsay. It was said that in Tang’s obsessed life, dance was the only thing that existed.

Song Ya didn’t consider herself a “good person,” but in her own domain, she was supremely confident. She had never dreamed of using such dirty tactics.

“Give the clothes back! …Forget it. I’ll take you and the clothes and go apologize in person.”

Song Ya wasn’t one to dodge responsibility. Although she had nothing to do with the theft, she reflected on how the most terrifying people in the world are fools. She truly couldn’t fathom what kind of person would think this was a good idea.

What was the point of stealing someone’s clothes?

Song Ya was about to dismiss it as a useless gesture, but then she fell silent. Custom-made costumes were expensive, and the victim came from an ordinary family. To have come this far relying purely on raw talent, that costume must have been incredibly important to her.

A pang of guilt hit Song Ya. An ordinary person trying to fulfill their dream, only to be schemed against at the finish line.

But she quickly composed herself. She wasn’t the mastermind; she hadn’t issued any orders. Someone else had done this to suck up to her. What fault did she have?

Then, her brain caught up. They weren’t from the same school—how did the thief get past security? This meant there was an insider. To pull all these threads together just to please her, the person must have been calculating this for a long time. The thought made Song Ya’s head ache even more.

She had to find out how they bypassed the university’s gate security. Whether the methods used were legal or not was a serious matter.

“Explain this to me clearly. Who exactly told you to go steal them!”

On the other end of the line, the person just kept repeating the same few sentences. Song Ya was losing her patience.

She couldn’t ask anything too pointed yet; if the other party was recording the call, it would lead to a total PR disaster. Thinking of this, she softened her tone as much as possible and arranged a meeting place. She needed to stabilize the situation first and compensate Tang Yulin as much as possible.

After agreeing on a spot, Song Ya threw on some clothes and rushed over. The moment she saw the other person, she felt a daze of confusion. For some reason, the individual who was usually subservient and groveling now seemed to have a sharp, cold edge to their aura. But the strange feeling vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

“Who exactly told you to go?”

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