Chen Li Huang stumbled out of the wooden door and back into the tiny storage closet behind the manga shelf, his sneakers squeaking against the cracked linoleum floor. The sound felt strangely jarring—mundane and too sharp after the symphony of magical ambiance he'd just left behind. He slammed the closet door shut and leaned against it, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon. His heart was in his throat. His ears rang. His hands were clammy.
But he was here. Back.
His eyes darted to the cleaning closet's cheap wall clock, a sad plastic thing with one missing number and a ticking hand that sounded like a countdown to doom. It read 4:28 PM.
Wait. That couldn't be right.
Chen scrambled to check his phone, swiping up to unlock it with a shaking hand. 4:29 PM.
Fifteen minutes.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since Ms. Qiu had scolded him and told him to clean up the fantasy clubroom. His brain didn't want to believe it. He'd spent an entire day in that tavern—hours and hours of pouring magical drinks, taking orders from talking foxes, getting scolded by a broom named Gregory, dodging floating soup bowls, and experiencing a first shift in the most surreal, dreamlike café ever imagined. He remembered every detail with sharp clarity, even the spicy scent of fairyroot cinnamon and the haunting music that had played near sunset.
And yet here he was, back on Earth, a half-swept floor beneath him, a mop leaning lazily in the corner, and one broken wall clock that had apparently kept perfect time for once.
He exhaled. It came out like a laugh.
"Fifteen minutes," he whispered. "Fifteen."
He sank down onto an overturned bucket, elbows on knees, and let his forehead rest in his palms. His thoughts were a kaleidoscope—whirling colors of confusion, excitement, disbelief, and sheer relief. He hadn't missed classes. He wouldn't get expelled. His parents wouldn't be calling the police. No one even knew anything had happened.
And that fact alone made the whole thing feel even more unreal.
Was it a dream? No. No way. He had bruises from slipping on fairy syrup, and his hoodie still smelled faintly of roasted moonberries and espresso. One of his pockets had a folded napkin from The Nesting Cup, scribbled with magical runes in golden ink. This was real. Absolutely real.
Chen pushed himself up and peeked out the closet door. The hallway was empty. Outside, the school buzzed with its usual after-school chaos—students shouting across classrooms, someone blasting music down the hall, the janitor's cart squeaking in protest as it rolled by. Life had not paused. Time had ticked on, slowly, stubbornly, as if it had no idea something miraculous had just happened within its careful bounds.
And he had to go to class.
Still half-dazed, he brushed his hands down his jeans, straightened his jacket, and walked back into the classroom like a boy who hadn't just discovered an interdimensional magical tavern in the roots of a forgotten world tree.
Room 2-3 was a blur of noise and paper when he walked in.
"Where were you, Chen?" someone asked as he passed.
"Cleaning the fantasy clubroom," he muttered.
No one questioned it. It was too normal to be suspicious.
He slid into his desk beside the window, placed his phone screen-down, and stared blankly out at the courtyard, where birds circled lazily above the school pond. His math teacher, Mr. Yu, was already writing on the whiteboard with the usual hurried strokes. Chen vaguely registered words like linear equations and slope-intercept form, but they passed through his brain like smoke.
His fingers tapped absently on the desk. He kept seeing it. That living city inside the tree. The winged teacups, the flower lamps, Listra's four graceful arms as she brewed five drinks at once, and that impossibly real moment when the broom and the mop started gossiping like elderly uncles.
Chen couldn't stop smiling.
Even as Mr. Yu lectured, even as classmates groaned about homework, Chen's mind wandered down spiraling bark pathways and floating bridges. He was too happy to be bored. Too enchanted to stress. Too… distracted.
"Alright, class," Mr. Yu said suddenly, pulling Chen's drifting mind back. "Before you head out for break, don't forget—tomorrow, first period, we'll have a short assessment on today's material. It won't be difficult if you've been paying attention."
Chen blinked.
Assessment?
He had caught only the last part of the sentence.
His pen hovered above his notebook. The moment passed. A classmate to his left muttered something about unfair timing. Another asked if calculators were allowed. Chen didn't register either question. His head was still halfway through a café door that sang when opened.
The bell rang.
Everyone stood up. Backpacks zipped. Chairs scraped. Laughter echoed. Chen remained seated for another moment, eyes glazed, before the social pressure of a clearing room forced him to stand.
Outside, the hallways were crammed with teens eager for break. Some already had vacation plans to nearby cities or countryside cabins. A few discussed gaming tournaments or cosplay meetups. A group of girls from the art club were debating the best type of enchanted crystal to use for their spring exhibit.
Chen barely heard any of it. His thoughts were on Glim currency, dreamcakes that shimmered like clouds, and a tree that seemed to have no end.
He stepped into the sunlight outside and looked up at the sky. The sun was warm, the clouds cottony and slow.
Fifteen minutes.
What kind of world had that kind of time flow? What kind of place could be so big and so alive yet slip seamlessly into Earth time like it was just another closet in a dusty room?
Chen's heart began to thud again. Not from panic this time—but from anticipation.
He could go back.
Anytime.
The tavern was there. The door was real. The magic hadn't vanished when he left. He hadn't been sent on a chosen-hero quest, hadn't touched any glowing relic, hadn't been named the "key to the realms" or anything dramatic like in manga. He was just… Chen Li Huang, high school fantasy club president, awkward seventeen-year-old, café kid.
And yet he had a door.
A real door to something bigger than anything he'd ever imagined.
He smiled again, this time broader and more mischievous.
He was going back. Not right away—maybe after homework. Maybe tomorrow. But he was going back. The Tree Tavern hadn't seen the last of him.
What he didn't know was that back inside the tavern, in a quiet corner of The Nesting Cup, Listra stood holding the napkin he had left behind. The golden ink on it shimmered, then faded slightly.
"Wildwalker," she murmured to herself, one of her four hands holding a tiny crystal compass that now spun erratically.
She glanced toward the great hall of the first floor, where rumors were already whispering along the vines.
"Looks like the tree woke up a sleeper.