Chen Youzai rose early that morning and donned the new clothes he had bought for himself. With great seriousness, he sprayed gel into his hair until every strand stood upright. He examined himself in the mirror.
“With new clothes, even my temperament has changed,” he muttered approvingly, popping his collar before stepping outside.
The air seemed fresher along the road. He offered each passerby an elegant smile.
What he received in return was uproarious laughter.
Confused, Chen Youzai glanced down at himself—and immediately understood.
This “temperament” did not belong to him.
So he shoved one hand into his pocket and raked the fingers of the other from forehead to nape in what he believed to be a roguish gesture.
Disaster.
His fingers tangled hopelessly in his hair. The “silky locks” he so prized betrayed him utterly. Grimacing, he ducked into a secluded corner and painstakingly freed each finger.
As he bared his teeth in pain, a girl approached, intending to fix her zipper in private. Instead, she met his contorted face.
She shrieked twice and fled.
Such scenes had played out countless times in his eighteen years.
From birth, ridicule and contempt had followed him.
Tiny, bead-sized eyes—bright perhaps, but scarcely visible. A flattened nose, as though deliberately smashed. A cavernous mouth that spread grotesquely when he smiled. Acne-spotted skin. Naturally curly hair.
Such features combined were beyond the word “ugly.”
If only he kept long hair to cover his face. But no—he favored short, choppy cuts, plastered upward with gel, fully exposing every unfortunate angle.
If only his figure compensated. But at 167 centimeters, paired with bowlegs, onlookers could scarcely resist wondering how much worse his face might yet be.
If only he were modest and kind, his classmates might soften.
Instead, he craved attention. The more distorted his appearance, the stranger his antics became—convinced he looked impressive, unaware of the visual assault he inflicted.
When the girl fled screaming, his heart took another blow. Before he could recover, a boy passing by shoved him hard.
“Looking that hideous and standing in the way? Move aside!”
Rage flared.
Chen Youzai swung his fist. He landed one surprise punch—but soon found himself kicked and struck, flailing like a torn cloak in the wind.
A crowd gathered.
Struggling upright, he forced his eyes open—only to find himself surrounded by beautiful girls. He sprang up, scratched his head, and put on the expression of a victor.
Instead, curses and laughter crashed into him.
“Coward! It’s Chen Youzai again, always showing off!”
“Serves him right! Maybe they’ll beat that face into shape!”
“Look at his stiff expression—hilarious!”
Futile Devices Scans 
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