Chapter Text
Desire Academy was the kind of school that looked perfect in brochures.
Marble pillars, glass corridors, and a school crest so shiny it practically glowed. The words beneath it—Unity, Strength, Coexistence—sounded noble enough to make parents sigh with pride and students roll their eyes.
In truth, Desire Academy was less “harmonious utopia” and more “wildlife documentary with uniforms.”
The Carnivore Building sat on the edge of the forest hill, built tall and bold with stone walls and open balconies to “suit their natural instincts.” It was always loud there—roars echoing through practice fields, the air heavy with the smell of meat from their exclusive cafeteria. Carnivore students walked with confidence (and sometimes claws), usually the first to start fights and the first to laugh about them afterward.
The Herbivore Building rested near the academy’s wide botanical garden, all glass windows and vines crawling up the walls. It was quiet, the kind of place where the loudest sound was usually pages turning or the rustle of leaves. Herbivores followed strict schedules, drank tea between classes, and pretended they didn’t hear the carnivores yelling across the courtyard.
And right in the middle, like an awkward child of divorce, was the Omnivore Hall—neutral ground, neutral dorms, neutral rules. Omnivores weren’t many, but they moved between both sides like walking treaties. The administration liked to call them “the bridge of peace.” Everyone else called them “the ones who never get invited to lunch because both sides think they’re spying.”
Despite all that, Desire Academy had one rule it held above all: every hybrid must learn to coexist.
And once a year, they tried really, really hard to prove it.
And today was that day.
The field buzzed with color and noise. Flags waved in the wind, tails and ears flicked restlessly under the sun, and the smell of grass, fur, and sweat tangled in the air.
The Harmony Cup had officially begun.
Teachers liked to describe it as a “friendly interspecies competition” designed to build trust and teamwork between different hybrids. Students, however, knew better.
“They call it ‘Harmony Cup.’
Most just call it ‘The Day Someone Bites Someone.’”
Every year, a few unlucky herbivores ended up with frizzed fur and frazzled nerves. Carnivores walked away with scratches, pride, or sometimes detention. Omnivores took notes for gossip later.
This year’s Harmony Cup was extra special—it was the first one for the freshmen. The academy had even organized mixed-building teams so that “every hybrid could learn from each other.” Which really just meant chaos would start faster.
The principal’s voice echoed through the loudspeaker, painfully cheerful:
“Good morning, Desire Academy! Welcome to the seventy-second annual Harmony Cup! Today, let’s celebrate our diversity, cooperation, and sportsmanship! Please remember—no claws, no fangs, and no chasing your classmates this time!”
Half the field snickered. The other half twitched their ears.
Up in the stands, carnivores were already stretching like it was a boxing match. Herbivores huddled with anxious smiles, muttering prayers. Omnivores filmed everything.
And somewhere among them, sitting under a shade tree with his ears pressed flat against his head, a small rabbit regretted being born in the wrong year.
But that part comes later.
Right now, three familiar silhouettes stood at the edge of the starting line—one tiger grinning like the sun, one fox smirking like trouble, and one wolf pretending not to know them.
Together, they were the carnivore trio everyone on school knew by reputation.
At the very front of the carnivore lineup, a tiger stretched lazily under the morning sun, eyes gleaming like it knew it was being watched. Sheng Shao You, first-year student, self-declared “future team captain of everything.” The way he grinned made teachers sigh and classmates swoon—or flinch, depending on which building they came from.
“Another year, another victory,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “Guess I’ll have to let someone else win second place again.”
“You’ve never even played before,” a smooth voice replied.
Standing next to him, Hua Yong, the fox, adjusted his crimson ribbon and smirked. Sleek hair, sharper tongue. “You talk like last year’s champion when last year you were still chasing squirrels in middle school.”
Shao You ignored him with the patience of someone born loud and unbothered. “It’s called confidence, Hua Yong. Try it sometime.”
Behind them, Shen Wenlang, the wolf, carried the team’s supplies like a responsible parent who’d given up arguing. His ears twitched at their noise. “You two sound like an opening act for disaster,” he muttered, setting down a crate of water bottles.
Shao You slung an arm over his shoulder. “Come on, Wenlang! It’s tradition. You grumble, Hua Yong schemes, and I lead us to glory.”
Then he pinch Wenlang’s cheeks—too hard. ”And maybe we’ll get a new friends too.”
“Your version of making friends usually involves bandages,” Hua Yong said, folding his arms.
They laughed, easy and loud, drawing glances from nearby teams. Among carnivores, they were famous already—a trio of talent, trouble, and teeth. No one could remember when they became friends; it just felt like they always had been. Some said it was because their cycles aligned unusually well—tiger heat, fox mischief, wolf restlessness—all peaking in early spring. Others said it was just that chaos attracts chaos
Across the field, a group of herbivores eyed them nervously. One deer whispered, “Why are they smiling like that?”
Another replied, “Because someone’s about to get tackled.”
Wenlang ignored both of them. He was scanning the crowd, expression unreadable. “We still need one more teammate,” he reminded, nodding toward the scoreboard listing each team’s requirements.
Hua Yong flipped through the event pamphlet he’d actually read. “Rule revision: every team must include one or more participant from another building. You know—‘promoting interspecies cooperation.’”
Shao You’s grin turned feral. “So we get to hunt for a teammate.”
“Recruit,” Wenlang corrected.
“Recruit, hunt—same thing.”
Hua Yong sighed. “I vote we find someone who can actually run. I’m not going to carry someone halfway through the obstacle course.”
Shao You clapped his hands together. “Then it’s settled! Let’s find a horse hybrid, no? Or just start chasing the herbivores—you know, to find someone who can run fast.”
Wenlang gave him a look. “You’re joking.”
But the tiger was already scanning the field, golden eyes gleaming with the thrill of a new game.
Somewhere on the opposite end, hidden behind the water tent and wincing at the noise, a certain rabbit sneezed without knowing his fate had just been decided.
Gao Tu had made three promises to himself that morning:
(1) Don’t talk to anyone.
(2) Don’t get noticed.
(3) Survive until lunch.
Simple enough—until the loudspeaker decided to declare war on his eardrums.
“WELCOME TO THE SEVENTY-SECOND ANNUAL HARMONY CUP!”
The roar that followed felt like it split the sky open. Every cheer, every whistle, every clap stabbed through Gao Tu’s sensitive ears until the world became one giant, thumping blur. He winced, ears flattening tight against his soft brown hair as he muttered, “harmony, my foot…”
The herbivore teams were gathering near the east field—goats whispering strategies, deer checking hydration packs, swan arguing over who’d fly first. Gao Tu lingered at the very edge, hugging his bottle like it was a shield. The air was too loud, too crowded, too full of teeth and tails. The teachers kept saying this event would “build bridges.” He was starting to think they meant “burn eardrums.”
Too bright. Too loud. Too many teeth.
He adjusted his hood, trying to melt into the background, when a burst of laughter broke through the chaos—sharp, confident, way too alive.
It came from the carnivore side.
He turned before he could stop himself.
Across the field, three of them stood out like they didn’t even need the spotlight—tiger, fox, wolf. Gao Tu blinked. The tiger had his hair tied back, sunlight catching gold in the strands. The fox smirked like he’d said something clever. The wolf looked like he was regretting every friendship decision he’d ever made: I’ve been babysitting these idiots since birth.
Gao Tu stared for a second, ears twitching despite himself. Then he frowned.
“…What are they even laughing about?” he muttered, scrunching his nose. And right after that—
“Achoo!”
The sneeze startled him as much as it startled a nearby bird. He rubbed his nose, muttering, “Great. Loud, flashy, and contagious. Perfect.”
Decision made—he was leaving.
He turned from the field, heading toward the water tent with the most casual walk he could manage. Unfortunately, “casual” looked suspicious when you were holding your bag like contraband.
“Gao Tu?” A teacher spotted him halfway to the exit. “Where are you going? The team roll call’s about to start!”
He froze. “Uh—water.” He raised his bottle like proof. “Gonna fill this. Be right back.”
“Alright, but don’t wander too far!”
“Of course not,” he lied, smiling with the politeness of someone who was already halfway planning their escape.
The second the teacher turned, Gao Tu ran.
By the time he reached the quieter side of the school, the noise had faded into a distant hum. The air was cooler here, the ground soft with grass. He crouched, pulling at a few wildflowers absently, ears twitching in thought.
“This is stupid,” he mumbled, plucking a tiny yellow blossom. “Mandatory fun, they said. Team spirit, they said.” He flicked the petal away and sighed. “I should’ve just pretended to faint.”
He stomped once—light but sharp, like a frustrated rabbit. Then again. “That’s it. I’m going home.”
The back gate wasn’t far, just beyond the equipment shed. His heart thumped with the thrill of rebellion as he trotted toward it, already picturing the peace and quiet of his dorm room.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
He turned the corner—and slammed straight into something solid. No, someone.
His nose made painful contact with a very firm chest.
“Ow—!” Gao Tu staggered back, clutching his face. His eyes watered instantly. “What—who puts a wall in the middle of the path—?”
Then he blinked up.
Uh-oh.
The world had a rule: if something was loud, golden, and grinning, it was trouble.
Gao Tu had just run headfirst into it.
Sheng Shao You blinked down at him, one hand still on the bottle crate he’d been carrying. “Whoa there, little hopper,” he said, voice bright with amusement. “Didn’t see you coming.”
“I—didn’t see you either,” Gao Tu mumbled through his hands, nose still stinging. His ears twitched furiously, half from pain, half from panic. Up close, the tiger looked even bigger—warm scent, sun in his hair, a smile that said rules exist for other people.
Shao You tilted his head. “You okay? Or did I just commit a herbivore homicide?”
“I’m fine,” Gao Tu said quickly, stepping back. “You can… go back to your, uh, roaring or whatever.”
“Roaring?” Shao You laughed, delighted. “Do I look like I roar during school hours?”
“Yes.”
That made the tiger laugh harder. “You’re funny. What’s your name?”
“Gao Tu.”
“Cute,” Shao You said without hesitation. Gao Tu froze like the word had turned him to stone. The tiger seemed to enjoy that reaction far too much. “What are you doing back here, Gao Tu-who-is-cute? Event’s the other way.”
Gao Tu clutched his half-empty bottle. “…Water.”
Shao You raised an eyebrow. “There’s water back there.”
“This is better water.”
“Uh-huh.” The tiger crouched slightly so their eyes met. His gaze was easy, teasing, but somehow impossible to look away from. “You’re not skipping, are you?”
“No.”
“Because I could report you.”
“You could,” Gao Tu said, inching backward, “or you could forget you saw me.”
Shao You grinned. “Tempting. But actually, I was told to find a new teammate.”
“…So?”
“So—” he leaned in just enough that Gao Tu’s ears flicked straight up— “congratulations. You’ve been recruited.”
“What.”
“Drafted, chosen, selected, whatever makes it sound legal. Welcome to Team One.”
“I didn’t agree to—”
“Details,” Shao You interrupted cheerfully, already draping an arm over Gao Tu’s shoulders and steering him back toward the field. “You’ll have fun! Teamwork! Friendship! Running for your life—uh, fun!”
Gao Tu dug his heels into the grass. “I said I didn’t—hey—stop pulling—!”
“I’m going to tell this to the teacher!”
“Sure, sure.”
So, Gao Tu… the teacher was seeing, from across the field, too far to hear the details and just close enough to smile approvingly at the sight of a carnivore and herbivore “bonding.”
By the time Gao Tu realized it, he was standing in the middle of the carnivore lineup, surrounded by tails, teeth, and one very proud tiger introducing him like a trophy.
Shao You beamed. “Everyone, meet our secret weapon!”
The so-called secret weapon looked ready to evaporate on the spot.
A dozen carnivore eyes turned toward him. A lion yawned. A crocodile blinked. An eagle smirked.
Hua Yong raised an eyebrow from his spot by the crate. “You brought a bunny?”
“Recruiting diversity,” Shao You said smoothly.
“Recruiting trouble,” Hua Yong corrected, folding his arms. His sharp gaze flicked toward Gao Tu, scanning him from ears to shoes with mild curiosity. “You sure he’s not going to faint before the first whistle?”
“I don’t faint,” Gao Tu said quietly.
“Mm. Bite back too. Interesting.” The fox’s grin curved, lazy and unreadable. “You might survive him after all.”
“Can I not ‘survive’ anyone?” Gao Tu muttered, half-hiding behind Shao You’s arm.
That was when Wenlang finally looked up from adjusting the team’s gear. “You.”
Gao Tu stiffened. “Me?”
“Yeah. You’re from the herbivore building, right?”
“Obviously,” Hua Yong murmured.
Wenlang ignored him, gaze still steady on Gao Tu. “You don’t have to join if you don’t want to.”
That made Shao You pause. “What? We need him!”
“You need consent,” Wenlang said evenly. Then, to Gao Tu again, softer, “You want out, I’ll tell the teacher you’re not feeling well.”
Gao Tu blinked, thrown off by the sudden kindness. The wolf’s tone wasn’t teasing—it was quiet, practical, almost gentle in a way that made his chest feel weird.
“I…” He glanced at the tiger still grinning beside him, then the fox smirking like he was watching a play. The noise of the field, the sunlight, the way everyone’s tails flicked with excitement—it all felt too much, but Wenlang’s calm eyes made it bearable. “It’s fine. I’ll… try.”
“Good,” Wenlang said simply. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—so small Gao Tu wasn’t sure he’d imagined it.
“See!” Shao You pumped a fist. “Teamwork! Cooperation! Friendship!”
“Tragedy,” Hua Yong added dryly.
The announcement crackled through the speakers before they could argue more:
“All teams, please gather at the starting line! The Harmony Cup will begin in five minutes!”
Excitement rippled through the field. Carnivores stretched. Herbivores exchanged nervous looks.
Shao You turned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You ready, team?”
Hua Yong sighed. “I was born ready to regret this.”
Wenlang adjusted his gloves. “Let’s just not get disqualified in the first round.”
Gao Tu’s ears twitched as he tried to steady his breath. “You’re all insane,” he muttered.
“Welcome to Desire Academy,” Shao You said with a grin.
The whistle blew.
The Harmony Cup had begun.