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MidReal Story
I Used To Be A Dog!
Scenario:從地獄道、餓鬼道輪迴，上輩子終於升上畜生道的小狗。
不善交往，知道只要成功修練，來世升上人間道，道有機會體驗一直所依戀的愛。
1月1日，初到人間，流浪半年。小狗都差点活不下去，生存得挺艰难的，没有人救她，就自力更生。
被寵物店看著不錯撿回去養，但半年賣不出，沒甚麼用，棄養了。
7月，想著校園比較多小孩子，又有老師，家長，比較大機會。• 7月，一年屆滿了，男人已經立功完成計劃了，小狗沒用，以已經送返機構作為藉口棄養。今天又下雨了，被女主角B收養回家。小狗一开始他有些抗拒。小狗：當務之急作為一只狗，怎樣修行？
系統：在你的主人面前發揮吧！
於是，開始以完成修行的心態，開始升级向的剧情流：
带系统任务的，需要主角不断打怪增长实力的文。
人物和剧情有系统和任务驱动着往前跑。中间有时候加功德值。
忙着營業，幫忙主人，经营创业摆摊赚钱、基建养殖、直播、赶海、发扬非遗传统文化、争当职场996小霸王、查案复仇、宫斗扯头花、打脸反派、完成系统任务、努力增加修練值，获得奖励。
半年過去。
在這個過程中，主人留著它打發時間解悶。小狗覺得主人是好人，唯一感受過的溫暖。
1月，小狗已經3歲了，等於人類的28歲。
但是小狗一直在忐忑不安，如果他儲夠了，可以轉世了，是不是就等着他要离开这个主人了？
系統假裝請求天界許可，實際聯絡數據管理人和校長。
之後，系統提出條件：
非人之物，提前幻化成人是正道以外，逆天而行。提前幻化成人，等於放棄自然轉世的機會。
條件，一年內，修滿功德值1000（直接10倍）。幻化成人後，到女主角的學校上崗如何？
一年期到，會隨即回復狗樣。而且因為壞帳，屬於功德敗壞，從此被排除於正道外，《輪迴冊》上被劃去，刻下「畜生道」三字，世世為狗，永遠失去轉世成人的機會。
承接3歲的年紀，以人類的28歲幻化人形，目標是1年內修滿功德值1000。
小狗幻化為人。
小狗以語文老師進入了學校。 然後完成小狗化成人形，女主角得知語文老師（小狗）身世，以及語文老師
與女主角的愛情故事。
Create my version of this story
Little Dog
She is a dog who reincarnated as a human to fulfill her dream of finding love. She is determined, resilient, and loving. Initially, she struggles as a homeless dog but eventually finds a master who treats her kindly. As she grows up, she discovers a pet shop and is almost sold but escapes. Eventually, she becomes a language teacher at an elementary school. Her journey is marked by her longing for love and her ultimate fulfillment with her human master.
B
She is an elementary school teacher at the same school as the little dog. She is kindhearted, witty, and observant. She finds the little dog outside her office and decides to take her in, offering food and shelter. Her playful banter with the male teacher reveals her caring nature. She unknowingly reconnects with the master from the little dog's past, leading to a reunion and development of a romantic relationship.
Human Master
He is the master of the little dog during her childhood. He is caring, busy, and lonely. He treats the little dog as a companion to alleviate his loneliness after losing his parents in a car accident. Despite his busy schedule involving business and work, he shows affection to the little dog. He initially plans to sell her but changes his mind due to their bond. Eventually, he becomes a teacher at the same school as the little dog, further strengthening their connection.
January 1st.
The little dog, which had come from the hellish realm and the realm of hungry ghosts, finally got out of the cycle of reincarnation and entered the animal realm in its previous life.
However, it was not very good at social interactions.
If it could successfully cultivate itself, maybe it could ascend to the human realm in its next life.
Then, it might be able to find love.
The little dog thought so from its heart.
Because of that, it tried its best to practice and cultivate itself.
It was a great pity that it did not know how to do it exactly.
System: The little dog has entered this world for half a year.
It roamed the streets and almost starved to death.
There was no one who could save it, so it had to rely on itself to find food.
The little dog thought that the pet shop might be a good place, so it went there by itself.
The pet shop owner saw its potential and took it in.
After six months, since no one bought it, the pet shop owner deemed the little dog useless and threw it away outside of town.
I huddle against the wall of a convenience store, my fur matted from the morning drizzle.
People hurry past, umbrellas bobbing overhead.
When a young woman in a blue raincoat slows down near me, I bark desperately.
She pauses but continues walking.
I bark again, louder this time, my voice cracking from thirst.
Two schoolgirls giggle and point at me.
A businessman kicks water in my direction.
I keep barking at every passerby, even though my throat burns.
Finally, a lady in a teacher's uniform stops.
She crouches down, holding out her hand.
"Are you lost, little one?" she asks softly, her eyes filled with concern.
I whimper in response, nudging her hand with my nose.
"You remind me of someone I lost long ago," she murmurs, a hint of sadness in her voice.
I hesitate as her warm hands wrap around my wet fur.
My instincts scream to run - previous humans have only brought pain.
But something in her gentle touch feels different.
When she lifts me, I catch a familiar scent on her clothes - chalk dust and coffee, just like him.
My body trembles, partly from cold and partly from memory.
She cradles me against her chest, shielding me from the rain with her coat.
As we walk, her steady heartbeat calms my nerves.
At a crosswalk, a car splashes by, making me flinch.
She whispers, "Let's go home," and I finally let myself believe.
I notice movement in the corner of my eye as we approach B's apartment building.
Another dog, a scruffy brown mutt, emerges from behind a dumpster.
My muscles tense instinctively - street dogs often fight for territory.
But this one just wags its tail, keeping a respectful distance.
B stops walking and shifts me in her arms to get a better look.
The other dog sits patiently, head tilted.
When B smiles and comments on my potential new friend, I study the dog more carefully.
Its posture is non-threatening, almost familiar.
B holds me tighter as we turn toward the alley's entrance.
A metal trash can crashes down, rolling across the wet pavement.
Three dark figures emerge from the shadows - teenagers in black hoodies kicking the can between them.
The stray dog backs away, disappearing behind the dumpster.
I growl softly, remembering similar boys who threw rocks at me last month.
B steps backward, pulling her coat closer around me.
The boys laugh and kick the can again, sending it clattering against the building wall.
One spots us and nudges his friends.
I press myself against B's chest as they approach, their sneakers scraping the wet pavement.
One boy picks up the dented trash can lid and spins it like a frisbee.
B takes slow steps backward, her arms firm around me.
"Just passing through," she says calmly, but I feel her heart racing.
The shortest teen blocks our path to the apartment entrance.
When he reaches toward us, I snap at his fingers, earning a curse.
B pivots suddenly, sprinting toward a lit convenience store.
The bell chimes as we burst inside, the clerk looking up from his phone.
Inside, I recognize the shortest boy as one of the students from B's class.
My growls soften as he pulls down his hood, revealing a face I've seen before.
B speaks firmly but kindly, asking why he's out causing trouble.
He shuffles his feet, mumbling about being bored.
His friends peer through the store window, their faces illuminated by the neon signs.
B makes him promise to head straight home, then surprises me by asking if he'd like to adopt a dog.
The boy's eyes widen, and I stiffen in B's arms.
She explains how I need a home and how she can't keep me.
The boy looks at his friends, who shrug and nod in agreement.
B explains that having a dog is a big responsibility, but the boy agrees eagerly.
B kneels down, eye level with the boy, and says, "You know, a dog can teach you a lot about loyalty and trust."
He nods slowly, glancing at me with newfound curiosity.
"I promise I'll take good care of him," he says, determination in his voice.
I curl up in the boy's arms as he carries me home, but something feels wrong.
The stench of death clings to his hoodie - a sickly sweet smell I remember from my past lives.
When we pass the dumpster where the stray dog was, I see a massive shape in the shadows.
A decomposing body lies half-hidden behind garbage bags.
The boy doesn't notice, chatting about video games, but I start trembling.
My instincts scream to run as memories of hell flood back.
I bark frantically, twisting in his grip until he nearly drops me.
I thrash and twist in the boy's arms until he drops me, my paws hitting the wet pavement.
The stench of decay grows stronger, and I dart toward the dumpster, barking frantically.
B follows me, her shoes splashing through puddles.
The boy stands frozen, his face pale under the streetlight.
I circle the dumpster, pawing at the ground and whining.
Something metallic glints beneath the scattered trash - a handle.
B notices it too and pulls out her phone's flashlight.
"Stay back," she warns the boy, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
He hesitates, then steps closer, curiosity overcoming his fear.
B shines the light on the handle, revealing a rusted knife stained with something dark.
I watch the trash can wobble back and forth, my fur bristling as B and the boy step away.
A scratching sound comes from inside, followed by metallic clanking.
The lid suddenly pops off and clatters against the pavement.
In the beam of B's phone light, a raccoon emerges, wearing what looks like a tiny fedora perched between its ears and dark sunglasses balanced on its snout.
It stands on its hind legs atop the garbage, front paws planted on its hips in an oddly human pose.
The boy gasps and drops his phone while B grabs my collar.
The raccoon tips its hat and says, "Evening, folks. Didn't mean to startle you."
B stares, her grip on my collar tightening, and asks, "What are you doing here, and why do you have a knife?"
The raccoon chuckles, adjusting its sunglasses, "Just keeping an eye on things; this alley's got secrets you wouldn't believe."
I huddle closer to B's legs, my fur bristling at the raccoon's unnatural behavior.
It adjusts its fedora with tiny paws and rocks back on its haunches, studying us with gleaming eyes behind those dark glasses.
When it speaks again, its voice carries an echo that doesn't belong in this world.
"The knife belongs to someone you both know."
It gestures toward the school building visible at the end of the alley.
The boy steps backward, nearly stumbling.
The raccoon nods toward the school, its voice a whisper, "You should hurry."
Through the rain, I spot movement on the rooftop - a sleek black cat perched on the edge, its yellow eyes fixed on us.
The raccoon falls silent mid-sentence, backing away from the dumpster and glancing up.
It tips its hat at the cat before scurrying off into the shadows.
The cat gracefully descends to a lower ledge, then leaps to the ground.
As it lands, I notice a glint of metal around its neck - a pendant that looks eerily familiar.
It's the same one my old master gave me before he disappeared into the darkness of the forest.
The cat's tail twitches deliberately, beckoning us toward the school building.
B whispers, her voice barely audible over the rain, "Do you think it's leading us to him?"
The boy nods slowly, eyes wide with a mix of fear and hope, "We have to follow it. We might finally get some answers."
I bark softly, nudging B's leg, urging her forward as the cat waits patiently by the school entrance.
I follow the black cat as it leads us through puddles and around the school building to the archery range.
The cat stops in front of a worn wooden target, its fur fluffed up as it paws at something buried in the mud.
B kneels down, brushing away dirt and twigs, revealing an old bamboo bow.
The bow's surface is etched with strange symbols that glow faintly in the rain.
The boy crouches beside B, his voice filled with awe, "This is the bow of our school's archery club advisor. He disappeared last semester."
B hesitates for a moment before touching the bow.
As soon as she makes contact, the cat meows urgently and points its tail toward the school building.
I sniff the air, recognizing the same death scent from earlier coming from that direction.
B stands up, clutching the bow tightly, and says, "We need to get inside; something's happening, and it's not just about the advisor."
The boy glances at the cat, then back at B, determination in his eyes, "If this is connected to the disappearances, we can't waste any more time."
I bark again, feeling the urgency in their voices, and lead the way toward the school's entrance.
I step cautiously into B's apartment, my wet paws leaving tiny marks on the wooden floor.
The place is small but tidy, with stacks of student essays on a coffee table and the faint smell of instant noodles lingering in the air.
B leads me to the bathroom and gently towels me dry, her strokes reminding me of my former master's touch.
She places a blue ceramic bowl filled with water on the floor, but I hesitate, remembering the last home that rejected me.
She sits cross-legged beside me, grading papers and humming a familiar tune as the heater hums in the background.
I watch her at the low table, the heater humming nearby.
The water bowl tempts me, but I stay curled in my damp towel, studying her movements.
She marks assignments with a red pen, occasionally stretching her neck or sipping cold coffee.
When her stomach growls, she pulls out instant noodles from a cabinet.
The familiar sound of the kettle and tearing packaging makes my own hunger surface.
As she settles back at the table with her steaming cup, she places a small plate of plain rice beside me.
I inch toward the plate, my nose twitching at the clean, simple scent of the rice.
Each grain feels precious after months of dumpster scraps.
Taking small bites, I pause between mouthfuls to watch B grade papers, her red pen scratching steadily.
The rice tastes sweet, reminding me of meals with my old master before he left me at the shelter.
But B's presence is different; she keeps working, giving me space while staying close.
When my tongue touches the empty plate, she smiles without looking up.
I inch closer to B's hand resting on her papers, my nose twitching at the lingering scent of rice on her fingers.
She continues grading, absorbed in her work.
I press my cold nose against her palm, and she startles slightly, then looks down at my empty plate.
Without speaking, she runs her fingers through my damp fur, scratching behind my ears.
The gentle touch makes me tremble—not from fear this time, but from a deep longing I haven't felt since my old master.
I watch B reach into her lunchbox, my nose twitching at the smell of chicken.
She places a piece on the floor between us and returns to her papers, giving me space to decide.
The chicken's aroma pulls me forward inch by inch.
When I finally take the piece, its juicy flavor floods my mouth.
B continues grading without looking at me, but I see a small smile.
I curl up beside her, feeling the warmth of her presence seep into my bones.
As I rest, a glowing interface appears in my vision, like a screen hovering in the air.
A robotic voice speaks, "Task One: Help a student improve their grades. Details will be provided shortly."
I blink, confused, and the interface disappears.
B opens a test paper with a red "F" marked on it.
I peek at the paper and recognize the boy from the alley.
The next day, I watch him slouch in class, drawing instead of taking notes.
During lunch break, I sneak into his classroom and place my paw on his notebook.
The system chimes as I discover his passion for art could be used to teach him Chinese characters through drawing.
I watch the boy doodle dragons in his notebook margins during lunch break.
Moving closer, I place my paw on a blank corner of his page.
The system interface flashes, showing how Chinese characters evolved from ancient pictographs.
When the boy notices me, he starts to shoo me away but pauses at my calm stare.
I nudge his pencil toward a simple character that looks like his dragon.
Curious, he begins copying it, adding creative flourishes.
His eyes light up as he realizes the character's meaning matches his drawing.
"Whoa, did you just teach me something?" he whispers, glancing around to see if anyone else noticed.
I nod, nudging the pencil again toward another character that resembles a tree.
He grins, "Okay, let's see what other secrets these characters hold."
I spot the boy at his desk during lunch break, his head bent over his notebook.
He's drawing his usual dragons, the pencil moving swiftly across the page.
I move quietly between the rows of desks, careful not to make a sound.
As I approach him, I lift my paw and place it gently on the corner of his notebook.
The muddy print from my paw spreads across the page, ruining his artwork.
The boy startles, looking up to see me standing there.
For a moment, he stares at me in surprise, then he bursts out laughing.
"Hey, you little scamp! What are you doing here?"
He quickly gathers his belongings and chases after me as I dart out of the classroom.
I weave through the hallway, pausing occasionally to make sure he's following.
When we reach B's classroom, I stop in front of her door and scratch at it until she opens it.
The boy freezes when he sees her, recognizing her as the teacher from the alley.
B invites him in, and he sits by her desk as she talks to him about his test scores.
His shoulders slump when she mentions college entrance exams, but his eyes light up when I nudge his hand.
B notices and suggests we take a break in the courtyard.
Outside, I fetch a stick while the boy throws it, his laughter echoing across the yard.
Between throws, B asks about his study habits.
He admits feeling overwhelmed by exam pressure while scratching behind my ears.
When I roll over for belly rubs, B explains how breaks and play can actually improve focus.
The boy nods, determination flickering in his eyes as he decides to try again.
I lie beside the boy's desk as he opens his textbook.
He traces characters with his finger, muttering to himself when he gets stuck.
I nudge his hand toward the matching pictograph in his dragon drawings.
His eyes light up with understanding.
During break, he shares his snack with me and practices writing characters in the air.
The system chimes softly, noting increased engagement.
B passes by, giving an approving nod at his focused expression.
The boy grins and shows her his notebook where he's connected five new characters to his artwork.
I curl up on B's couch each evening while she grades papers.
She talks to me about her students between sips of tea, sharing her worries and small victories.
When she stretches after long hours of work, I follow her to the kitchen where she always saves a bit of her dinner for me.
During weekends, she takes me on walks around the neighborhood.
I stop often to sniff interesting smells, and she never rushes me.
Though I still flinch at sudden movements, her consistent gentleness helps me relax.
One evening, as the sun sets, I rest my head on her lap, feeling the warmth of belonging.
I lie on B's lap, but my mind races with worry about leaving her.
The system's interface appears, and I see a progress bar at 100 points.
I bark questioningly at it, and a message pops up: "Expedited human transformation available. Please confirm."
My tail wags hopefully, but then I read the fine print: "This shortcut requires special permission."
The system connects to what it calls the "heavenly database," and I watch as a digital form fills out.
But instead of a divine signature, it's the school principal's name that appears.
I glance at B, knowing that this decision will change everything.
I stare at the digital form while a ginger cat appears on B's windowsill.
Its tail swishes purposefully as it jumps into the apartment.
The cat's amber eyes lock with mine, and I sense a familiar animal communication.
It explains that it went through a similar transformation last year and is now the school librarian.
The cat warns me about the initial disorientation of human form - the strange sensation of fingers, the challenge of walking upright, and the overwhelming complexity of human speech.
I sit on the windowsill with the ginger cat, bathed in moonlight.
It demonstrates basic human gestures: waving, pointing, and holding things.
I mimic these movements with my paws, while B sleeps nearby, unaware of our conversation.
When I fumble a practice wave, the cat shows patience, explaining how it took weeks to master simple tasks after transforming.
My paw trembles as I reach for the digital form floating before me.
The system prompt glows brighter, waiting for my final decision.
I press the confirmation button, ready to embrace the unknown.
I stand at the school entrance, wearing a crisp blouse and pencil skirt that B helped me pick out.
My fingers fumble with the teacher ID card as I try to clip it on - these human hands still feel alien after three days of practice.
Walking is a challenge too; my legs wobble slightly with each step.
When the security guard waves me through, I clutch my teaching materials tighter and follow the familiar path to the faculty office.
I sit at my desk, reviewing lesson plans, when the principal's voice echoes through the intercom.
She announces a new school initiative: an emotional support animal program to help students with anxiety.
My heart races as she explains they need a teacher to pilot the program with their own pet.
Though others seem hesitant, I raise my hand.
The principal nods approvingly as I explain how my puppy helped that struggling student improve his grades through art.
I describe my detailed plan for incorporating the puppy into character learning activities.
The principal smiles warmly and says, "I knew you were the right person for this, Ms. Whiskers."
I nod, trying to suppress my surprise at how natural my new name sounds.
"Thank you," I reply, "but I must admit, I have a unique perspective on the bond between humans and animals."
I adjust my blouse in the staff room mirror, still not used to seeing my human reflection after three months of teaching.
The summer heat makes my new skin feel tight and itches in places I never knew existed.
When B enters carrying a stack of curriculum materials, I freeze mid-gesture.
She smiles and introduces herself, extending her hand.
My fingers tremble as I reach out, remembering how she once dried my wet fur with a towel.
The familiar scent of chalk and coffee hits me as we shake hands.
B leans in slightly, her voice a whisper, "I know what you are."
My heart skips a beat, and I stammer, "You... you do?"
She nods, eyes twinkling with understanding, "I've seen the way you connect with them—it's like you speak their language."
I arrange papers at the conference table while other teachers file in, still not used to my human hands trembling slightly.
B sits beside me, her familiar presence steadying my nerves as I prepare to lead my first staff meeting about the emotional support animal program.
When I stand to speak, my new heels wobble and B steadies my elbow.
I focus on describing how animals can help struggling students, drawing from my unique perspective without revealing too much.
B leans over and whispers, "Do they know about your past?"
I shake my head, keeping my voice low, "No, and I'd like to keep it that way."
She nods, a hint of mischief in her eyes, "Your secret's safe with me—as long as you promise to teach me how you do it."
I sit at the conference table, my fingers drumming nervously on the surface as teachers debate teaching methods.
B and I present our joint proposal for animal-assisted learning, but several colleagues shake their heads.
The department head raises an eyebrow, "What about safety risks?"
Another teacher chimes in, "And what if a student has allergies?"
B leans forward, her voice confident, "We've considered all that. The benefits far outweigh the risks."
I grip my pen tightly, remembering how I helped that struggling student as a dog.
B notices my tension and squeezes my hand under the table.
"We've seen significant improvements in student engagement," she explains, citing specific examples from our classrooms.
The room falls silent as I meet their eyes, determined to prove that sometimes the most unconventional paths lead to the greatest change.
I stand at the podium during the summer teaching conference, my palms sweating as I click through our presentation on animal-assisted learning.
Several teachers interrupt with harsh criticisms about traditional methods being superior, but B steps in to defend our approach.
When I fumble with my notes, she takes over, sharing data from our successful cases.
The tension escalates until the department head announces new teaching assignments: B and I will co-teach Class A starting next semester.
Some colleagues whisper their disapproval, but B squeezes my shoulder supportively.
