Shang Jingyan took just an hour to nail down the storyline. Now came the most important part—filming.

If this were her past life, she’d never be this bold. Twenty days to find actors, rent a location, sign contracts? That would be pure fantasy.

But in the interstellar era’s virtual Star Net, none of that was a problem.

Take casting, for example. Entertainment companies in the interstellar world offer an “image rental service.” With her limited funds, Shang Jingyan could only afford the likeness of a small-time local celebrity. The 54 star coins left in her account instantly shrank to just 4.

As for sets, lighting, and special effects—everything could be simulated within Star Net. The only requirement? Mental power.

Since logging into StarNet, she’d seen the term “mental power” countless times. But the memories she’d inherited from this body were incomplete. No matter how much she searched her mind, she found nothing about the original host’s mental power level. It was as if it had vanished along with their consciousness.

So… how strong was her own mental power?

If she wanted to become a Dreamweaver, there was no avoiding this question.

She found a copy of The Youth Mental Awakening Guide, activated her wrist-bound quantum device, and switched it to mental power visualization mode. Following the instructions, she closed her eyes.

She pictured a room in her mind.

The size and detail of this “mental landscape” reflected one’s mental power. The most common measurement scene? A house.

For most people, a room is their safest space, making it the best environment for an accurate test.

Shang Jingyan’s mental room expanded quickly, filling with furniture—a bed, then a desk and chairs, a carpet… It was the home from her previous life, every inch designed by her own hands.

On her quantum screen, the score rapidly climbed past 80.

Not enough, she thought. She shifted her perspective outward, reconstructing the rest of her old villa, room by room.

The score hit 90.

Pushing open the front door, she extended the scenery outside. A courtyard unfolded, then fences, stables, and a distant forest—the estate she once owned in her past life.

Beyond the estate, a village, then a city…

She didn’t notice when her score hit 100. The number disappeared, replaced by an A+, then climbed higher—S, S+…

An indescribable euphoria washed over her, as if she had become a god, shaping reality at will. Until—

A blinding red light flashed in front of her eyes, and the system forcibly logged her out.

Pain stabbed through her head, followed by overwhelming weakness and hunger. Shang Jingyan shot up from her seat, clutching her wrist. Her quantum device’s screen had gone dark, flashing a red error icon.

“…?”

Did she just break it?! That thing looked expensive!

Heart pounding, she fiddled with it anxiously. Thankfully, it rebooted. Still, she didn’t dare mess around any further. Rubbing her temples, she muttered, “Forget it. Let’s just get to work. I’ll make do with what I’ve got.”

—

Two Days Later, Central Star System, Main Planet

“Another sleepless night… sigh.”

A young woman lay sprawled on her bed, mindlessly scrolling through a website. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion, but she felt nowhere near sleep.

Her name was Ao Qingxue, an up-and-coming Star Net streamer. Online, she went by Azure Snow. She mostly streamed gameplay and hunted for underrated hidden gems.

“Let’s find some interesting contest entries,” she murmured into her mic, listless. The chat was equally dead—she wasn’t a big-name streamer, and given that it was the middle of the night in the main planetary zone, there weren’t many viewers around.

Right now, she was browsing a Pre-Marriage Romance themed event on Evergreen Streaming. It wasn’t a particularly popular contest. New works flooded Star Net daily, and while Evergreen Streaming was the largest entertainment platform in the Alpha Star System, the system itself was a remote “exile zone.” A niche contest in an obscure region? No surprise it wasn’t making waves.

Aside from small-time streamers like her, no one really paid attention to it.

Plus, the event was already halfway through. The rankings were mostly set, and there hadn’t been any new submissions in days.

[I can’t sleep either. My Void Syndrome’s getting worse. Watching something boring should help.]

[The last batch of newbie entries were hilariously bad. Had me rolling. LOL.]

The chat was blunt. Most viewers were just here to kill time.

Insomnia was a common symptom of Void Syndrome, a condition tied to mental power depletion. Most people coped by watching Dreamweaver films for therapeutic effects.

Ao Qingxue rubbed her temples, struggling to focus. Her Void Syndrome had reached level two—she hadn’t slept in three days.

“Alright, what should we watch today…”

As she scrolled, a thumbnail caught the audience’s attention.

[Whoa, check that out!]

[Never seen this one before—new upload?]

[What a weird cover.]

[Why submit so late in the contest?]

Ao Qingxue looked closer. Among the sea of warm, pastel-colored romance covers, this one stood out like a sore thumb—dark, eerie. The central image was a deep purple tentacle, covered in suction cups, emerging from thick fog.

[Cool colors for a romance? Bold move.]

[This screams “clueless newbie.”]

She stared at it for a few seconds, feeling an odd chill. Both she and her viewers had never seen anything quite like it.

The title: Married to an Eldritch God.

Only one episode had been released so far—30 minutes long.

[Ugh, another mythos-themed story? So overdone.]

[LOL, the description is so lazy. Total newbie vibes.]

The summary read: The male lead and his beautiful girlfriend have been in love for a year. A tragic car accident deepens their bond, leading them to marry. On their honeymoon, they visit a gothic castle…

Dreamweaver ID: Jingyan (Gender: Female; Experience: 0 years; Previous works: None)

Even stranger—the Dreamweaver seemed broke. The leads’ appearances were rented from a talent agency, but everything else used default system models.

The chat exploded:

[LMAO, default models? This is gonna be a joke.]

[A gothic castle? What’s that?]

[Looked it up—it’s an ancient architectural style. But it’s extinct.]

[Okay, we HAVE to watch this.]

[I’m ready to laugh my ass off.]

Ao Qingxue perked up a bit. As a streamer, nothing was better than good content—intentional or not. This had all the hallmarks of a “so bad it’s good” masterpiece. If it was funny enough, she might even go viral.

She clicked play. The screen went dark. Slowly, blood-red letters emerged: Married to an Eldritch God—the title font splattered like dripping blood.

A chill ran down her spine.

Then came the sound—chaotic, distorted. The visuals blurred. Someone was screaming. A car crashed.

A nightmare sequence.

Then—silence. The screen turned pitch black.

“Huh? Did it freeze?” Ao Qingxue frowned, reaching to adjust the playback—

Suddenly, a face filled the screen.

“AH!!” She screamed, nearly throwing her quantum device.

The chat exploded:

[HOLY SHIT.]

[WHAT KIND OF CAMERA WORK IS THIS?!]

[I WAS NOT READY.]

On screen, a woman with long, dripping black hair whispered softly: “Darling, another nightmare?”