That voice—it sounded like someone the original host knew.

The safest option would be to pretend she wasn’t home. But after a brief hesitation, Shang Jingyan still chose to open the door—she couldn’t avoid interacting with people the original host had known forever.

Over the past few days, Shang Jingyan had combed through every bit of memory she could access. The original host was young—only seventeen. A child from a single-parent household, she had lived on this exile planet since birth. But when she was seven, her only parent disappeared without a trace, and from then on, her life went from ordinary to one reliant on welfare assistance.

Growing up like that, the original host had turned out rebellious and sullen, skipping school, running with a bad crowd, and often staying out all night. She barely scraped through the mandatory high school curriculum this June, and when asked about future plans, her answer was a complete mess—something along the lines of: “I’m gonna be a Dreamweaver.”

Last year, she had borrowed thirty thousand from Sister Cui, supposedly for Dreamweaver-related expenses. But as far as Shang Jingyan could tell, there was no sign of where that money had actually gone.

The young man at the door swaggered in with a grin. The moment he saw her, his eyes widened in exaggerated shock. “Whoa, little black sheep, what happened to you? You look like hell.”

Shang Jingyan: “……”

Little black sheep? What kind of nickname was that?

“Don’t call me that.”

The nickname stirred something vague in her memory, and before she could even think about it, she frowned and blurted out, “Call me Pan.”

She froze for a second after saying it. What the hell? Was that a codename? Why did it sound so ridiculously edgy?

“Knew you were gonna say that.” The young man shrugged. “Fine, fine. P-A-N, Pan. So what have you been up to? You’ve been ignoring us for ages. The higher-ups aren’t too happy, so they sent me to check on you.”

Shang Jingyan: “…………”

“The higher-ups sent me”—that sounded shady as hell!

Some kind of organization, then? And the original host was part of it? Not only that, but members addressed each other using codenames. So the missing part of the original’s memory had to be tied to this.

Oh, hell no. She just wanted to be a director and write scripts. Now she had to masquerade as some underground operative too?!

Internally, Shang Jingyan was breaking down, but on the surface, she remained perfectly calm.

“Same as always,” she said coolly, giving a vague, noncommittal answer.

“Figured as much. I’m just here to go through the motions. I’ll just report that you’ve been sick.” The young man’s curiosity didn’t wane. “So, have you actually started publishing anything? What’s your pen name?”

Shang Jingyan glanced at him. If he was asking about her pen name, their relationship clearly wasn’t just limited to the organization—they were familiar on a more personal level too.

She stayed silent, but it didn’t seem to bother him. The original host must have always treated him with the same indifference. He was used to it and kept talking anyway. “Fine, don’t tell me. Whatever. If you keep at this, we’ll run into each other eventually—oh, and try to stay under the radar as long as possible. You know how ‘they’ feel about this stuff.”

He exaggeratedly raised his hands in mock surrender. “They’re already cutting you a huge break letting you create on an exile planet. If your work ever blows up in the Central System, those old fossils might just keel over. Haha! Actually, now that I think about it, I’d love to see that.”

Shang Jingyan: “Worry about yourself.”

She thought to herself, this isn’t about whether they’d be shocked—it’s a matter of time before it happens.

The young man grinned. “Alright, alright, I’ll shut up. Later, Pan~”

He came and left in a flash. The moment he was gone, Shang Jingyan immediately asked in her mind, [System, can you scan for electronic surveillance?]

[Rest assured,] X71 replied, already anticipating her thoughts. [I’ve checked. There are no monitoring devices in this room.]

Shang Jingyan exhaled slightly, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

So many secrets. Looked like this life wouldn’t be as simple as just being a Dreamweaver.

Still, the original host’s codename was “Pan”?

Pan. The god of wild places, half-goat, half-man, spreading fear wherever he went. No wonder that guy had called her “little black sheep.”

What a coincidence. Her publishing account for The Cthulhu Pact used an avatar based on Pan—a black silhouette of a goat-headed figure. That had been her signature avatar in her previous life, too.

Shang Jingyan suddenly had the urge to smoke. A bad habit from her past life—whenever the pressure got too high, she craved a cigarette.

She sat in silence for a while, and then it hit her—why that young man had seemed so familiar.

It wasn’t from the original’s memories. It was because she had seen his face on a character modeling rental site.

A few days ago, when she was renting character faces for Married to an Eldritch God male and female leads, she had come across his profile.

A local no-name actor. His name was You Yao.

Shang Jingyan: “……”

No wonder You Yao had said, ‘If you keep this up, we’ll run into each other eventually.’ No wonder they were, uh, in this mess together.

The organization didn’t like Dreamweavers. It probably wasn’t too keen on actors, either.

Then how was You Yao getting away with showing his face? Was he using a fake one?

Faced with challenges, one must adapt. Shang Jingyan stopped dwelling on the matter—her priority was still earning her first pot of gold.

She threw herself into work, and before she knew it, three days had passed. Late at night, aching all over, she scheduled her latest episode for a midnight release. Just as she was about to shut down, the system chimed in: [Host, you might want to check out your fan creation section.]

With the entertainment industry so well-developed now, every platform had a dedicated “fan works” section. Quality fan creations could boost the popularity of the original work—it was an unspoken rule. Of course, “Eldritch God” had its own section too, but so far, it had remained empty.

Curious, Shang Jingyan refreshed the page. To her surprise, the hashtag #MarriedToAnEldritchGod had gone from zero to one.

“Huh?” She raised an eyebrow. Already? Her work had only been out for a short time, and it already had fan arts?

Most original creators loved seeing fan content inspired by their work, and Shang Jingyan was no exception. Clicking on it, she was immediately impressed.

It was a psychically rendered artwork—not exactly a “painting” but more like a 3D model, something that allowed full immersion in the StarNet.

Titled “Azure Snow,” the piece depicted the rose garden outside the castle. Under the red moon, the roses bloomed in eerie beauty, encircling the white statue of the Virgin Mary at the center. One of the statue’s hands, along with the child in her arms, had shattered, replaced by coiling rose vines that twisted like tendrils.

The holy expression on her face had cracked, leaving behind an unsettling, enigmatic smile.

When Shang Jingyan had created the Eldritch God’s rose garden, she had only sketched out a rough concept. But this scene designer had not only grasped her vision but elevated it. She gave it a like and a recommendation.

[Holy crap, this is amazing. Bowing to a god-tier artist.]

[Did they really create this in just one day?? Insane!]

[It’s gorgeous, but kind of unsettling… What’s the original story about?]

[Go read it yourself! “Eldritch God” is best experienced without spoilers. Hehehe…]

[Guys, this artist hasn’t drawn anything in years! You should check their ID—back in the day, they won the Main Star Region’s Youth Dreamscape Award!]

[I’m intrigued! Heading over to read now.]

[More people are getting hooked, hehehe…]

[? Why do you fans sound so weird? I’m kind of scared.]

[Hehehe]

The quality of this fan art was top-tier, the kind that could draw more readers to the original. It quickly climbed to the top of the daily rankings in the general fan works section.

With this added visibility, “Eldritch God” finally broke into the top 100 in the rankings after three days.

–

Central Star System

Thick curtains blocked out the light, casting the room into darkness, except for a single bedside lamp.

After hitting “send,” Ao Qingxue let out a long sigh of relief, stretched her arms, and grinned. “Finally done!”

She had spent the entire day working on this scene. Exhausting, yes, but she was riding the high of creative satisfaction.

With her psychic energy drained, so too was her usual drive to create.

But while rewatching “Eldritch God,” she had felt an overwhelming urge to draw something.

Since this was her first time attempting this particular style, she had cautiously chosen an existing scene from the original and refined it.

Still buzzing with excitement, she went to make some instant noodles. When she returned, a notification popped up: [The original creator has liked and recommended your work.]

Ao Qingxue: “!!”

She slapped her thigh in excitement. But before she could even react further, she noticed that [Jingyan] had just posted a new update. Forgetting all about her noodles, she rushed to start a livestream.

[Your art is amazing, streamer! Kudos!]

[Qingqing, you’re so fast! The new chapter just dropped, and you’re already streaming. Good timing—I don’t want to watch it alone.]

[Still eating noodles? As someone who learned the hard way, I’m warning you—you might spit them out soon!]

As soon as “Eldritch God” appeared on the screen, the flood of comments began.

If this had happened before, Ao Qingxue would have posted about her skyrocketing numbers to celebrate. But today, she didn’t have time for that.

She only noticed something was off when she got a warning that her stream’s data had triggered abnormal activity detection.

“Huh?”

[??? LMAO, did we go overboard?]

[Stop accusing us of being bots! We’re all real people!]

[Shhh! It’s about to start! Don’t block the screen!]

The online moderator hesitated, then checked. To their surprise, every single viewer was real.

Usually, spikes like this happened when a niche work had a dedicated cult following willing to boost a small-time streamer’s numbers.

But when the moderator checked the title, they were confused. This wasn’t some famous work—it wasn’t even on their radar.

Curious, they decided to sneak into the stream to take a look. And then—

“AHHH!!”

A piercing scream rang out as the moderator shot up from their seat, startling the coworker next to them.

On the screen, a man was half-asleep in a bathtub. As he lowered his head, the clear water suddenly turned blood-red. The rose petals floating on the surface morphed into dozens of bloodshot eyeballs, staring unblinking.

The chat exploded with frantic [AHHHH] messages. The moderator’s hand trembled, and amidst the sea of white comments, one stood out with a golden official tag:

**Admin. No. 03: [AHHHHHHHH!!!]**

Administrator: “…”

[???]

[LMAO, was that an actual moderator’s account just now?]

[@Admin No. 03, stop slacking off! Do your job and let us watch our horror show in peace!]