Passersby: ?

【Wait… is that a ship name? What kind of chaotic energy is this?】

【Can someone explain? Update me on this— the art looks amazing.】

【Just from the visuals alone, this has to be some kind of divine romance.】

As Eldritch God gained traction, more and more curious onlookers flooded in. The existing fans eagerly jumped in to promote it.

【The story follows a powerful Eldritch God who, due to unforeseen circumstances, ends up marrying a human. Along the way, they fall in love, endure countless hardships, and in the end, the human chooses to stay with the Eldritch God forever. Highly recommended— this absolutely blew my mind!】

【LMAO, this is straight-up fraud!】

【How is it fraud? Every word I said is true. [doge]】

【I’M DYING— no lies detected, but also, that description is so misleading.】

【Legit, though! This is a masterpiece— I was so hyped after watching that I couldn’t sleep!】

【Same! My heart was racing faster than when I was actually in love!】

【Look, I’m an honest person. This is a horror story.】

【You might not know what a horror movie is, but don’t worry— you will by the end.】

【The door to a whole new world is opening! I promise you, this is Dreamweaver storytelling at its finest!】

Spectators: ???

Wait, it’s that good? Well, now they had to check it out.

And so, Guan Gaoyang could only watch in horror as more and more people flocked to Eldritch God. He couldn’t take it anymore and switched to an alt account to warn people that the story was way too terrifying and not worth watching— only to make others even more curious.

The impact Eldritch God had on first-time viewers was undeniable. Soon, its popularity shot up the charts, and the term “Double Insanity Ship” was born.

—

Ao Qingxue had worked herself into exhaustion, dark circles heavy under her eyes, but at last, her latest piece was finished.

She was so excited she couldn’t sleep. And she wasn’t alone—many others were keeping a close eye on Eldritch God that night.

By 3 AM, it had climbed to second place. As the day went on, the gap between first and second kept narrowing.

240 votes… 200…

At some point, Ao Qingxue dozed off, her dreams filled with visions of the Eldritch God lurking in the deep. When she woke up that night at 11 PM, the gap had shrunk to just 20 votes.

With the event nearing its end, new viewers had mostly trickled out, and both first and second place had slowed to a crawl.

“Come on, come on! This is the first time I’ve had a favorite that actually had a shot at winning!” Ao Qingxue whispered, her nerves more intense than when she’d waited for her psychic aptitude test results back in the day.

Then, in a moment of pure drama, at exactly 11:56 PM, Eldritch God finally tied for first place— and then, overtook it.

—At the stroke of midnight, the event officially ended.

Eldritch God had won.

【AAAAAHH WE DID IT!! WE’RE NUMBER ONE!! THAT WAS INSANE!!】

【This was more thrilling than any underdog revenge drama I’ve ever seen!】

【Eldritch God DESERVES THIS!!】

“YES!!” Ao Qingxue literally jumped out of her seat when she saw the final results. She immediately pulled up Jingyan’s homepage, ready to send her congratulations.

There was something different about it.

The “V” next to her username had turned gold.

According to interstellar regulations, Dreamweavers had to complete at least one full project before they could receive verification and publicly disclose their real name—

Shang Jingyan.

If it were any other rookie Dreamweaver, they’d probably be drafting a long, heartfelt thank-you post right about now. But instead, Yan Master just dropped a simple, understated message:

【You can all call me Director Shang ^_^】

【LMAOOO Master Yan is so chill about this!】

【I’m officially a fan now! Mark my words— I’m an OG supporter from here on out.】

【Horror fans, rise up!!】

Ao Qingxue chuckled, then typed a comment. Within minutes, it shot to the top of the trending replies:

【I think I’m hallucinating from fear— even that smiley face feels like the Eldritch God watching me. Director Shang, you win this round.】

—

The Next Day

For Shang Jingyan, winning first place only meant one thing:

A 30,000 Starcoin prize.

“Well, well. I never thought you’d actually pull it off within the deadline.”

In a quiet tea lounge, Sister Cui glanced at her account balance, where the loan repayment had just hit.

Today’s meal was on Shang Jingyan— part as a thank-you for the loan extension, part to show appreciation for the favor. The fact that Sister Cui had been willing to grant extra time in the first place already proved she was a rare kind of generous lender.

“How much do I still owe?” Shang Jingyan asked. “If I have enough, I’d rather just pay it off all at once.”

“Still 15,000 left,” Sister Cui said, cigarette between her fingers as she held up two fingers.

Ding! Your account has received…

Shang Jingyan didn’t hesitate. She transferred the full amount on the spot.

She made it look effortless, but deep down, she felt like crying— the 45,000 Starcoins she’d just earned hadn’t even had a chance to warm her hands before it was gone.

Maybe it was because she’d grown up an orphan, but she had a dragon-like hoarding instinct when it came to money. Letting go of it so easily felt physically painful.

Still, thanks to all the tips and donations she’d received, her balance wasn’t completely empty. She had just under 10,000 left.

Sister Cui, however, was genuinely surprised.

“…Wait a second. You’re not that rookie who made a splash in the theme contest recently, are you? The one everyone was talking about— something horror-related…?”

Shang Jingyan, modestly: “That would be me.”

Sister Cui looked at her for a long moment.

It had been a while since she’d really paid attention to Shang Jingyan’s appearance. Her impression had always been of a girl with bangs so long they hid her eyes, caked in heavy makeup, wearing an expression of perpetual exhaustion and nihilism.

But now—

She still looked pale, still a little fragile, but there was an undeniable shift.

Her long, silver-white curls were neatly brushed, her bangs trimmed just enough to reveal striking emerald-green eyes. Her posture was straight, her presence radiating quiet confidence.

Like a gemstone, finally freed from dust, beginning to reveal its brilliance.

Sister Cui was momentarily stunned. She murmured, “You… really do look like your mo—”

She cut herself off, realizing she’d said too much. Lowering her head, she took a bite of food as if to cover up her slip.

“…This dish is pretty good.”

Like her mother, huh?

Shang Jingyan caught the unspoken meaning behind Sister Cui’s words and was slightly surprised.

…Because as far as she remembered, the original host’s previous state actually resembled her mother more.

The original host’s mother was named Shang Song, and she had inherited her hair and eye color from her.

Shang Song was also a heavy drinker. The clearest memory the original host had of her childhood was coming home from school and seeing her mother drunk—again.

No one really knew what Shang Song used to do, but she didn’t seem to be a local in the exile star system. After arriving, she drifted from one short-term job to another, dragging her daughter along with her, living with a “live for today, drink for tonight” attitude.

There was something unique about Shang Song—sharp, capable, precise… but most of the time, those qualities were buried under layers of frustration and melancholy.

In her past life, Shang Jingyan had been an orphan. She had no strong attachments to the concept of family—because she had never had one. But for some reason, as if the remnants of the original host’s emotions still lingered in her body, she felt a faint pang of bittersweet nostalgia when she thought of Shang Song.

While Sister Cui enjoyed her meal, Shang Jingyan opened her holographic pad and started drafting her next script. She had already eaten lunch before coming to save money, so she only ordered a coffee.

Her next project was going to be another short-form horror drama, this time inspired by Chinese folklore.

At the same time, she was considering branching out into game development. The profits would come in faster that way—after all, independent Dreamweavers couldn’t rely solely on donation-based earnings.

It would be a career shift for her, but in this world, Dreamweavers often worked across multiple fields—film, gaming, variety shows, and more.

The quiet clack clack of keystrokes filled the corner of the tea lounge. Shang Jingyan preferred this old-school feeling. Sure, when she was in a rush, she could just input everything directly through mental projection, which was much faster. But when she had time, she liked the rhythmic sound of typing on a physical keyboard.

“Not many guests come here to write anymore,” the shop owner commented as he brought over her coffee. “If you like it, come by as much as you can—we’re moving soon.”

Shang Jingyan glanced over and noticed a few large cardboard boxes stacked near the register. It really did look like they were preparing to leave.

“You’re closing down?”

“Yeah. Can’t make much money here. We’re planning to move to a bigger system and give it a shot there. I hear people in the top-tier star systems are into the retro aesthetic.”

Shang Jingyan felt a pang of regret. This was the only tea lounge in the area.

The shop owner studied her for a moment. “Are you a Dreamweaver?”

“That’s right.” Shang Jingyan didn’t mention her ID. She knew her current status—winning first place in a small themed event wasn’t anything special on a galactic scale.

The owner suddenly had an idea and grinned. “How about taking a picture with my shop? If you ever become famous across the universe, it might bring some traffic to my business. If you’re up for it, this one’s on the house.”

His tone was lighthearted—it was just a joke. After all, in the hundred years of recorded history, no Dreamweaver from an exile star system had ever made it big across the entire galaxy.

This place was the land of the forgotten, the abandoned—always a step behind the rest of the universe.

Shang Jingyan laughed. “Sure. Want me to sign something too?”

The owner chuckled, clearly assuming she was just playing along.

With a confident flourish, she signed “Jingyan” across the photograph.

Throughout the exchange, Sister Cui had been quietly observing her. She had lived through most of her life and had never seen a true “prodigal son turning over a new leaf” moment—until now.

She couldn’t help but wonder: Could this kid actually make it out of the exile star system one day?

—

As they left the tea lounge, the two walked side by side.

“You thinking about moving?” Sister Cui asked.

“Yeah.”

Sister Cui lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, then casually offered, “Want one?”

Shang Jingyan shook her head.

Sister Cui exhaled slowly, silent for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “I’ll hook you up with some real estate listings.”

She wasn’t particularly well-dressed—messy brown curls, brown eyes, an oversized coat, and slippers she barely kept on her feet. But Shang Jingyan knew that practically all the buildings in this area were under Sister Cui’s name.

Shang Jingyan thanked her, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel a new temptation rising. Whenever she looked at Sister Cui now, only two words came to mind:

Rich lady.

And when she saw a rich lady, she couldn’t help but think—

I should pitch an investment.

“Sister Cui,” she began, “are you interested in investing in me?”

Technically, a Dreamweaver could produce content solo, but even the three-part Eldritch God—a mere two-hour project—had nearly wiped her out.

If she had funding, she could hire actual actors instead of simulating everything with her own mental energy.

Sister Cui: “…”

She took a sharp inhale of smoke—only to choke on it violently. “Are you serious?!”

She stared at Shang Jingyan like she was looking at some kind of rare species.

This kid had just finished paying off her debt, and now she was already trying to pull off another “zero-investment high-reward” scheme?!