The most terrifying moment is never when you actually see the ghost—it’s always the second before.

Lu Zibing was lying on his side, facing Bed #1. Logically, the moment he opened his eyes, he should have been able to see it clearly. The girl who slept there didn’t have bed curtains, and with the dim glow of lightning flickering outside, he should have had a clear view of the entire dorm.

But instead, everything was pitch black.

Something was blocking the light.

Huh?

Lu Zibing froze. Instinctively, he twisted his neck, tilting his gaze upward—

A featureless face was staring down at him.

Yes, staring down.

The shadow he’d seen just now was its body. This thing was impossibly tall—so tall its head was pressed against the ceiling, its neck bent at an unnatural angle just to fit in the room!

[Holy shit, a ghost!! Is this the ‘thing’ the diary was talking about?!]

[It doesn’t have eyes, but I swear it’s looking at me!]

[I regret watching this, streamer!! I shouldn’t have clicked in!]

Cold sweat drenched Lu Zibing’s entire body. But credit where it’s due—after surviving multiple jump scares, he somehow managed to suppress the urge to scream.

For three excruciating seconds, human and ghost locked eyes—before Lu Zibing suddenly grabbed his pillow and hurled it with all his strength!

The Faceless Ghost recoiled slightly, but the pillow didn’t fall to the ground. Instead, it half-embedded itself in the creature’s torso.

Lu Zibing’s heart leapt.

It had a physical form.

Which meant it could be hit.

In gaming logic, anything with a health bar can be killed. That’s an ironclad truth.

The Faceless Ghost seemed enraged. A swirling black void appeared where its mouth should be, and a piercing screech ripped through the air as it reached out for him.

Its arms were abnormally long. No fingernails, just tapered fingertips, like a melting wax figure.

Lu Zibing scrambled, dodging left and right, but the problem was—there was nothing on this damn bed to fight with! Forced to act fast, he leaped off and darted away.

Weirdly, despite all the noise, the other seven people in the dorm remained dead asleep.

Lu Zibing didn’t have time to think about that. He grabbed whatever he could find in the dormitory, using it as makeshift weapons to fend off the ghost.

[See? Once the fight starts, it’s not so scary anymore. Thanks, streamer.]

[Damn, wreck it!]

[Am I the only one still terrified? QAQ Streamer, I respect you. From now on, you’re Lu the Fearless!]

[Wait, so Building 18 is actually a monster-hunting game?]

[Wake up! Only the streamer is fighting like this. Over in Azure Snow’s stream, they don’t even have to deal with Ratmen.]

[I have a bad feeling about this.]

The Faceless Ghost was bizarre—it absorbed anything thrown at it, yet its attacks were devastating.

Lu Zibing’s health bar was already down by half, and he couldn’t even get the dorm door open. Desperate, he dashed into the bathroom and locked himself in.

Then he realized—this was a terrible idea.

Lu Zibing: “……”

There was nothing in here but a plunger and a mop.

Was he seriously supposed to fight a ghost with these?

Why was it always these two?! First the Ratmen, and now this!

The chat exploded with laughter, egging him on. But suddenly, Lu Zibing had an idea.

“Wait, doesn’t this mean I can finally see what I look like?”

Up until now, he’d been ‘possessing’ the dream’s protagonist, but never had the chance to check his appearance.

No time like the present. Holding the mop, he stepped up to the mirror.

Due to the rainy weather, the mirror was fogged up. He wiped it clean, revealing a pale-faced girl with jet-black hair and delicate features.

Most striking of all was the small red mole beneath her eye.

She looked just like the protagonist, Langzhu.

The chat erupted.

[The forum theorists were right! The protagonist really has a daughter!]

[The girl writing the diary must be the one Langzhu was obsessing over in her dream. And the ghost the streamer encountered before—could it also be…?]

[Are we finally uncovering the secret of No. 2 High School? Streamer, you’re amazing…]

Lu Zibing’s heart pounded. He was about to wipe the mirror even clearer when he suddenly froze.

In the reflection—

A ghastly, faceless figure loomed behind him.

Somehow, at some point, the Faceless Ghost had slipped into the bathroom. It was standing right there.

“OH SHIT!!”

Lu Zibing’s body went rigid. He barely had time to thrust the mop backward before his vision went black.

[Bad Ending #5: Death in a Dream.]

You encountered an ominous entity in your dream and failed to escape. You will now remain trapped in the dreamscape forever. Next time, don’t let your guard down.

Hint: Seems like the calming charm was useless. Be wary of gifts from others.

Lu Zibing: “……”

When he came to, he was back at his morning wake-up routine.

[Wait, what?! He died just like that?!]

[Congrats, streamer, you’ve unlocked another death. (doge emoji)]

[This ending comes with a hint—‘be wary of gifts from others’… that sounds like…]

–

At Rose Heart.

“Say cheese!”

The camera flash went off, capturing a group of smiling faces. In the center stood Xue Jiang and Shang Jingyan.

Behind them, the Eldritch God’s castle loomed under the setting sun.

To celebrate the haunted house hitting full reservations on its first day—and making back its entire operating cost in a single evening—Xue Jiang had insisted on a group photo.

“When you become famous one day, this signed picture will be worth a fortune.” Xue Jiang laughed as Shang Jingyan finished signing her name. She signed hers too, then handed the photo to an employee. “Get a frame and hang this in the ticket office.”

X71, the AI assistant, chimed in eagerly: [Yan Yan, I took a picture too! Want me to print it for you?]

[No need.]

Shang Jingyan had seen both failure and success. She’d stumbled and risen again. Things like this no longer held much weight for her.

[Oh.] X71 replied obediently.

Should it delete the photo, then?

It hesitated, then decided to keep it. It didn’t ask Shang Jingyan.

Its memory bank was filled with initial data—records of Shang Jingyan’s journey.

After some thought, it created a new folder.

Title: Me and My Master.

Meanwhile, Shang Jingyan was chatting with Chai Yuanlin. Just a minute ago, Chai Yuanlin had sent her an invitation.

[You’re wrapping up your work at Rose Heart’s haunted house. Want to meet some new people?]

It was an invite to a Dreamweaver gathering—an exclusive event for the rising stars of the Exiled Star Systems.

Many of them were her future competitors.

And all of them were wondering the same thing:

Who exactly was Shang Jingyan?

And when would she step into their world?

Shang Jingyan had never been against making friends. In fact, in her past life, she was half a social butterfly, with countless acquaintances in the industry.

But ever since arriving in this world, she’d been too busy to even take a proper vacation—let alone make new friends.

There’s an old saying, “scholars tend to look down on each other,” and that holds true for directors and Dreamweavers alike.

It’s not entirely accurate, but it’s at least half right—creators have a habit of being unimpressed with one another.

That said, if a creator wanted to find a kindred spirit, their best bet was still someone from the same field.

Otherwise, when you hit a creative block, when you can’t figure out how to structure a particular scene—who else would you vent to?

Fans? Not a great idea. You wouldn’t get objective advice.

Editors? Too formal. Sometimes, all a Dreamweaver really wants is reassurance that “everyone else is struggling just as much as I am,” not an actual critique session.

[I’ll be there. Thanks, Senior Chai ^_^] Shang Jingyan replied.

–

A day later, Shang Jingyan left Rose Heart and boarded a star-rail train bound for the planet Blue River Moon, the location of the gathering.

Judging by the name, Blue River Moon was clearly another tourist planet, though it seemed more geared toward friend groups and retirees looking to unwind.

As the train traveled through space, the starry expanse stretched across Shang Jingyan’s view. She was getting used to being recognized in public—her seatmate kept sneaking glances at her but never worked up the courage to start a conversation.

She didn’t mind the attention. In fact, she welcomed it. The person she was in this life was growing more and more like the person she had been before.

The gathering was being held at an aerial restaurant called “Azure Grove.”

It was the most futuristic, sci-fi-looking restaurant Shang Jingyan had seen since coming to this world.

Even from afar, she could spot a massive tree towering above the landscape.

This was an Azure Grove Tree, a species unique to a particular planet, capable of growing dozens of stories tall. It was often depicted as a divine tree in various fictional works.

Hanging from its branches were numerous glass pods, shaped like fruit. These were the restaurant’s dining rooms, all connected by enclosed walkways.

“Yan Yan! You finally made it!”

Zhang Nian—better known as Xiao Zhang—was waiting at the base of the tree, waving excitedly.

Shang Jingyan greeted her with a smile. “Nian Nian, is it a big crowd today?”

Her gaze landed on the glowing welcome sign: [A Warm Welcome to All Dreamweavers]. Clearly, the place had been fully booked for the event.

“Oh, it’s packed! Yan Yan, you’re seriously underestimating your popularity,” Zhang Nian grinned. “Half the people here were on the fence about coming, but the moment they heard you’d be attending, they rushed over.”

“Oh, and get this—Guan Gaoyang found out you were coming and immediately bailed on the whole thing!” she added with a laugh.

Shang Jingyan had to think for a moment before remembering who that was—oh, right, ” White Sun High in the Sky,” the guy she had beaten out for first place in the previous event.

The transparent elevator ascended along the tree trunk, lifting them higher and higher until the ground was a dizzying distance below.

Shang Jingyan mused that spacefaring humans must have long since conquered their fear of heights. No wonder high-altitude theme park rides weren’t thrilling enough for them anymore.

Despite being labeled a “Dreamweaver gathering,” the attendees were likely from vastly different specialties. The term “Dreamweaver” was a catch-all, covering a wide range of fields—some even considered psychic therapists to be Dreamweavers, since at their core, the work was similar.

As soon as she entered, Shang Jingyan spotted a familiar face—Tian Jiangli.

She was dressed much the same as before, exuding a soft and non-threatening aura. Shang Jingyan greeted her with a smile. “Dr. Tian, we meet again.”

Tian Jiangli was livelier outside of work. She quipped, “If I’m seeing you too often, that’s not a good sign.”

—After all, frequent visits to a therapist meant frequent mental distress.

Shang Jingyan discreetly checked her mental state. Finding it stable, she felt relieved.

“Oh my god, Nian Nian, you actually got Director Shang to come!”

“Director Shang, we’ve been dying to meet you!”

“Director Shang—”

People kept coming up to greet her, and someone even handed her a drink. If she were socially anxious, this would be a nightmare, but Shang Jingyan handled it with ease.

Zhang Nian gave her a playful look. “Yan Yan, you were born for the spotlight—way more than a certain someone.”

Following her gaze, Shang Jingyan saw who she meant.

It was easy to tell who the social hub of any gathering was. Before she arrived, the crowd had been subtly orbiting around a young man with brown hair and fair skin.

He had the kind of effortlessly handsome looks straight out of a drama—tall, charming, exuding polite confidence. He could’ve easily been an actor.

But the moment Shang Jingyan walked in, a portion of the crowd peeled away from him and gravitated toward her instead.

“That guy—you’ve probably heard of him,” Zhang Nian said. “Name’s Noel. He was the most promising new Dreamweaver from our exile sector. Even my mentor considered taking him as a student.”

She clinked her glass against Shang Jingyan’s, then lowered her voice mischievously. “But now, that title belongs to you.”

What she didn’t say outright was that the two weren’t even on the same level.

Chai Yuanlin had only considered mentoring Noel but ultimately didn’t. Meanwhile, she had outright admitted that Shang Jingyan was beyond her ability to teach. The difference in status was clear as day.

Catching the hint of disdain in Zhang Nian’s tone, Shang Jingyan chuckled knowingly. “Why didn’t she take him as a student?”

“For one, my mentor thought his work was all flash, no substance. And for another…” Zhang Nian scoffed. “Let’s just say his personal life isn’t exactly stellar. He even tried hitting on me once.”

In an era where people idealized lifelong love, that didn’t mean they judged those with multiple relationships. But for Zhang Nian to say his “reputation was bad”—it had to mean Noel had pulled some serious jerk moves, not just dated around.

Zhang Nian thrived in social settings. Seeing that Shang Jingyan was holding her own, she happily melted into the party atmosphere.

Shang Jingyan, meanwhile, chose to sit beside Tian Jiangli—she still wanted to get a better sense of her mental state.

At one point, she got up to refill her drink, glancing around for the bottle when a hand suddenly extended it toward her.

A deep, smooth voice followed. “Looking for this?”

It was Noel.

He smiled at her as he poured cherry juice into her glass.

Shang Jingyan glanced at him. “Thanks.”

Based on looks alone, Noel might be even more popular than the café owner and You Yao. He had that magnetic charm that naturally drew people in.

“Why don’t you come sit with us? We were just talking about your work,” Noel said, his smile deepening. “Director Shang—can I call you Jingyan? I really enjoyed ‘Rouge Comb.’ Gao Xiaoyun’s character had so much depth.”

Men like Noel had a way of broadcasting their intentions loud and clear. With over thirty years of experience, Shang Jingyan could easily read the signals in his body language.

Not only that—she noticed the group of male Dreamweavers at his table sneaking glances their way, clearly egging him on.

She almost laughed.

Was he seriously trying to flirt with her?

Anyone who could describe Gao Xiaoyun as “charming with a unique allure” was instantly categorized as not friendship material in Shang Jingyan’s book.

“Call me whatever you like,” Shang Jingyan said indifferently. She had been called wife and husband countless times in her past life—nicknames didn’t faze her. She was just about to brush this guy off when she noticed another Dreamweaver at the table. A woman in a white dress, looking every bit like someone internally screaming: This is so awkward, I don’t want to be here alone—can someone, anyone, please save me?

Shang Jingyan raised an eyebrow and switched gears.

“What exactly are you guys saying about me?”

With that, she picked up her drink and strolled over, casually pouring herself another glass of cherry juice.

Noel blinked, surprised at how easily she had taken the bait. His tone grew noticeably more enthusiastic as he followed behind her. “Of course, we were just singing your praises! You’ve brought an entirely new horror aesthetic to the universe—we’re all in awe.”

At the table, the woman in white was being coaxed into trying a cocktail, her brows knitted in clear reluctance. There was nothing actually wrong with the drinks at these gatherings, but being pressured to drink? That was always annoying.

Just then, a glass of cherry juice clinked gently against the table, nudging the cocktail aside.

She froze and looked up—only to see Shang Jingyan smiling at her. With effortless ease, Shang Jingyan slid into the seat beside her.

“What’s your name?” she asked. “Let’s get acquainted. I’m Shang Jingyan—Jing as in fright, Yan as in wild goose.”

From this angle, looking up at her, Shang Jingyan seemed to glow. The conversation at the table naturally gravitated toward her.

“Director Shang, do you even need an introduction? We all know who you are!” someone chimed in with a laugh. “Her name’s Luo Zhiyu. Funny enough, you two actually have something in common—you’ve both said ‘Romance elements aren’t important in a story.’”

Among the group of polished, confident Dreamweavers, Luo Zhiyu seemed somewhat… out of place. Not because of her outfit, but because of the quiet timidity in her demeanor.

She scratched her nose awkwardly and let out a self-conscious chuckle. “Well, it’s different for us. You can say that with confidence. I just… suck at writing romance. I’m sure you don’t even know who I am, so don’t make fun of me.”

“Luo Zhiyu…” Shang Jingyan felt a flicker of recognition. She thought for a moment before asking, “You’re the one writing The First Chef, right?”

“Wait, you—you know my series?” Luo Zhiyu’s eyes widened in disbelief. She had fully expected this to be just polite small talk, but Shang Jingyan actually remembered the name of her work.

Shang Jingyan nodded. “I think it’s pretty good.”

If she was being honest, The First Chef was one of the few serialized short dramas she actually found interesting.

Most of the others were way too heavy on romance. No matter how open-minded she was about learning different genres, she could only stomach so much.

But The First Chef was different. The story followed a classic webnovel power fantasy format—protagonist gets sent back to ancient times and climbs the ranks using exceptional cooking skills, with a side of revenge and face-slapping.

It was clear that Luo Zhiyu had put serious effort into researching culinary techniques—even Shang Jingyan, with her keen eye, could hardly find any flaws.

There was even a subplot involving a mysterious case, which the heroine solved using her cooking knowledge.

That was the part that had hooked Shang Jingyan. Luo Zhiyu had a real talent for crafting suspenseful, eerie atmospheres.

That said, her romance writing? Absolutely dreadful.

The story opened with an awkward, forced dynamic between the male and female leads, and even during the genuinely well-executed mystery scenes, there were jarring, shoved-down-your-throat romantic interactions.

This was probably why The First Chef had struggled to gain traction in the interstellar market.

The audience reviews were… brutal.

[How can anyone ship this couple?]

[This Dreamweaver seriously lacks talent—go take some writing classes.]

[Forget the romance, just make it about cooking. I beg you.]

Interstellar audiences might love romance, but when they hated something, they really let you know.

But while they mocked her, Shang Jingyan actually wanted to tell Luo Zhiyu: You don’t need to force romance into your work. Your storytelling is strong enough to carry a series on its own.

Of course, since they had just met, it wasn’t the time to go against mainstream opinion. Instead, Shang Jingyan simply picked out a few genuine compliments.

Luo Zhiyu, completely unprepared to be praised by the hottest new Dreamweaver in the industry, turned bright red and stammered, “T-thank you! I—I’m really happy that you liked it…!”

Was this a dream?

Did Director Shang… actually appreciate her work?

Her work, which had been relentlessly trashed by netizens?

Luo Zhiyu was, in fact, one of Shang Jingyan’s earliest fans. She had rewatched Eldritch God and Rouge Comb so many times she could recite some of the dialogue.

But earlier, when everyone else had been fawning over Shang Jingyan, Luo Zhiyu had stayed back. Because with her skill level, joining in would just seem like blatant bootlicking.

The others at the table also seemed surprised—Shang Jingyan had been unimpressed with everyone else so far, not even bothering to flatter Noel. Yet now, she was openly praising the most overlooked person in the room.

The playing cards on the table had been pushed aside, and someone piped up, “Since Director Shang is here, how about we play a horror game? Something spooky! Any ideas?”

Shang Jingyan sighed internally. This is the part where someone busts out a Ouija board, isn’t it?

A group of Dreamweavers playing a seance game at a casual gathering—the perfect setup for a terrible horror film.

Fortunately, reality wasn’t quite that ridiculous.

Noel spoke up hesitantly. “Actually, I wrote a horror-themed mystery game last night after being inspired by Director Shang… but…” He looked a bit uncertain. “It’s only designed for four players, so not everyone can join.”

“That’s way too slow for a party game. Not a good fit,” someone dismissed. “Let’s try something else.”

The group started throwing out suggestions, talking over each other.

Shang Jingyan cut in, “I know a simple deduction game. No props needed, no complicated rules.”

“What game?”

Curious gazes turned toward her.

She grabbed a playing card and scribbled a few words:

Turtle Soup (Situation Puzzle).

“It’s a riddle-style deduction game. The host presents a mysterious scenario, and the rest of the players ask yes-or-no questions to figure out what happened.”

A small smirk tugged at her lips. “I’m sure you’ve all played something similar before—it’s pretty easy, right?”

“Oh! I’ve played this before! But not under that name. Also… it’s not exactly horror, is it?”

The group quickly got excited.

Shang Jingyan glanced out the window at the drifting clouds, then at the food on the table. Inspiration struck, and she smoothly delivered the puzzle:

“A man serves a woman a dish. She takes a bite and finds two rings inside. Moments later, there’s a loud ‘bang’ from outside. Reconstruct the full story.”