“Pfft.”

A stifled laugh came from one direction. From the outline alone, Shang Jingyan recognized it was You Yao.

She tried to keep a straight face. “…Just a minor mishap. Nothing to worry about.”

The person at the head of the table looked away, sounding like she was trying to convince herself. “Fine… As long as you showed up.”

It seemed the original host was quite the troublemaker—enough that this woman had already resigned herself to it.

The long conference table made it easy to figure out the seating hierarchy. Shang Jingyan quickly noticed that her seat was in a peculiar spot. It hovered slightly outside the main arrangement, as if she wasn’t quite part of their system. And yet, in terms of proximity, she was positioned just below the head of the table, even higher than You Yao.

That was surprising. She had assumed You Yao was at least her equal, if not ranked above her. Yet he sat three seats down on the left, directly beneath the leader.

She also noticed that everyone in the room had weaker mental strength than her, including the person at the head of the table. That meant she could easily disguise her own abilities and keep up the act that she was still the original host.

The only exception was You Yao… Shang Jingyan frowned slightly. His energy felt odd. At first glance, it seemed just a little lower than hers, but upon closer inspection, it blended in with everyone else’s.

“Since we’re all here, let’s begin.”

Starting from the head of the table, each person took turns reporting on their work. Shang Jingyan listened carefully and finally learned the organization’s name: Zhenwu Group. The full name was Reality Matter and Nature Society.

They were extremely hostile toward the Federation and the Dreamweaver Association, opposing the casual use of mental energy and the obsession with virtual worlds. They believed people’s reliance on mental power was the root cause of the widespread Void Syndrome and that Dreamweavers weren’t healers—they were enablers.

Their mission was to seek the real, focus on the material, and return to nature.

Sounded noble, sure. But judging by the way they operated, Shang Jingyan had serious doubts. If she had to guess, this was just another anti-Federation cult, using grand rhetoric as a cover for their political ambitions.

Recruiting members, spreading anti-Federation propaganda, preaching about the “glory of the past era”—this was how they spent their days.

When everyone finished their reports, the leader turned to Shang Jingyan. “Pan, your turn.”

She made a visible effort not to glance at Shang Jingyan’s dinosaur pajama tail. “As I’m sure you all know, Pan has recently become a Dreamweaver. Many in the organization feel this contradicts our principles. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Me? I have nothing to explain. But I do think I’ve discovered a new path for us.”

Shang Jingyan spoke with conviction, spinning her nonsense like a pro. “Why do people get lost in the virtual world? Because it’s too beautiful. But my work is different—unlike anything today’s Dreamweavers are making. I’ll infiltrate their system and spread fear across the stars, forcing people to realize that reality is the better choice.”

She raised a hand, voice ringing with sincerity, as her pajama tail swayed behind her. “Once I gain influence, I’ll weave our ideology into my works, expanding our reach. One day, the entire universe will cheer for us!”

You Yao: “…”

At first, it sounded reasonable. Then, the more he thought about it, the more absurd it got!

Shang Jingyan knew she was spewing nonsense, but she had tapped into this group’s psychology.

They rejected mainstream Dreamweavers and demanded their members live like ascetics, which meant they had no public influence. So she’d offer them a workaround—becoming an anti-mainstream Dreamweaver and feeding them the fantasy that she’d be their mouthpiece.

And most importantly, if You Yao was to be believed, the higher-ups had already accepted her presence.

A murmur of discussion spread around the table. Shang Jingyan caught words like “traditionalist” and “naive,” spoken with little respect.

Wait, what was her status in this group? People were openly talking behind her back?

The leader finally spoke again, voice cold. “Silence.”

Her mental energy rippled through the room, instantly quieting everyone.

“The high council and I have accepted Pan’s explanation. From now on, no further negative discussion on this matter is allowed. Meeting adjourned.”

The group was clearly obedient. The leader stood, lowering her voice to recite:

“One day, we will reclaim the skies.”

Everyone echoed the phrase and made a gesture—crossing their thumbs to form a wing-like shape and pressing it against their chest.

Shang Jingyan: …This is definitely a cult. They even have a slogan and a secret handshake.

You Yao shook his head dramatically. “Do we have to be this cringe every time? I’m not doing it.”

He stayed put. The others shot him a glare but didn’t press the issue. Shang Jingyan took the easy way out and followed his lead.

As white light enveloped her vision, the meeting ended, and the figures around her began to disappear.

Just as she was about to get up, You Yao’s voice chimed in. “Director Shang, I’m about to be out of work soon. Are you looking for actors? Got any roles for me?”

Shang Jingyan glanced at him.

“Sure.” She leaned back lazily. “I have the perfect role for you. Been searching for someone for ages, but no one’s willing to take it. It’s really challenging.”

You Yao perked up. “Oh? How so?”

Shang Jingyan smirked. “The main difficulty is in how you die. It’s a real acting challenge.”

You Yao: “…???”

–

One day later, V061.

“She accepted the friend request!” Xiao Zhang clutched her light-brain excitedly as she reported to Chai Yuanlin. She immediately started typing furiously, explaining the situation to Shang Jingyan and bombarding her with actor profiles.

These were all actors she had scouted based on her teacher’s instructions—people willing to audition for Rouge Comb.

On the other end, Shang Jingyan blinked in surprise. She hadn’t expected to be noticed by the president of the Exiled Star Systems’ Dreamweaver Association so quickly.

Not only that, but the woman had hit the nail on the head—all the profiles she sent over were for actresses who could play the female lead, solving her biggest headache.

Shang Jingyan sent a quick thank-you message and started browsing through the profiles.

After comparing them, she instantly zeroed in on a young woman named Tang Chuntao. She had a classic, delicate beauty—when she lowered her eyes, she exuded a soft, melancholic charm. She was petite, too, fitting Shang Jingyan’s vision of Miss Gao perfectly.

The response from the other end was swift: I can arrange for Tang to meet you today.

–

The audition was held in the “Inner Starweb.” In the interstellar era, what people saw on screens was the “Outer Web,” while the “Inner Web” was a fully immersive digital world accessible to spiritual consciousness.

The Inner Starweb was a stunningly realistic holographic space, with vast roads branching out in all directions, connecting various landmarks and portals.

Without ever meeting in person, Shang Jingyan completed Tang Chuntao’s audition remotely.

Her acting was excellent. Though younger than Wu Rui, she could easily command the role of the female lead.

Well, now she owed Senior Chai a favor.

Feeling pleased, Director Shang was in high spirits. On a roll, she decided to have Tang Chuntao and Wu Rui rehearse together right away by filming a scene directly.

Shooting in the Starweb was a thousand times more efficient than in her past life. Lighting, sets, costumes, sound effects—all she had to do was imagine it, and her spiritual power would perfectly recreate the vision.

The only area where she was struggling was the background music and theme song.

For Eldritch God, she had modified a track from a purchased music library, enhancing its ethereal quality. The suona piece in the trailer had been an old melody she vaguely remembered.

As she walked through the blank light-screen, greenery, and architecture sprang to life in her wake.

She turned her head and met the wide-eyed, stunned expressions of Wu Rui and Tang Chuntao.

In stark contrast to her delicate appearance, Tang Chuntao was refreshingly blunt. She blurted, “Holy crap!”

Shang Jingyan arched an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

Honestly, she had no idea how other Dreamweavers worked. This was just how she’d done Eldritch God, and that had turned out fine.

“No, we’re just… shocked at how incredible you are,” Wu Rui said.

Seeing Shang Jingyan’s composed expression, she even started doubting herself. Are all the new-generation Dreamweavers this ridiculously overpowered?!

Wu Rui had acted in over ten productions, and sets like this usually took at least three days to build—and that was with an entire team assisting a Dreamweaver.

The most powerful Dreamweaver she had worked with had a spiritual power score of 90, just barely reaching A-rank. So what rank was Shang Jingyan?

Tang Chuntao watched in fascination as a temple materialized before her eyes. She instinctively glanced at her light-brain—less than 30 minutes had passed.

Back when she was studying at the best university in the Exiled Star Systems, she had never seen a single classmate work at this speed.

She had been hesitant when Senior Chai recommended her for this project, but now she was completely convinced—this Dreamweaver was going places!

–

One month later, Valentine’s Day. Gamma Star System.

“Lately, someone’s been spamming my inbox, telling me to check out this new Dreamweaver from the Alpha Star System. The work’s called Married to the Eldritch God, and they claim it’s the ultimate test of courage. The moment I read that, I thought, ‘Well, if it’s a test of courage, then obviously it’s made for me.’”

Lu Zibing, a popular entertainment streamer from the Gamma Star System, was broadcasting live.

He first rose to fame because of a theme park video—he had accompanied a friend on a blind date, but when they rode the rollercoaster together, the friend screamed like a groundhog while Lu Zibing and the date sat there completely unfazed. The contrast was pure comedy gold.

The girl had no interest in becoming an internet personality, but Lu Zibing had always wanted to break into social media. That video gave him his big break.

Bungee jumping, freefall rides, skydiving—he had live-streamed every extreme sport imaginable, keeping his trademark deadpan expression throughout. It became his signature style.

Although horror movies didn’t exist in this world, people could still recognize genuine bravery.

Ever since childhood, Lu Zibing had been nicknamed “Big Guts Lu.” The first time he ever rode a freefall tower in middle school, everyone else screamed their lungs out, while he calmly chewed a piece of gum.

Naturally, his fans were dedicated to hunting down the scariest challenges across the galaxy, even digging up the work of a complete newbie from the Exiled Star Systems.

“Oh? What a coincidence—this creator just released a new work literally a minute ago. Let’s see… Rouge Comb? A historical setting? Pfft, how is historical horror supposed to be scary?”

Lu Zibing’s impression of historical dramas was just a bunch of people in flowing robes falling in love and talking in long-winded, flowery language that made him want to doze off.

His chat wasn’t familiar with Shang Jingyan either, but the fan who had messaged him warned: Be careful what you say. Don’t jinx yourself—you might end up crying later!

“Crying?” Lu Zibing scoffed, immediately fired up. “As if! Watch me, I’ll stream Rouge Comb for you all right now. Let’s see what it’s got!”