In the end, the shopkeeper knew he was in the wrong. He didn’t take any money and even threw in a couple of extra star-band fish along with a free stargazer fish.

As they walked away from the stall, Shang Jingyan said, “Thanks for stepping in.”

“No need to thank me. If anything, I should be thanking you, Director Shang.” The young man chuckled.

—He’d called her “Director Shang” outright, meaning he’d already figured out her identity.

“The last time you came to my tea shop, we took a picture together. I printed it out and put it on my message wall. Over the past month, a few customers passing by saw it and got curious, asking if the ‘Jingyan’ in the signature was the same ‘Shang Jingyan’—that rising rookie Dreamweaver.”

Shang Jingyan wasn’t particularly surprised; she’d more or less expected this when she signed the photo.

Pei Yi gave her a playful wink. “I just told them I wasn’t sure and didn’t really know. But funny thing—those customers ended up ordering something anyway. I thought my tea shop was on the verge of shutting down, but now… maybe I still have a shot, thanks to you.”

“Oh, right, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Pei Yi. ‘Yi’ as in eloquent.”

He continued, “I was actually planning to thank you properly the next time you stopped by my shop. Didn’t expect to run into you at the seafood market instead. Are you buying seafood to cook at home? If so, I know my way around here—I can help.”

Pei Yi’s voice had a relaxed, easy rhythm, striking a perfect balance between friendliness and gratitude.

Shang Jingyan happened to need a local expert, so she readily accepted. “Yeah, I’m cooking today. I’d appreciate the help.”

Pei Yi had already bought quite a few things, so he rented a little carrying bot. The small machine trailed after them, loaded with bags.

When he heard she was preparing a feast to treat an investor, he casually suggested, “Why don’t you just use my tea shop? I can lend you the kitchen—it’s got some specialized tools for handling seafood that most homes wouldn’t have. Plus, I can help with prep. The shop’s usually pretty quiet anyway, so it won’t be a problem.”

Shang Jingyan thought about it. “Makes sense.”

Sister Cui didn’t seem like the cooking type, and there was no telling if her place even had enough pots and pans. Originally, Shang Jingyan had planned to buy anything missing when she got there.

Some people just have a way of making friends.

And so, a little while later—

“Whoa, you actually bought this much?”

Sister Cui’s place wasn’t far from the tea shop. She shuffled in wearing house slippers and was immediately greeted by the sight of a massive aquarium.

At the counter, Shang Jingyan was deftly peeling shrimp with a small knife, her movements swift and precise—faster than the robot assisting her.

Sister Cui rubbed her chin in amazement. “Xiao Yan, since when did you get this good? …Wow, you’ve even outdone your mom.”

Shang Jingyan rarely heard Sister Cui mention her mother.

From what she remembered, her mother, Shang Song, had always rented a place from Sister Cui. After Shang Song left, she stayed on her own.

But their relationship didn’t seem to be just landlord and tenant. There had to be some deeper history between them.

Maybe that was why Sister Cui had rented the place to them at a discounted price and even lent Shang Jingyan money when she needed it.

Sister Cui had the kind of loyalty you’d call righteousness—the kind of person who’d stick by their friends no matter what.

Shang Jingyan had heard people say that in the exile star systems, “even the old lady frying dough sticks downstairs might’ve been a crime boss.” That thought set her imagination running. Could her mother and Sister Cui have been… colleagues back in the day?

The tea shop put up a “Closed” sign, but inside, the kitchen was buzzing with activity. Through the windows, busy silhouettes flickered past.

Gradually, the scent of seafood started wafting out, carried by the chilly night air down the street.

The main dish tonight was seafood hotpot. Shang Jingyan poured Sister Cui a drink, while Pei Yi went to grab the dipping sauces.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small white blur shot across the room—

—and dove straight into the hotpot.

Shang Jingyan: “???”

A tiny creature popped its head up from the bubbling broth.

A rabbit.

But not a real one. It shimmered faintly with psychic energy, unaffected by the broth. Not a single drop of soup clung to its long, fluffy fur.

Still, the sight of a ghostly white rabbit floating in a steaming pot of seafood was… unsettling.

Sister Cui gawked. “What the hell?”

“Ah… sorry about that.” Pei Yi noticed and immediately looked embarrassed. He hurried over. “You again? How many times do I have to tell you…”

He reached out, and the rabbit hopped onto his hand, then scurried up his sleeve and perched on his shoulder.

Noticing their stares, Pei Yi tapped his temple and sighed. “It’s my core spirit body… yeah, it’s a bit defective.”

This was a rare condition—a subtype of psychic void syndrome, commonly called externalization syndrome. The most obvious symptom? A patient’s core spirit body frequently breaks loose and manifests in reality.

For a normal person, their spirit body stayed within their mental landscape. But for someone with externalization syndrome, their mental landscape was nothing but darkness—shrunk down to nothing.

They couldn’t access the Inner Star Web, only the Outer Star Web on screens.

That meant they missed out on a huge chunk of modern life. No immersive experiences, no shared-sensation films, no virtual meetups with friends and family.

And they could never, ever become a Dreamweaver.

Externalization syndrome was extremely rare, affecting only 0.0012% of void syndrome cases. Still, it was a favorite trope in fiction—often romanticized or turned into some kind of mystical phenomenon. Sort of like how people in Shang Jingyan’s time loved making movies about schizophrenia.

No wonder Pei Yi hadn’t commented on her work—he probably just assumed he couldn’t watch it.

Sister Cui tilted her head. “Is that an Angora rabbit? Kinda cute.”

“Yeah.” Pei Yi nodded softly. He stroked the rabbit’s fur, and it gradually dozed off, dissolving into faint light before sinking back into his skin.

Shang Jingyan recalled something she’d once read—

Why do externalization syndrome patients’ spirit bodies always try to escape?

Maybe… because their dark, empty mental landscapes were just too lonely.

The treatment for externalization syndrome was the same as for void syndrome. But since patients couldn’t experience immersive content, Dreamweaver works didn’t do much for them.

Shang Jingyan’s gaze fell on the pendant hanging from Pei Yi’s sweater—a chain with a glowing blue Dream Source crystal.

She suddenly asked, “Pei, have you ever watched my short dramas?”

“My first two works are available on the Outer Star Web. You should give them a try.”

Pei Yi blinked, caught off guard.

Sister Cui clapped her hands. “Oh, right! Xiao Yan’s style… haha, it’s totally different from other Dreamweavers. You’ll see what I mean! Who knows, maybe it’ll actually work wonders.”

Shang Jingyan wasn’t sure if horror films would have a better effect than romance films… but in her past life, people could only watch horror movies on their phones, computers, or in theaters, and they still got scared plenty. So, for Pei Yi, maybe it wouldn’t make much of a difference?

–

Friday, midnight.

By the time the second episode of Rouge Comb aired, Shang Jingyan had already left V059 and was on a trip to a planet in the exile star systems.

This planet was famous for its flowers, earning the nickname “Heart of Roses.” As her aircraft descended through the atmosphere, she looked out the window and saw a breathtaking sea of red clouds stretching across the sky.

“Our first stop today is a newly built attraction that’s been getting rave reviews…”

The tour guide on the aircraft began the introduction.

Then… as they got close enough to see the buildings below, something caught Shang Jingyan’s eye.

Shang Jingyan: “?”

This layout… looked just like the castle and rose garden from Eldritch God!

It wasn’t an exact replica—after all, there was no way they had paid for the rights, so a one-to-one recreation was out of the question—but the eerie atmosphere was unmistakable.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. As she stepped off the aircraft, a gust of wind sent a flurry of rose petals swirling through the air, some brushing against her face.

The dark castle stood tall under the sunlight. Unlike in Eldritch God, where the rose garden was enclosed within the castle grounds, here, the entire structure was surrounded by an endless sea of roses, with only a single main road leading inside for visitors.

“Wow, what a romantic castle!”

“Honey, take a picture of me!”

“Our honeymoon destination was such a great choice! But dear… why did you say we’re here to watch a movie? And why did you tell me not to be scared?”

Tourists at the entrance chattered excitedly.

Shang Jingyan: “…”

Are you guys sure this is a good honeymoon spot?

A tour guide robot, dressed like a butler with a white powdered wig, approached her and spoke in a slightly stilted, mechanical voice:

“Gueeeest—greeetings—this castle package—includes a moooovie screening service—would you like toooo—make a reservation?”

It was a flawless imitation of the castle butler from Eldritch God.

Shang Jingyan: “…”

Well, now she knew exactly who had been buying those “commercial screening” licenses from her backend analytics.

Who was the mastermind behind this place? She’d love to meet them—they were a real talent!

–

“Forget Building 18 tonight. We’re watching Rouge Comb!”

In a livestream, Ao Qingxue logged out of the game and made the announcement.

Building 18 had been released for two days, but no one had figured out its secrets yet. The furthest anyone had gotten was the school opening.

Strangely, once school started, all the supernatural occurrences from the intro vanished, as if even ghosts avoided crowded places.

Still, every player knew that the seemingly calm waters of Baishui No. 2 High School hid something ominous beneath the surface, so everyone remained cautious.

At midnight, the second episode went live, and sharp-eyed viewers immediately caught something interesting:

[Gu Lang’s actor info has been updated! Good news—this episode’s male lead is finally making an appearance!]

[Wait, hold up, I’m losing it—why is the actor Wu Rui?! Is she cross-playing as the male lead?]

[Seeing her just reminds me of Eldritch God. Stay back!.jpg]

The first episode had ended with Gao Xiaoyun returning home. This episode picked up at the old Gao family estate.

A noble household, hidden behind deep courtyards.

Ao Qingxue was more and more convinced that Director Shang didn’t feel like a rookie at all. The level of detail in this estate showed a deep, refined craftsmanship.

[I swear, this setting makes me think of an ancient time-travel romance drama…]

[Yeah, Director Shang really knows how to do authentic historical aesthetics.]

[With such a beautiful setting, why insist on making horror? (doge emoji)]

After returning from the Qingming Festival, perhaps due to getting caught in the rain and the shock she suffered, Gao Xiaoyun fell seriously ill.

With her sudden disappearance, the truth about her secret lover inevitably started to leak. The Gao family had already questioned her maid, but fortunately, the girl didn’t know Gu Lang’s full identity and couldn’t spill everything.

Sick in bed, Gao Xiaoyun learned how her family had handled things in her absence: They hadn’t raised any alarms, telling the noble girls she was with that she had simply gone home early.

Instead of making a scene, the Gao family had only sent a few discreet servants to search for her, which was why it had taken until the next day to find her.

Even after bringing her back, they did so in secret. The servants involved were silenced.

Her personal maid had suddenly “fallen gravely ill” and died in the kitchen—her body wrapped in a straw mat and hastily disposed of.

Cough, cough…

The camera cut to a grove of white pear blossoms. A pale and frail Gao Xiaoyun appeared on screen.

She had heard the news while still bedridden. At that moment, she coughed up blood, her expression filled with horror.

“Gu Lang… tell me, if they hadn’t found me that day, wouldn’t they have just claimed I ‘suddenly died of illness at home’ and buried an empty coffin with ‘Gao San-niang’ carved on the tombstone?”

Gao Xiaoyun clutched the comb beneath her pillow, trembling in fear.

The chat was stunned—within minutes of the episode starting, someone had already died.

[Why though?? I don’t get it. Ignoring a missing daughter out of neglect, sure, but why go out of their way to cover it up?]

[Wait… so the maid was killed? Just because she knew about the protagonist’s secret romance?]

[This whole thing is told in subtle hints—no gore, no on-screen violence—but why does it feel more chilling than the supernatural stuff in episode one?!]

Ao Qingxue, invested in Rouge Comb, had even read up on some historical texts. “Apparently, ‘chastity’ was a big deal back then. I’m not exactly sure what it meant, but I guess they thought if the protagonist had any connection with a man before marriage—especially after spending a night outside—her future in-laws would see her as ‘tainted.’”

For the interstellar audience, this concept felt completely alien.

But just because they didn’t understand it didn’t make it any less horrifying.

All to protect their daughter’s “purity,” the Gao family had been willing to let her disappear—or even die. And just like that, a life was taken.

A murder without a drop of blood.

As Gao Xiaoyun’s illness dragged on for months, strange things began happening in the old Gao estate…

The scene moved quickly—petals of pear blossoms drifted past the window, marking the passage of time. By the time Gao Xiaoyun had recovered from her illness, spring was already fading into dusk.

On the third day after she could walk again, her stepmother and father came to see her.

“You’re of age now,” they said. “It’s time for you to marry.”

They were in a hurry to send her off, as if keeping her at home for even a day longer would tarnish the family name.

Her father had already chosen a match for her—a young gentleman from a family of equal standing.

“They only mentioned status,” Gao Xiaoyun muttered, staring at her reflection in the mirror, a deep frown between her brows. “Not a word about his character or temperament. That’s not a good sign…”

She ran a comb through her hair, her voice filled with worry.

“Gu Lang,” she whispered, “what will I do if I marry into that family?”

Since her illness, she had become more… obedient, at least outwardly. Even now, she phrased it as “if I marry into that family,” rather than outright rejecting the idea.

The worst thing she could imagine was that the man might be of poor character or unattractive.

That was until one day, she overheard her younger half-brother—her stepmother’s son—singing a childish rhyme as he clapped his hands:

“Marry a rooster, and you’ll fly with the rooster. Marry a dog, and you’ll follow the dog. Marry a corpse, and you’ll guard its grave! Hahaha! How funny! Is Third Sister really going to marry a dead man? Does that mean she has to die too?”

His laughter rang out, innocent and carefree. He even forced the servants to join in, their voices creating an eerie, almost cheerful atmosphere.

But Gao Xiaoyun felt her blood run cold.

A child wouldn’t come up with this on his own—someone had to have told him.

And if even a child knew, that meant she was the only one being kept in the dark.

Hearing her own arranged marriage turned into a nursery rhyme—into a joke—made it all the more absurd, all the more grotesque.

[Holy shit! Do brides in ghost marriages have to die too?! Just imagining it is making me physically sick! (crying)]

[This is a completely different kind of horror from Eldritch God. It’s suffocating.]

[Director Shang, you’re too damn good. There hasn’t been a single jumpscare, and I’m already covered in goosebumps!]

Gao Xiaoyun returned to her small courtyard, her face pale as a sheet. This was the same girl who had once dared to spend the night alone in a ruined temple, yet now, in broad daylight, she was shaking like a leaf.

She didn’t dare tell her maid what she had just heard. She could only clutch her comb, murmuring to herself, “No. I don’t want this… I can’t marry like this!”

Tossing and turning that night, she wept again.

“But how do I escape?… Gu Lang, take me away… Gu Lang, when will you come for me?”

Ao Qingxue was completely drawn into the suffocating atmosphere, and the audience in the bullet comments was frantically debating possible escape plans.

But given the situation, every option seemed nearly impossible.

[Eloping seems like the only viable choice… But can Gu Lang really be trusted?! I’m panicking over here!]

[I used to love old folktale romance stories, but I never realized they could be this nightmarishly difficult. I don’t think I’ll ever read them the same way again…]

[Wait a minute, how did Gao Xiaoyun even meet Gu Lang in the first place? Her family guards her like a fortress—she shouldn’t have had any contact with outsiders. And why doesn’t she find anything strange about him?]

Ao Qingxue thought aloud, “Maybe… she’s just trying to numb herself?”

—Their questions were about to be answered.

Gao Xiaoyun cried herself to sleep at her desk, still clutching the comb.

The moon climbed above the treetops. The water clock dripped softly. Midnight.

Somewhere outside, a man’s voice rose in a mournful tune—Crane Soaring to the Heavens. Ethereal and haunting.

Gao Xiaoyun rubbed her sleepy eyes. Peering out the window, she saw her courtyard veiled in thick, swirling mist.

Unlike the heavy, ominous fog that had shrouded the graveyard in the beginning, this mist was different.

Bathed in moonlight, it was soft, dreamlike—transforming her courtyard into an otherworldly paradise.

She didn’t look surprised at all. In fact, her expression lit up with joy as she stepped outside.

By the cluster of fragrant bamboo stood a tall figure, his back turned to her.

“Gu Lang!”

He wore scholar’s robes, a tall hat on his head. His posture was straight and elegant. At the sound of her voice, he turned, a delicate folding fan in hand.

The fan concealed the lower half of his face, its paper surface glowing faintly under the moonlight.

But through that thin veil of paper, something eerie could be seen—

Beneath the fan, half of his face was a skull.

Gu Lang’s eyes curved into a smile. He snapped the fan shut, revealing the white bone of his lower jaw, his skeletal lips parting in a grin.

“Ah-Yun.”

Bone and beauty coexisted on a single face—a nightmare brought to life, yet somehow breathtakingly beautiful.

Ao Qingxue’s eyes widened. She wasn’t sure if her pounding heart and quickened breath were from fear… or something else entirely.

[Oh my god… This shot is legendary…]

[Wait, so “Gu Lang” is actually “Bone Lang”?!]

[AHHHH, no wonder she’s not afraid—she’s known all along that he’s not human!]

[Director Shang has an unparalleled talent for filming beautiful people. Wu Rui looks even more stunning than ever!]

[Androgynous, neither human nor ghost… Absolutely mesmerizing. Damn it, Director Shang, you tricked me into falling for a skeleton again!]

[This casting choice was PERFECT.]

Gao Xiaoyun threw herself into Gu Lang’s arms, sobbing as she poured out the news of her impending marriage.

One of his hands—also bone—stroked her hair gently with the other, still human.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “They’ll soon have bigger problems to deal with.”

The camera panned out. A mortal and a ghost, locked in an embrace—an illusion, a dream, like a reflection in water, like a flower in a mirror.

A fleeting encounter, destined to vanish with the morning light.

Gao Xiaoyun had no idea what Gu Lang planned to do. But somehow, she felt much better.

She spent the next day in good spirits—until evening, when her maid came running in a panic.

“Third Miss, something terrible has happened! Second Young Master’s head injury suddenly worsened, and the Master is calling everyone over!”

Clatter. The object in Gao Xiaoyun’s hands slipped to the ground.

“Calling everyone over”—a veiled phrase. It meant: her brother was likely dying, and they were being summoned to see him one last time.

She immediately got up. But as she and her maid rushed through the sprawling estate, something felt wrong.

Where was everyone?

Beyond a set of ornate doors, the muffled sounds of running and shouting could be heard. It seemed the entire household had gathered there.

The camera tightened its focus—fixing on the carved wooden doors of the central hall.

[Oh god, is this where the horror starts?!]

[Holding my breath… my heart is in my throat.]

[Bracing myself for the jumpscare!!]

The audience, all too familiar with horror tropes, collectively held their breath.

Gao Xiaoyun pushed open the doors. Chaos spilled forth. And with it—

A tangled mass of inky black hair shot toward her, a tiny, ghostly face peering from within!