Shang Jingyan: “Just say yes or no.”

Since the system panel had already logged the points, there was no question—it definitely counted. In fact, Shang Jingyan had completed the task so quickly that the system hadn’t even had time to process the rewards yet.

X71 short-circuited for a moment before reluctantly adjusting its expectations. Still, it couldn’t help but protest: 【I really think you should stick to mainstream aesthetics. Please don’t do this again next time…】

Shang Jingyan thought to herself, Oh, I absolutely will. Stretching lazily, she felt exhaustion settle deep in her bones—she hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.

In her original plan, Married to an Eldritch God was structured as a three-part story—beginning, middle, and end—together making up a full-length film of around two hours.

The plot for the first part was actually pretty straightforward. If this were Earth, any seasoned horror fan could probably guess the general direction just from the synopsis: the protagonist moves into a remote, desolate castle, far away from civilization—a setup practically begging for disaster.

Naturally, eerie, supernatural events start happening in the castle, but the protagonist remains oblivious, stubbornly ignoring all the warning signs—until they meet a gruesome end.

To be honest, Married to an Eldritch God wasn’t exactly a masterpiece. Its defining elements were simple: gothic horror, supernatural suspense, and the most classic of all horror tropes—the jump scare.

Since this was the interstellar audience’s first real exposure to horror, Shang Jingyan had deliberately left out gore to avoid scaring them too much.

If this had been her past life on Earth, Married to an Eldritch God wouldn’t even have gotten past the pitching phase—no investor would’ve touched it. And even if it had miraculously made it to theaters, it would’ve flopped hard at the box office.

Earth audiences were horror enthusiasts. They had refined tastes and wouldn’t settle for some low-budget, instant noodle-quality scare fest.

And jump scares?  Those were considered the bottom of the barrel—the cheapest, laziest trick in the book. If a horror movie relied on nothing but jump scares, it was guaranteed to be trash.

But for interstellar audiences? This was all new. The entertainment industry here was a barren wasteland when it came to horror. Married to an Eldritch God was more than enough to shock their taste buds awake.

So what if there were a bunch of monster pop-ups and sudden music drops? At its core, fear was primal—pure instinct. In this sugar-sweet, romance-saturated world, who would’ve thought that even a honeymoon trip could turn into a full-blown horror show?

New comments flooded in at a breakneck pace, most of them along the lines of:

【Holy crap, that scared me half to death!】

【What kind of new style is this?!】

There were also a few more analytical ones:

【Okay, so the theme is “contract marriage to true love,” but the human leads were already in love before the wedding. Which means… the person they actually married wasn’t the original partner. That way, it still fits the “falling in love after marriage” premise. But in such a creepy setup, is falling in love even possible?】

【Just finished watching—took me a solid minute to recover. Damn. Other Dreamweavers build dreams—this one builds nightmares!】

【The style feels so off… This doesn’t seem like it’s heading toward romance at all…】

Shang Jingyan didn’t think much of it, but she did notice a sudden spike in viewership—apparently, a wave of new viewers had just come from a livestream.

“Huh?”

The interstellar entertainment industry had a well-integrated ecosystem. Even if a livestream audience didn’t directly click on the original video, they could still be counted in its data if they watched the whole thing with the streamer.

In an instant, Eldritch God’s play count doubled.

【That scared the hell out of me—I had to come to the original comments section to scream! But damn, that was thrilling! WHY DID IT CUT OFF THERE?! I NEED MORE!】

【When’s the next update? How dare you leave us hanging like this?!】

【I haven’t seen an update in an hour. Do you have any idea how long an hour feels right now?!】

【Pretty scary, but somehow I finished it. Now I need the rest!】

【Let me upvote this for you! Newbie Dreamweaver, don’t give up—you’ve got style!】

【Rare to find a hidden gem like this. Full support!】

The entire comment section had somehow turned into a hyped-up crowd demanding more content. Some were even sending her virtual flowers and upvotes.

Shang Jingyan: “……”

Rubbing her empty stomach, she decided to drag her exhausted body to the kitchen and make herself something to eat.

She’d been a renowned director in her past life, but she’d also known tough times. A run-down little kitchen like this was nothing new.

The original owner of this body had been living in complete disarray, surviving on food stamps and takeout. The stove was covered in dust, and the kitchen utensils were all brand-new—she’d just bought them online. Now, her bank balance was officially at zero.

The apartment had terrible soundproofing. As soon as she started cooking, a loud, exaggerated voice rang out from the next unit:

“Whoa! The sun must be rising from the west—Room 303 is actually using their stove!”

Shang Jingyan: “……”

A few days ago, she’d been too focused on stabilizing her mental energy to notice, but now that she’d relaxed, she became painfully aware of the noise around her—footsteps from upstairs, shouting from downstairs, doors slamming, objects clattering…

She sighed. Gotta start making money and move to a better place.

Turns out, even in a world full of “beautiful dreams,” real life was still far from perfect.

She hadn’t even slept in the bed these past few days—just crashed on the couch. In fact, there were still traces of her own blood from when she first woke up in this body.

As she went to strip the old bedding for a wash, something unexpected happened.

Under the pillow, she found a small, metal lockbox.

It had a combination lock.

“?”

What could be important enough to be locked away so carefully?

Shang Jingyan frowned but was simply too exhausted to deal with it. She shoved the box aside, finished changing the bedsheets, and collapsed into sleep.

–

Central Star System.

It had been a long time since Ao Qingxue had slept this well.

Her dreams were usually chaotic, restless. She often woke up halfway through the night, and even when she did sleep, she never felt rested. But this time, for once, there was peace.

Even though she’d been scared out of her mind after watching that video last night—tossing and turning for ages—somehow, in the middle of her fear, she had drifted off.

She checked the time and was shocked to find that she had slept for a full ten hours.

Her eyes widened. Then, as she glanced down at the readings on her wristband, she sat bolt upright in pure disbelief.

“Wait, what—?!”

Her mental power had increased by two points?!

No, to be precise, it had recovered by two points.

Nowadays, when people saw the name “Azure Snow” on the streaming platform, most assumed it was just another small-time content creator.

But four years ago, Ao Qingxue had never dreamed of being a streamer. Her goal had been to become a scenic modeler—a specialized field within the Dreamweaver profession.

In theory, Dreamweavers could handle every aspect of an interactive experience—games, films, and more—entirely on their own. But in reality, collaboration was the norm. The smallest production teams were usually trios: one Dreamweaver, one composer, and one visual artist.

Ao Qingxue had always had a natural talent for visual arts. She loved the feeling of shaping images with her mental energy. Four years ago, she even won the Main Star Region’s Youth Dreamscape Award, earning herself the title of “child prodigy.”

But the glory didn’t last. Not long after her big win, her mental state began to deteriorate. She was diagnosed with Psychic Void Syndrome.

At first, it was just insomnia and vivid dreams. Then, her mental power plummeted, free-falling to the level of an ordinary person. She could no longer construct the dreamscapes she had once envisioned so clearly.

The interstellar world had seen plenty of young prodigies fall from grace due to mental energy depletion syndrome. And since Ao Qingxue had yet to make any real achievements before her decline, the public soon forgot about her, dismissing her as just another wasted talent.

But for her, the disease meant something else—it meant her dreams were forever out of reach.

With no better options, she picked a traditional painting major in college, drifted aimlessly after graduation, and ended up as a streamer. She had given up. Gone with the flow.

The hottest topic on every medical forum was always the same:

“How do you cure Psychic Void Syndrome?”

But to this day, there was no real solution.

For ordinary people without deep pockets, the only option was to immerse themselves in Dreamweaver experiences that could stir up strong emotions—hoping the surge of feeling would reignite their mental power.

But Ao Qingxue had never found any of the popular genres engaging enough. Nothing ever truly moved her.

Now, staring at the +2 on her mental energy reading, her hands started to tremble.

She took a deep breath and sank into her mental landscape.

At the heart of her mental world, there had once stood a towering tree. But over the course of a single year, she had watched it wither and die. Every time she looked at it, the pain was unbearable.

She had checked it countless times before, hoping for a miracle—only to see the same charred remains of a dead forest.

But this time—

Right in the center of the burnt trunk, a tiny green sprout had appeared.

A new leaf.

—That Dreamweaver, “Shang Jingyan” is a genius!

The realization struck her like lightning.

She immediately logged onto Evergreen Streaming, searched for the video, and was only half-surprised to find that its view count had already passed 500,000.

Interstellar populations were hundreds of times larger than the single-planet civilizations of old. But that didn’t mean audiences were easy to come by. If anything, the sheer volume of content made it harder for new works to stand out.

For a total unknown to hit half a million views in just ten hours? That was impressive.

The comment section was buzzing:

【Checking in to thank Master Yan—I slept so well last night.】

【Not sure if I slept well, but I had nightmares—dreamt about that monster chasing me—but somehow, I woke up feeling great…】

【Same here! So weird, but I feel refreshed!】

Opinions were mixed, but a significant number of viewers, like Ao Qingxue, were reporting noticeable mental energy recovery.

Even those who didn’t have precise readings could at least tell they had slept better.

Then came the skeptics:

【? Are you guys messing with me? Did this newbie buy fake engagement?】

【Scary? Terrifying? What are you even talking about? Now I’m afraid to watch.】

【Why are people hyping this up so much? A newbie’s work getting this kind of praise? Really?】

Ao Qingxue nearly saw red. Hell no, she wasn’t going to let them talk it down. She rolled up her sleeves and started typing furiously. To back up her claim, she even attached a screenshot of her mental energy readings.

【…If you don’t believe me, look at my numbers. My energy has been declining for three years, stuck at the same level for a full year. But after watching this, I slept well and recovered two points.】

That comment finally set off a chain reaction.

The comment section exploded, drawing even more people in.

A while later, one comment shot up to second place in the most-liked ranking:

【A newbie’s debut work already showing documented cases of mental energy recovery? The last time a Dreamweaver achieved that, they became famous across the entire interstellar system and joined the Star League’s Council…】

【Holy crap, could “Jingyan” be the next rising star? Am I witnessing history?! Front-row selfie time!】

–

Whether or not history was being made, Shang Jingyan couldn’t care less.

She was too busy watching the numbers roll in on her donation panel.

She let out a long sigh of relief—finally, she wouldn’t have to eat government-issued meal packs for her next meal.

After precisely eight hours of sleep, she woke up refreshed.

Meanwhile, #Married to an Married to an Eldritch God# had climbed to the top trending keyword on Evergreen Streaming.

She estimated she could release the next part in three days.

Just as she was getting ready to start work, there was a knock at the door.

She assumed it was Sister Cui, back again to hound her for debts. But when she checked the peephole, she hesitated.

A young man stood outside.

He was tall, blond, blue-eyed, dressed in a white hoodie, with a charming smile.

Something about him felt eerily familiar.

But for some reason, every instinct in her body screamed danger.

The man knocked again.

“Anyone home?”