Guan Gaoyang forced himself to reply calmly to his friend: [If she surpasses me, that just means I wasn’t good enough.]

[Hahaha, Lao Guan, what a gentleman!]

Guan Gaoyang reassured himself—it wasn’t necessarily a done deal. What if that rookie didn’t have time to release the next installment?

Fretting over a newbie would only make him look insecure.

He exited the chat but couldn’t resist clicking on the midsection of Eldritch God again. The more he watched, the more unsettled he became.

Casual viewers might just enjoy the spectacle, but professionals like him could see the mastery behind every shot composition, every use of light and shadow. The sheer talent poured into it was almost excessive.

…And she was only seventeen.

At seventeen, his own work had been nowhere near this level.

As for whether he could match it now—

He refused to think about it.

After finishing the video, he gave it a downvote.

“…Just a cheap trick,” he muttered under his breath and switched to the forums.

Sure enough, compared to the relatively civil comment section, the forum was full of people bashing Eldritch God. Guan Gaoyang found himself scrolling through dozens of posts, feeling a little better with each one.

But all these criticisms came from a viewer’s perspective—none of them really struck a nerve. Almost without thinking, he stared at his interface for a long moment, then started typing:

[I admit that Married to the Eldritch God is a fresh and well-executed work, but let’s discuss this rationally—does it really fit the competition’s theme?]

Original Post: [As the title says. Can this story really be called “love after marriage”? Where’s the love? Even the whole “marriage” angle is barely holding together. @Evergreen Streaming Official, I think you should tighten up the submission criteria. What do you all think?]

As soon as he hit post, his heart pounded. This was the first time he’d ever done something like this.

But being first place meant everything to him.

He’d struggled for three years to get this opportunity.

Maybe the title wasn’t sensational enough—after half an hour, the post had only gotten a handful of replies and barely caused a ripple.

Disappointed, yet oddly relieved, Guan Gaoyang figured that with how often Evergreen Streaming got tagged, this would probably never reach them.

Maybe that was for the best—he got to vent without it blowing up in his face. Like it never even happened…

—

After uploading the midsection of Married to an Eldritch God, Shang Jingyan passed out from sheer exhaustion. She was completely drained—once this competition was over, she had to fix her sleep schedule. She couldn’t keep burning herself out like this.

When she finally woke up, she saw her interface flashing. Still groggy, she picked it up and saw a message from You Yao.

After their last meeting, she’d found his contact in her list. The note attached to his name read “Swimming Fish”—probably his alias.

Swimming Fish: [Tomorrow’s your follow-up appointment, right? You already skipped once. You really should go this time.]

Shang Jingyan: “…”

Follow-up appointment? Another thing her memory didn’t cover.

Did she have some kind of illness?

Rubbing her temples, she hesitated over how to ask what the appointment was for and where she was supposed to go. But before she could type anything, You Yao sent her a location pin.

Swimming Fish: [I’m already at Dr. Tian’s. Since I made it here, you have no excuse to skip again!]

What a coincidence. Convenient, too.

Shang Jingyan scrolled through her interface, instincts sparking a bit of suspicion, but she shook it off and replied: [Got it.]

—

The next day.

She looked up the address You Yao had sent her—it was a psychokinesis clinic.

So she really did have something wrong with her. And it was a psychokinetic disorder…

Since arriving in this world, this was the first time Shang Jingyan had stepped beyond her rented apartment’s surroundings.

She threw on a black hoodie with a skull print, pulled a baseball cap low over her eyes, and rented an air skateboard.

Her past self had an air license—aside from academics, her past self had been really into these kinds of things.

Her body still retained the muscle memory, so she handled it as smoothly as if she’d been practicing for years. Hands in her pockets, she rode the glowing skateboard through the gray high-rises.

Shang Jingyan knew her star system was called the Exile Galaxy. It had five habitable planets, four of which had been terraformed.

The name Exile Galaxy wasn’t its original one—it used to be called the Alpha Galaxy.

The name itself hinted at its history—one of the first star systems humanity had explored.

The Alpha Galaxy had once been rich in resources, but after they were depleted, humanity gradually shifted its focus outward, and this place became a retirement system with looser regulations.

Prisoners sent to the Alpha Galaxy’s penitentiary would settle here after release. Space pirates also loved hiding out here, taking over planets as their strongholds… Over time, the galaxy’s reputation shifted, and it became known as the Exile Galaxy.

There was even a running joke on the Exile Galaxy’s net:

Here, the lady selling deep-fried dough sticks downstairs might’ve been a crime boss in her past life.

The sky was a muted gray. The Alpha star’s light was weak, casting a perpetual chill over the landscape.

Not far ahead stood an old factory from a century ago. Its structure remained intact, but the inside had long since been converted into a residential zone.

No matter how advanced an industrial building once was, time had a way of wearing them all down to the same kind of desolation. Even if these structures were far more futuristic than anything from her past life, they all carried that same air of abandonment.

A few children were feeding pigeon-like birds on the street. Their white wings fluttered through neon lights, a stark contrast against the damp pavement. Puddles left by the recent rain reflected streaks of color, making the city feel like some kind of cyberpunk-meets-interstellar fairy tale.

That thought made her smirk.

Her destination was tucked away in a narrow alley, its entrance cluttered with junk. As she slipped through the gap, she startled a stray cat.

Unlike the usual flashy, neon-lit aesthetic of the area, the sign above the clinic’s door was a simple warm yellow, its elegant lettering reading: “District XX Mental Healing Center.” The storefront was surprisingly clean.

She was still a few months shy of adulthood, which meant she qualified for free community mental health consultations. After checking in at the front desk, she headed straight to the third floor.

“Have a seat.”

Stepping into the office, Shang Jingyan took a moment to survey the room before her gaze finally landed on the woman sitting inside.

Dr. Tian Jiangli, a mental power specialist, had chestnut-colored curls, rimless glasses that sat neatly on her nose, and a gentle smile. Her outfit was elegant and understated, matching the clinic’s soothing pastel interior.

“Xiao Yan, you’ve missed two months of check-ups,” she said, sounding like she was scolding an old friend. “But at least you finally came.”

She gestured toward the examination chair. “Lie down over there. I’ll run a basic assessment.”

“…Your mental fluctuations seem stable… Have you started Dreamweaving again? …Relax, don’t be nervous about the machine…”

She kept up a steady flow of conversation, making it easier for Shang Jingyan to unwind.

Tian Jiangli had known her since she was a child. She remembered every patient’s case history in detail.

Shang Jingyan: Mental Power Score – 73. Rating – C-Class. Awakening Age – 15.

That was above the general population’s average of 60, but it wasn’t great for a Dreamweaver. Most dream-based constructs required at least an A-Class level of 90 or higher to execute properly.

Forcing herself beyond her limits would only burn through her mental energy faster.

Before, her test results had been terrible—she was at serious risk of developing Psychic Void Syndrome. But now? Her readings were completely normal.

Tian Jiangli raised an eyebrow. “Let me take a look at your mental landscape. If everything checks out, we’ll wrap up for today.”

She put on a neural-link headset.

Shang Jingyan’s consciousness dipped into darkness. A moment later, she felt a set of glowing, translucent tendrils stretch toward her, sending out hypnotic pulses.

Her expression shifted.

Not only did the hypnosis fail to affect her, but she also had a strange hunch—she could hypnotize Dr. Tian Jiangli instead.

The moment she had the thought, the tendrils froze. Their movements slowed… then stopped completely.

Dr. Tian Jiangli had fallen into a deep sleep.

Shang Jingyan was momentarily stunned.

Then, another realization hit her: She could bypass the machine and enter Dr. Tian Jiangli’s mental domain directly.

Her consciousness shifted like a breeze, seamlessly slipping into another space.

—She was now inside Dr. Tian Jiangli’s mental landscape.

A magnificent white unicorn stood before her. Its golden horn gleamed, and a pair of wings rested neatly against its sides. Chestnut-colored eyes, as deep and gentle as gemstones, gazed at her.

This… was Tian Jiangli’s mental core?

Shang Jingyan looked down at herself.

All she saw was a silver glow.

Something was off.

Where was her mental core? Why hadn’t she seen it even once?

Every sentient being in this universe had a mental core entity. It could take the form of an animal, a plant, an object—even a humanoid shape. But it always existed in some tangible form.

If a person’s core disappeared, it usually meant brain death.

Did her original body have a core?

Was its absence because she had transmigrated?

If people found out… wouldn’t she be dragged off for research?

For the first time, she felt lucky that she had hypnotized Dr. Tian Jiangli first.

The unicorn should have been flawless—pure, untouchable.

But now, that pristine image was marred by a black mist swirling around its left front leg. The densest part of the fog burrowed into an open wound, where blood was seeping out.

…I think I can heal that.

The thought surfaced in her mind.

But how?

She considered her options, then an idea struck her.

She projected a scene from her film— Married to an Eldritch God.

Since Dreamweavers’ creations were supposed to have healing properties, there was no reason her work couldn’t do the same… right?

As soon as the Eldritch God’s eerie, pale face appeared, the black mist flinched and shrank back.

At the same time, a surge of energy rushed into Shang Jingyan, filling her with an unexpected sensation—

Like she was being fed.