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Jiang Huan returned to the old house in her dream again. It was around five or six in the evening, and she had just woken up. Outside the door, she could hear the sizzle of stir-frying and the sound of a TV drama playing—noises that usually annoyed her but now brought her a rare sense of happiness, like the comforting warmth of daily life. She turned over contentedly in bed, hearing footsteps approach. She quickly jumped up and burrowed back under the covers, pretending to be asleep as she waited for the person at the door to notice. But her acting skills were poor—it wouldn’t take long for her ruse to be uncovered.
“Pretending to sleep again? Stop it. Your eyelids are already twitching…”
She couldn’t help but laugh softly. There were few times when her acting managed to fool anyone, but more often than not, she’d be tickled awake by a hand sneaking into the blanket, usually calling her to get up and eat. Soon, she’d be tickled until she screamed, followed by some playful teasing about “waking up.” This was her favorite part of winter mornings, basking in the cozy satisfaction of familial bonds. The footsteps stopped beside her bed—or did they? She felt someone leaning closer, their breath brushing against her face, tickling her. She stubbornly refused to wake up. A hand would soon sneak into the blanket… three, two, one…
She opened her eyes. All was quiet. She had slept on the couch all night. A square patch of bright sunlight streamed through the curtains—it was morning. Though she had only arrived home at four, her internal clock woke her up at five or six as usual. That familiar, stretched-out loneliness returned, making it impossible to fall back asleep. These dreams—half reality, half memory—couldn’t be rewritten. The more vividly she revisited her past life in her dreams, the emptier her current solitary existence felt wrapped in blankets. Originally, the first half of the dream wouldn’t appear, but now even that had started to show up.
Jiang Huan pulled the curtains slightly and retrieved the third playthrough of the game she had set aside. She adored this game and had long heard how captivating the story was in its third cycle. After completing the first two cycles, she had been waiting for the perfect moment to finish it. An hour was all it took to reach the final scene, with a cinematic-level ending animation. However—the invincible protagonists she loved dearly both died. The kind supporting character turned villain, killing all the generals, and as everything was destroyed, the ruins burned alongside the sunset and flames in the final scene—
It hit her unexpectedly in the early morning.
Brushing her teeth sorrowfully, she spotted a good deal on grain on a coal stove website. Jiang Huan’s eyes widened—surely fate wouldn’t let her down! After washing her face and picking up her phone again, the words “sold out” and the grayed-out purchase button utterly crushed her spirits.
Triple whammy, absolutely devastating.
Not until the lanes below began to fill with traffic, signaling it was time to leave for work, did she feel herself being needed again. This was her way of stretching out moments of happiness in life—becoming part of the bustling crowd. Exiting the subway and walking up the sky bridge alongside others, feeling the sun warm her cheeks, she gazed at the company’s large screen where 3D characters from other projects celebrated birthdays in video montages. Her spirits finally lifted halfway—there were still male protagonists waiting to be created! Her own male lead would surely grace the big screen someday, cherished by many.
Separating work and personal matters was also a form of self-salvation.
As soon as she reached her seat in the morning, colleagues eagerly shared gossip and chatted about anime. Watching more dramas and playing games helped spark creativity, and soon the group chat would be filled with stick-figure sketches depicting various “positions,” used to illustrate fresh scenarios. Screenwriters crafted love stories around these poses. Akira pointed to one stick figure seriously: “This looks familiar. Wasn’t this from yesterday on Renwu Road? Jiang Huan, does this look familiar to you?”
A glance at the stick figure’s pose told her everything—how could it be anyone else but her and Bai Jingchuan drunk?
Absurd.
Without jumping up to deny it or waving her hands while blushing furiously, she calmly said: “Well, it’s because you left us behind on Renwu Road.”
“So what exactly happened between you two? This pose is pretty suggestive—Jiang Huan, this is basically common knowledge across the company.”
“He got drunk.”
Not only had she seen him, he had practically hung off her, his lips brushing her neck. But after dreaming earlier, she felt drained, without the energy to deny or blush. At this moment, Jiang Huan had only one wish: that Renwu Road wouldn’t spread the story far and wide. She didn’t want to become the street’s latest love tale—Renwu Road, a community of introverts who preferred minimal interaction, yet secrets were illuminated like neon lights, becoming the talk of the town. Especially since yesterday, when Bai Jingchuan lay unconscious on her and was carted off to Single Demon’s shop in a pumpkin cart, his handsome prince-like appearance was bound to be photographed.
Eager to confirm the dialogue, Jiang Huan knocked directly on his office door. Next to the guest sofa, Bai Jingchuan lay stiffly on the floor, surrounded by scattered storyboard drafts. Jiang Huan was thoroughly confused—was he resting or working?
The sunlight revealed fine hairs on his face, softening his features. Jiang Huan crouched beside him to observe—this was a normal reaction to someone attractive. It seemed he had returned to the office to work before collapsing. His poor alcohol tolerance combined with his dedication made him seem more upright. His face showed no emotion, purely immersed in deep sleep, and this innocent expression made her heart flutter.
Just as she was leaving, she accidentally kicked an open power strip, creating a loud clang. The person behind her woke up: “Sorry. Did you need something?”
“I’ve finished writing the ten chapters.”
“Leave them on the desk; I’ll review them soon.”
“The story of you getting drunk has spread on Renwu Road’s groups.” Without mentioning the suggestive parts, Jiang Huan handed over the video and caption. In it, Bai Jingchuan lay unconscious on the pumpkin cart while she supported his head, walking awkwardly like a guard to avoid scraping his legs. The video was captioned: “The prince from the fairy tale, drunk, boarded the ‘pumpkin carriage’ outside Offwork. And the princess, like a knight, escorted her prince back to the palace.”
“I’m quite willing to play the role of the drunken prince,” Bai Jingchuan replied calmly with a smile. “But… did it cause you any trouble? I didn’t expect my alcohol tolerance to be so low. Fortunately, you were there.”
[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +50.]
Jiang Huan’s ears instantly turned red, and she quickly disappeared down the corridor. The die rolled in laughter: “Oh my, Li Bode, born to be a lover.”
Bai Jingchuan ignored the overly energetic die, which flitted around noisily. The die continued energetically: “Li Bode, you’re such a good actor. Aren’t you just sleeping here because you’re exhausted from rushing to level up? You regained consciousness at five in the morning, came straight to the office, and immediately entered standby space to train your stamina—you’re really trying to live longer, huh?”
“Leveling up gives me more freedom. Right now, my movement range is only a hundred meters, and my stamina is only 20% of what it used to be—that’s why I fell asleep.”
“You made Jiang Huan blush.”
“I truly need to thank her. Now, I’m most curious if you guys will give me the chance to modify my persona. Am I supposed to endlessly upgrade myself to become your emotional experiment guinea pig?”
“At rank A, you can adjust your initial persona. At level 100, you can make a significant active choice. But so far, no tester has reached those levels, so I can’t provide specific references. However, Li Bode, who knows? You’re the legendary enforcer with a score of 4.90. No one matches your self-control. But if you max out just to modify your persona, you’ll definitely change your aspirations.”
“No.” Bai Jingchuan’s voice was calm but resolute: “Emotions are a necessary part of human experience. I’ll participate, but this persona restricts me too much. Removing it will free up more time for other things.”
No sooner had he finished speaking than additional layers appeared in the physical training area. Bai Jingchuan frowned: “Didn’t we only have ten floors before? Why are there thirty now?”
“It’s because you chose hard mode. We monitor your body in real-time and need to enhance your stamina. So we’ve specially designed new shooting and grappling sections for you. Upon reaching level 30, new judgment abilities will unlock—you won’t lack a sense of accomplishment.”
Hard mode? More like endless torment. Bai Jingchuan suppressed his sarcasm: “What’s easy mode?”
“Snake, Candy Crush, Tetris.”
“…”
“Though I don’t fully understand, I think I’ve found something to comfort you: Coming to this world means enduring suffering.”
“It’s fine. I’m not worried about hardship or pain—it’s the easiest to overcome. I am curious about experiencing more diverse emotions. My mission involves Jiang Huan, but that doesn’t mean I can’t feel through other experiences.”
“Such effort. You can read, watch movies, raise pets, make friends. You can even test MBTI personalities, understand yourself through eight dimensions, and find precise ways to match your feelings…”
“Just trivial human tricks.”
“That’s precisely why she’s favored due to her ambiguous relationship with the producer.”
Reading these thoughts, Bai Jingchuan locked eyes with another senior writer, whose inner monologue continued: “Why are you looking at me? Oh my god, so handsome—is he interested in me? Or does he hate me…”
He felt a twinge of disgust. During brainstorming sessions, his acknowledgment of Jiang Huan was misinterpreted as romantic interest, and a glance across the desk was misconstrued as flirtation. What did any of this have to do with liking or disliking someone? Moreover, people who did shoddy work still had time for gossip, while he was kept awake by frustration over the slow progress caused by this redundant team.
Sitting at his desk, his expression darkened increasingly. As expected, no one dared to speak during the meeting, and the planner’s voice trembled. The die circled everyone before returning: “Li Bode, your expression is terrible. This isn’t Magu City where you fight alone—you can’t do everything by yourself. Learn to integrate into the group.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“I’m thinking about when I can remove this persona. It’s troublesome for work.”
“Aren’t they fond of you?”
“They think it’s due to my outstanding appearance and flirtatious nature—it’s all prejudice. Male features aren’t essential for recognition; they only add unnecessary social burdens.”
After the meeting ended, Bai Jingchuan called Akira over, bluntly asking a question that startled her: “Regarding the photos and videos of Jiang Huan and me on Renwu Road, from your perspective, isn’t this inappropriate in a superior-subordinate relationship?”
Akira was clearly taken aback: “Don’t mind it, Teacher Bai! We just find it sweet—it’s rare to ship CPs in real life! Honestly, it’s just a bit of flavor in life; everyone forgets about it quickly.”
As Bai Jingchuan exited, he saw Jiang Huan in the hallway, hunched over her laptop replying to messages, occasionally lost in thought. Her computer nearly slipped from her grasp, and he noted all of this silently.
“Are you feeling down?”
“Yes. Had a nightmare, got the worst ending in a game, and missed out on limited-edition merchandise. Most importantly—who wouldn’t feel bad being reported like this?”
“It’s not because of the video with Bai Jingchuan?”
Confused, Jiang Huan blinked: “Not at all.”
“What?”
“He’s one of the few sources of joy in my life. Compared to previous producers, he’s much cuter, except for his questionable fashion sense…”
Akira gave a melancholic smile.
“And besides, nothing actually happened. Why explain to others? Are we short on work?” She rolled up her sleeves: “I refuse to be an industry drifter without a single project to my name. I want achievements—Love Continent must succeed!”
The stage adaptation of Emotional Tide was performed at the theater center, and tickets were distributed randomly across the company. For a week, the company forum buzzed with ticket exchange posts. When entering, people from other production teams greeted each other. Bai Jingchuan arrived late; as soon as he appeared, colleagues pointed and whispered about them. He didn’t care—he watched the play to gather more clues. As for the licensing fees for the indie game, he wasn’t interested. After all, being unable to change personas annoyed him more.
To his surprise, Jiang Huan completely ignored him. The production team sat scattered throughout the auditorium, with Jiang Huan on the opposite end, refusing to spare him a glance. The play began, with the timeless love story set across three stages—left, center, and right. The central stage rotated, showing two planets seemingly close but forever unreachable. The lovers explored traces of each other through objects left behind in their homes. Bai Jingchuan stared at Jiang Huan for a long time—she was deeply engrossed, wiping tears several times, but never glanced at the “original author.” While Bai Jingchuan was moved, he wasn’t captivated by the plot itself. Instead, his mind was preoccupied with “Why doesn’t she not look at the ‘original author’?”
[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +100.]
When the actors took their bows, the male lead—broad-shouldered and long-legged, in his mid-twenties—radiated youthful charm. Yet he was completely different from the melancholic middle-aged man he had portrayed in the play. The female lead, slightly older and quieter, hadn’t fully emerged from her character yet, wiping away tears as she received wave after wave of applause. At that moment, Jiang Huan’s gaze finally crossed the distance between them. Their eyes met, and Bai Jingchuan felt a pang of emotion, a bittersweet ache in his chest. But he recognized the admiration in her eyes—it wasn’t directed at him.
[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +100.]
A flicker of frustration rose within Bai Jingchuan. This adoration didn’t belong to him, yet he was receiving it. He wanted to know who the true author was. Why were achievements not his own being attributed to him? What was the system’s intention?
After the play ended, Jiang Huan remained seated, staring at the stage without moving. A shadow fell over her—it was Bai Jingchuan.
“Why are you sitting so far away?”
“I might have been tired.”
“But you almost cried.”
Jiang Huan was utterly confused. Had he been watching her the entire time instead of the play? Did the original author really have so much confidence that he could ignore the performance entirely?
“There’s no need to worry too much about work. Being rejected is normal. Don’t devalue yourself because of this. If these things bother you, it’s because your current creations haven’t yet met your own expectations. Once you have something worth being proud of, rumors won’t sway you easily.”
“Huh?”
[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +30.]
“No need to explain further—I understand clearly.” Bai Jingchuan spoke with conviction, even a hint of heroism: “Just focus on your responsibilities. Leave everything else to me.”
Bai Jingchuan exuded authority without anger. He was indeed a classic workaholic, dedicated to the point of wearing the same outfit repeatedly without tiring of it, staying overnight in the office. But Jiang Huan found him endearing. His smooth bangs framed his forehead, and no matter how stern or commanding he appeared, he still embodied the archetype of a gentle man. She felt a natural affinity for men like him—his short but dense lashes, and the childlike vulnerability he exuded when disappointed, reminded her of someone who had never lost but was unfairly disqualified. Jiang Huan’s heart raced. After his explanation, she felt even more confused—what exactly was her producer thinking?
[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +30. Lv 21 upgraded to Lv 22. Earned 5000 gold coins. Task 1-8 unlocked: Within two days, turn Jiang Huan’s bad mood around and redirect her attention back to you. If this task is completed, you can activate the five-task exchange for housing activity. Please complete the task promptly.]
“The task trigger seems incorrect,” Bai Jingchuan said expressionlessly, already walking toward her. “How could I make her focus on me when she looks so sad?”
“Bai Jingchuan, your observational skills truly surpass others… Even when mind-reading fails, you notice these things. And you still claim you don’t know love…”
If he hadn’t understood before, he certainly did now. The success of Emotional Tide was undeniable. It was a work Jiang Huan had admired for a long time. Meanwhile, Love Continent faced relentless criticism—three years of negativity, accusations of greed, fears that holographic boyfriends would lower marriage rates, and claims that exploring such interactive holograms was self-inflicted hardship. To Li Bode, none of this mattered. But the overwhelmingly one-sided criticism had stalled the project, making funding difficult. Especially since some tirelessly posted scathing reviews, rejecting virtual characters outright… Such aggressive attacks were harmful. From his understanding, this must be why Jiang Huan hadn’t truly been happy. If that were the case, his comfort wouldn’t be enough.
Outside, it began to rain. Many people waited for taxis, but Jiang Huan had already stepped into the rain—efficiency above all, she disliked waiting in line. Bai Jingchuan felt a pang of pity and placed discounted umbrellas at the corner convenience store; then he walked into the rain alone—Magu City enforcers didn’t need umbrellas, and neither did he now.
At the street corner, a shadow muttered loudly. Bai Jingchuan glanced over. She was dressed in black, as if forcibly placed in the night, her figure sinking into the shadows. She furiously swiped at her phone screen, looking incredibly—angry. Reading the resentment and bitterness in her heart, Bai Jingchuan stood still and observed. She was venting in an unhealthy way—her fingers red from the cold, wiping the rain off with dry parts of her body, typing furiously into a chat box. Messages kept popping up on her screen, as if someone above was arguing with her incessantly.
“Can’t make anything of yourself, just go home. Earning so little and pretending you’ve been to London and Paris—how dare you lie?”
“We can’t even contact you. How will you support a family with such an unstable job?”
“When will you stop this nonsense job? If you don’t come home soon, it’s unfilial! If you keep this up, I’ll go to Shanghai, find you in People’s Park, arrange blind dates, and tell your boss to fire you…”
“Stop being stubborn with your father. Call him soon. We didn’t pay for your education for you to disappear in Shanghai earning five thousand yuan a month…”
She kept swiping away the chat boxes, wiping the raindrops onto her clothes, pressing send after typing angrily. The messages continued to pop up relentlessly. She stared at the advertisement on the screen until the words “Love Saves Everything” became almost unrecognizable. Turning to her social media app, she typed venomous insults about Love Continent : “Save? What can this fake thing save? If it could, it should at least save me. Scrap the companion function—hope it dies horribly!”
Bai Jingchuan felt indifferent. In Magu City, there were plenty of people who complained bitterly, stuck in their ways and rejecting everything, eventually losing even their city ID. They weren’t worth sympathy. But Jiang Huan cherished what was being rejected and attacked—she would surely feel deeply disappointed. She was someone who had nearly jumped into water to save paper manuscripts, and despite her creations facing erasure, she persisted in writing.
If only it were like Magu City, where judgment could directly erase such data—it served no purpose. But she was human, and Bai Jingchuan had no authority to remove someone from the world. He hadn’t expected malice to be so close, unseen and misunderstood, allowing it to attack others and fervently wish for their disappearance—he didn’t understand.
Today’s emotional experiences weighed heavily on him, more exhausting than any arena match in Magu City. He recalled the phrase from the visor—welcome to the real world.
He quickly walked away from the woman.
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