Chapter 2: How can he not have a single trace of “office weariness”?

The man she hugged tensed up, and even through his suit, Jiang Huan could feel his resistance. Having taken jiu-jitsu classes for two years, she sensed that if this man hadn’t exercised great self-control, he would’ve retaliated the moment she embraced him—perhaps by grabbing her throat. This strange feeling made her uneasy, but she had already gone all in. What if this mystical nonsense actually worked?

She truly had no ulterior motives, but everyone in the meeting room was waiting to start the meeting. Before anyone could peek out, Jiang Huan rushed into the room with her laptop, leaving no explanation behind.

What was there to explain? How could she justify touching someone so casually upon first meeting?

Jiang Huan, her face flushed red, calmly entered the meeting room. The writing team didn’t have a leader, so the younger members filled the second row. A seat at the center of the long table had been reserved for him. Jiang Huan wanted to disappear into a crack in the floor, but hearing footsteps approach from outside, she sat down and lowered her head, avoiding any eye contact with the person about to enter. However, the whispers and rapid keyboard tapping from those around her revealed what they were likely typing: “So handsome,” “Ahhhh,” and the endlessly copied “awsl” (I’m dead, I’m so happy).

How shallow they all were…

Bai Jingchuan stood in the meeting room, carefully observing every face. His faint smile seemed friendly, but in reality, it kept people at a distance. The reports began, with each department detailing their progress—a predictably long meeting. As clouds drifted past, sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over Bai Jingchuan’s profile as he turned to look at the screen. He appeared warm yet carried an undercurrent of melancholy, curiosity, and cold detachment—interested in the world yet devoid of emotion. Sitting directly across from him, Jiang Huan felt as though feathers were floating down in the office, softly landing on the carpet like traces left behind by the opening of a dimensional door. Perhaps it was because he seemed too perfect to be real. When Bai Jingchuan put on his glasses and flipped through the documents, his expression gave off an unreal, almost fantastical aura, as if they had met before, separated by time, and now she had finally found him.

He glanced up casually, still listening to his colleague’s explanation, but part of his attention lingered on her from afar. His gaze held curiosity, calculation, scrutiny—but no trace of affection. These were the eyes of someone who only cared about his career.

Instinctively, she clenched her fists. When the crumpling sound of paper caught the attention of her colleagues, she quickly whispered apologies. But why did her heart ache as she clenched the paper? Clearly, fortune-telling was a bad idea—it made her see omens everywhere.

It took an hour before it was the writing team’s turn. As a senior employee, Jiang Huan stood up to present the character settings and the main storyline. When she rose, feathers seemed to swirl around her again, disappearing in the blink of an eye. For several seconds, others stared at their computers listlessly, while the person opposite her gave a detailed report, introducing each male lead. Bai Jingchuan scrutinized the plot without injecting any judgment about her emotions. Jiang Huan spoke for half an hour, during which Bai Jingchuan remained silent, watching her intently with a thoughtful expression. After her presentation, he set down his pen and asked, “Do you think Love Continent should be scrapped?”

“Huh?” The question was directed solely at her. Without hesitation, Jiang Huan replied, “This is the collective effort of an entire team. Whether it’s a virtual city, a worldview, or the specific companionship of a few virtual lovers, it forms a collective memory that shouldn’t be discarded lightly.”

“But if, after three years, it’s just patchwork—starting over, changing directions countless times without digging deeper—the sooner we rationally abandon it, the better.”

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -50.]

“You’re here because you’re capable.” Bai Jingchuan raised his head, his tone calm and detached. “But after talent and effort, this is the progress we see. Cutting it is the wise choice.”

The atmosphere sank further. What kind of producer was this? Was he here to expedite the project’s demise? No announcement of dismissal, no one stepping forward to refute—just silence, as if declaring the project’s death. Jiang Huan remained standing in place, while the producer continued flipping through the main storyline nearby, seemingly fascinated by the printed drafts and handwritten annotations, relishing the despair he had brought.

“Won’t you give us another chance? You’re the producer, aren’t you? With your experience and insight, you must surpass us. Our slow progress doesn’t mean we lack the determination to change. You don’t seem very experienced either—could it be you’ve never worked on a game before? Only by working together can we turn things around. At least observe our combined skills before judging our damage output and health bars?”

In the workplace, where everyone speaks diplomatically and wears masks of civility, Jiang Huan was an anomaly. She was like the frontline warrior in a game, charging straight ahead, blunt and unfiltered, unable to hold back. In this situation, morale had already collapsed, and surrounded by seasoned veterans, she—a five-year office veteran—still acted like a rookie. The room fell silent, everyone waiting to see the producer’s reaction.

Bai Jingchuan crossed his legs, switching positions, and raised an eyebrow.

“For now, I’ll observe for a bit longer before deciding the project’s fate. I was passively assigned to this team, and for now, I’ll take responsibility for you. Just now, I heard someone express sincerity—it’s hard not to be moved.”

Feathers, seashells, dreamcatchers shimmered faintly. Her crystal ball seemed to spin for the first time. Perhaps it was just polite rhetoric, but Jiang Huan chose to believe it. Every blade of grass, every scene’s ambiance and special effects in Love Continent —if Bai Jingchuan saw them, he might decide to stay.

After two hours of roller coasters, all participating employees were drenched in sweat, playing with their heart rates. Yet the instigator remained impeccably calm and composed, his every movement elegant, as if nothing could disturb him—or perhaps he could even manipulate others’ emotions. As soon as the meeting ended, Akira rushed over to Jiang Huan. “Isn’t this the perfect male lead?”

“What do you mean?”

“The pinnacle of intellectual attraction stands right before you, and you’re not reacting?”

Jiang Huan knew. While presenting her PowerPoint, she had glanced at the producer and felt he had already memorized the materials, internalizing them completely. His calm demeanor was entirely feigned, masking his disdain. Akira couldn’t contain her excitement. “With him, our team is surely saved! Even if it fails, how can we not enjoy looking at such a handsome man for as long as possible? My breast congestion has cleared!”

“Is he really that good?”

“Jiang Huan, are you brain-dead?” Akira flicked her forehead. “What do we need most right now? Someone clear-headed who knows how to move Love Continent forward. Isn’t this him? Not to mention how easy on the eyes he is—like a top-tier male star.”

“But handsome male stars don’t usually have brains.”

“Exactly! That’s how we know he’s impressive. By the way, you were the last to arrive earlier—what happened?”

Unable to admit she had hugged the producer due to a superstitious reading, Jiang Huan shook her head vehemently. “Nothing. My shoelaces came undone, so I tied them before coming in.”

Before Akira could notice her shoes didn’t have laces, Jiang Huan hurriedly fled.

Thankfully, the office had no surveillance cameras, or her embrace would’ve caused a stir throughout the team. Reflecting later, she realized that since the divination, she had been seeing omens everywhere, leading her to act impulsively in the office. Would she be accused of workplace harassment? Burdened with these thoughts, she slipped into the pantry, where a group of girls sipped coffee, their topic inevitably revolving around the newly arrived Bai Jingchuan. The young women showered him with glowing praise, their eyes sparkling like stars. Their gazes were familiar—the same as the crystal ball girls she’d encountered at Meiluo City. Clearly, love’s arrival activated the crystal ball.

She absolutely hadn’t hugged Bai Jingchuan for romantic reasons. They frantically searched for information about him on their phones: “He’s so new—almost no information online, not even a trace in the gaming industry.”

“But he seems pretty impressive. And his demeanor is so refined, like a proud black cat of royal lineage.”

“Most importantly—he has no trace of ‘office weariness.’” A junior writer sighed. “This is clearly someone who holds a high position and controls situations, mysterious and exceptionally capable, exuding the relaxed confidence of a victor. Of course, he’s unaffected by superiors’ constraints and immune to players’ insults.”

“Damn, I want to stuff some ‘office weariness’ into him.” Jiang Huan stuffed her belated breakfast into her mouth, making her friends laugh. Despite the team’s stress and low morale, during rare breaks, they gathered in the pantry to exchange gossip about manga, dramas, and romances.

“What do you want to stuff into me?”

Bai Jingchuan stood before the writing and art teams, joining their break time with ease. His opening line was natural and approachable, almost excessively charming. Akira took the initiative: “Teacher Bai, what should we call you?”

“No need for ‘Teacher Bai’—just call me Bai.”

The group exchanged glances, subtly giving him a thumbs-up behind his back. Not only was he handsome, but also so approachable!

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -100.]

Bai Jingchuan watched the young girls make coffee, momentarily distracted. “Can you tell me more about how our project enables interaction between the protagonist and heroine?”

“That’s something Jiang Huan should explain.” Akira pushed Jiang Huan toward Bai Jingchuan. “The writer handles the writing.”

Facing each other in the hallway, Jiang Huan and Bai Jingchuan drew the attention of everyone around. Even those playing table football looked over, and socially anxious individuals peeked from behind their computers. Though producers were typically untouchable, here he was joking about acting out lines. Keep in mind, otome game dialogue ranged from grand worldviews to cheesy romance, and bringing such scenes into real life doubled the embarrassment. Akira egged him on: “Teacher Bai, you’ve chosen perfectly. Jiang Huan is a born otome gamer. Her scripts are the most immersive and emotionally impactful. The only downside is there’s no affection meter—defining Jiang Huan’s standards for increasing affection is tricky.”

“Really?” Jiang Huan visibly resisted. “How can we let the producer act with me? My acting is terrible, and I’m not attractive enough…”

“How can it not work? Isn’t this the best template?”

Jiang Huan’s face flashed through an entire gallery of socially awkward memes—she had hugged this man just half an hour ago, and now reenacting iconic scenes would only create misunderstandings, making her seem like a shallow subordinate.

Inside the office, a man and woman simulated a dating scene. The spectacle raised everyone’s expectations to the max. Onlookers surrounded them, phones ready to capture every vivid expression. Jiang Huan had only seen such perfect men in games—meticulously crafted features, soulful eyes, and high-quality suits. Especially those eyes—not every character had them; such roles existed only once per game. Now, the texture of his suit was right before her, and indeed, his eyes naturally carried emotion—at least, they used to.

It was like encountering an otome game protagonist in person—fainting-inducing perfection.

So, they acted.

Jiang Huan cleared her throat: “I don’t want to save the world anymore. I just want to be with the person I love.”

“Do you have someone you love?”

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -50.]

Bai Jingchuan furrowed his brow. “Perhaps I was too forward to ask, but I believe he must be someone important to you.”

“Aren’t you angry?”

“No. You’re special to me. Whether protecting or observing, you’re my priority.”

“I don’t need protection or observation.”

“So I’m waiting for your permission to gain the privilege of being by your side.”

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -50.]

Suddenly, Bai Jingchuan grabbed Jiang Huan’s wrist. “Why do you dislike me?”

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: +50.]

Caught off guard, Jiang Huan’s heart skipped a beat as her face flushed red. She quickly composed herself—this was the producer, her future superior. His first impression of her had already been poor; this momentary flutter was just an error in judgment.

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -50.]

Behind them, colleagues couldn’t help but exclaim, “Wow—”

The new producer was… too otome-like.

Jiang Huan felt that Bai Jingchuan didn’t seem to have voluntarily parachuted into this position. Instead, it felt like he had been forced to take on this troublesome team and was reluctantly adapting to the environment. Moreover, he not only lacked “office weariness,” but also any trace of humanity—so absorbed in his work that he seemed devoid of life. Everyone carried some traces of worldly烟火 (human warmth), but he appeared freshly manufactured. Wearing a suit in a game company was overly formal, yet his gunmetal lapels and trousers seemed like a second skin. His shoes, clearly stiff and uncomfortable, bore faint traces of blood. Even grinding coffee beans in the pantry seemed unfamiliar to him—he gestured awkwardly in the air several times before finally settling into the task, as if lamenting the backwardness of the coffee machine for failing to pour directly into his cup through sheer willpower.

After observing him for a while, Jiang Huan concluded that something about this man wasn’t normal. When everyone else left again, she lingered behind once more. This time, Bai Jingchuan stayed as well, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet space. Jiang Huan felt uneasy and wanted to escape, but Bai Jingchuan blocked half the doorway, seemingly waiting for an explanation.

“That… I’ve been with Love Continent for a long time, but this project has gone through so many producers already. The moment I saw you, I felt certain this time would be different—this project would succeed. So I… got too excited…”

Setting aside the divination, this excuse was quite plausible—he would surely believe it. But saying it out loud felt unbearably embarrassing, the kind of shame that made her want to sink into the floor and disappear along with the person involved.

[Jiang Huan’s affection level towards you: -50.]

[Task 1-2: “Elicit an emotional response from those around you” completed. Current ability level: Lv 3, Emotional level: F. Affection score settled at -1000. -1000 is Jiang Huan’s initial impression score of you. Please work hard to improve her affection in the next task!]

Bai Jingchuan’s expression visibly darkened. Jiang Huan couldn’t understand what she had done to upset him. Tentatively, she said, “Teacher Bai, thank you so much for coming to Love Continent . With you here, this game is absolutely saved.”

“It’s fine.” Bai Jingchuan smiled faintly. “We don’t need to pretend to admire each other. I know you don’t like me.”

“How could that be!” Jiang Huan scratched her head nervously. “In your eyes, can affection even be quantified? If I had an affection meter, you’d be at 1000 right now! Yes, you might not know this, but if superior-subordinate relationships could increase affection, it would definitely be at 1000!”

As soon as she said it, Jiang Huan felt a chill run down her spine. Who genuinely liked their superior? If anything, the score would only drop to -1000.

But how did he know?

________________________________________

Interlude: The Producer’s Perspective

Bai Jingchuan stood silently, watching Jiang Huan’s flustered attempts to explain herself. Her words were clumsy, her emotions transparent, and her actions unpredictable. Yet, beneath her awkward exterior lay a fierce determination—a spark that refused to dim despite the overwhelming odds stacked against her. He had seen countless individuals like her in Magu City, fragile yet unyielding, driven by ideals they barely understood themselves.

But Jiang Huan was different. She wasn’t just fighting for survival or validation; she was fighting for something intangible, something deeply personal. Her attachment to Love Continent wasn’t merely professional—it was emotional, almost spiritual. To her, this project wasn’t just a game; it was a lifeline, a dream worth clinging to even as reality threatened to crush it.

And then there was the hug—an inexplicable, impulsive act that defied logic. Bai Jingchuan replayed the moment in his mind. Her arms had wrapped around him with a desperation that bordered on reckless, as if she believed her very existence depended on finding him. It was absurd, irrational, and yet… oddly compelling.

He glanced at the notification in his mind:

[Current affection score: -1000.]

A perfect reflection of her disdain—or so it seemed. But Bai Jingchuan knew better. Beneath the surface of her hostility lay something far more complex. Her sharp tongue, her defiant gaze, her refusal to back down—all of it masked a vulnerability she wouldn’t dare show. And perhaps, just perhaps, a flicker of hope.

“Jiang Huan,” he said softly, breaking the silence. “You don’t need to convince me of your dedication. I can see it in your work, in your words, in the way you carry yourself. But tell me—why does this project matter so much to you?”

She hesitated, caught off guard by the question. For a moment, her usual bravado faltered, replaced by a rare glimpse of sincerity. “Because…” she began, her voice trembling slightly. “It’s not just a game. It’s proof that we can create something beautiful, something meaningful, even in a world that feels broken. If we can make people believe in love, in connection, even for a moment… isn’t that worth fighting for?”

Her words hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. Bai Jingchuan studied her carefully, noting the fire in her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw. She wasn’t lying—her conviction was genuine, almost palpable.

For the first time since arriving, Bai Jingchuan felt a flicker of curiosity. Perhaps Love Continent wasn’t as hopeless as he had assumed. Or perhaps it was Jiang Huan herself who intrigued him—not as a subordinate, but as a fellow traveler navigating the blurred lines between dreams and reality.

“Very well,” he said finally, his tone softening. “Let’s give it one more chance. But understand this—I won’t tolerate mediocrity. If we’re going to save this project, we’ll do it properly. No shortcuts, no compromises.”

Jiang Huan blinked, momentarily stunned. Was he actually giving them a reprieve? “Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let you down.”

Bai Jingchuan nodded curtly, then turned to leave. As he walked away, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just stepped onto a path far more complicated than he had anticipated. Jiang Huan’s passion was both inspiring and dangerous—a double-edged sword that could either elevate the project or drag it further into chaos.

But deep down, he knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t just about saving a game anymore. It was about unraveling the mystery of Jiang Huan—and perhaps, in doing so, uncovering a piece of himself he had long forgotten.