Chapter 7: “Taiyi Zhenren”

[System restart. Current emotional perception level: F. Ability level: Lv 7. Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: 10.]

Before even opening his eyes, Bai Jingchuan frowned. His affection score felt like a cactus pricking his heart—unable to pluck it out with his hands, he could only move his body around in hopes of shaking off the thorns. Irritating, very irritating.

Bai Jingchuan woke up after just an hour of sleep. The bed in the standby space was a titanium alloy slab; lying on it felt like placing a phone on a wireless charging pad. The standby space was specifically designed for data entities transitioning into the real world—a place to shower, change clothes, recharge stamina, and adjust equipment during the interim before securing permanent housing. Upon waking, Bai Jingchuan nearly went blind from the flashing multicolored lights and quickly shut his eyes again. A die appeared on his shoulder, glowing purple: “Still enjoying the standby space?”

“This isn’t a living space—it’s a disco ball. I wouldn’t even go to the red-light district in Magu City, yet here I am forced to endure your light pollution.”

The room was filled with mechanical parts, models, and abstract decorations. Glittering wrapping paper and dried plastic flowers were scattered across the floor, their clashing colors assaulting his pupils and raising his ocular pressure. The die spun in midair: “Identification Number 067831, don’t slander the adjustment area of the Realm of Ten Thousand Gods. This is meant to help participants cope with homesickness. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean others won’t. Some users cried their hearts out upon entering, overwhelmed by nostalgia for Magu City.”

Bai Jingchuan’s fingers brushed over the clothes in the wardrobe, his expression stern. “Survival of the fittest is a human rule. My current level is F, and I’m still someone Jiang Huan dislikes as her superior. Most importantly, I have no interest in romance. Given my situation, do you think I have the luxury to relax in this standby space?”

“How could Li Bode possibly fear adversity? Watching you frantically balance affection scores at the company was utterly charming. As expected, the Enforcer’s decisiveness never disappoints.”

The wardrobe was filled with clothes of saturated, eye-searing colors—sequins, tassels, and lace that made him close his eyes in despair. The die’s persuasion didn’t stop: “This is the real world. Dressing differently from before will help you shed your persona.”

“Rest assured, I won’t wear any of it.”

“You’re stubborn, both in words and heart.”

“Can you leave? I need to change.”

The die floated out through the glass door. The semi-transparent glass blocked prying eyes but allowed the silhouette of a well-trained physique to show through—lean muscle lines in the arms, an elegant waistline, straight shoulders, and a superior head-to-body ratio with sharp angular shoulders—all part of Li Bode’s extraordinary character design. Outside the door, the die sighed: “What a perfect figure. No girl could resist it. Who created you? It’s as if a god crafted you. But such an appearance is bound to attract blind infatuation… scheming intentions are signs of bad civilization. The emotional data we collect can’t all be used.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” The die changed the subject: “How do you plan to pursue her? If you tell her directly, you’ll be disqualified immediately.”

“I don’t think I need to put in much effort because you’ll undoubtedly create bonds between us. In other words, my tasks will inevitably involve her.”

“Don’t you want to know what kind of relationship you two truly share?”

“Should I be honest?” Bai Jingchuan tied his tie carefully. “I’m not interested.”

Fully dressed, he stood in front of the mirror. His clean, artsy outfit was bathed in the multicolored lights, making him feel dirty. By contrast, the riverside view from the previous night and the fallen leaves after the rain had been soothing, the air fresher, and his breathing more relaxed.

Was he already starting to adapt to the real world?

The die observed Bai Jingchuan from behind, muttering to itself: “I know the temperament of Magu City’s Enforcer, Li Bode—extremely rational, cruel, calm on the surface but perceptive of everything. His charm comes from his upbringing, which forbids rudeness, though genuine tenderness remains elusive. Still, there’s a tragic side to him—he often regrets things, his luck isn’t great, and he doesn’t care because most matters related to emotions have eluded him… So, for your mission, we’ve prepared another setting.”

“What do you mean?”

Before the die could answer, a string of text flashed on the panel.

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

The die squeaked: “She’s thinking about you…”

________________________________________

Bai Jingchuan began transforming the fourteenth floor, starting with the game room in the lounge area. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was deep, and even a simple “Pay attention” made people tense. As the producer who single-handedly saved the project, his will was hard to oppose. Securing jobs was the first step to winning hearts.

“First, clear out this room completely. We need to modify the interaction logic to create a fully immersive experience room. The company’s motion capture equipment is cinematic-grade, so the optical capture system should suffice to redefine action triggers. We need to list out basic movements—walking, running, jumping, fighting, and the male protagonist’s moves. The visual projection time is limited, so instead of building a full cave system for two players, let’s start with an L-shaped setup. Make the entry process as seamless as possible, whether for single or dual immersion—the sense of presence will be strong either way.”

Within a week, the game room was cleared of tangled wires and outdated consoles. Motion capture cameras were installed on the ceiling, high-performance PCs were placed in the corners, and mark points were attached to swords, guns, and spears. Before testing even began, the interaction specialist knocked on Bai Jingchuan’s office door to request a budget increase: “The switch isn’t sufficient—we need a ten-gigabit one…”

Bai Jingchuan took out his fountain pen—his aesthetic carried an old-school academic air, and his signature looked like a scene from a movie. He was a man who exuded atmosphere without needing props. Jiang Huan couldn’t help but recall the moment she was rescued, when Bai Jingchuan suddenly appeared and lifted her into his arms—it was too coincidental, like fate guiding them.

“The latest news I found.” Akira handed her phone to Jiang Huan: “Your favorite game, Tides of Emotion , was written by Bai Jingchuan.”

This widened Jiang Huan’s eyes: “Huh? Where did you see that?”

“It’s in today’s press release. Bai Jingchuan has officially joined Lori, and his work includes the indie game Tides of Emotion .”

Jiang Huan stared at the screen intently. Bai Jingchuan, the youngest independent game producer in history, joined a renowned Japanese game development team at twenty-two, hailed as the most promising creative designer. At twenty-five, he was invited to the U.S. to make games. Three years later, he cashed out, became a recluse, and studied in the U.K., releasing the indie game Tides of Emotion that same year. It won TGA’s Best Story and Game of the Year awards. Now, he’s left game creation to research VR holographic companionship projects and has become the airdropped producer for the otome game Love Continent . Truly, a salaryman emperor.

This was absurd. Was Bai Jingchuan her idol?

“Don’t tell me you forgot how you praised Tides of Emotion back then?”

Of course Jiang Huan remembered! She had downloaded it immediately after seeing the trailer, played nonstop for seven days, and re-played it repeatedly over the next year. The story revolved around Earth facing a crisis, with some people migrating their memories to a new planet. A pair of lovers were separated, communicating only through intermittent radio waves while searching for traces of each other in a newly built city identical to Earth. Jiang Huan was obsessed with this story, feeling it was both a sci-fi parable and a tender fairy tale. The visuals were so beautiful that she once guessed the creator was a woman—how else could it be so delicate?

Now, being told that Bai Jingchuan created Tides of Emotion was like a blind fan sitting in the front row of a concert suddenly realizing who her idol was. It wasn’t just surprising—it was shocking enough to be frightening.

If her impression of Bai Jingchuan a few days ago was that he was mature, wise, and aloof—a capable producer with a certain charm—finding him attractive based on those shallow reasons still felt forced. But now, adding the fact that he was the original creator of TGA’s Indie Game of the Year, Bai Jingchuan was overwhelmingly perfect.

The crystal ball’s lights were fully lit, and the carousel was rising and spinning before her.

Snapped out of her thoughts by a nudge, Bai Jingchuan pressed a thick stack of main storyline materials onto the table: “Please explain your creative ideas carefully. Don’t hold back on romantic plotlines just because I’m a man. Be clear about your intentions, okay?”

On either side of the long table sat seven writers. Jiang Huan had sticky notes at hand, listening intently and sticking them onto pages as they went. At first, she thought he was serious, but the more she stuck, the guiltier she felt. By the end, while everyone else was sleepy, Jiang Huan remained fully focused. The final manuscript, covered in colorful sticky notes, was touching—it reminded her of her days as an unnamed intern at a film company, attending brainstorming sessions. Now, as the acting lead writer, she finally felt a sense of security.

But it wasn’t enough to fully rely on him.

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

“There’s no need for excessive narration or descriptions. Dialogue paired with actions will suffice. Since the art style is relatively finalized, you need to adjust every scene, cutting down on lengthy descriptions and keeping the visuals clean. Is there a finalized version of the male protagonist?”

Jiang Huan quickly raised her hand: “Yes! It’s in the script system!”

“Don’t rush.” Bai Jingchuan suddenly smiled gently: “I trust you.”

That single sentence left her speechless.

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

“I won’t interfere with your decisions regarding the plot. Moving forward, I won’t meddle either, since a female perspective understands better how to write. You must have unique insights. From my personal experience, the male protagonist should spark the player’s curiosity in every chapter, whether it’s an adventure genre or urban romance, leaving some suspense. It seems art and technology took priority, limiting your narrative creativity. Who wrote this character, Duanmu Xuan? It seems you’re deeply attached to him.”

Being praised? Jiang Huan shyly raised her hand, but saw Bai Jingchuan frown. One moment he was warm, the next cold—what a mercurial person.

“He surprisingly… knows a lot. Some lines are even better than what we wrote for our male leads. Did he really cram for this?” Another writer messaged Jiang Huan. Meanwhile, Bai Jingchuan’s teachings echoed in her ears: “Pay attention to classic lines. Acknowledge others’ strengths and strive to surpass them. If you want to grow, having an opponent who keeps you restless day and night is your fortune…”

This was a classic line that had once been deleted. When the female protagonist faced a formidable opponent, her mentor offered this advice, waiting for her to grow into a rival worthy of standing shoulder to shoulder with him. When Jiang Huan wrote it, she never imagined it would one day be completely erased, nor did she expect to hear it verbatim from her enigmatic superior.

She sat there in a daze, watching the sunlight fall on Bai Jingchuan as he conversed with others. If inspiration were dust, floating through space and landing on another planet to shimmer before being received back by its origin, it would be a distant romance crafted by the universe. How did he know?

The air conditioning blew cold air, and Jiang Huan shivered, hugging herself as she sat directly in the vent—the AC was broken. All the other meeting rooms were occupied, leaving no alternative seating. Her hands were already stiff from the cold. Slowly, Bai Jingchuan moved in front of the vent, his tall frame blocking the airflow. Mid-conversation, he suddenly said, “The air conditioning is broken. Let’s find another place for the next meeting.”

Bathed only in the sunlight, she quickly warmed up.

Had he noticed and intentionally blocked the vent for her?

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

By the time they finished reviewing the entire main storyline, it was late at night. As the writing team exited, they discovered small boxes placed on everyone’s desks—cakes from Lamille, a popular downtown bakery that required queuing. Opening the paper boxes revealed cakes glistening with a layer of condensation—they had been delivered some time ago. The young interns were straightforward: “Teacher Bai, did you order these for us?”

Bai Jingchuan smiled and nodded. Crisp words of gratitude rang out one after another. Everyone quickly switched sides, counting their thanks like a roll call, until only Jiang Huan remained silent.

Jiang Huan didn’t know what to say. In her mind, Bai Jingchuan didn’t particularly like people. The desserts likely weren’t purely to reward the employees—he was aloof, indifferent, engaging only when necessary, keeping his distance. Perhaps he simply wanted cake for himself.

But the cake was innocent. She took a bite—the combination of lemon and cream frosting tasted strange, the sweetness and acidity clashing abruptly. She was picky about desserts; if she made it herself, it would definitely taste better.

Everyone seemed satisfied. Akira, holding her cake, leaned close to Jiang Huan: “They’ve given Teacher Bai a nickname.”

“What is it?”

Akira glanced toward Bai Jingchuan’s direction, then whispered conspiratorially to Jiang Huan: “They call him ‘Taiyi Zhenren.’”

…Outwardly, the name did seem fitting.

Jiang Huan wandered around the office searching for tea bags but eventually found herself at Bai Jingchuan’s office door. Bai Jingchuan looked somewhat disheveled—he was shoving an entire slice of cake into his mouth, eating with intense focus, as if hypoglycemic and desperate for sugar or suffering from some uncontrollable craving. Jiang Huan struggled to keep her widened eyes from betraying her surprise: “The cake really is delicious, Teacher Bai. Did you not have a fork?”

“…No, I didn’t.”

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

Bai Jingchuan pushed something aside with his arm, as if deliberately hiding the utensils. Jiang Huan felt a smile tugging at her lips. What was so embarrassing about liking sweets? Not finding a spoon wasn’t a crime. Eating with your hands wasn’t unusual—it seemed he was truly in a rush. But remembering that Bai Jingchuan was the creator of Tides of Emotion , she couldn’t help but feel a newfound respect.

Her tone became more polite: “How did you manage it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Convincing everyone in the meeting to continue the project and providing guidance after reviewing so many scripts…”

“It has little to do with me—it’s your hard work. I’ve only been here for a short time.”

[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +80.]

“Before, didn’t you think the project had no future? You even considered the team unmotivated and untalented, planning to disband it entirely…”

“I changed my mind.”

“Huh?”

“If subordinates who are so devoted and willing to give their all aren’t taken seriously, I’d feel guilty about the time you’ve spent. Time and sincerity are the most precious things—not to be wasted, right?”

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

“You… you don’t need to say that.” Jiang Huan looked down at the floor, mumbling: “They all said you were harsh and rude. I thought you were just like the previous misogynistic producer, and the project would fail under your leadership, which is why I acted so rashly…”

“No need to feel guilty or dwell on it. We’re all working toward the same goal. As long as we get the job done, there’s no need to maintain deep emotional bonds. A poor first impression doesn’t matter, as long as we can collaborate smoothly. It’s fine if you don’t like me.”

“…” Jiang Huan was speechless. Too perfect. In just a few minutes, he had already played every angle flawlessly.

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

“Besides, you’re the only one who hasn’t thanked me yet.” Bai Jingchuan pressed the elevator button.

Before the cake was even finished, a group email arrived. Not only Jiang Huan but the entire production team fell silent. The densely packed schedule was suffocating. Keeping the project meant starting over from scratch—though Bai Jingchuan’s gentle wisdom exuded charm, it didn’t detract from the fact that he was a terrifying devil.

But Jiang Huan’s crystal ball had already begun to spin. Rarely had she encountered such a mentor—infinitely capable and clear-minded. Thinking of this, she mustered her courage: “Teacher Bai, I have handwritten drafts of character designs and storylines from before. Though the Unity files are gone, I still have them.”

Bai Jingchuan didn’t hesitate: “Good. Bring them to me.”

“Would you be willing to teach me? I’m a fan of Tides of Emotion …”

“Yes. My condition is—don’t get too close to me. I might misunderstand.”

“Huh?”

[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +30.]

Bai Jingchuan seemed allergic to romance, restraining himself as he searched for wet wipes to clean the cream off his hands, appearing somewhat agitated:

“I’m genuinely uninterested in ordinary humans, but I share a unique bond with you. I can’t understand it—I’ve never encountered anything like this before. But you… you’re very special. You intrigue me yet make me restless, difficult to read, forcing me to raise my guard. You also hold answers I seek. Until I find them, my gaze may linger on you indefinitely.”

[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +500.]

The elevator doors slowly closed. Bai Jingchuan glanced at her briefly. His gaze was completely different from the one in her dreams—cold, scrutinizing, unwilling to waste time on her. Anyone with sense should escape his line of sight and avoid further irritation.

She had been disliked. Jiang Huan clenched her fists as she faced the elevator, her reflection visible in the metal doors—haggard, anxious, worn down by work, far from presentable.

That crumpled piece of white paper was a metaphor. If something had to be written on it, or if it had to be crumpled and dirtied to reveal an answer, Jiang Huan would undoubtedly reach out without hesitation. She hated unanswered mysteries, curiosity demanded inquiry, and even if it meant getting hurt, she would deliberately crumple that paper, just as she intended to grasp something from Bai Jingchuan.