Chapter 9: Born Romantic

Just as she returned to the company, Jiang Huan saw her colleagues gathered together, their expressions both gossipy and helpless, waving her over. The moment Jiang Huan saw their faces, she knew something was wrong, but when she saw the email, her vision went black.

The content review feedback and public sentiment summary had arrived together. Complaints from various websites about the female-oriented holographic companion project were compiled, with some people directly filing complaints to the publishing bureau after watching the promotional video, citing “content with harmful guidance.” Lori had employees in the publishing bureau who were good at handling relationships and could intercept some complaints, but this particular report coincided with an upper-level review, making Love Continent a point of heightened scrutiny. The feedback on the submitted content was clear: reduce romantic plotlines, cut back on romance, and increase friendship, adventure, and cooperative home-building to promote harmony.

In female-oriented games, the main interactive focus is romance—whether it’s saving the world or building a virtual city, the ultimate goal is always love. Reducing the romance and emphasizing exploration felt like abandoning the project altogether.

“Who even has anything to complain about? Female-targeted games are already so rare and pitiful. Do they have to completely destroy them?” Akira rolled her eyes. “It’s already hard enough for women to find jobs—are they all supposed to become housewives? Are we even allowed to eat anymore?”

“There’s one person cursing us especially harshly, hoping our project dies a miserable death.”

“Who, some public intellectual?”

“No, no, no. They think women projecting their hopes onto virtual lives and partners wastes energy that should be spent elsewhere. It’s apparently a huge waste of resources.”

“What do you mean?”

“My understanding is that they think female-oriented games make women obsessed, preventing them from doing other things. Money gets spent in the wrong places.”

Jiang Huan scratched her head. “I checked her homepage—it sounds like she loves men and wants to get married. What did her virtual boyfriend do to her?”

“It’s not just that. On Douban forums, they’re also saying our boss drives the only Lamborghini in Shanghai to show off his wealth, spreading rumors about him cheating, surrogacy, borrowing money to take over Dream Swan to become a shareholder, and that his wife is coming to divide assets. Our project is supposedly the abandoned child neither of them wants…”

Rumors, every sentence partially based on something, yet none of it true. Everyone at the table exchanged glances, but someone still couldn’t help but utter the famous line: “Our company is really going to collapse.”

Only Jiang Huan found the critic, staring at her homepage in thought. “Her name is Wen Li… She seems to be living a tough life too, with such a terrible family background. Why is she so cynical, obsessively chanting cyber mantras and setting up digital moral standards?”

She looked somewhat familiar…

“Let’s report this to the producer first. This isn’t a small matter. If more complaints come in, we won’t get the game license. Either we’ll be dragged until the project becomes outdated, or it’ll die before approval. Is the producer in the office?”

“The god? He’s not here right now.”

“Huh?” Jiang Huan tilted her head. “What did you call him?”

“Yesterday, he came out of the VR room and told me not to call him ‘producer,’ saying it sounded too hierarchical.” The intern’s eyes sparkled. “We all secretly call him ‘god.’”

With his sharp features and expressive eyes, he truly was a god, but Jiang Huan didn’t like it—god? Too generous a title for him!

“…Then where is he?”

“I heard he got held up and couldn’t come to the office. He sounded pretty annoyed.”

Bai Jingchuan indeed appeared and disappeared unpredictably. He lived at the company, fully immersed in Love Continent , but when people wanted to find him, he was nowhere to be seen, as if sneaking off to save the world. Jiang Huan wanted to go to the recording studio to be alone—surely no one would be there. Seven life-sized standees stood there, her secret recovery base when she was feeling down. But as soon as she pushed the door open, she backed out immediately: “Where did those seven men go?”

“They were cleared out by administration half a month ago.”

“What? Didn’t we agree to hold a raffle and let everyone take them home?”

“That was ages ago. Now that the project is shelved, everything’s confidential. Do you think they’d let you carry that into the elevator and take it home? Plus, during the move to another floor, one of the standees got bent in the elevator door, taped up, and left dusty. Other project teams found it annoying.”

The seven standees in the recording studio had never been thrown away after the project ended. Over two years, they had faded, and after being moved to the recording studio, they were treated as eyesores. Jiang Huan had worked hard to swap them for consolation prizes at the year-end party, hoping to bring one home, but administration wouldn’t let her move them until now—they were gone.

It was definitely the producer’s fault. New projects replaced old ones, and it seemed like he was mercilessly cutting ties with the past, clearing out clutter to fully commit to the new project. Still, Jiang Huan was furious. Politely but sarcastically, she messaged administration. The reply came quickly: “They’ve faded, and they take up space. Confidential company projects can’t be taken home.”

“But I won the prize at the year-end party…”

“After all, the project wasn’t launched. It’s just a standee. Many colleagues complained it took up space and disrupted dubbing work. I understand your feelings, but since you haven’t launched, it’s impossible to give them to you now. You can come exchange them for bus cards. Remember to attend the next team-building event. You’re responsible for dreaming, and I’m responsible for solving your logistics—it’s tough for both of us. Let’s understand each other.”

Workplaces may have friends, but with administration… it’s hard to befriend them. Forced team-building events during project stagnation, unappetizing afternoon teas, mandatory social mixers, and discarded materials—all of it was infuriating. The two things Jiang Huan liked most in the office were the sleep pod and these standees—one for napping, the other for glimpsing her favorite characters. The sleep pod was mostly occupied by male colleagues, leaving it smelling of hair oil, so she rarely used it. Now that the standees were gone, she was enraged. She didn’t want to stay at the company or work anymore. Her passion was being doused daily, and even the highest morale couldn’t reignite her drive.

Furious, Jiang Huan went to Renwu Road to vent to Shandimon. Shandimon was cooking noodles, too busy to give her private time. His sunglasses were fogged up, but he still took note of the complaint situation. Jiang Huan stood by the counter, gesturing wildly and stomping her feet: “How dare they file complaints without even experiencing it? Why don’t they reveal their names and let me meet them face-to-face for a duel? I’ll personally convince them to drop their guard and feel the warmth of companionship.”

“What kind of girl is she?”

“She’s ordinary and fragile, studying fashion design but unsuccessful. She’s clever, though. But why? We’re just a small, overlooked game project. One complaint, and we’re out of food…”

“She might be someone who needs a chance to restart her life. With a little change, maybe she’ll become grateful and generous.” Shandimon’s words were merciful, but behind his sunglasses, he seemed emotionless, resembling a grim reaper figure, which startled Jiang Huan. Renwu Road was already a neon-lit intersection between reality and virtuality, and Shandimon owned three shops. Jiang Huan’s imagination ran wild, making her even more afraid.

Bai Jingchuan earned the nickname Bai Wuchang (White Impermanence), while Shandimon now resembled Hei Wuchang (Black Impermanence).

“Who doesn’t want to restart their life? If I could, I’d absolutely switch careers and avoid being tortured by cursed projects.” Jiang Huan sighed gloomily. “My handwritten drafts are gone, and Bai Jingchuan told me to look forward. Now the standees are gone too. I wonder how he’ll deceive me next.”

“This might be your crush opportunity. Dwelling on past game characters might make you miss out on Bai Jingchuan. Others may not know, but I do—you’re someone with a hole in your heart that’s never been filled. You’ve almost forgotten how to feel love.”

“Forget it. This crush is like a home invasion. I’ll say it again: believing I could fall in love with Bai Jingchuan is harder than believing it’ll snow in Shanghai.”

[Congratulations on completing the basic emotional task at the training grounds. Current emotional perception level: E. Earned 10,000 gold coins and 1 “Any Weather” prop. Note: The sight recording function has been automatically unlocked. Each recording lasts ten seconds, with a weekly limit of one use. Please use cautiously.]

In the standby space, Bai Jingchuan considered changing clothes. Looking at the sequined suits and patent leather platform shoes in the wardrobe, he once again chose the same style of light-colored suit. The die appeared quickly: “Wow, Li Bode, you’re so fast! You’ve already upgraded and earned so many props. As long as you complete tasks quickly, you’ll have a house to live in.”

“What does the recording function mean?”

[Life is like a movie. Everyone has unforgettable moments, but memories fade and can be altered by subconscious impressions. These recordings prevent emotionally charged neural pathways from forgetting meaningful fragments. They’ll be stored as your memories, no need to organize or report them.]

It seemed that just as he wanted to shed his persona, people also had things they wished to forget.

[Identification Number 067832, Jiang Huan is your target. Please maximize emotional interaction around Jiang Huan using props.]

Tasks always revolved around her, completely deviating from his purpose of coming to the real world. An enforcer forcibly bound to a girl—if not for romance, then what?

She also seemed to be the key to unraveling his confusion.

Bai Jingchuan was starving. The die hovered nearby, glowing brightly. He originally planned to return to the company, but hunger made stars dance in his eyes—as data, he could buy nutrient solutions to instantly satiate himself, but now he needed to sit down and eat properly. After upgrading to level ten, his movement range increased to 10% of its previous limit, so two to three kilometers were within reach…

A minute later, he was already sitting in a shop on Renwu Road, drinking soup. After the first sip, he glanced at the menu again, pointing to the words “homemade handmade” and asking the owner: “Is this homemade or just reheated by hand?”

The owner gave him a look as if he were crazy and retreated to the kitchen. Bai Jingchuan didn’t bother arguing—he was too hungry. The soup tasted the same as the ones in Magu City: precise in weight but lacking soul. Overthinking it would leave him poisoned by the arrogant, soulless preparation. The TV on the wall played a catchy but shallow pop song, repeating the same ugly, cultureless lyrics in sync with his rapid soup-drinking rhythm. He quickly finished the last bite, tossed the spoon, and stood up. The girl singing on TV was still swaying her head. He remembered the newly unlocked recording function—a kind of superpower—and decided it absolutely shouldn’t be wasted on such a speechless scene.

He paid and walked out. The die popped out: “Li Bode, you drank so fast. What did it taste like? Was it that good?”

“A flavorless taste.”

“Don’t look so lifeless.”

Bai Jingchuan didn’t respond. Instead, he noticed the last few donuts left in the corner bakery. One of them had a face, stubbornly frowning with a large hole in the middle, making its expression look like it had been shot through the chest but refused to give up. Feeling a twinge of sympathy, he packed them all into a paper bag. Just as he finished buying them, he turned and saw Jiang Huan sitting on a stone post outside a closed shop across the street, phone to her ear, legs swinging, chatting idly.

“How are you? I’m fine. I can feel others dislike me, and I can sense how cruel the cycle of renewal is. What do you think about criticism? It always makes people hide behind their words, silently bearing the burden themselves. You can’t see the fragility or breakdown, but maybe for you, it doesn’t matter at all. After all, you’re someone who stands on your own… I’m not worried about how hard it is, but every day I live, my happiness and motivation are slowly being drained. I miss the days when I could ignite passion. Sometimes… I really miss you.”

Jiang Huan looked up and saw Bai Jingchuan. She lowered her phone, the screen still lit with the lock screen image—she hadn’t even dialed the call. Her nose and eyes were red, and after a long day, her hair was tousled by the wind. Though she didn’t look completely disheveled, compared to the young souls drinking on the street, her homelessness was evident, her sadness without a place to rest.

Bai Jingchuan recalled the first lesson the system had taught him about perceiving emotions: taking care of others’ feelings. Jiang Huan stood up, raised her head, and blinked. He followed her gaze upward. The night sky was covered with thick clouds, illuminated by city lights so that neither stars nor moon were visible. The brightness was cold but not piercing, leaving a sense of suffocation.

[You have used the prop “Any Weather.” Please select the type of weather you desire.]

She sniffed sharply, exhaled deeply, and smiled: “What a coincidence. Do you live around here? Out late at night—are you drinking, partying, or gaming?”

Renwu Road was still lively at 3 AM. Bai Jingchuan didn’t sleep, and Jiang Huan… didn’t seem tired either. He didn’t beat around the bush: “Why aren’t you home? You look like you’re in a bad mood.”

Jiang Huan thought to herself, yes, she wasn’t in a good mood. Just a few cardboard standees—why couldn’t they stay in the office? Why were they broken and thrown away? She asked: “Do you know anything about our previous failed project?”

“Not really. By the time I arrived, all the data was already destroyed. The handwritten drafts you wanted to show me turned into pulp in the lake.”

“Have you been to the recording studio?”

“No.”

“I should’ve saved another copy, secretly stored it in the cloud or on my computer. Lots of people do that, but I thought it went against professional ethics… Now everything’s gone. The data’s lost, my drafts are soaked, and I’m starting to regret not using pencil—at least there’d be traces…”

“What about the life-sized standees in the recording studio? Have you seen them?”

“No. I’ve been too busy since starting work—I haven’t had time to go in.”

Jiang Huan had nowhere to vent her frustration. It seemed the producer hadn’t given the order; he knew nothing about it. But every tangible piece of material that disappeared from her life meant one less thing she could store as an emotional anchor. She instinctively wrinkled her nose, unwilling to let Bai Jingchuan see her in a bad state. Crying in front of her superior would only give him ammunition to criticize her resilience later. Yet, Bai Jingchuan stood before her, the softness of the night and the holiday background music creating a gentle… illusion. This was different from his wise control in the office or his seriousness in the face of danger. The aura he emitted now felt like the impenetrable shell had cracked open slightly, revealing confusion and unease. Forget it—it must be an illusion. He doesn’t like her.

But she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The sound of crumpling paper echoed in her ears again, and she couldn’t make sense of it.

“Are these characters important to you?”

“Of course. The ones I like are among them.”

“What’s his name?”

Jiang Huan mimed zipping her lips shut: “Confidential project. You’re unrelated to the previous project—no comment.”

This was her way of retaliating for Bai Jingchuan saying he wasn’t interested in her. Even in moments of sadness, her DPS (damage per second) remained high. Jiang Huan’s life philosophy: if I’m bleeding, I won’t let you stay full health. Only when both sides are wounded can they understand each other’s pain and temporarily count as equals.

But this time, Bai Jingchuan didn’t refute her or rush to draw boundaries. Instead, he simply handed her the paper bag. Jiang Huan opened it, smiled, and picked out the donut with the stubborn frown, taking a bite and swallowing it while still staring at his poker face. Whenever she saw Bai Jingchuan, she couldn’t help but enter combat mode. Today, she was a mage dealing ranged damage—just looking at him could control him, making him flustered.

Disliking being stared at, Bai Jingchuan didn’t smile: “Is there something on my face?”

“Was it a coincidence that you ran into me here?”

“If I say it was, would you believe me?”

She had already said it—believing in a crush like this was as impossible as believing in a home invasion. Jiang Huan, with a donut in her mouth, stood up, slipped, and fell forward. Instinctively, Bai Jingchuan opened his arms, and various shapes and colors of donuts rolled onto the ground. Only the stubborn-faced donut, along with Jiang Huan, ended up safely in Bai Jingchuan’s embrace. Surrounding the two was the sweet, cloying aroma of donuts. Bai Jingchuan, who had a fondness for sweetness, took a deep breath.

Long-range magical damage failed, and close combat failed too. Jiang Huan, still biting the donut, stared wide-eyed at Bai Jingchuan. How embarrassing—the chocolate from the donut had smeared onto his suit… But something was off about Bai Jingchuan. He gazed at her with an almost doting expression.

She quickly stepped back a few paces. Awkward. Had he lost his mind?

A white particle flashed before her eyes. Was someone throwing plastic foam from upstairs? No—it was snow…

Her words from earlier that afternoon came true immediately, defying logic. Jiang Huan held out her hand to catch the snowflakes, which melted quickly upon touching her palm. Her nose tip felt a slight chill, and delicate snowflakes landed on it, sparkling up close. She murmured: “Is the snow also a coincidence?”

“If I say it’s not, would you believe me?”

She didn’t believe in miracles, nor in fantasies coming true, nor that her casual assumption would manifest in such a way. The snowflakes grew larger, swirling in the lamplight, and everywhere people gasped and exclaimed in excitement. Amidst the fluttering crystalline feathers, Bai Jingchuan looked at Jiang Huan, quietly watching the goose-down-like snowfall. He genuinely liked this city, liked the sudden snowfall, and how it became part of the story between them.

Consider it a gift.

Real snow?

Jiang Huan stared blankly at her surroundings. The grand sights of this city had nothing to do with her. She could only witness them, not create them. The fantasy city she tried to build was rejected, demolished, and deleted. Her resume was erased. But the appearance of this person before her tore off a small fragment of the severed connection and placed it in front of her, giving her a pure, dreamlike moment amid repeated setbacks. Seemingly unintentional, no price demanded. Still, she felt it—because of him, the stories she once created resonated across time, reaching her now.

Her donut wasn’t finished yet; its stubborn face and hole remained. She reached out to touch the snowflakes: “Bai Jingchuan, why does the world start acting strangely whenever you appear? Are you from outer space? Dare you touch fingertips with me? Shall I help you find your way home?”

“How silly.”

“Do you dare?”

If he dared, then fine. In the pure white night scene, they touched the same snowflake. Their fingertips cooled as the snow melted, giving Jiang Huan the illusion that this was a signal from another dimension. Bai Jingchuan, a recipient of interdimensional commands, gave her some kindness in his usual icy manner.

The snowflake melted silently on their fingertips.

[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +100. Lv 12 upgraded to Lv 15. Earned 10,000 gold coins. You have successfully recorded your first affection clip. It has been saved in your cloud album.]

PS: Xiao Zhang is here! Did everyone go out to celebrate New Year’s Eve? Xiao Zhang is working hard to revise the manuscript for daily updates in the coming days. Happy New Year to everyone! Xiao Zhang will be waiting for you in the comments section.