#77: The White Dove Fairy Tale (6)

This illustration had completely drained Shi Yin of all her energy.

She slept straight through until evening. When she finally opened her eyes, she was lying in bed in the bedroom. The house was empty, and the evening sky was painted with a soft glow, transitioning from warm orange to layers of indigo and purple.

Shi Yin stared out the window for a while, then lazily rolled over. Her whole body felt limp, as if every bone had turned to jelly; she didn’t even have the strength to sit up.

But she was starving.

Shi Yin buried her face into her pillow and groaned. She adjusted the air conditioner to lower the temperature slightly, pulled the blanket over her head, and went back to sleep.

When she woke again, night had fallen, and faint voices could be heard coming from the living room.

Shi Yin climbed out of bed, took a shower, and emerged wrapped in her robe. Bright light spilled from the kitchen, where Gu Congli stood at the counter. The kitchen tools that always seemed so clumsy in Shi Yin’s hands moved effortlessly under his control. She tugged at the sash of her robe and walked over, standing behind him on tiptoe to peek forward.

In the pot, curry beef bubbled gently, its aroma wafting through the air. The scent of freshly cooked rice drifted from the rice cooker.

Shi Yin had just finished showering, and droplets of water from her damp hair trickled down Gu Congli’s collar. Without turning around, he turned off the heat and asked, “Hungry?”

Shi Yin swallowed hard and patted his back. “Starving. Is the rice ready yet?”

Gu Congli glanced at the timer. “Seven more minutes.” Then he looked back at her still-wet hair. “Go dry your hair first.”

Shi Yin whined softly but stayed put, staring longingly at the fragrant, golden curry. “When did you come back?”

The way she phrased it amused him, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Without realizing it herself, she had already grown accustomed to his presence—”come” had naturally become “come back.”

He covered the pot, washed his hands, and said, “Dry your hair.”

Her gaze reluctantly shifted away from the food as he placed the lid on the pot. She tilted her head up and grinned, pulling at his hand. “Teacher Gu, blow-dry my hair for me.”

Gu Congli lowered his eyes, letting her lead him by one finger toward the bedroom door. She dashed to the bedside drawer, grabbed the hairdryer, handed it to him, then sat primly on the edge of the bed, her hands neatly folded on her lap like an obedient child wearing a red scarf.

Shi Yin sat there, her wet hair tousled and messy, looking up at him expectantly.

Gu Congli walked over and patted her head. “Turn around.”

She shifted slightly.

The hum of the hairdryer filled the air. Shi Yin basked in the rare luxury of having Teacher Gu dry her hair, kicking her legs playfully while sitting with her back to him. Every few seconds, she couldn’t resist turning her head to look at him.

His fingers combed through her soft strands, gently tugging. He lowered the dryer’s airflow. “Be still.”

Shi Yin murmured, “Mm,” and turned her head back. “Is the poster okay now?”

Gu Congli replied nonchalantly, “Mm,” his voice low and muffled by the hairdryer’s noise.

Shi Yin was quite pleased with her work. Smugly, she asked, “Not bad, right? Better than the last one?”

“Mm.”

Shi Yin pouted. “Why aren’t you praising me?”

Gu Congli calmly twirled a strand of her damp hair. “I’m afraid your ego will soar into the sky.”

Shi Yin tilted her head back, glaring at him. “What do you mean by that? Are you saying you’re afraid I’ll get spoiled?”

Gu Congli chuckled. “That’s not how you use that idiom.”

Shi Yin gaped at him in disbelief. “You, with your level of idiom usage, still dare to criticize mine?”

She leaned her head back, her upper body reclining until the top of her head rested against him. Upside-down, she gazed at him, her slender, pale neck forming a graceful curve. Beneath the collar of her robe, her smooth, creamy skin rose and fell gently with her breath.

Gu Congli’s gaze lingered briefly before he bent down to press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips. “If you want to act spoiled, I don’t mind.”

Shi Yin’s neck grew stiff, and she straightened up, turning to face him. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

Gu Congli turned off the hairdryer, unplugged it, and tucked it back into the drawer. “Apparently not.”

She ran her fingers through her mostly dry but still slightly damp hair and suddenly asked, “What about the bookmarks?”

“Each character has been individually cropped and will be randomly included as inserts.”

Shi Yin nodded. “I drew each character on separate layers. I saved all the individual files. You should check them—it’ll make cutting easier. Some characters overlap, which might feel awkward otherwise.”

“Mm. I saw them. They’ve already been sent to the printing plant.” Gu Congli raised his hand, tapping her forehead lightly. Shi Yin flopped backward onto the bed, grumbling, “You actually sneaked a peek at my computer files. Do you know what privacy is? You evil Piccolo! In the name of the moon, I will destroy you!”

Gu Congli ignored her dramatics and headed out of the bedroom. “Come eat.”

While Shi Yin had been working on the poster, the single-volume edition had been continuously printed. By the time the books were fully printed, they could immediately begin producing the posters and bookmarks. In the end, the delay wasn’t significant.

After negotiating with the printing plant, Gu Congli arranged for the posters to be expedited. They were completed and delivered to shelves on the scheduled release day, averting the crisis. Shi Yin finally breathed a sigh of relief.

After nearly a week of stress and anxiety, she felt like her hair had turned prematurely gray—no dye needed, just trendy “granny ash.” Now that things had settled, she finally had time to think about other matters.

Like Li Nian.

Shi Yin had always been relatively laid-back. Similar incidents had happened before, and such things were common in this industry. She rarely bothered to pursue or dwell on them. After all, her energy was limited, and focusing too much on trivial matters would inevitably affect more important things.

However, this person was Li Nian.

From the initial hordes of her fans—or possibly hired trolls—attacking Shi Yin’s Weibo account, to the book-signing event, to the issue with Gu Congli, and now this poster incident, the woman kept stirring up trouble again and again.

Shi Yin couldn’t understand why Li Nian had targeted her. One drew shoujo manga, the other shonen. They weren’t even in direct competition. Why was one woman making life difficult for another?

First, she targeted her, then her man, and when that failed, she went after her work.

Shi Yin decided that this time, she couldn’t let it slide.

Although she had redrawn a new image—one far superior to the previous one—that didn’t mean she no longer cared about the matter. Every stroke, every line in the artwork represented her hard work and dedication. It wasn’t something that could simply be dismissed because she had created something better.

After much thought, the only possibility was that someone, perhaps passing by, had glimpsed her drawing. Unlike writing, where details need to be carefully observed, copying a rough composition only required a quick glance. A passerby could easily memorize the general layout and replicate it later.

This entire process might take only a few seconds—a couple of quick looks as they passed behind her.

Shi Yin immediately returned to the café where she had drawn the illustration and requested access to the surveillance footage.

Since she frequented the place, she was familiar with the manager and staff. After explaining the situation, the manager generously allowed her to review the recordings.

The surveillance videos dated back to the period before and after the New Year, nearly two months ago. During that time, she had spent most days at the café, though she often changed seats.

Shi Yin had no idea when or where Li Nian had come.

Every day, countless people had passed behind the spot where she sat.

After reviewing footage from a few random days, Shi Yin gave up after two hours. Her eyes hurt, and the task required too much time.

Forget it. She decided to endure it.

Feeling gloomy, she told Gu Congli about the ordeal. At the end, she added, “I’m going to read some ancient romance novels.”

Gu Congli clearly didn’t follow her train of thought. “Hmm?”

“In those novels, there are plenty of plots involving palace intrigue or household drama. For example, how the empress schemes against the emperor’s favorite concubine, or how a concubine tries to frame the main wife. The protagonist always finds clever ways to retaliate.” Shi Yin spoke earnestly. “I should’ve read more of these beforehand to learn some revenge tactics.”

Gu Congli thought for a moment and asked, “Do these novels ever have scenes like this?”

“What kind?”

“The male lead avenges the female lead, and then she repays him by giving herself to him… physically.”

“…”

Shi Yin stared at him blankly. “Teacher Gu, that’s the script for a domineering prince from years ago. That trope is outdated. Modern readers prefer strong, independent heroines who can conquer the world. Did you think you were the male lead from a decade-old billionaire novel?”

Gu Congli raised an eyebrow. “You like that?”

Shi Yin blinked at him. “Huh?”

Gu Congli said, “If you like it, I can be that.”

The news about Li Nian broke shortly after Shi Yin woke up one morning while applying a facial mask.

Two days prior, she had received a call from Xiye Nai, inviting her to dinner to celebrate Hongming Longque ‘s collected volume rising to third place on the bestseller list within a week of its release.

Xiye Nai had been in the industry for many years, formerly part of Yaoguang Publishing before branching out to open her own independent studio. Recently, she had been collaborating with Yaoguang. The two often chatted and got along well, so Shi Yin readily accepted the invitation.

With the mask still on, Shi Yin emerged from the bathroom, plopped onto the bed, and opened her phone to scroll through Weibo. The first post that popped up bore Li Nian’s name.

The tweet came from a well-known artist in the illustrator community—not a manga artist, but someone renowned for illustrations, game character designs, and various art styles. His work was meticulous and versatile, and he had participated in several moderately successful mobile games. His Weibo following was substantial.

Shi Yin hadn’t followed him, but the post appeared on her feed because Sweet Apple Candy, aka Lin Youhe-sama, had liked it just minutes earlier.

[To a certain “genius” shoujo manga artist from Congyang: Don’t think pretending to have a persona makes you a real genius. I can expose everything about you in seconds, stripping you bare till nothing remains. :)]

Shi Yin: “….”

Sweet Apple Candy truly lived on the front lines of gossip and drama.