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Field trips counted as vacations and offered a temporary escape from the chaos of celebrity meet-and-greets. The more Jiang Huan thought about it, the stranger things seemed—too many supernatural events had occurred lately… But Bai Jingchuan holding her wasn’t new; he’d even noticed her low blood sugar, which was proof they’d grown close enough for him to understand her well…
The celebrity smelled good, while Bai Jingchuan had no distinct scent, yet his presence was calming. If asked why she fled so quickly, it was because although the star’s enthusiasm burned bright, Bai Jingchuan’s gaze scorched her entirely—she had to run before she combusted.
Three colleagues waiting in the city waved at Jiang Huan from afar, already gossiping:
“Jiang Huan, we heard a big celebrity pulled you aside for a private chat and even took a picture with you?”
“No, not really. Everyone was taking out their phones, and I was trying to take a group photo for you guys, but he mistook it for a selfie and just pulled me over.”
“Let us see it!”
As Jiang Huan picked up her phone, memories of Bai Jingchuan’s obstructive embrace returned. She had indeed felt lightheaded then, but this photo was rare—a once-in-a-lifetime chance to pose with a celebrity… Wait, what was wrong with this picture?
The lighting was dim, leaving only blurry outlines. In the background, a faint silhouette of Bai Jingchuan could be seen, his features rivaling the celebrity’s. But even his blurred face appeared cunning, like a sly trickster evading all precautions.
“Did you manage to get the shot, Jiang Huan?”
“It’s blurry.”
See! Wasn’t the evidence right there? Bai Jingchuan had been far away at the time…
Her sense of the timeline was muddled now. Perhaps sleep deprivation had scrambled her memory?
“It doesn’t matter. No matter how great celebrities are, we’ve got Teacher Bai. Our producer is handsome and perfect, whereas real-life stars remain untouchable.”
“Exactly. Even the most flawless celebrities can have scandals one day, but paper-thin characters never will. So why not come to Love Continent ?”
“If both celebrities and virtual boyfriends can serve as emotional pillars during lonely times—without unhealthy dependence—girls will go far.”
These words came from a junior writer, one of Jiang Huan’s protégés who was now capable of working independently. The team consisted of girls whose inner worlds were more dazzling than their appearances, with imaginations richer than any urban fantasy. Even a simple stroll under plane trees could inspire romantic scenes worthy of a drama series. Female imagination knew no bounds, though societal constraints often confined it. Jiang Huan, relatively unaffected by such limitations, still found herself drawn to moments of beauty in the city that she longed to share—but lacked someone specific to share them with.
Now… perhaps she did.
Jiang Huan tried hard to suppress the lingering warmth on her arm—the sensation hadn’t faded yet. Shaking her head vigorously, she felt irritated, unable to articulate her feelings. Her priority now was leading the younger writers through a fun team-building activity: visiting an exhibition followed by hot pot, helping her juniors resolve their troubles. Yet, she had a premonition—whenever another attractive man appeared, Bai Jingchuan would inevitably reappear too. This competitive tension gave her a headache.
Near the exhibition hall, a crowd gathered, and a handsome police officer stopped them: “Did you just pass by here? We’re pursuing a fugitive. Please detour for now.”
One of the junior writers couldn’t help but ask, “Whose concert is this?”
“Jacky Cheung’s.”
The writers collectively understood: “Oh, that makes sense.”
The officer leaned close to Jiang Huan, whispering, “Do you know the man behind you in the gray-black suit?”
Who else could it be? Jiang Huan deliberately moved closer to the officer and simply said, “Sorry, that’s my boss.”
“Your leader seems quite leisurely.”
Hands on her hips, Jiang Huan glared at Bai Jingchuan, who mirrored her stance. She signaled for him to leave, but he stubbornly returned her glare, conveying one clear message—it was purely coincidental; he hadn’t followed her intentionally.
So stubborn!
“Jiang Huan’s affection for you -500.”
Bai Jingchuan’s expression darkened. A loss of 500 affection points felt like a profound humiliation, especially since it stemmed from jealousy over other men. Once Jiang Huan walked away, the die popped out from behind his ear: “Li Bode, though you’re currently despised by Jiang Huan, your mission remains. You can’t give up now—Level 60 is crucial.”
“If I’m not mistaken, the final male lead will appear soon.”
“What male lead? You mean another character from your game is coming to the real world? Impossible! Do you know how rare such opportunities are?”
Buildings of varying heights were separated by overpasses. The sky grew darker, clouds swirling like awakening monsters. Bai Jingchuan turned away from the bustling performance area: “We’ll know soon.”
Away from the subway station and concert venue, the art exhibition hall was noticeably quieter. At the entrance, the junior writers began to speculate: “Have you noticed how unusually high the concentration of handsome men is today? Teacher Bai and Boss Dan from Renwu Road are already perfect, yet today we met a charming doctor, got swept up by a celebrity, and just encountered a SWAT officer. Even sci-fi wouldn’t dare write this.”
“It feels like a live-action otome game. Oh my god.”
Jiang Huan rarely displayed sternness: “Aren’t we here to see the exhibition? Why talk about men?”
She hated being surrounded by men. Playing dating sims on her phone brought joy, but that was merely a supplement to life—a remedy for bleak times. Life wasn’t solely about men, so why should she become the protagonist of some overly sweet rom-com?
Inside the first-floor exhibition hall, it was pitch black. The walls were LED screens displaying models in plain white clothing walking slowly, like mannequins. Below them, small text read: “Please follow the models’ direction. Each room has special LED projections. Don’t be afraid; let your imagination run wild.”
Jiang Huan split from her colleagues and entered the first room upstairs. The LED screens still showed models walking slowly, expressionless, their clothes devoid of patterns. Amid melancholic music, countless flowers bloomed, were blown away by the wind, changed colors as they fell, and landed on the models’ bodies. Other visitors gasped, and Jiang Huan couldn’t help but widen her eyes.
“The next venue requires sitting in the center of the room.”
Butterflies filled the air. At first, there was just one, then a swarm, and finally, they scattered everywhere. Jiang Huan squinted—these butterflies… were composed of 0s and 1s. The fluttering digits resembled the male lead’s signature colors, flying passionately before fading into corners, much like iterations of virtual characters. Jiang Huan recalled manga she’d read—Teng Zhenjian, Lelouch, Gundam, and Yu Wenzhou from domestic anime. Her heart had raced alongside these characters as she grew up, just like these butterflies.
Entering the third room, she pushed open a heavy soundproof door to find… an orchestra composed of various instruments. The music wasn’t perfect, interspersed with laughter. The models transformed into less-than-perfect teenagers—some in wheelchairs, others groping forward—but each held an instrument, smiling contentedly. Jiang Huan thought of the video Shan Di Meng had shared; these seemed like the youth orchestra he’d rehearsed with.
Suddenly, the teens’ plain clothes transformed into poetry. Verses appeared on their garments, becoming vivid as they moved:
“Because I was so extraordinary, I fell from the ground to the sky. My steps were gifts from the heavens.”
“They say you need a mirror to see yourself, but I don’t—I am the darkness whether my eyes are open or closed.”
“My umbrella caught the sky’s tears. Raindrops are short-lived stars.”
“When the leaves fall, the wind disappears.”
The words formed intricate patterns, accompanied by musical notes. Occasionally, two-part harmonies emerged—one line on the shoulders, the other at the waist. The audience marveled, and Jiang Huan regretted not coaxing Bai Jingchuan into joining her.
Each subsequent room held surprises. A girl behind her remarked, “This fashion exhibit is so innovative. I wonder who curated it.”
“It’s WL PRESS. They didn’t use physical models but instead used virtual images—butterflies, stars, flowers—all projected in vibrant colors. It’s incredibly imaginative. That confessional wall with its imperfections was breathtaking. Though the subjects’ bodies were incomplete, their love overflowed—it was a wake-up call.”
“Is the curator young?”
“Not particularly, but they’re talented and full of life despite appearing frail and aloof.”
Another girl squeezed through, seemingly a staff member.
“Our boss planned it. These students were friends of hers—teens passionate about music but part of a special class. Some have disabilities, others come from impoverished backgrounds. They rehearsed for a long time and wrote those confessions displayed in the crystal chandelier room. Our boss even funded the project herself. Given the poor economy, it was almost altruistic. Surprisingly, it became popular and didn’t lose money. I admire Wen Li—she’s truly talented but moody. I once overheard her arguing with her mother in dialect; she was so angry she stammered, teeth trembling.”
“She didn’t avoid you?”
“Of course she hid, but her voice carried—it was impossible not to hear. Maybe artists must be eccentric. I envy her…”
It seemed unavoidable to encounter this person repeatedly. Jiang Huan reflected that perhaps she and Wen Li were fated to cross paths—even if not friends, she’d glimpsed many facets of her in a short time. Like a thorny rose pricking those who dared touch it, no one had nurtured her to bloom, yet she persisted in blossoming defiantly, reluctant to accept her own allure and fragrance.
Jiang Huan stood before the LED screen, where butterflies fluttered endlessly. On the girl’s plain dress, single butterflies or clusters danced across, their patterns constantly shifting. Listening to the ethereal music, she lingered for a long time before reluctantly leaving the room.
At the end of the exhibition, the lights dimmed in the final venue. A spotlight illuminated a slightly elevated platform, awaiting the curator’s appearance. Dozens of people stood in the room, applauding—not enthusiastically, but continuously—expecting someone who never appeared. This should have been the curator’s moment of triumph: success, admiration, and adoration. Yet, she didn’t step out from behind the scenes, didn’t wave, perhaps sitting quietly in the backstage work area or outside, smoking a cigarette.
Jiang Huan understood. Even amidst universal envy, a soul unloved remained lonely.
The radiant happiness she had once glimpsed was tied to being loved—and to Li Junzhu, who had ignited her life. But Jiang Huan couldn’t rejoice. Despite her unreachable family, perpetually silent calls home, and a life devoid of safety nets, she had always known her essence was tinged with sorrow.
Even with someone to love, piecing together her shattered self was no easy task. She knew this journey well—twice in her fleeting youth, she’d experienced it. Once, when she drew an entire manga on old sketchpads; another, when she joined Lorry and created five male leads. The former’s manuscript was lost, the latter’s project terminated. Compared to Wen Li, she had failed far more.
She had always been a failed creator—an unpublished artist whose loneliness was filled by creation. Though unhappy, this process allowed her to gather fragments of herself, at least letting her know she wasn’t entirely worthless.
If what she lacked was someone to embrace—even temporarily as a friend—she would sincerely congratulate her.
Jiang Huan ran out through the emergency exit. Her unique sense of direction, honed over three years at Lorry, guided her swiftly down the stairs, avoiding delays for the audience. Someone who used wounds as inspiration deserved their flowers. As expected, Wen Li sat perched on an iron frame, legs crossed, still holding onto Bright, unread messages piling up on the screen.
“Go inside—it’s time for the curtain call.”
“It’s everyone’s effort—I won’t go.”
“Come on.”
“There’s no place for me there.” Wen Li smiled bitterly.
“Even if you haven’t found yourself yet, I think you’re wonderful. Really, go accept your flowers and applause, alright?”
“I have no friends in this city.”
“Nonsense—you spent New Year’s with me.” Jiang Huan extended her hand. “Quickly, I’m waiting to give you flowers and a hug from the audience.”
When they returned to the stage, Wen Li stood under the spotlight, thin and weary but with a hint of color returning to her cheeks. She said nothing, only bowing lightly in every direction. Scattered applause resumed, and Wen Li, feeling awkward, prepared to leave quickly—but was stopped by a bouquet. It was from one of her young employees.
Then came another—a boy with a slight limp and hearing aids, holding a modest bunch of baby’s breath. Another bouquet arrived from a parent, white orchids, pure and clean. The mother, overcome with emotion, hugged Wen Li tightly, causing the flowers to break and fall onto the stage. But Wen Li picked them up and tucked them behind her ear, unconcerned about matching colors, smiling until her cheeks flushed red.
The applause grew louder. Jiang Huan wished she could conjure a bouquet for the finale, but having not anticipated Wen Li’s role earlier, she was caught off guard, unable to act. Wen Li looked at her, eyes saying, “No flowers are fine,” but Jiang Huan felt awkward, smoothing her jacket. The staff had worked hard—she didn’t deserve to close the show.
A small bouquet appeared, faintly pink-orange under dim lighting. Shan Di Meng said, “Cappuccino blue star flower—the language of flowers says, ‘Romantic souls will find their utopia.’”
Though the exhibition space wasn’t large, Wen Li heard the flower’s meaning. Jiang Huan took the bouquet, leapt onto the stage, and shoved it into Wen Li’s arms, hugging her from behind: “You’ve received so much love already. Now, just wait for romance to find you.”
“Is that okay?”
“Definitely.”
After the event dispersed, the girls in the group envied Jiang Huan: “You really are the center of attention wherever you go. But Wen Li’s name feels familiar—didn’t she criticize Love Continent ? Didn’t she even report us?”
Jiang Huan sighed: “Yes, but she is truly pitiable. Creating an exhibition like this shows she understands the power of virtual reality.”
“Where are we eating next? You promised to treat us.”
“Wait for me in the hall, okay? I see Shan Di Meng—I’ll say hello.”
“We can return to Renwu Road for dinner. Winter is perfect for Boss Dan’s pan-fried dumplings.”
“No need to save expenses—Bai Jingchuan approved generously this time.”
The writing team whispered: “Today is another day of wanting to be Shan Di Meng’s girlfriend. So gentle and manly—if I can’t date him, cuddling and sleeping wouldn’t hurt, right?”
Jiang Huan laughed: “What? I suggest you don’t.”
“Why? I’m not marrying him—just a night of bliss, is that not allowed?”
This remark made Jiang Huan pause. Indeed, not everyone sought lifelong companionship with those they liked. Fleeting joy could serve as a balm for life’s hardships. But Shan Di Meng wasn’t that kind of person. Merchant though he might be, restraint and emotional reserve seemed to define his boundaries.
He was a man who had rejected her advances and refrained from casual relationships. Jiang Huan knew—deeply affectionate people shouldn’t be joked about.
Night fell. Shan Di Meng waved goodbye as the students boarded their bus, turning back with a gentle smile. Jiang Huan had an illusion—Shan Di Meng rarely appeared during the day. With students, he basked in the sunset; other encounters saw him wearing sunglasses or emerging only at night. She reached out to touch his forehead: “Are you unwell?”
“No. Rehearsing with the students was exhausting—I’ll probably sleep in the shop tonight.”
Shan Di Meng’s lips were dry and peeling, signs of fatigue and sleep deprivation. But he was happy. The students leaned out the window, shouting: “Teacher Dan, you’re the best erhu immortal!”
The night was beautiful. Jiang Huan waited until the car disappeared around the corner before asking, “Should I buy you a bottle of water?”
“Thank you. My erhu is in the workspace—I’ll retrieve it in five minutes.”
In the convenience store, seeing ice cream reminded Jiang Huan of Bai Jingchuan. The man who had avoided eye contact and hadn’t appeared all along had indeed obeyed. If he had seen Wen Li’s ingenious exhibition, he surely would have been moved. Even the perfect Bai Jingchuan, witnessing people with holes in their hearts like donuts, would feel compelled to bring the virtual into reality.
Carrying drinks back to the exhibition hall, Jiang Huan noticed materials being hoisted to the second floor via ropes above the only path. No alternative route existed, so she prepared to dash inside. Midway through her hurried steps, a grinding sound echoed overhead. Staff shouted: “Watch out!”
System Alert: Jiang Huan is in danger. Immediate rescue required.
Emergency Situation: Your target, Jiang Huan, is in danger. Rescue immediately.
Critical Warning! User ID 076831—complete main quest and rescue Jiang Huan immediately.
The drink bottle rolled far away. Everyone exhaled in relief. Jiang Huan thought, What kind of cursed existence am I? Always pushed to the brink of danger and saved just in time—am I on King Yama’s blacklist?
Saved again, she began comparing—this time felt slightly later than usual, more perilous, hanging by a thread.
Whenever her spirits sank, danger seemed to strike, as if triggering some rescue mission condition. But she couldn’t control this sense of loss and discouragement—life held too many disheartening moments.
Her rescuer held her tightly for a long time before finally lifting his head.
Shan Di Meng panted, his expression complex—surprise, anger, abandoning his usual composure and control: “Are you alright?”
Main Quest 3-1 Failed. Current Level: Lv59. Affection Level downgraded from C to D. Electronic Life Judgment Authority revoked. System Warning: Any similar behavior will result in cancellation of real-world experience eligibility.
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