Chapter 81: The “Comrade-in-Arms” Who Will Never Leave Your Life

The busy three years had passed like a chaotic dream. Waking up from the fragments of memories, the first thing she did was marvel at how quickly time had flown.

Jiang Huan now dyed her shoulder-length hair red, wore casual clothes, and commuted to work on a skateboard. On good days, she could even compete with her juniors in the skate bowl. She no longer needed protective knee pads or helmets—her students all knew her as the “red-haired sister” of Renwu Road. Except for the overpasses where skateboarding wasn’t allowed, she had picked up her hobby from six or seven years ago, using it as her daily mode of transportation.

In the office, she had finally worked her way up to team leader, though she was often teased that promotions only came to those who stayed behind after more talented colleagues left. A few days ago, she celebrated her birthday in the office. Her subordinates brought out a cake, and Jiang Huan mimicked Bai Jingchuan’s method of cutting it—three horizontal cuts followed by two diagonal ones. Everyone fell silent, clearly unimpressed with the unconventional approach. But Jiang Huan remained unfazed: “Who says there’s only one way to cut a birthday cake? Now everyone can choose their favorite piece.”

No one remembered who first used this odd cutting method.

To learn how to draw original artwork and write scripts, Jiang Huan frequently visited Hunshi . When tired, she would nap on the beanbag sofa. Because of her red hair, she rarely noticed if she had developed any white strands, unlike Shan Di Meng, who still sported his signature silver hair. His youthful charm seemed to stem from this—once, a year and a half ago, he dyed his hair black for a wedding, instantly looking five years older and prematurely promoted to “elder.” Soon after, Aoye brought back his silver strands, as if they were encoded into his youthful DNA. Hunshi was practically open 24/7, but customers were rare. Whenever someone visited, they’d find Shan Di Meng and Jiang Huan sprawled across the floor surrounded by papers, their dark circles covering half their faces, arguing loudly.

“You said it yourself—it’s normal to get stuck.”

“Where’s the normal in this? It’s definitely an issue with the underlying code. I’ll find it. Didn’t I say you just need to teach me, not babysit me? We agreed on this!”

“If you won’t let me help, then pay me something. I haven’t seen a penny yet.”

“Greedy merchant. Didn’t I promise to clean your shop?”

“No thanks. Last time, you put my candy in the salt jar.”

Most people already knew that Hunshi and Xiang on Renwu Road were run by the same owner. They also knew that Shan Di Meng rarely opened his record store, but he could somehow procure anything you wanted. Curious diners at Xiang who encountered them couldn’t help but gossip: “Are you two dating?”

“No,” Jiang Huan joked after glancing at Shan Di Meng. “This is my mentor.”

The diner looked disappointed: “We thought you two were a couple.”

Shan Di Meng didn’t explain. He silently cooked noodles with long chopsticks, rang the bell to summon a waiter, peeked outside briefly, then retreated. His sunglasses made him look like a cold, taciturn mafia boss. Jiang Huan understood that familiarity bred an aura beyond friendship. Shan Di Meng refused to admit any romantic feelings for her, which embarrassed her. After being denied repeatedly over the seventh or eighth year of knowing him, she grew accustomed to his stubbornness and accepted his aloof personality. Still, having such a perfect teacher who provided both guidance and a workspace motivated her to focus purely on learning. Once she mastered something, she worked tirelessly, either returning home or staying at Hunshi , often kicking Shan Di Meng out to enjoy solitude. Interest became her best teacher. Listening to birdsong and watching the first rays of sunlight felt wonderful, especially when she created a demo she excitedly replayed countless times. Her story allowed players to choose their character’s gender and experience three modes of perception—rational, emotional, and action-oriented. Each mode trained models with Shan Di Meng, adjusting decision weights to lead to different story branches. Her massive chart filled an entire sketchbook, each tiny square meticulously written. Regardless of perspective, the protagonist always woke up hungover, choosing between home, a tavern, or the information post office, leading to entirely different narratives. Eventually, they explored a strange yet familiar new urban planet, piecing together fragments of past love. By the end, there were twelve possible endings, but only one led to a reunion. Yet, after spending three years completing the final ending, Jiang Huan realized she wasn’t as heartbroken as she expected. There was no need for the two characters to be together—every ending was the best possible outcome.

Unconsciously, she realized that heartbreak was the best source of inspiration. Shan Di Meng was the first to experience the game’s completion. Without a word, he stood outside for a long time. Even at midnight, Renwu Road wasn’t quiet, but he exuded loneliness. Jiang Huan recalled seeing his back years ago at Dan University’s third-floor hallway, amidst cherry blossoms reflected like fireworks on the mirrored floor. He stood alone in a grand, dreamlike scene, detached from the world.

Someone so absorbed in work didn’t consider celebrating the game’s completion. Out of habit, she headed to Renwu Road, where Shan Di Meng stopped her. He pulled a bottle of alcohol from the cabinet: “I know you can’t handle your liquor, but just a little won’t hurt.”

“I don’t drink,” Jiang Huan waved him off. “You know I need to stay clear-headed.”

For three years after Bai Jingchuan’s departure, she had been careful, abstaining from alcohol to ensure the game’s smooth launch. She wanted to preserve its integrity, ensuring it couldn’t be easily altered or taken away. For her game, she had to stay alive.

Well, Shan Di Meng was here. Letting loose a bit wouldn’t hurt.

The two sneaked onto the rooftop, Shan Di Meng extending his hand to Jiang Huan with practiced ease. She hesitated: “You’re quite skilled. Looks like you frequent rooftops.”

He didn’t explain, his hoodie pockets stuffed with snacks. Once everything was ready, Jiang Huan drank a single beer, feeling slightly tipsy as she slowly lay down. Above them, thick clouds hung under the night sky. Jiang Huan gazed at the galaxy illuminated by city lights, its colors deepening like enamel. The scene reminded her of her game—a person separated by two planets, decoding fragmented letters alone and muttering to the stars.

“What are you thinking about?” Shan Di Meng poked her cheek. “Do you ever wonder if you’ll see Bai Jingchuan again?”

“Not interested.” Jiang Huan stared at the ceiling. “It’s been so long.”

“I thought you’d miss him often or hope he’d return.”

“That’s unrealistic. I’ve seen him in Mowu City, unconscious and unaware.” She spoke more freely: “Besides, whether I hear he’s now a static figure in a museum exhibit, playing videos about me, or that he’s been destroyed, reduced to a small box holding his consciousness, wanting to return but lacking a body, sending signals instead… it’s all cruel. I’ve had nightmares about it—touching nothing, seeing nothing. So I don’t care. Don’t tempt me.”

“Alright.”

Silence settled between them, the clock ticking. After a while, Jiang Huan softly asked: “Is he… doing well on the new planet?”

“Sorry, I can’t disclose that. I don’t have permission to share it with you.”

“And yet you probed me?” Jiang Huan punched his shoulder hard. “That’s not fair.”

“I was just curious.”

“I really want to know.” Jiang Huan turned over, leaning on Shan Di Meng’s shoulder. “How did Li Junzhu come to the real world, and what tasks did he perform around me? At first, he seemed forced to ‘guide’ me, scrutinizing me reluctantly. Later, his attitude changed, and so did yours. It felt like both of you were plotting against me, creating chaos every day. I’d wake up in the middle of the night itching all over.”

Shan Di Meng sidestepped the question: “Why do you think it’s ‘guiding’?”

“Because my dreams were filled with scenes from Mowu City, like a game. I’d adventure alone or alongside him. His mission seemed to be helping me create. And you now…”

“Stop guessing.” Shan Di Meng twirled a strand of Jiang Huan’s curly hair around his finger. “You can find my resume online. I’m just an ordinary person, an old friend willing to teach you, and a laid-back shop owner on Renwu Road.”

Though it left Jiang Huan yearning, it wasn’t Shan Di Meng pulling strings or tempting her—it was simply his innate charm. Her dreams hadn’t revisited Mowu City or its stories in a long time. The world of digital characters had moved on without him.

Perhaps at a certain age, people grow afraid of dreaming.

“No more romance?”

“What romance? I’m not wired for relationships. I’ve got plenty of other things to do. While I’m in a good state, I just need to come up with a fitting name to release the game. I’ll register an account and start promotions. It’s a small-scale game, but I hope people will appreciate it like a narrative novel. If it resonates with anyone, that’s a bonus. It might not attract many players or rank on bestseller lists—I’ve modestly positioned it as a niche, obscure game…”

“What if it becomes wildly popular? Will you quit your job to become an independent creator?”

“How could it? This is such a niche game! Quitting would be too risky. I’ve got so much more to do. I’ve met so many young artists and writers through Lorry. Creating alone isn’t worth it. Maybe I’ll only produce one independent work in my lifetime, but I’m a ‘work couple’ with Akira. Nothing can separate us.”

“But you must believe that what you’ve created goes beyond this. Li Junzhu was written by you, as was Duanmu Xuan. In different stages, you’ve created characters that perhaps surpass your own abilities. They’re proof of your existence in this world.”

“What about you?”

“Me?” Shan Di Meng smiled. “I exist to support you. If your creativity brings you joy, then my presence has meaning. Rather than being defined by impure relationships, I choose to be your comrade-in-arms who will never leave your side. No cooldowns, max DPS, forever your life-support system.”

“Don’t you feel it’s not worth it?”

“Fool.” Shan Di Meng chuckled. “I exist for you.”

________________________________________

Wen Li, who had been working at a PR company, continued organizing fashion events, though her relationship with high-end fashion had grown distant. This time, she curated an exhibition centered around children. It wasn’t just a gimmick; Wen Li had done extensive research, delving deeply into the children’s market. She invited two child actors to narrate and star in the event, with all costumes sourced from designer brands signed by her boss. Though the comedic actors hired by the company weren’t famous, they were earnest, exciting the young models dressed in pastoral-themed outfits. Her boss, often abroad, couldn’t do without Wen Li—her events were innovative, and from previews to exhibitions to wrap-ups, her PR materials were highly professional, with budgets fully utilized. Compared to her previous WL days, her fanbase had grown significantly, and her grounded editing style had erased the struggles of job hunting and being labeled as an overaged burden. As Wen Li once said, “I’ve spent my whole life preparing. Give me one chance, and I’ll deliver my best.” When Jiang Huan saw the carefully designed grass patches, bench-sized red mushrooms, and castles kids could climb in and out of, she knew the exhibition was packaged with great care. The current audience seemed satisfied; Wen Li even carried a sewing machine, altering outfits on-site for children whose sizes didn’t fit and jotting notes in a small notebook… her execution was impressive. And—wasn’t it Shan Di Meng who said good exhibitions prioritize people?

Manpower was tight. Wen Li rushed around, spotting Jiang Huan with a camera. She reached over and removed the lens cap: “You’re so careless. You can’t handle events like this.”

She hadn’t even started shooting! Jiang Huan sighed: “Obsessive. I thought this was a high-cold fashion show, but it’s more like a kindergarten group activity.”

“Don’t underestimate this designer. She specializes in children’s clothing and keeps it fashionable. Just because kids’ clothes are consumables doesn’t mean there’s no market. Pure childlike wonder and unique imagination are the ultimate luxuries.”

“Your fashion designs are getting more innovative.” Jiang Huan asked helplessly: “This is completely different from your ethereal self before.”

“Someone advised me to connect with real life. Isn’t this scene good? The kids are already well-behaved—they just have a flair for performance.”

The children were energetic, their volume higher than usual. Jiang Huan wasn’t adept at handling such scenes, so she stayed at a distance, taking photos and avoiding flash to protect the kids’ eyes. She pinched her brow: “If I’d known this was going to be my relaxation, I wouldn’t have come.”

“You can’t leave. I’m having fun with the kids. We’re about to perform Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs . But it’s tricky—they all want to play Snow White. To keep things fair, I told them no one gets to pick. None of them will yield, so all seven must be dwarfs. So, Jiang Huan, would you be willing to play Snow White?”

“No way.” Jiang Huan waved her hand. “I just lie there, right? But who kisses me, how do they kiss me, and what do I say when I wake up? This is ridiculous. I can’t take it seriously.”

“Didn’t you play house as a kid?”

“Wen Li, I’m just here to help take photos. Are you saying I have to improvise and get kissed on the spot for your children’s wear promotion?”

“Do you really think you’ll get to be a prince? Women shouldn’t be confined to princess roles, but we don’t have suitable costumes today. Your size fits. Please, Jiang Huan, help me get through this children’s theater ordeal.”

The last time she played a prince was when she kissed Bai Jingchuan. Even though three years had passed, it still affected her. That was why she refused to act in Snow White —no matter the role, she’d have to face the moment of waking up with a kiss. That memory was too beautiful, too precious to be covered by any other triviality. She took two steps back: “I’ll go find someone else for you.”

“No time! If we don’t start soon, they’ll throw a tantrum.” Wen Li rubbed her forehead. “The prince is already arranged. Forget about being one.”

“Where is he? Let me see.”

“He’s still preparing.”

“This person has to kiss me, and you won’t even tell me?”

Wen Li smacked her back hard: “You talk too much! It’s a children’s play. Relax! The dress is backstage. Snow White just needs to sleep. We’re only performing the latter part. Lie down and don’t move. We’ll handle the rest!”

…So she was being treated like a prop. Jiang Huan quickly changed into the dress and lay down on the grass. Curious children surrounded her, chattering like dwarfs, shouting dramatically, fully immersed. One child curiously leaned over and lightly touched her cheek with their lips, running off before she could notice. Moved by their innocence, Jiang Huan found it adorable. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She wondered which child had been so curious—their breath was soft and childish, leaving a small patch of cool moisture on her cheek. Replacing old memories with new ones wasn’t so bad, even if it wasn’t about love. At least it was kindness and curiosity, a gentle, moist warmth nourishing her parched heart.

She lay peacefully, untouched by whoever came next. Wen Li enthusiastically narrated: “Will poor Snow White remain asleep forever? The poisoned apple’s power is overwhelming. This is the witch’s curse. Who will save her? Little dwarfs, can you find her a prince?”

What a performer. Jiang Huan lay calmly, even feeling relaxed. She wanted to see where they’d pull a prince from at this critical moment. If no one appeared, she’d rise and tell the children that princesses didn’t need rescuing—they could be princes themselves, slay dragons, break curses, and craft their own endings. Though it might defy the children’s imaginations… well, as long as they believed, it was fine.

As Jiang Huan thought this, she suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Leather shoes. Where had Wen Li urgently found this backup? Wait—those footsteps. Even after three years, she wouldn’t mistake them. Could it be? She wanted to open her eyes, but no—she was Snow White now…

The steps grew closer, and Jiang Huan’s heart pounded fiercely.

Could it be…