Gu Ran hung up the phone with a refreshed sense of satisfaction, then promptly added the new number to her blocklist again.
For the first time, she felt like she was being bold. Back when she was with Ji Shiyu, she only acted tough in front of her fake "plastic" girlfriends. But now, after breaking up with him, she could actually be bold right to his face.
Gu Ran went about her usual routine, washing up. When she passed by the living room again and glanced downstairs, she noticed the car was still parked there.
The interior lights were on.
Under the streetlights, the Rolls-Royce Cullinan's body reflected a dignified, luxurious sheen—much like the man himself, who had gradually shed his youthful aura after taking over Xinbo Group, honing an increasingly powerful and aristocratic presence over the years.
If he wanted to keep a bird, what kind couldn’t he have?
Gu Ran pursed her lips and decided to ignore it. Before bed, she scrolled through her social feed and realized tonight was Qin Wenyi’s welcome-back party.
The gathering looked lively. All those fake "plastic" girlfriends who had previously posted photos of Ji Shiyu and Qin Wenyi together to subtly mock her were there, crowding affectionately around Qin Wenyi at the center.
In the group photo, Qin Wenyi looked the same as ever—naturally likable, praised by everyone for her humility and excellence despite being the Qin family’s adopted daughter. It seemed no one, male or female, disliked her. And now, she had ended up with Ji Shiyu, basking in the envious and adoring gazes of everyone at school.
This time, Gu Ran didn’t feel like hitting the "like" button. She had always been the odd one out for disliking Qin Wenyi. Liking the post would imply she welcomed Qin Wenyi’s return, and she wasn’t about to degrade herself like that. She swiped away and turned off her phone to sleep.
...
The next morning, Gu Ran glanced outside again when she woke up.
The car was gone. She had no idea when Ji Shiyu had left last night.
Yawning, she checked her phone and saw a message from Ding Ze—last night’s livestream analytics report. He suggested that in addition to singing and chatting, she could try livestreaming herself solving math problems. Specifically, elementary-level Olympiad questions.
The words "elementary-level" stabbed at her pride.
[Why can’t I do middle or high school problems? I’m not stupid—I can solve those too!]
[If people see me only doing elementary-level math, they’ll really think that’s all I’m capable of!]
Ding Ze: [What’s wrong with elementary level? Do you have any idea how popular the "adorable airhead" persona is right now?]
Gu Ran: [?]
"Message recalled by sender."
Ding Ze: [What I meant was, middle and high school problems are too hard for viewers to follow. Elementary Olympiad questions are universally appealing and great for casual viewing.]
[Being able to solve them is still impressive. Some of those problems even trip me up. Haven’t you seen how many people in your fan group are praising you for being smart?]
[Plus, your commentary on those problems got turned into a meme compilation overnight.]
[I never dreamed my beauty streamer would end up with a foothold in the meme community.]
Ding Ze sent a link to a video on a popular streaming site. The thumbnail showed Gu Ran calmly pulling out a protractor to solve an angle problem, captioned: "Protractor—undisputed MVP."
Gu Ran: [...]
After exchanging a few more messages, Gu Ran learned her livestream’s popularity had been steadily rising. Several brands had already reached out for promotional collaborations.
Sponsorships made up a huge portion of top streamers’ income, and the better a streamer’s metrics, the higher their rates. The offers Gu Ran received were second only to the platform’s most popular male gaming streamers, surpassing even the rates for female streamers like the recently scandal-plagued Meng Miaomiao.
Looking at the numbers, Gu Ran felt both nervous and incredulous.
It finally dawned on her why Ding Ze had looked so baffled when she’d fixated on her monthly base salary during her first contract negotiation at the streaming platform’s headquarters.
Her base pay wasn’t even a fraction of what she could earn from sponsorships.
She was no longer just relying on meager monthly wages and small fan donations—she was about to start landing brand deals!
Most established streamers on the platform did sponsorships, but some ruined their reputations by chasing quick cash with low-quality promotions, driving away their audience in the process.
So for her first collaboration, Gu Ran chose carefully.
Two cosmetics brands offered the highest rates, but after some research, she realized they were obscure, possibly shady microbrands flooded with user complaints.
After thorough consideration, Gu Ran and Ding Ze settled on her first official sponsorship: a promotional campaign for an upcoming mobile game by a major domestic gaming company with close ties to the streaming platform. Many gaming streamers on the platform already played titles from this developer daily.
The new game, titled "Sacred Spirit Jianghu," was adapted from a wildly popular web novel. Gu Ran’s role included livestreaming gameplay and cosplaying as Xing Yao, the novel’s most beloved female character, for promotional posters and videos.
"Sacred Spirit Jianghu" was a massive IP in the web novel world. Xing Yao, a character who began as spirited and grew into formidable strength, ultimately sacrificed herself to save the male lead, dying in a heart-wrenching scene that left fans in tears. She became the ultimate "white moonlight" for readers, her popularity unrivaled among fictional characters.
Gu Ran had never read male-oriented web novels, so when signing the contract, she was excited to cosplay such a high-profile character—until she discovered Xing Yao’s fanbase.
Xing Yao topped annual polls for "Favorite Female Fictional Character" on otaku forums, her Weibo fan community rivaling some B-list celebrities in size. Merchandise like posters and figurines sold out instantly, and fan art flooded social media.
Staring at the fan-drawn depictions of Xing Yao, Gu Ran gulped, an uneasy feeling creeping in. A quick search confirmed her worries.
Xing Yao’s fans weren’t just numerous—they were rabid. Last year, when "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" was slated for a TV adaptation, fans revolted because the actress cast as Xing Yao didn’t match their vision. They bombarded the show’s official accounts and overwhelmed the actress’s fanbase, escalating the backlash until the project was shelved indefinitely.
Victorious, Xing Yao’s fans declared, "Keep your live-action away from our 2D world. Try it again, and we’ll riot again."
Now, with the game adaptation, novel fans and character stans were cautiously optimistic—after all, games stayed true to the 2D realm, bringing their beloved characters to life through animation.
Reading the excited posts from "Sacred Spirit Jianghu" fans, Gu Ran suddenly felt a wave of panic.
If it were just random cosplayers dressing up as Xing Yao at a comic convention, no one would take it seriously. But this time, the game company had hired a live-streamer to cosplay Xing Yao for official promotional purposes—effectively cementing her as the game's official real-life representation. The campaign would involve massive ad placements, splash screens at game launch, and an inescapable declaration that this was the "real" face of the 2D character Xing Yao. The whole operation felt like tap-dancing on the nerves of Xing Yao's fans, one misstep away from detonating a landmine.
Gu Ran instantly panicked. No matter how popular her streams were, she was still just a newly risen live-streamer. Xing Yao's fans had even overpowered the fandom of A-list actresses—let alone someone like her. If her own followers couldn't hold the line, she’d be the one getting trampled.
She recalled a clause in the contract requiring her to stream The Spirit Realm while dressed as Xing Yao. If she angered the book fans and they flooded her chat with hate, no number of moderators could keep up with muting them all.
Now fully grasping just how massive Xing Yao’s fanbase was—and how ruthless they could be—Gu Ran shuddered. Hands trembling, she messaged Ding Ze:
[Has the contract been finalized yet?]
[Can I back out now? I don’t want to do this. Slumps like Ge You.jpg]
Ding Ze replied: [???]
Then he sent her a photo of the signed contract, with a red circle around one line: Breach penalty: XX million.
Gu Ran wilted again: [I didn’t know how popular Xing Yao was or how intense her fans are, but you did! If I cosplay her for promo posters, I’ll get torn apart!]
[They came for an A-lister—what chance does a streamer like me have?]
[Why isn’t the game company learning from the shelved TV drama? Why pick me for this?]
Ding Ze: [They want buzz.]
Last year, early on, the TV drama team had actually been low-key thrilled about the backlash. In this industry, controversy meant attention—especially for big IP adaptations. They’d even leaked the actress’s costume test photos to fan the flames, never expecting the fire to rage out of control and burn them instead.
Everyone wanted hype. This time, the game company was taking a calculated risk. After much deliberation, they’d passed over the new-gen actresses who’d volunteered (and came with built-in drama) in favor of Gu Ran, an up-and-coming streamer with a decent reputation.
Ding Ze: [Your live-stream audience and Xing Yao’s fanbase actually overlap quite a bit. Just look the part, and last year’s disaster shouldn’t repeat.]
[Besides, it’s just cosplay—not a TV adaptation. If they won’t let her be acted, surely they’ll allow her to be cosplayed?]
[Or do you really not believe in yourself that much?]
Back when he’d attended events, Ding Ze had seen last year’s would-be Xing Yao actress up close. Her makeup was heavy, striking at first glance but unable to withstand scrutiny—nothing like Gu Ran, who often streamed barefaced, no filters.
Having read The Spirit Realm’s source material, the moment the game company’s offer landed in Gu Ran’s lap, he’d had a feeling: she could pull it off.
Gu Ran: [I’ve noticed that, aside from elementary-school math Olympiads, you always have way too much faith in me. Laughs till double-chin appears.jpg]
Ding Ze chuckled and sent her the schedule for The Spirit Realm’s poster and promo video shoots—all daytime slots to accommodate her nightly streams. It was going to be hectic.
[Do your best.]
[Get that bag!]
Gu Ran sighed at the schedule, anxiety gnawing at her.
It wasn’t that she lacked confidence—if she did, she’d never have become a streamer. But Xing Yao’s legacy and fanbase were colossal. One wrong move, and she’d end up like last year’s indefinitely shelved drama.
She checked Xing Yao’s supertopic feed again. Fan artists’ renditions of the character were breathtaking—everyone adored her early lively, adorable charm, and her final moments, white robes stained with blood as she vanished into ash, had shattered hearts.
Gu Ran grabbed her hair in frustration, then glanced at her reflection in the mirror.
Well… she’d just have to try her hardest.
