Shang Jingyan: 【So, does it count or not?】
Since the system panel had already recognized it, it certainly counted. And Shang Jingyan had completed it so quickly that the system hadn’t even had time to calculate her reward yet.
X71 was left in a daze for a moment, forced to readjust its thinking and accept the result, but it still protested:
【I think it would be better if you followed mainstream aesthetics next time… please don’t do this again.】
Next time? Oh, I’ll dare, Shang Jingyan thought as she stretched, feeling the deep exhaustion settle in—she hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.
In her original plan, Eldritch God would be divided into three parts: Part One, Part Two, and Part Three—together forming a two-hour feature-length film.
The plot of Part One was quite simple. If it were Earth’s audience watching, they could already guess most of it just from the synopsis: the protagonists go to live in a remote, desolate old castle—clearly asking for trouble!
Hauntings would inevitably occur, and yet the protagonists, stubborn and naïve, would press on… only to meet a tragic end.
To be honest, Eldritch God was not an excellent film. Its keywords were: Gothic, supernatural, and the classic “jump scare.”
Considering that this was the interstellar audience’s first exposure to horror, Shang Jingyan deliberately avoided using gore, lest it overwhelm them.
Had this been released in her past life on Earth, Eldritch God wouldn’t even get investors. It would have been aborted in its infancy. Even if it were released, it would earn a miserable box office.
Earth’s horror fans were connoisseurs—how could they tolerate such instant-noodle horror?
Jump scares, in particular, were considered the cheapest form of fright. If the scariest part of a horror film was just that, then it was bound to be trash.
But for the interstellar audience, everything was new. The interstellar horror scene was a barren desert—Eldritch God was enough to awaken their long-dormant taste buds.
Monsters popping out of nowhere? Sudden music cuts? So what? These were the most primal, instinctive fear triggers. In a world overflowing with sweet romances, who would expect a honeymoon trip to turn into a nightmare?
The comment section refreshed rapidly, mostly filled with:
【Holy crap, that scared me to death!】
【You’re building a whole new style!】
Some were curious or confused:
【The theme says “married first, love later,” but the human male and female leads were already in love before marriage. So that means the one they married can’t be the same person anymore, to fulfill the “love later” part. But in such a bizarre situation, can love even grow?】
【Just finished watching… it took me a while to recover… I’m impressed! Others build sweet dreams, this one builds nightmares!】
【This style feels so strange… it doesn’t even feel like a romance is coming!!】
Shang Jingyan didn’t pay much mind to the chatter, but she did notice a sudden surge in comments—it seemed to be from a livestream audience.
“Hm?”
The interstellar entertainment industry had a seamless linkage: even if livestream viewers didn’t click the original video, after watching with the streamer they could choose to add themselves to the video’s stats.
In an instant, Eldritch God’s view count doubled.
【That scared me so much I had to come scream in the original comments! But it was so thrilling! How could it just cut off there? I’m not satisfied yet! Only Part One?? Aaaah!】
【When’s the update? I need the next part! How dare you leave us hanging!】
【It’s been an hour with no update—do you know how long an hour is?! (doge)】
【Terrifying, but I still finished it—give us more!】
【I’m voting for you! Don’t give up, newcomer Dreamweaver, you’ve got style!】
【Rare to find a niche work I actually like—supporting this!】
This batch of comments shared one tone: clamoring for more—and some even sent her small flowers as votes.
Shang Jingyan: “…”
She rubbed her empty stomach and decided to drag her weary body to cook something.
Director Shang had long been famous, but she had lived through hard times before. She wasn’t unfamiliar with tiny, shabby kitchens.
The original host’s life was a mess—living off relief food and takeout. The stove was dusty, and the kitchen supplies had only just been bought by Shang Jingyan online. Now her savings were completely gone.
The apartment’s soundproofing was terrible. As she cooked, a loud voice from next door shouted:
“Whoa! The sun must be rising in the west—Room 303 is actually cooking!”
Shang Jingyan: “…”
A few days ago, when her mental strength was tense and focused, it wasn’t too bad. But now that she relaxed, the footsteps, arguments, and banging from upstairs, downstairs, left and right… all flooded in. She sighed: I need to make money soon and move out.
Apparently, even in a world full of “beautiful works,” life was far from perfect.
These past days, she hadn’t even slept in her bed—just dozed on the sofa. There were still bloodstains from before.
So, when she finally went to change her bed linens, she discovered an iron lockbox under the pillow, secured with a password lock.
“?”
What was stored so carefully?
Shang Jingyan frowned but was too tired to care. She pushed the box aside, changed the sheets, and fell into a deep sleep.
Central Star System.
Ao Qingxue hadn’t slept this well in ages.
Her dreams were usually chaotic, often waking her halfway through, leaving her tired even after sleep. But this time, she found rare peace.
Though she had been scared after watching the video last night, tossing and turning for a while, she eventually fell asleep… frightened, but asleep.
She checked the clock—and was shocked to find she had slept for ten hours.
Her eyes widened, and when she glanced at her mental power reading below the clock, she froze and sat bolt upright.
“What… this…!”
Her mental power value had actually increased by 2 points?!
No, more accurately—it had started to recover.
To most current viewers, Qing Se Xue was just the name of a small-time streamer.
But four years ago, Ao Qingxue’s dream career was not to be a streamer at all—it was to be a Scene Modeler.
This was a branch auxiliary profession for Dreamweavers. In theory, a Dreamweaver could make an entire game or film alone, but in practice, collaboration was the mainstream: the smallest team was a trio.
The Dreamweaver handled the story framework, while the other two managed music and art.
From childhood, Ao Qingxue had shown remarkable talent in art and loved using her spiritual power to build visual landscapes. After winning the Main Star Domain’s Teen Scene Modeling Award four years ago, she was even hailed as a “young prodigy.”
But her good fortune didn’t last. Not long after winning, her mental power began to deteriorate—she developed Spiritual Void Syndrome.
At first it was insomnia and restless dreams. Later, her mental value plummeted to ordinary human levels, never again able to construct the worlds she imagined.
The interstellar world had seen many young geniuses fall to Spiritual Void Syndrome. And since she hadn’t made any significant achievements yet, at most people sighed with pity and moved on.
But for the one suffering it, it meant her dreams were forever out of reach. Ao Qingxue drifted through university in a traditional art program and, after graduation, became a streamer—coasting aimlessly ever since.
On the StarNet medical boards, the hottest topic was always:
【How to cure Spiritual Void Syndrome?】
But no real solution existed.
For ordinary people with limited means, the only option was to consume more Dreamweaver works that stirred deep emotions, hoping to awaken their spiritual power.
But Ao Qingxue was naturally uninterested in most mainstream genres, finding it hard to feel passion.
Looking at the +2 on her mental power, her hands trembled slightly.
She took a deep breath and sank her consciousness into her spiritual landscape.
At its center once stood a towering tree. But in just a year, she had watched it wither away—every glance at it was pain.
Countless times she had hoped, only to see the same scorched wasteland.
But this time, from the charred stump at the center… a fragile green sprout had emerged.
That newcomer Dreamweaver, “Jingyan Suoyouren”… they’re a genius!
The thought flashed like lightning.
She immediately logged into Changqing, found the video, and—unsurprisingly—its views had surpassed half a million.
The interstellar population was a hundred times greater than that of a single-planet era, but that didn’t mean a work would automatically have more viewers. In fact, in this era of cultural oversaturation, works were more easily drowned out.
For a debuting newcomer with no backing to hit these numbers in ten hours—that was impressive.
【Checking in—thanks to Dreamweaver Yan, I slept so well last night!】
【Not sure if I slept well—I had a nightmare of that monster chasing me, but I woke up feeling refreshed…】
【Same here! So weird, but it works!】
The comments were mixed, but a significant portion—like Ao Qingxue—felt their mental state had improved. Some lacked exact numbers but knew they had slept better.
This sparked skepticism:
【? Are you kidding me? Is this newbie buying fake comments?】
【What horror? What scary thing? You’re making me afraid to even watch it now!】
【Hyping a rookie like this? Seriously?】
Ao Qingxue grew agitated. Determined to push this recommendation through, she rolled up her sleeves and posted, with a screenshot of her mental power:
【…If you don’t believe me, look at my stats. They’ve been dropping for three years, unchanged for a year now—but after watching this, I slept well and recovered 2 points.】
That comment caused a stir.
The comment section truly began to buzz, and more people poured in.
After a while, one comment climbed to the second-highest spot:
【A debut work that actually helps restore viewers’ mental power? The last Dreamweaver who did that is now galaxy-famous and joined the Alliance’s Star Council…】
【Oh my god—could this “Jingyan” be the next supernova? Am I witnessing history? Front row selfie!】
Whether history was being made or not, that was not Shang Jingyan’s concern for now.
—She stared at the backend tip counter and exhaled in relief: her next meal wouldn’t have to be ration food.
Shang Jingyan awoke precisely after eight hours. By then, #MarriedToAnEldritchGod# had already climbed to the top of Changqing’s trending list.
While producing Part One, she had also sketched out much of Part Two and Three.
Because she wasn’t yet fully used to spiritual production methods, when inspiration struck she often let the scenes flow with her mind—completely out of order.
By her estimate, Part Two could be released in about three days.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
Shang Jingyan thought it was Ms. Cui coming to collect debts again, but when she peeked through the cat’s eye, she froze.
Outside stood a young man.
By conventional beauty standards, he was handsome, smiling faintly, with blond hair, blue eyes, a tall slender build, and a white hoodie.
There was no trace of him in the original host’s memories, though he seemed vaguely familiar. But for some reason, the instant she saw him, a primal sense of alertness stirred within her.
Not receiving a response, the young man knocked again:
“Are you home?”
