Guan Gaoyang forced himself to reply to his friend, holding back his irritation:
【If they surpass me, that just means I’m not good enough.】
【Hahaha, Old Guan, what a gentleman you are!】
Guan Gaoyang comforted himself. Perhaps that newcomer wasn’t truly that formidable—what if they didn’t manage to release the final part in time?
Wouldn’t it be beneath him, a first-place contender, to be competing with a rookie?
He exited the chat, yet couldn’t resist opening the mid-section of Eldritch God again. The more he watched, the more his heart pounded in shock.
There’s a saying: outsiders watch for the spectacle, insiders see the craft. Only a fellow Dreamweaver could discern how exquisite every shot was, how cleverly each lighting choice had been made. The talent was practically overflowing.
…She was only seventeen.
Back when he was seventeen, he could never have produced something like this.
As for now? Could he match this even now?
He refused to think further.
After finishing, Guan Gaoyang downvoted the video.
“…It’s just opportunistic tricks,” he muttered furiously, then turned to the forums.
Sure enough, compared to the harmony of the comments section, the forums were far more scathing toward Eldritch God. Addicted, Guan Gaoyang scrolled through dozens of posts, venting his frustration.
Yet none of these posts hit where it hurt—they were all from the perspective of casual viewers. On impulse, he stared at his light-brain for a long moment, then began to type:
【I admit that Married to the Eldritch God is a fresh and outstanding work, but rationally speaking, does it really belong in this themed contest?】
Main post:
As the title says. Can this story even be called “marriage-before-love”? — Where is the love? Even the so-called “marriage” is barely there. @ChangqingOfficial I think the review standards for this competition need to be stricter. What do you all think?
When he posted it, Guan Gaoyang’s heart pounded. It was the first time he’d ever done something like this—but first place meant too much to him.
He had struggled for three years to grasp such an opportunity.
Perhaps because the title wasn’t explosive enough, the post received only a handful of replies, never stirring up the storm he’d hoped for.
Disappointed, he nevertheless felt a bit relieved. Changqing got tagged thousands of times a day; they likely wouldn’t even see his post.
That was fine. He had vented without causing an uproar. He could pretend it never happened…
After releasing the mid-section, Shang Jingyan collapsed into deep sleep, utterly exhausted—once this event ended, she swore she’d stop living so out of sync with the clock. It was too much to endure.
When she woke, her light-brain was blinking. Still groggy, she reached for it and saw a message—from You Yao.
After he left last time, Shang Jingyan had found him in her contacts and marked him as “You Yu.” That was probably his codename.
You Yu:
【Tomorrow’s your follow-up appointment day, isn’t it? You already skipped once. You should really go this time.】
Shang Jingyan: “…”
Follow-up appointment? Another thing her inherited memories hadn’t mentioned.
What, was she sick or something?
Rubbing her temples to clear her head, she hesitated, unsure how to ask what the appointment was for or where she was supposed to go. Then You Yao sent her a location pin:
【I’m already at Dr. Tian’s. I came myself—you really can’t skip again!】
Well, that saved her the trouble of asking…
She swiped her thumb over the screen a few times, suspicion flickering and fading, before replying:
【Got it.】
The next day.
The address You Yao sent was a mental power clinic.
So she really was sick—mentally sick, no less…
This was the first time since arriving in this world that Shang Jingyan had left the area around her rented flat.
She threw on a black skull-print jacket, pulled a baseball cap low, and rented a floating hoverboard.
The original body had a flight license—aside from academics, this body’s previous owner had dabbled in every flashy hobby imaginable.
The muscle memory was still there. Shang Jingyan rode as if she’d been doing it for years, hands in her pockets, gliding over the gray blocks of buildings on a board trailing streams of light.
She knew the star system she lived in was called the Exile Star System. It had five habitable planets, four of them terraformed.
“Exile Star System” wasn’t its real name. Its true name was the Alpha Star System.
From the name alone, one could tell it was among humanity’s earliest explored systems.
Alpha had once been rich in resources, but after they were exhausted, humanity shifted its focus outward. The system slowly turned into a haven for the elderly, with looser governance.
Criminals sent to Alpha’s prisons often settled here after release; space pirates used its planets as hideouts… Over time, it became known as the “Exile Star System.”
There was even a saying on Alpha’s networks: Here, even the auntie selling fried dough downstairs might’ve been a gang boss once.
The sky was gray, the Alpha star’s light dim and cold.
Not far away lay a century-old factory—now hollowed out and turned into a residential zone.
All industrial ruins, no matter how advanced they once were, shared that same air of desolation.
Children fed dove-like birds on the street; their white wings flickered between neon signs. Rain had just passed, and puddles glinted with shifting colors.
A bit like a cyberpunk–meets–starry fairytale, Shang Jingyan thought.
The clinic was in a narrow alley, cluttered with junk at its entrance. A stray cat bolted as she slipped inside.
Unlike the gaudy streets outside, the clinic was warm yellow, with elegant lettering: “District XX First Mental Healing Center.” The door was spotless.
She was still a few months from adulthood, which meant she could get free community mental care. After registering at the front desk, she headed straight to the third floor.
“Please, have a seat.”
Shang Jingyan glanced around the consultation room before finally settling her gaze on the woman before her.
This was Dr. Tian Jiangli, a mental power specialist. She had long, curly chestnut hair, frameless glasses, and a gentle smile. Her dress was soft and graceful.
The clinic’s interior matched her demeanor—bright, warm, comforting.
“Xiaoyan, you’ve missed two months already. At least you came this time.”
Dr. Tian spoke familiarly. “Lie down over there. I’ll run the basic tests.”
“Hm… Your mental waves are stable… Have you been working as a Dreamweaver recently? …Relax, don’t tense up at the instruments…”
She chatted casually to ease Shang Jingyan’s nerves while running the scans.
Dr. Tian remembered every patient well. Shang Jingyan: mental power score 73, rated C-level, awakened at age 15.
Above average in a world where the norm was 60, but barely enough for Dreamweaving. Most advanced Dreamweaving required A-level—90 and above.
Forcing it would only burn out one’s mind faster.
In past scans, her mental condition had been poor, at risk of developing Spiritual Void Syndrome. But this time—she looked completely normal.
Surprised, Dr. Tian said: “Let me check your mental landscape. If it’s fine, we can wrap up for today.”
She put on the mental link headset.
Shang Jingyan’s consciousness sank into darkness. Soon, she saw glowing, translucent tendrils of mental energy reaching toward her, trying to lull her into hypnosis.
Her expression turned strange—not only was she unaffected, but… she had a hunch: she could hypnotize Dr. Tian instead.
The moment the thought arose, the tendrils slowed, then stilled, drifting into deep slumber.
She even felt she could bypass the device entirely—step into Dr. Tian’s spiritual domain.
Her awareness slipped through like a breeze—
—and entered Dr. Tian’s inner world.
There she saw a snow-white unicorn, golden-horned, winged, its chestnut eyes like gems, gazing gently at her.
This was… Dr. Tian’s mental core?
Shang Jingyan looked down at herself—only to see a ball of silver light.
Something was wrong: Where was her own core?
Every person in this interstellar era had a mental core—it could be an animal, a plant, an object, even a humanoid—but always something with form.
If the core vanished, it usually meant brain death.
Did her original host have one?
Was it gone because she was a transmigrant?
If others learned of this… would they take her away for research?
A sudden wave of relief washed over her—thankfully, she had hypnotized Dr. Tian first.
The unicorn, though pure and noble, had its beauty marred: a wisp of black mist coiled around its foreleg, seeping into a wound that bled without end.
I think… I can heal this.
The thought surfaced in her mind.
But how?
After a moment’s pondering, inspiration struck—she projected Eldritch God into the mental realm.
If Dreamweavers’ works could heal the spirit, there was no reason hers couldn’t.
The pale, ghastly face of the Eldritch God appeared. The black mist recoiled, shrinking back.
At the same time, Shang Jingyan felt a strange energy flow into her—like filling an empty stomach.
