Sheng Min found out about the company’s situation that same day.
An actor he had worked with on a previous project messaged him, asking for help promoting a new drama. Sheng Min posted a promotional tweet, replied to a few fan comments, and then casually checked his private messages.
Back when Nook launched, he had done some promotion for it. Many fans had joined the game because of him, leveling up and buying new gear, often using his DMs as a sort of diary to share their progress. He was just scrolling through absentmindedly when he suddenly saw messages about the plagiarism issue.
His eyes twitched. The fans were venting their frustrations in vague, angry rants, so he followed a few keywords and quickly found related posts.
Sheng Min clicked on a gameplay video. He had downloaded Nook when it first came out and had been playing ever since. Though he had been logging in less frequently due to his theater rehearsals, the sense of déjà vu was immediate.
As he watched, his expression darkened. He exited the video and scrolled through a stream of discussions.
Since its launch, Nook had consistently topped the download charts for simulation games for several months. With such a large player base, the discourse wasn’t just idle gossip—many were systematically analyzing the situation. From Yuan Yi’s rise in the industry to ‘Void Island’s’ sudden appearance, the opinions varied, but the conclusions were the same: this was not fair competition. Nook had been deliberately targeted.
Targeted.
The word struck a nerve.
It reminded Sheng Min of the sunless Li family mansion.
He closed the webpage and instinctively reached for his phone to call Li Xuan. But then, he remembered the deliberately relaxed expression Li Xuan had worn that morning before leaving.
“Liar… So damn stubborn.”
In the end, he didn’t make the call. Clenching his teeth, he cursed under his breath. He wanted to post something to support Nook and stabilize public opinion, but when his fingers hovered over the screen, he hesitated.
No, this wouldn’t work. Sheng Min took a deep breath and steadied himself. Back when Nook launched, he had streamed for hours straight to promote it. He had been careful to make it seem natural, avoiding any signs that it was a paid endorsement. If he suddenly appeared now when trouble arose, it would be too suspicious.
Sheng Min didn’t care about himself—he was used to being both loved and hated online. He also admitted that his motivation in this matter was entirely personal, not exactly selfless. But if his involvement led to people attacking the game itself, accusing it of relying on marketing tricks, and dismissing all of Li Xuan’s hard work as just another publicity stunt… At this sensitive moment, the wrong kind of attention could backfire badly.
He couldn’t step forward, at least not for now. Subconsciously biting his knuckle, Sheng Min thought that in a few days, when the situation cooled down a bit, he could mention it subtly as an ordinary player—it might be more effective that way.
But right now, he couldn’t just sit back and wait…
His mind worked quickly—he had never been this concerned about his own matters before. After thinking it through, he called Liu Yinying.
“You wouldn’t call unless something was up. What’s going on?”
After their last variety show together, both had been busy filming, so they hadn’t kept in close contact. Liu Yinying answered with a chuckle.
Sheng Min briefly explained the situation, naturally omitting his relationship with Li Xuan. He just said it was a friend in need and asked for her help.
“You need someone to guide public opinion? What, are you making fun of me for having an army of paid posters and marketing accounts?” She pouted, but her teasing tone wasn’t off-putting. “But hey, I’ve actually played this game before! You have friends in game development? What’s your relationship with them? You’re putting in so much effort—I’m getting jealous.”
“Anyway, I’ll leave this to you. I’ll cover the cost—”
“Come on, I was just joking. Why are you taking it so seriously?” Liu Yinying cut him off in displeasure. “Can you stop treating me like an outsider? When you introduced me to resources before, you never asked me for money. It’s a small favor—I’ll get someone on it right away.”
Sheng Min forced a smile. “Thanks.”
“No need for that. We’ve known each other for years.” Liu Yinying replied, then casually mentioned her upcoming work. “By the way, Xiao Min, I’ve taken a role in ‘Jinghong Shadow’. I’ll be joining the production next month.”
“Director Zhang’s project? That’s great. Haven’t you been wanting to do a historical drama after getting tired of modern ones?”
“Great? I’m just the second female lead, making way for someone else…” She sighed. “But I heard they sent you the script for the male lead. Is that true? Why didn’t you take it? I was looking forward to working with you again.”
“After ‘Weiyang Willows’, I got a lot of similar historical drama scripts. The characters feel repetitive.”
“But I heard you haven’t taken any modern dramas either…” Liu Yinying mumbled, then hesitated before cautiously asking, “… you’re not planning to leave the industry, are you?”
Sheng Min was momentarily stunned. He pressed his lips together. “Who said that?”
“A lot of people. My agent mentioned it, and I even overheard people talking about it at a variety show recording the other day. If you hadn’t called me, I wouldn’t have brought it up. But since we’re talking now…” Liu Yinying’s voice quieted as if she had moved to a different location. “It’s not true, right? Is your agency spreading the rumor?”
“Why would they do that?”
“To keep other companies from poaching you. You haven’t renewed your contract yet, have you? No need to hide it—I have my sources.” She sounded smug.
“I’m not hiding anything.” Sheng Min hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
“Think about it—if you don’t renew, it’ll definitely cause waves. By putting out rumors that you’re losing interest in acting, they can discourage other agencies from making offers. Classic move, but honestly, pretty disgusting.” Liu Yinying scoffed. “Not that it’ll work. You’re popular—people will keep an eye on you no matter what. If another company really wants you, a few rumors won’t stop them. You’ve probably been getting calls from agencies, right? Even my boss must’ve reached out to you. Am I right, Xiao Min?”
“You really know everything,” Sheng Min said helplessly.
Liu Yinying wasn’t wrong. Since his last project wrapped up, he hadn’t accepted any new scripts, and similar rumors had reached his ears. It had only been about a month—within the industry, going two or three months without a new project wasn’t unusual. But with his contract expiring soon, more people were paying attention.
These days, Zhang Zhihua kept sending him scripts while frequently urging him to renew his contract. His stance, of course, reflected Zhang Shan’s…
“My boss is alright, much better than yours. And if you negotiate now, you’ll have the leverage to get a better deal. But it depends on what you want. Or are you thinking of going independent? If so, take me with you.”
“You always take things too far,” Sheng Min chuckled.
His gaze drifted to the phoenix sculpture in the corner of the living room. Just yesterday, before Li Xuan had come to pick him up, he had received a call from Zhang Zhihua, saying that Zhang Shan would be returning to N City soon to personally discuss his contract.
“You know my cousin’s personality… You might as well sign early—the offer is already good.” Zhang Zhihua had said.
“Xiao Min?” Liu Yinying called his name. “Hey, is your signal bad? Why did you suddenly go quiet?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. What did you say?”
“I said, let me work for you.”
“As if I could afford you.”
“You totally can. With how good-looking you are, I’d be making a profit.” Liu Yinying, despite her easygoing attitude, was a veteran in the industry. She had keen instincts—though she probed a little, she didn’t press too hard when he was evasive. Instead, she said, “I’m in the middle of a recording. Gotta go. But if you really start a studio, save me a spot.”
“Alright.” Sheng Min smiled, then reminded her, “About the game…”
“I’ve got it. You never ask for help, so since you did, I’ll handle it properly.”
Liu Yinying acted quickly. Within an hour, major influencers started guiding public opinion. From professional gaming bloggers to experienced players, and even some industry association figureheads—somehow, she managed to pull in experts citing domestic and international case studies. They elevated the discussion to an issue of malicious imitation harming the domestic gaming industry. The well-written, compelling posts gained traction fast, suppressing the hype around Void Island.
Half an hour after the topic hit real-time trending, Sheng Min received a call from Li Xuan.
Neither of them spoke at first. Moments of silence like this were rare between them. Sheng Min had originally wanted to scold him, but hearing his breathing on the other end, all he felt was heartache. He couldn’t bring himself to say a single harsh word.
After a long pause, it was Li Xuan who finally broke the silence.
“Sheng Min, I…”
“You what?” Sheng Min didn’t let him finish, sighed, and then softly scolded him, “Idiot.”
Instead of being upset, Li Xuan chuckled at being scolded. It was his usual lazy, amused smile. He told Sheng Min not to worry.
But such words were useless. When your heart was tied to someone else, even the slightest disturbance would bring unease.
“I’m not worried about you at all,” Sheng Min sat by the dining table, reaching out to pluck off a slightly yellowed leaf. “And you don’t have to worry about me either. I just got a few new scripts to read, so I won’t be bored at home.”
Li Xuan responded with a quiet “Mhm,” and Sheng Min could hear Qi Boyuan speaking in the background. He figured Li Xuan must be swamped with work. “I have congee simmering on the stove. I’m going to eat now since I’m hungry. You should eat too. Don’t get so busy that you forget to take care of yourself.”
“Okay,” Li Xuan agreed readily. “I’ll eat in a bit.”
“Don’t try to handle everything on your own.” Just before hanging up, Sheng Min spoke calmly yet firmly, “You still have me.”
