The rain outside had stopped, but the humidity in the air hadn’t dissipated, still carrying the fresh scent typical after a rain. The water dripping from the eaves fell onto the windowsill with a soft sound, like shattered jade lightly tapping.
Sheng Min’s voice echoed in the small lounge, and Li Xuan’s throat suddenly felt dry. He drank some water but didn’t hold the bottle properly, spilling most of it onto the blanket. He grabbed a napkin and wiped it carelessly before looking down at the screen.
The live broadcast was at around five in the morning that day.
From the background, it seemed Sheng Min was in a hotel. He wasn’t wearing makeup, and the lighting was unflattering, but his pale face was still handsome.
“Can’t sleep, let’s chat,” he said, his expression slightly tired and his voice a bit hoarse.
Although there had been no prior announcement, viewers flocked into the live room, and the comments flooded in.
“Am I seeing this right? Why suddenly live streaming?”
“What’s going on today? The last time he streamed was probably over a year ago, wasn’t that the time something went wrong? I thought this job had been blacklisted.”
“Can you not bring up bad things?”
“How’s the car accident recovery going, baby? Mom’s so worried, sob sob sob.”
“Why are you streaming at this hour? Don’t you sleep? Is the company exploiting you?”
“The injury is healed, don’t worry. It wasn’t that serious,” Sheng Min spoke, clearly not used to streaming. His operations were a bit clumsy, and when he accidentally pressed the wrong button, the screen went black for over a minute before coming back. The comments were full of advice on how to operate it, with a lot of laughter and some unsavory remarks floating by.
“Yeah, no staff here… Don’t argue, you guys,” Sheng Min’s face appeared again after the screen resumed. He shyly smiled, “Just bored, wanted to chat… Why are there so many people here… Did you not sleep or just wake up?”
He was wearing a light blue pajama set, and Li Xuan clearly remembered that one day during sunset when he brought in clothes from the balcony and felt how smooth and soft the fabric of the pajama was.
“Yes, I’m filming. No work this morning, but I have to shoot in the afternoon and evening… It’s fine, not too tired, don’t worry about me. It’s just work, you all have to work too… I didn’t have insomnia, just finished filming and didn’t want to sleep yet. Not sure what to do right now…”
The viewers quickly started suggesting things for him to do, from variety shows to movies, with one comment reading “date me”, which made Li Xuan’s temples throb for a moment, but thankfully it quickly scrolled past.
“Play a game?” Sheng Min tilted his head, reading the comments, “What game? Any recommendations?… Yeah, I don’t play much, you all know that.”
He said, picking up another phone from beside him. “Let me check…,” he swiped through the screen casually, “What type… anything, just find one with good graphics…” After flipping through for about ten minutes, he paused, “This one.”
For the next hour or so, Sheng Min played the game while chatting with his fans, talking about his recent life. Occasionally, he’d focus too much on the game and be silent, but the comments were filled with “Ahhhh, so cute.” At the fans’ request, he even softly hummed two short lines of the ending theme song from “Willow Beyond the Moat.”
….
“I’m feeling a bit sleepy now,” Sheng Min said, rubbing his eyes, the redness of veins starkly visible in the whites. Time ticked by, and faint daylight seeped through the curtains. “Alright, I’m going to sleep. Those of you who need to work, go to work, and those who should sleep, go to bed… The game? It’s good, quite fun. I’ll continue playing after I wake up… Okay, thank you for keeping me company for so long. See you next time.” Sheng Min smiled and waved at the screen. “Bye-bye.”
The entire livestream was recorded, and fans who missed it regretted not waking up earlier and eagerly watched the playback. At the same time, the game Sheng Min played for over an hour naturally caught attention. Though he never mentioned the game’s name, a few captured frames were enough for his sharp-eyed fans to identify it as “Nook.”
Hot searches speculated whether this was an advertisement, but soon someone traced the game to a small company, Yuan Yi Technology, which had been registered less than three months ago and had no funding background.
“Do you guys even know how expensive it is to get someone of Sheng Min’s level to do an ad? He streamed for over two hours, seriously. Do you think this tiny company could afford that? If they did, they must’ve gone all in.”
“Just a passerby here. Played the game a bit—it’s actually decent. Even if it’s an ad, it’s got substance.”
“Not bad! The graphics are really stunning… Is Sheng Min such a visual enthusiast? [laughing.jpg]”
Amid the enthusiastic discussions, more people started downloading “Nook.” Two hours later, a well-known game reviewer jumped on the bandwagon, posting an evaluation. Known for his sharp and critical reviews, he surprisingly gave the game a high score of 8.0. This wasn’t purely coincidental—Li Xuan recognized the ID. The reviewer was Qi Boyuan’s high school classmate, someone academically brilliant and even better at gaming. After a year of college, he had taken a break to pursue professional esports, but had retired last year due to a hand injury and transitioned to becoming a game reviewer.
Originally, Qi Boyuan had planned to ask for his help in about two months, but now, with Sheng Min’s influence, the promotion could be brought forward. Of course, this put the reviewer in an awkward position, risking accusations of riding on someone else’s fame. Li Xuan could only imagine how Qi Boyuan must have convinced him.
Regardless, downloads of “Nook” skyrocketed like a snowball rolling downhill, and the revenue backend showed a sharp increase.
“You’re all still here?” Li Xuan asked as he left his office, noticing four or five people still at their desks.
“Counting money,” someone joked. “Senior’s face is about to cramp from smiling so much.”
“That’s you,” Chu Tianheng retorted, glaring at Qi Boyuan from behind his screen.
“How’s that me? The number of comments praising the art design—you’ve read them how many times already?” Qi Boyuan leaned back, bracing himself on the desk. “Hey, Senior, are you sure you didn’t fake your experience at Yuanxin? You seem overly excited about receiving praise.”
Chu Tianheng, still adjusting the new promotional images, shot back, “I should call Zhou Jia and have her come drag you away.”
“Then tell her to hurry. I haven’t seen her in days,” Qi Boyuan laughed, then turned to Li Xuan. “By the way, did you call yet?”
“Call who?”
“What’s with you?” Qi Boyuan looked surprised, glanced around, then leaned closer to whisper, “After such a big favor, aren’t you going to thank him?”
“Not yet,” Li Xuan replied, pursing his lips and quickly changing the subject before Qi Boyuan could press further. “What about your classmate?”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s just earlier than planned. Back in high school, he thought the homework was too easy and kept copying mine. He owes me tons of favors.” Qi Boyuan waved it off nonchalantly. “We’re about to order takeout. Want anything?”
“Mango sticky rice,” Li Xuan blurted.
“Huh?” Qi Boyuan paused. “You don’t even like sweets.”
“I misspoke,” Li Xuan said, his face impassive. “Just get me some congee. I’m not very hungry.”
Qi Boyuan nodded, picking up a restaurant flyer from the desk and dialing the number. As the call connected, Li Xuan suddenly asked in a low voice, “If I call, what should I say?”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Li Xuan muttered, turning to leave.
“Say thank you, obviously.” Qi Boyuan called after him, finally catching on. Holding the phone away from his ear, he quickly added, “No, not you—two large orders of boat congee, one dry-fried beef noodles, a baked chicken, and some skewers. Just pick whatever for the skewers. Yes, Yuan Yi. Please hurry.”
Ending the call, Qi Boyuan held onto Li Xuan’s arm as the latter tried to shake him off. “What were you asking about just now?”
“Nothing,” Li Xuan muttered, coughing awkwardly. He couldn’t believe he had even asked that question.
“Just say thank you. What’s so complicated about that?” Qi Boyuan said in confusion. “He did you such a huge favor—it’s only proper to express gratitude. Why are you so hesitant?”
“Proper?”
“Of course! What else? Did you offend him somehow?” Qi Boyuan looked at Li Xuan’s rare display of indecision with increasing suspicion.
“No… Forget it.” Li Xuan sighed almost inaudibly and lowered his gaze to hide his emotions. “Eat and confirm the promotional images with Senior after. Head home early. The game update might need to be moved up. Let’s discuss it tomorrow morning.”
