Yao Mengzhen looked at Ji Ling; Ji Ling looked at the tablet.
After a moment, Ji Ling looked up, pointing at the image: “Did I look like that?”
Yao Mengzhen nodded: “When you came out with the Abyss Lord, you were very cold. Nothing like you at all.”
Ji Ling pressed a hand to his forehead.
He thought: “That’s because I was scared out of my wits by the Abyss Lord.”
Ahead were defenseless players; behind was a world-destroying evil god. If the Abyss Lord suddenly snapped, Ji Ling was the last line of defense. How could he not be tense?
Ji Ling forwarded the illustration to Wang Chengxuan and asked: “Does this work?”
Honestly speaking, the illustration’s setting differed from Descent of the Gods‘ past scenes. The game’s focus was Chinese-style mythology; past scenes were mostly ancient, picturesque architecture or grand landscapes. But Yao Mengzhen’s background was the convention hall’s soaring dome and countless blurry color patches symbolizing the bustling crowd.
Two minutes later, Wang Chengxuan replied: “Breaking the fourth wall! Awesome!” followed by a giant thumbs-up.
Ji Ling: “?”
As the head of a game company, Wang Chengxuan’s credentials in the 2D world were beyond question, and he was visibly excited.
The fourth wall was a Renaissance concept. Back then, stages had only three walls; the side facing the audience was open.
But although there was no physical “wall,” an invisible one still existed between actors and audience. The audience was destined to be mere spectators, unable to join the play or share in its joys and sorrows. Later, the “fourth wall” evolved to mean the wall between fictional characters and real players—the boundary between the “2D world” and the “3D world.”
“But!” Wang Chengxuan’s voice rose: “This illustration is a processing of the convention scene—they echo each other. We can write an in-game story of ‘Ji Ling’ at the convention, weaving real events into the game.”
“And in reality, the cosplayer Ji Ling actually appeared—players get the illusion that the cosplayer really is Ji Ling, that Ji Ling actually exists!”
Ji Ling: “…”
He reminded him darkly: “I actually do exist.”
Wang Chengxuan treated it like a treasure and hurried off with the illustration.
That night, Descent of the Gods released a new official announcement, unveiling the character art for the new SSR “Ji Ling.”
At last, this new SSR—which had drawn nonstop attention since its reveal, with both its promo art and cosplayer going viral—finally showed its face.
Yao Mengzhen’s brushwork differed from the previous Lead Artist’s. He had a highly personal style—bold, aggressive use of color. High-saturation, high-brightness hues splashed across a somber background, giving the image extraordinary tension.
Against a foggy dome and a backdrop of large gray-blue patches, Ji Ling walked out of the light. A single brilliant spot of gold gleamed in his dark eyes, cool arcs of light rimming the gold-embroidered hems, hints of color hidden in the ornaments in his hair and at his waist.
These bright hues, set in vast iron-gray, took on a note of biting, murderous chill.
Light versus dark, brilliance versus shadow—one glance was enough for a visual gut-punch.
“Whoa…” many veteran players marveled. “The art really did get a resurrection card. Where did they dig up this master?”
“This sense of color and these lines—no weak points. Every aspect is strong.”
Even at the level of a game company’s Lead Artist, many artists specialized in one area. Those good at color were weak on structure; those strong at structure fell short on linework. But Yao Mengzhen was different—he was a true triple threat.
Back when he was a court painter in the Great Liang, Yao Mengzhen had been famed for his blue-green landscapes. The ancient blue-green style used lapis lazuli and malachite ground into powder—bright, saturated colors that were notoriously hard to control. But the landscapes under Yao Mengzhen’s brush were harmonious and translucent, with cinnabar, lapis, and malachite green complementing one another. If he could achieve such color mastery in an era of scarce pigments, having a color wheel at his disposal now made it effortless.
And fine-brush linework was a required course for literati painters. Yao Mengzhen had practiced tens of thousands of pieces—from birds’ feathers to robe folds, from peony buds to hair and beards—day after day, year after year. His linework was unrivaled under heaven.
None of this surprised Ji Ling.
Of course—painted by the Painting Sage.
The only potentially problematic area was structure.
Traditional Chinese painting had no concept of perspective, and Yao Mengzhen truly hadn’t practiced it. Fortunately, character illustrations centered on the figure. And the Painting Sage had spent a week on Corpse Anatomy Atlas, memorizing bones and muscles so thoroughly that the illustration’s structure was decidedly top-tier.
With color, linework, and composition all this outstanding, the illustration racked up tens of thousands of shares the moment it was released.
Descent of the Gods had built its reputation on strikingly beautiful Chinese-style character art. Its players were, to a one, 2D-world beauty chasers. Now, with such a gorgeous character right in front of them, escaped veteran players began drifting back. Plenty pulled out their phones and quietly reinstalled Descent of the Gods.
“Whatever, let’s just pull a few times and see if we can get this pretty boy,” many veterans thought.
Meanwhile, another group quietly noticed a blind spot.
“Hey—that black-purple humanoid color block behind Ji Ling, is that the Abyss Lord?”
Yao Mengzhen had painted from a convention screenshot, and standing behind Ji Ling at the time was, of course, the Abyss Lord.
“The dark evil god hides in the shadows, watching the deity before him in the sunlight. His gaze sweeps the deity’s back—from that strip of pale nape, to the shoulder blade beneath the robes, to that slender waist… As the deity passes through the crowd in his magnificent attire, is the evil god remembering the taste beneath those robes?” — some blogger.
CP fans quietly got excited.
Another SSR appearing in an SSR’s character art—if that’s not a CP, what is?!
This was ironclad CP proof!
In an unseen corner of the internet, a topic dubbed “Abyss Ling” quietly took root.
Ji Ling was completely unaware.
The release of the character art made the mark on his brow even more brilliant. He focused on digesting his newfound cultivation and helping Wang Chengxuan with his funding problems.
To outsiders, Descent of the Gods had poached a brilliant new Lead Artist at a high salary, its momentum climbing—looked like it was about to return to its peak. Everyone speculated that the company had weathered its funding crisis and was about to rise against the tide.
Only Ji Ling knew that Wang Chengxuan was too broke to fix his car or pay the property fees at No. 33 Kongming Road. And the “high-salary Lead Artist” was a high schooler still attending classes.
But when it came to making money, not a single person in the villa was good at it.
Yao Mengzhen did as he pleased, painting only what inspired him.
Bai Ze was too proud, devoted to teaching and unwilling to dirty his hands with mortal money.
And Ji Ling… to put it nicely, he was indifferent to material desires and content with whatever came. To put it bluntly, he was a salted fish through and through—an iron-clad slacker who spent all day in seclusion, never lifting a finger.
Not one of the three could make a cent.
And without money, they couldn’t even afford the game’s server rental.
Just as Ji Ling tried posting a fortune-telling link and got reported for “feudal superstition,” his phone on the coffee table rang abruptly.
He was still using the original body’s cheap old-man phone. The ringtone went off like a death knell, one after another. Ji Ling flipped it over. The caller ID read “Kevin.”
The name was common enough. Ji Ling struggled through the original body’s memories and recalled that the floral-shirt manager seemed to be named that.
Having lived in Wang Chengxuan’s villa this long, Ji Ling had nearly forgotten he was still an idol.
But he had no desire to go drink at social functions, nor could he sing or dance on stage. He’d struggle even as the group’s eye candy and would only drag Fu Yang and the others down. So he ignored Kevin and hung up.
The floral shirt was relentless, bombarding him without pause, as if he’d never give up until Ji Ling answered. Just as Ji Ling, head aching, was about to turn off the phone, another call came in.
It was Fu Yang.
Ji Ling picked up. “Captain?”
Fu Yang’s end was noisy, with people offering congratulatory toasts. He lowered his voice: “Little Seven… no, Mr. Ji.”
He corrected himself and spoke rapidly: “I’m at a banquet. There’s a big boss—the founder of some fund. Investments start at ten million and scale to hundreds of millions. I overheard him telling someone that his luck’s been off lately and he wants to find a fortune-teller. Would you be interested?”
Ji Ling stood up. “I’m interested.”
A pillow just when he was drowsy. He said: “Send me the location.”
Fu Yang was at a banquet.
It was Jingnan’s largest revolving restaurant, at the very top of the city’s landmark, the Floating Sky Tower. The exterior wall was a circular curtain of seventy-two massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Standing inside, you could look down over the entire city’s flowing traffic.
Businessmen in bespoke suits raised glasses of Hennessy, laughing and chatting. Fu Yang, as decorative eye candy, stood with the other members smiling stiffly nearby.
Ji Ling had changed into a cheap suit. He’d never bought clothes; this was the one the original body had worn to drinking parties. The tailoring was rough and flashy, ill-fitting, with a stubborn stain on the sleeve.
It was a gathering of Jingnan’s upper crust—merchants, socialites, and a stream of pretty boys and girls from various entertainment companies, supplied as atmosphere.
Ji Ling was handsome and looked young. The waitstaff categorized him as the third type and steered him to a corner, away from the center of the party.
Ji Ling spotted Fu Yang, also in a corner.
He looked better than before—that manic anxiety from earlier days was gone. Boss Wang’s card seemed to have done some good.
Ji Ling squeezed through the crowd to his side and nodded: “Captain.”
Fu Yang exchanged pleasantries, then pointed ahead: “That’s him. Jingnan’s jewelry trade—named Song Xiuyuan. I heard him telling someone his luck’s been bad lately and he wants to find a Daoist priest.”
Ji Ling looked over. Quite a refined boss—around thirty-something, silver-gray suit, scholarly temperament. The only problem: a wisp of black miasma coiled around his brow. He really was plagued by bad luck.
Beside the boss stood a greasy man in a floral shirt, bobbing and scraping before Song Xiuyuan. From a distance, he spotted Ji Ling, his eyes lit up, and he strode straight over.
Ji Ling: “…”
It was too late to dodge. The floral shirt pushed through the crowd, grabbed Ji Ling’s hand, and dragged him before Song Xiuyuan. His wrinkled face stacked into a fawning smile as he presented Ji Ling like a treasure.
X-DU was a no-name boy band with zero exposure. Their usual gigs were ribbon-cuttings and small-time performances. But the members’ looks weren’t bad, and the floral shirt had been busting his ass to find an investor for exposure—which was why he’d grabbed Ji Ling, whose looks and presence were the best of the bunch.
On a normal day, he wouldn’t dare push An Jin forward. But last time, Ji Ling “latching onto” Boss Wang had made the floral shirt wrongly believe that “An Jin” had wised up. Add to that Ji Ling staying at the villa for half a month, and the floral shirt was convinced “An Jin” was now a master seducer—he’d charmed Wang Chengxuan into forgetting which way was up.
He dragged Ji Ling before Song Xiuyuan: “Boss Song, this is An Jin, the face of our group.”
Ji Ling: “…Hello.”
He extended a hand and gave Song Xiuyuan a perfunctory shake. Song Xiuyuan was equally unenthusiastic. The floral shirt hopped around on the sidelines, pushing Ji Ling hard, but neither of the two principals was buying it, and he had to give up.
Finally, under the floral shirt’s “I gave you a chance, why aren’t you fighting for it!” glare, Ji Ling ambled back to his seat and took the last Swiss roll from in front of Fu Yang.
Fu Yang blinked: “Aren’t you going to read his fortune?”
Ji Ling said: “Not the right time.”
It was the height of the banquet. A band by the hall played Schubert’s serenade. The dance floor shimmered with perfume and shadow. Song Xiuyuan was surrounded by business partners and luminaries. If Ji Ling, looking like a pretty-boy idol, walked up and said, “Boss Song, I can see dark clouds on your brow and disaster written on your face,” Song Xiuyuan would only think this boy band member had a few screws loose.
Fu Yang: “When is the right time?”
Ji Ling finished the last bite of Swiss roll and stood up. “Now.”
Song Xiuyuan had just bid farewell to his partners and was heading alone to the restroom.
Ji Ling followed.
Even the restroom of this revolving restaurant was brightly lit, with an incense cone of white sandalwood burning in the corner. Song Xiuyuan came out of the stall and saw the little idol he’d just met washing his hands at the sink. The ill-fitting suit was worn straight and tall by him. In the mirror, he tilted his head slightly, offering a proper smile.
Ji Ling nodded: “Boss Song.”
Song Xiuyuan stepped forward and washed his hands beside him. The two met each other’s eyes in the mirror and spoke at the same time.
Ji Ling: “I heard you’ve had bad luck lately and want to find a Daoist priest.”
Song Xiuyuan: “I’m not planning to sponsor a little star.”
Ji Ling: “?”
Song Xiuyuan: “?”
