Chapter 38: Mother's Advice

After bidding farewell to Salahk, Chen Zi’ang summoned the breath of his final moments and departed from this eerie realm of “liminal spirits.”

Once again, he found himself back in reality, reappearing on the second floor of his own home. Pulling out his phone to check the time, it was already two in the afternoon.

The flow of time varies significantly between worlds. For instance, time in the dream realm passes much faster than outside—many who accidentally wander into the dream world find that although their spirit roams there for what feels like ages, hardly any time has elapsed in reality upon their return.

The liminal realm of near-death, however, seemed to operate in the opposite manner. As a temporary haven for the spirits of those close to death, time there moves slower than in reality. It’s akin to a person who, after suffering fatal injuries, awakens from a coma to find days—or sometimes even longer—have passed, though their perception of time feels much shorter.

Hurriedly, Chen Zi’ang sent messages to Lingnai Tsukimiya, Qingyu Xia, and Zili Xia—the three women.

To Lingnai Tsukimiya, he briefly recounted his observations within the liminal realm: the ghoul clan’s eagerness for collaboration and the two tasks they had proposed.

After waiting a long while, there was no reply from Lingnai.

Chen Zi’ang found this strange, as she usually responded instantly to his messages. Given the importance of the matter, he decided to call her.

But the phone call only returned the message, “The number you have dialed is out of service area.”

How odd. Almost the entire surface of the Koutengara planet was covered by signal nowadays; for a phone to be out of service, there were only three likely reasons: deep underground, outside the atmosphere, or within a signal-jamming zone.

Unable to reach her, Chen Zi’ang continued to message Qingyu Xia, informing her that he had returned safely and would be back to work tomorrow.

“Okay,” Qingyu’s reply was brief—just a single word.

Opening the chat window with Zili Xia, Chen Zi’ang was about to type when he suddenly heard the sound of a door opening outside.

Looking up, he saw Zili Xia closing her room door, slipping slippers onto her feet with one hand while carrying a bag in the other.

Their eyes met, and the atmosphere grew somewhat awkward.

“Uh, Zili,” Chen Zi’ang tried to break the silence with a smile, “thanks for agreeing to look after my sister yesterday. Luckily, I got back in time. I hope I didn’t trouble you too much?”

“No, not at all,” Zili hastily waved her hand, “I only brought her breakfast and lunch.”

She placed the plastic bag on the table, revealing a box of strawberry cake inside.

Chen Zi’ang knew his sister loved strawberry cake, but he wasn’t sure if he had ever mentioned this to Zili.

If not, there was only one explanation: little Zhu must have told her herself.

Recalling that his sister had specifically requested Zili’s care, Chen Zi’ang couldn’t help but lament inwardly: “Sister, they say daughters tend to favor others over their own family, but yours is downright outgoing! She’s cold to me but so friendly to Lingnai and Zili!”

Noticing Chen Zi’ang’s obvious expression, Zili looked a little inexplicably downcast but forced a smile.

“Since you’re back, I’ll be going then.”

“Why not stay for a meal?” Chen Zi’ang said instinctively. “I still owe you thanks.”

“Afternoon tea?” Zili considered, “Sure, I happened to bring cake.”

She set the cake on the table, arranging knives, forks, and plates. Chen Zi’ang pulled out a chair for her and helped his sister take a seat.

The three began to eat cake, and Chen Zi’ang took the initiative to chat.

“How’s your career going lately?”

“Not bad,” Zili replied somewhat gloomily. “What counts as going well?”

“From an outsider’s perspective,” Chen Zi’ang mused, “no scandals and steady popularity means things are going smoothly.”

“That’s not it at all,” Zili laughed, “You’ve got it wrong. In our line of work, scandals are the surefire way to boost popularity.”

“Why?” Chen Zi’ang had heard similar claims but didn’t understand the reasoning, so he asked earnestly.

“Because the true essence of internet competition is the battle for users’ attention and time,” Zili explained expertly. “Users are bombarded with all kinds of information every day and easily forget any celebrity. Scandals, being sensational news, quickly capture most people’s focus.”

“But don’t scandals damage a star’s reputation?” Chen Zi’ang queried. “Even if they draw attention, isn’t it mostly negative?”

“That depends,” she answered. “If the agency deliberately stirs things up, they usually release harmless scandals—like past rumors with someone—which can be cleared up later without much consequence.”

“Of course, some lesser-known stars might have questionable behavior and numerous scandals already. For them, revealing more scandals to attract heat doesn’t matter. Their fan base has already been filtered twice; it’s hard for new scandals to make fans leave. On the contrary, increased attention might even bring in new fans.”

Listening to Zili’s detailed explanation, Chen Zi’ang suddenly recalled Aokawa Iwata, the “party enforcer” of the Minxian Party who brazenly raised taboo topics at a debate.

Now, the Public Security Bureau, following orders from above, had dug up many scandals to launch a retaliatory attack on his reputation—but was this really effective?

As Zili said, those foolish enough to trust the Minxian Party probably aren’t very bright and see all their scandals as mere propaganda from the opposing Guoying Party.

Because of this, no matter how many illegal acts the Bureau uncovered against Iwata, at best it would only alienate those who already disliked him. For his loyal voters and strongholds, the impact was likely negligible.

“I’m full,” Zili said, standing up apologetically. “I have a commercial event tonight, so I need to leave early.”

“I’ll see you off,” Chen Zi’ang quickly offered.

Outside the house was the Tone River and a pedestrian path along the riverbank. Walking side by side, the two seemed to have nothing much to talk about.

If Lingnai Tsukimiya were here, she would skillfully find all sorts of topics to enliven the mood, but Zili lacked such social finesse.

Even on variety shows, she only answered questions when asked. Otherwise, she sat quietly—though with her popularity, no show dared to invite her just to sit silently.

Chen Zi’ang’s silence made Zili a little embarrassed. Wanting to break the ice, she searched for topics but found them either too abrupt or dull. Thoughts swirled in her mind, yet none could be voiced. As the path neared its end, opening onto the bustling road, her anxiety grew.

The phantom of her mother slowly emerged nearby, drifting over the river’s surface in step with her pace.

With a glance and a thought, Zili asked inwardly:

“Mother! What should I do?”

“Just hold him,” her mother’s mysterious voice whispered, audible only to her. “Then kiss him.”

“Finally, leave without looking back before he reacts.”

(End of chapter)