Xiao An considered himself someone with a broad range of interests and hobbies. As long as it didn’t involve anything too serious, he was confident he could manage just about anything. Video editing? Check. Being a game streamer on obscure websites? Done that in high school.
So, when he logged into Pan Xi’s V-Station account while soaking in the bathtub of his single-room apartment, sipping red wine and half-watching a movie on the bathroom’s LCD screen, he wasn’t expecting any surprises.
And yet, he was stunned.
This was not the kind of video-sharing platform he had imagined.
The interface screamed gay purple—loud, bright, and aggressively cheerful. From the right side of the screen, a Q-version silver-haired twin-ponytailed character popped out, scaring Xiao An.
The animated girl jumped down with a cheerful “hey!” and opened her arms wide. “Welcome back, brother! I want a hug~”
Three dialogue options appeared beneath her:
1. Hold her up high.
2. Pat her head to kill.
3. Kiss her quietly.
Xiao An froze. He didn’t want to pick any of these options, but the dialogue box stubbornly hovered in the middle of the screen, unremovable.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered, poking the screen repeatedly to no avail. Frustrated, he quit the app and restarted it.
When the interface reopened, the twin-tailed girl reappeared, this time bawling her eyes out. “Brother, why do you run away when you see me? Do you hate me QAQ?”
The new dialogue option was even more absurd:
1. No, how could it be? Of course not.
“Are you kidding me?” Xiao An kicked the bathwater in irritation, splashing it everywhere. He quickly took a screenshot and sent it to Pan Xi.
[Xiao An: What is this nonsense?]
[Pan Xi (typing with his left hand): Damn, how did you manage to make my wife cry?!]
[Xiao An: I can’t even log in properly. I can’t help you.]
[Pan Xi: Hey, just coax her a little. She’s so cute!]
[Xiao An: I only like real pretty girls.]
Grumbling under his breath, Xiao An reluctantly clicked “No, how could it be?” a few times. Finally, the twin-tailed girl sniffled, pouted, and shuffled back to her corner of the screen, disappearing with a defeated look.
The homepage finally appeared.
The account’s profile picture was a brightly colored bowl of ramen, and the username was “What Xixizi Eats Today”. It was completely at odds with Pan Xi’s personality.
The account had only a few thousand fans, with videos barely breaking a hundred views. Most had only two or three comments, confirming what Pan Xi had said—his fanbase was practically nonexistent.
[Xiao An: Where do I upload videos? I can’t find it.]
[Pan Xi: Look at the help center on the homepage.]
[Pan Xi: It has a full set of tutorials. Very detailed.]
Xiao An sighed, taking another sip of wine as he leaned back in the tub. Switching to the homepage, his gaze fell on a particularly flashy button labeled ‘Mutual Help’.
“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, clicking it.
At the same time, on the LCD screen in front of him, a handsome actor was battling a shark. It was dull, but somehow still captivating enough to distract Xiao An momentarily.
A long text box popped up on his phone, filled with rules and instructions. Xiao An didn’t bother reading it and scrolled straight to the bottom.
Three options appeared:
1. I need help QAQ.
2. I don’t need it, I’m awesome.
3. I can do it!
Xiao An rolled his eyes and tapped the first option without hesitation.
The system immediately responded with a cheerful pop-up:
Congratulations! “What Xixizi Eats Today,” you have successfully signed up for the “Mutual Help” event! The website will now review your account. Upon approval, your information will be entered into the event hall to find a suitable match…
Xiao An didn’t have time to read the congratulatory message on his phone because it abruptly started ringing.
The name “Xiao Cheng” flashed on the screen. Xiao An groaned, annoyed, and stepped out of the bathtub with water dripping everywhere. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself before answering the call.
“Hello,” Xiao An said lazily, not even giving the other party a chance to speak. “Don’t worry, your brother didn’t escape from prison. He’s alive and well in his apartment.”
—-
Meanwhile, on Sunday morning, He Yuan was up early, heading to the atrium to clean up the wreckage of his broken architectural model. Afterward, he had a project review scheduled with his professor.
Last night had been chaotic. The lighting in the atrium was poor, so he hadn’t been able to properly assess the damage. Now, in broad daylight, the scene was disheartening.
The core structure of his building model was completely destroyed, and the decorative greenery he’d painstakingly added was crushed flat, a distinct spherical dent marking the culprit.
He Yuan had spent the night contemplating what to do. He realized that while it was easy to feel angry, they were all adults in college. Petty behavior, like ganging up to confront the responsible party, wouldn’t resolve anything. Emotionally, he was upset, but he understood the need to separate feelings from actions.
“You seem distracted today. What’s on your mind?” Professor Wang asked as he flipped through He Yuan’s project plan.
“Nothing much. Are there any changes I should make?” He Yuan replied, masking his frustration.
Professor Wang, a seasoned architect with private work outside of school, often sought He Yuan’s help with his projects, paying him a decent amount for the work.
There was an old saying in their field: ‘Excellent engineers focus on specialization, while excellent architects focus on generalization.’ Despite being only 20 years old, He Yuan already had the foundation of a promising architect. He had strong fundamental skills, was proficient with design software, and possessed a clear architectural design philosophy.
It was hard not to feel optimistic about He Yuan’s future.
However, Professor Wang was aware of He Yuan’s financial struggles. While architecture tuition wasn’t exorbitant, the costs of tools and materials piled up quickly. Yet He Yuan never skimped on quality, always opting for the best markers and supplies.
“Are you short on money lately?” Professor Wang asked casually.
“Not really,” He Yuan replied, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“If you’re ever in a tough spot, let me know,” the professor offered kindly.
He Yuan simply nodded, unwilling to admit to his struggles.
By the time He Yuan returned to his dormitory that evening, he was exhausted. His roommate, Xu Zhaoyuan, was still hunched over his desk, his pale face illuminated by the glow of his laptop. It was obvious he’d been working on his project through the night and all day.
“You’re back, brother.” Xu Zhaoyuan forced a weak smile and reached out dramatically. “Why bother coming empty-handed? Where’s dinner?”
“You should sleep for at least two hours,” He Yuan said, genuinely concerned.
“No.” Xu shook his head resolutely. “Even if I die, there’s no excuse for missing the deadline.”
“Do your best, then.” He Yuan sighed, placing a takeout box he’d brought onto Xu’s desk. He pulled out a chair and sat down, thankful that his own submission was already completed.
Bored, He Yuan logged onto V-Station.
Despite using the platform for over a year, he still found the bright, chaotic interface jarring. Yet, it was undeniably the site’s signature style.
His live broadcast recording from yesterday had already been uploaded and was doing surprisingly well: over 100,000 views and more than 2,000 comments.
He Yuan hesitated before clicking on it. His account wasn’t managed by him but by his older sister, He Xin. It was she who had dragged him into streaming in the first place.
To make things worse, He Xin had secretly sent one of her newly made lipsticks to He Yuan’s live broadcast room, hoping for promotion. He, of course, had refused to endorse it. When he tried it on, the experimental color turned out to be a disaster, leaving his lips looking absurdly mismatched.
Unsurprisingly, this debacle became the highlight of the stream, earning him even more attention—though for all the wrong reasons.
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: How did you manage to make the good mermaid color look so ugly? *Live Screenshot*]
Wall: It was ugly to begin with.
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: Dad would vomit two pounds of blood if he saw it.]
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: This is the colorist he personally selected. *Like*]
[Wall: Good taste.]
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: How have you been recently? Do you have enough money to spend?]
[Wall: I don’t want your money.]
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: Why are you so stubborn? I don’t want to spend the money I worked hard to earn on you.]
[Wall: [Big White Bear Indifferent.jpg] ]
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: I saw a new activity on the website. You can try it and make a little more money.]
The other party sent a screenshot of an event page. The four golden characters “Mutual Help” stood out on the banner.
This event aimed to support newcomers, assist contracted uploaders with poor performance, and discover potential creators whose works lacked exposure. Participants could sign up to form “master-apprentice relationships” to achieve mutual growth.
He Yuan glanced at the details. The event sounded appealing—he’d been wanting a new set of pens for a while. Buying tools always gave him the same thrill as girls buying lipstick. The satisfaction was undeniable, even if it meant scrimping later.
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: You’re more than qualified to be a master. Pick up an apprentice and mentor them.]
[Wallder Screen Recording Group: If you train them well, you’ll earn a commission. Even if you don’t, there are basic bonuses and featured recommendations.]
He Yuan found it tempting. After some thought, he replied, “I’ll take a look,” and clicked into the event hall.
The event page was predictably flashy, dominated by bright purple. Profiles of aspiring apprentices scrolled across the screen.
The “Life” section was a catch-all category on V-site, with everything from beauty tutorials to daily vlogs. As a result, there were countless applicants. Many had heavily filtered selfies as avatars, their declarations filled with exaggerated pleas like “Please take me away, 嘤嘤嘤.”
He Yuan wasn’t interested in the beauty-focused creators. It wasn’t that he couldn’t mentor them, but the platform’s beauty section was rife with drama. He preferred to avoid the hassle.
After sifting through the overwhelming stream of profiles, something unique finally caught his attention.
The uploader’s profile featured a bowl of ramen as an avatar, their ID: “What Does Xixizi Eat Today”. The gender was listed as male, with no specific declaration for apprenticeship.
Curious, He Yuan clicked on the profile and selected a couple of their submitted videos to watch.
The content consisted of simple cooking vlogs accompanied by light, pleasant background music and text overlays. The quality was decent, and the videos had a straightforward charm. The uploader seemed like an honest person.
While the editing was basic, there was potential for improvement. The absence of gimmicks or flashy elements appealed to He Yuan’s taste. If the uploader could incorporate some personality—such as showing their face or adding narration—it might attract more viewers.
Satisfied, He Yuan made his decision.
‘Let’s go with this one.’
He Yuan exited the event hall and clicked “pick up” without hesitation.
A small system window popped up immediately:
[Thank you, great “Wall”! You have successfully taken away the hungry “What Does Xixizi Eat Today”. If you take him home, you must be responsible for him to the end! > w <]
He Yuan stared at the overly enthusiastic message and muttered, “…”
Leaving the event hall, he noticed a new “Apprentice” column had appeared in his private chat list on the website.
‘I wonder if they’re online,’ He Yuan thought, waiting patiently for a moment. Then, realizing that he was the one who had taken the initiative, he figured it would be polite to say hello first.
[Wall: Hello.]
About two or three minutes later, the other party replied.
[What Does Xixizi Eat Today: ?]
The brief and puzzled response made it clear the person hadn’t yet realized they’d been “picked up.” He Yuan decided to explain.
[Wall: Mutual help.]
A moment later, an excited reply appeared.
[What Does Xixizi Eat Today: !]
[What Does Xixizi Eat Today: You’re still doing this manually?]
This time, it was He Yuan’s turn to stare at the screen in confusion.
[Wall: ?]
There was a short pause before two more messages popped up.
[What Does Xixizi Eat Today: I worked hard tonight.]
[What Does Xixizi Eat Today: Please send me the full set of your website tutorials, thank you!]
Sitting in front of his computer, He Yuan froze. His fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment before he slowly typed three question marks.
[Wall: ???]
