Chapter 2: A Meager Beginning and a Tiny Stream
The "minimum settlement" was a humiliation disguised as a payout. A sum of 10,000 star credits was transferred to her personal terminal—a paltry amount that Lu Jue's lawyers doubtless argued was generous for someone of her "low standing and contributory negligence." In the opulent economy of the central capital planet, Starfall, it was barely enough for a meal at a mid-tier restaurant. For her, it was her entire life's capital.
She was given one hour to gather her "personal effects." The original Qu Tang's belongings were as pathetic as her social status: a few cheap, frilly dresses that looked like poor imitations of high fashion, some faded holos of the orphanage she grew up in, and a small, outdated personal terminal. There were no gifts from the husbands, no jewels, nothing of value. She was escorted out of the majestic estate by stone-faced robotic servants, not even granted a final glance from any of the beasts she was once married to. She was erased, an unpleasant smudge cleaned from their perfect world.
Using a fraction of her funds, she took a public transport shuttle from the elite high-orbit sector down to the sprawling, chaotic surface of Starfall City. The difference was staggering. Above, it was all sleek spires and silent, floating gardens. Below, it was a symphony of neon lights, roaring anti-grav traffic, and the press of thousands of beastmen of all species and classes. The air hummed with energy and a faint undercurrent of aggression.
She found a "coffin hotel" in a run-down sector—a vertical stack of tiny, pod-like rooms rented by the cycle. Her new home was a space barely large enough to stand up in, containing a hard sleeping pallet, a small sanitizer unit, and a fold-down desk. It was a far cry from her penthouse suite back on Earth, and an even further cry from the husbands' estate. But it was hers. And it was safe.
Panic threatened to bubble up again. 10,000 credits wouldn't last a week. She had no skills relevant to this world—no knowledge of advanced technology, no combat prowess, no high-grade soothing power to get her a job at a clinic.
But she had her voice. She had her mind. And she remembered that in the novel,the interstellar network's entertainment sphere was surprisingly barren. Music was mostly synthesized, formulaic noise designed for passive listening. Stories were grand, epic tales of war and conquest. The simple, heartfelt melodies of her era, the recipes for food that tasted of home and heart, the spine-chilling tales of horror that played on primal fears—these were lost arts.
She needed a platform. Luckily, the original owner's terminal had access to the interstellar equivalent of a live-streaming service: "StarStream."
Setting up her account was her first challenge. She named herself "The Little Nightingale," a humble nod to her beast form and a classic Earth namesake. For her first stream, she decided to keep it simple. She couldn't cook in her tiny pod, and horror stories might be too niche for a first impression. But she could sing.
She used the last of her credits to buy a cheap, decent-quality headset from a second-hand tech stall. She cleaned her tiny pod as best she could, using the plain wall as a backdrop. Taking a deep breath, she thought of a song. Not a grand pop anthem, but something simple, pure, and emotional—a folk song from her homeland about a traveler longing for home. It was fitting.
She opened the stream. The viewer count hovered at zero. Her heart sank, but she had performed in half-empty bars before making it big. She began to sing.
Her voice, a clear, sweet soprano that had captivated millions, filled the tiny space. She poured all her loneliness, her fear, her determination, and her longing for a home she could never return to into the melody. It was a song no one in this universe had ever heard, carried by a technique refined over centuries of musical evolution.
Slowly, a miracle happened. Viewer count:1... then 5... then 20.
The chat, which had been empty, began to flicker to life.
[User456]: What is this song? It's... strange. I feel calm. [FluffyTail]: Her voice is so clear, not synthesized at all! Is this ancient-style singing? [StarScavenger]: I was scrolling past, but my headache just got a little better? How?
Qu Tang's eyes widened. They could feel it. Her D-grade soothing power was weak, but her singing—her genuine, emotional performance—was amplifying it, making it effective in a way raw power alone never could be for the original owner.
She finished the song, her eyes slightly damp. The viewer count was now at 50. A small number, but they were real.
"Thank you for listening," she said, her voice soft. "That was a song from... very far away."
She sang two more songs, a ballad and a gentler pop song. By the end of the thirty-minute stream, she had 100 viewers and a handful of small digital tips—micro-credits that added up to a few dozen star credits. It was nothing, but it was everything. It was proof she could survive.
As she signed off, promising to stream again the next cycle, she felt a flicker of hope. She had taken the first step. She was no longer the cannon fodder wife. She was Streamer "Little Nightingale."
Unbeknownst to her, in a luxurious military command center high above the planet, a white-furred wolf beastman named Lang Mo was reviewing battle data. A subordinate had left a stream open on a secondary terminal to buffer, a recommended "soothing frequency." Lang Mo, his mental sea a storm of fractured instincts and battlefield echoes, reached over to close the annoying tab. As his claw hovered over the button, a clear, poignant melody spilled out, a voice unlike any he'd ever heard. It didn't forcefully try to calm his mind; it… gently sidestepped the chaos, finding a quiet corner untouched by war. For three minutes, the constant, painful howling in his mind quieted to a whisper. He froze, mesmerized, until the song ended and the stream went offline. He stared at the blank screen, a strange, unfaomiliar ache in his chest. Who was that?