Chapter 3: A Whisper in the Static, A Knife in the Dark
The meager glow of the holographic interface was the only light in Qu Tang's tiny pod, painting her face in shifting shades of blue and white. For the past several cycles, a grueling routine had taken root. Her world had shrunk from the sprawling, opulent estate of the Beast Husbands to this three-meter-by-three-meter cube, yet it felt infinitely larger. Here, she was free.
Her days were a cycle of simple survival: a bland nutrient bar for breakfast, a careful review of her dwindling credits, followed by hours of planning her streams. The audience for "The Little Nightingale" was growing, seedling by seedling. A few hundred consistent viewers now lingered in her chat, their digital handles becoming familiar friends: FluffyTail, a sympathetic fox beastman; StarScavenger, a gruff but kind badger who worked salvage; SilentListener, who never typed but whose presence was a constant.
The micro-donations they sent—a handful of star credits here, a virtual "energy stone" there—were her lifeline. They paid for her pod, her basic sustenance, and the cheap headset that was her most vital tool. It was a hand-to-mouth existence, a fragile soap bubble that could pop with one mishap, but it was hers. The constant, gnawing fear of discovery by her ex-husbands was a cold knot in her stomach, but it was overshadowed by the fierce, burning pride of building something from nothing.
Today's stream had been a singing session. She had chosen a melancholic ballad from her past life, a song about lost love and resilience. As her voice, clear and imbued with the sorrow of two lifetimes, filled the cramped space, the chat had scrolled with quiet empathy.
[FluffyTail]: This song... it makes my heart ache, but in a good way. Like finally letting out a breath I've been holding. [StarScavenger]: My mate used to hum something like this. Thank you, Little Nightingale.
She saw the notifications pop up: a small shower of star credits, enough for another day's rent. Gratitude warmed her, a stark contrast to the sterile coldness of her previous life. These strangers, connected only by the invisible threads of the network, were her community now.
It was as she was finishing the song, her last note hanging tenderly in the air, that a new user joined. Their entry was announced not with a simple chime, but with a soft, melodious fanfare—a feature paid for with a significant amount of credits. Their name glowed with a pearlescent sheen, adorned with the badges of a top-tier subscriber: BaiYueYue0815.
The name was a splash of ice water on Qu Tang's fragile warmth. In the novel, "BaiYueYue" was the online alias of Bai Youyou, the original female lead. Coincidence? Her instincts, sharpened by years in the cutthroat music industry, screamed no.
The user didn't speak immediately. Qu Tang forced her voice to remain steady as she thanked her viewers, the practiced smile on her face feeling brittle. She could feel the weight of that silent, gleaming username like a predator's gaze in the dark.
Then, the comments appeared, highlighted and pinned to the top of the chat by the user's privileged status.
[BaiYueYue0815]: What a uniquely moving voice, little sister. It resonates with a certain... rustic charm. It feels familiar, though. Are you sure it's original? It reminds me of an obscure folk tune from the Third Sector.
Qu Tang's blood ran cold. The accusation was velvet-wrapped, but the blade inside was sharp: plagiarism.
[BaiYueYue0815]: And the soothing effect is quite intriguing! It feels very... broad, like a gentle mist. It lacks the deep, targeted precision of formal therapy, of course. Have you considered getting a professional power assessment? I know an excellent clinic that could help clarify your true grade. It might be higher than you think!
Another knife, twisted with feigned concern. She was undermining Qu Tang's credibility, suggesting her D-grade rating was a lie meant to garner sympathy, and her method was unprofessional, a mere "mist" compared to Bai Youyou's own "precision."
The chat, once filled with warmth, now flickered with uncertainty. [User22]: Wow, BaiYueYue is here! She's a renowned A-grade therapist! [User33]: If she says it sounds familiar... maybe it's copied? [FluffyTail]: Now, hold on! The Nightingale has always been original!
Qu Tang's mind raced. She couldn't afford to be defensive. She took a slow, quiet breath, calling upon the persona of the unshakable queen she once was.
"Thank you for your insightful comments, esteemed BaiYueYue," she said, her voice sweet as honey yet laced with a core of steel. "The songs I sing are old melodies from my home, a small place far from the Central Worlds. They are dear to me, and I'm glad they can bring comfort. As for my power," she continued, her tone softening into a believable humility, "you are correct. It is only a D-grade, as my official registration states. I am no trained therapist. I merely open my heart and sing. If it brings a moment's peace to anyone, I am humbled and grateful. I could never compare to an expert of your caliber."
It was a perfect parry. She acknowledged the comment without accepting the accusation, presented herself as humble and self-aware, and subtly exposed the pettiness of a high-level expert critiquing a low-level streamer. The chat quickly swung back in her favor.
[StarScavenger]: See? She's just sharing her gift! Leave her be! [User101]: Your heart is your grade, Nightingale! Don't listen to them!
[BaiYueYue0815]: Of course, little sister. Forgive my overzealous care. It's just so admirable to see you working so hard in such... modest surroundings. The audio quality does betray your circumstances. You truly deserve better.
The final blow was a masterclass in condescension—a faux-polite jab at her poverty before the user gracefully exited the channel.
The stream ended shortly after. Qu Tang slumped back in her chair, her hands trembling. The encounter had been brief, but it was a declaration of war. Bai Youyou had found her. The original female lead saw her not just as a curious anomaly, but as a threat. The peaceful life she was building was an illusion. The shadows of the plot were closing in.
A surge of desperation, hot and sharp, cut through her fear. She needed to grow faster, to become stronger, to build a wall of support so high that Bai Youyou's subtle knives could not reach her. She needed something unique, something that would make her channel indispensable.
That night, sleep eluded her. The hum of the city outside her viewport was a constant reminder of her vulnerability. Lying on her hard pallet, she stared at the faint light pollution staining the sky. Beastmen were powerful, but their culture, as described in the novel, was blunt, centered on conquest and tangible power. What about the intangible? What about the things that lurked in the periphery of vision, the fears that couldn't be fought with claw and fang?
An idea, dark and thrilling, unfurled in her mind. Horror.
The next day, she changed her streaming schedule. Instead of her usual afternoon songs, she prepared for a new experiment. She used the room's light controls to dim her pod to near darkness. She positioned her chair close to the microphone. The title of her stream was a calculated risk:
"[After Dark] The Midnight Train: An Ancient Tale of Terror"
The thumbnail was a dark, misty image of phantom rails she'd found in the public database.
When she went live, the viewer count was lower, around eighty. The chat was curious. "Horror?What is that? A battle story?" "Is this a new type of ASMR?Scaring us calm?"
Qu Tang leaned close to the mic, her voice dropping to a hushed, intimate whisper, a stark contrast to her singing tone.
"Hello, everyone. Thank you for joining me in the dark. Tonight, I won't be singing. I want to tell you a story. It's an old, old tale from my homeland, about a place between places, and a train that doesn't belong to any schedule..."
She began to narrate. She poured all her own fears—of being discovered, of her fragile future, of the terrifying world she was trapped in—into the story of the Midnight Train. She described the creeping chill, the loneliness of the phantom platform, the way the train's lights cut through the rain like dead, yellow eyes. She used pauses, letting the silence hiss with static, making her listeners lean in. She described the conductor's hollow smile, the feeling of the cold, metallic ticket in the protagonist's hand.
She wasn't just telling a story; she was weaving a spell. Her D-grade soothing power, instead of projecting calm, was now amplifying the mood, heightening the tension, making the fear more palpable.
The chat, usually a lively scroll, was completely, utterly still. Not a single message. She could feel eighty people holding their breath.
As she reached the climax—the protagonist realizing the ticket was for him, that he was now the new conductor, forever bound to the train—she let her voice crack with a perfect blend of terror and despair.
A sharp, startled yelp echoed in her headphones—someone had unmuted their mic by accident. Then, the chat exploded.
[FluffyTail]: AAAAAAAH! BY THE ANCESTORS! MY TAIL IS A POOF BALL! [StarScavenger]: Seven Hells! I nearly shifted and clawed my terminal! That was terrifying! [SilentListener]: ... [SilentListener] has donated 100 Star Credits. [User101]: I'M NEVER SLEEPING AGAIN! THAT WAS THE GREATEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD! MORE!
The stream ended with over 300 viewers, a new record. The donation notifications chimed incessantly, a symphony far richer than any before. They weren't just paying for comfort; they were paying for the exhilarating, primal thrill of being safely terrified.
Qu Tang, her heart still pounding from the performance, let out a shaky laugh. She had done it. She had found her weapon.
Unbeknownst to her, in a luxurious orbital command center, a lion beastman of immense stature named Jin Chen was reviewing fleet logistics. A subordinate's terminal, left open on a secondary screen, was replaying the archived stream. Jin Chen, his mental sea a roaring tempest of pride and strategy, reached to close the distraction. But then, the whispery, compelling voice filled the quiet room, spinning a tale of such visceral, unfamiliar dread that the roaring in his mind... paused. Not calmed, but distracted, captivated by a new, insidious kind of power. He listened, mesmerized, until the very end, his golden eyes narrowed. When the stream ended, he immediately pulled up the channel details. "The Little Nightingale." A D-grade Nightingale? Impossible. This was a strategic anomaly. A potential threat... or a potential tool. The paranoid Beast Husband began his own investigation, his curiosity now fully, dangerously piqued.