Chapter 4: The Lion's Gaze and the Phantom's Toll
The phantom chill of the Midnight Train seemed to linger in Qu Tang's tiny pod long after the stream ended, but it was quickly burned away by the warm, dizzying reality of her success. The credits that flowed into her account were more than mere numbers; they were the solid ground beneath her feet after weeks of freefall. She could finally draw a full breath without the sharp edge of panic cutting into her lungs. This was the fruit of her own labor, a tangible result of her talent and courage, and it tasted sweeter than any privilege granted by the Beast Husbands ever had.
Her world, once shrunk to the oppressive grandeur of the Beast Husbands' estate and then to this three-meter-by-three-meter cube, now felt expansive, filled with possibility. The pod began to transform, reflecting her inner change. Her first investment was a roll of high-grade sound-dampening foam, meticulously applied to the wall behind her, silencing the faint, tinny echo that Bai Youyou had so deftly weaponized. Next, she purchased a simple but elegant virtual backdrop—a serene, animated image of a misty mountain valley under a star-dusted sky, with a gentle stream flowing in the foreground, a quiet homage to the classical paintings of her past life. It was a world away from the cold, metallic sterility that defined mainstream Beast World aesthetics. She also bought a small, real potted star-moss, its bioluminescent blue leaves adding a touch of living warmth to her surroundings.
Her channel, "The Little Nightingale," blossomed into a trinity of carefully curated personas. By day, she was the gentle songstress, her voice a clear stream weaving through the digital noise, pulling at the heartstrings of lonely clerks and weary soldiers, her D-grade power unconsciously amplified by the genuine emotion she poured into every note. By evening, she became the "Ancient Chef," demonstrating how a handful of cheap root vegetables and a dash of oil could be transformed into golden, fragrant scallion pancakes, the sizzle and aroma (faithfully simulated for her audience) a comforting novelty in a world of efficient, tasteless nutrient paste. And by night, she was the "Whispering Phantom," a storyteller who spun tales that tapped into the primal fears lurking beneath every beastman's powerful exterior, her voice a masterful instrument of suspense and dread.
The encounter with BaiYueYue0815 was a scar on her confidence, a constant reminder that the peaceful life she was building was a beautiful illusion. The original female lead was a serpent in the garden, waiting for the moment to strike. This knowledge forged Qu Tang's resolve into steel. Each new subscriber was a brick in her fortress, each donation an arrow in her quiver for the quiet war she was waging for her independence and survival. She practiced her songs with more focus, researched her recipes with more care, and crafted her stories with more intricate detail, honing her skills as her only true weapons.
Yet, the attention she attracted was not limited to supportive fans or a jealous rival. In the highest, most rarefied strata of power, where star-dust was tread into the carpets, a different kind of predator had taken note. On the bridge of the majestic flagship Solar Pride, Jin Chen, the Golden Lion Beast Husband, concluded a fleet logistics meeting with a low growl of dismissal. His officers filed out, leaving him in the deep quiet of his command chair. A confidential report, flagged by his AI for its peculiarity, awaited his review. It glowed on his personal screen, its contents both mundane and deeply perplexing.
"Subject: Qu Tang. Former wife of Patriarch Lu Jue. Officially divorced three cycles ago. Reason cited: irreconcilable differences. Settlement: minimal, as per the pre-nuptial agreement. Last confirmed residence: a low-rent pod unit in the Trench Sector, Starfall City." His voice, a low rumble that could quiet a war room, held a thread of displeasure. "The Trench Sector…" he murmured, his lion's tail giving a single, dismissive flick. Lu Jue's ruthlessness was legendary, but this felt excessively cold, even for him. He scrolled through the attached data. Her streaming statistics, her meager income logs, the archived recordings of her broadcasts. He commanded the system to play a clip of her singing—the haunting folk song of longing for home. His lion's ears, usually perpetually alert for threats, twitched almost imperceptibly. The melody was alien, yet it plucked a string of deep, dormant nostalgia within him, a feeling his battle-scarred mental sea usually suppressed. It was… unsettling.
Then, he pulled up the archive of the horror story, "The Midnight Train." He listened to the entire narrative, his powerful frame statue-still, his expression a mask of imperial calm. As the story reached its chilling conclusion—the protagonist's damnation to an eternal, lonely duty—a low, involuntary growl resonated deep in his chest. It was not anger, but a primal, unsettled instinct. The tale had bypassed his immense physical power and tapped into a deeper, more visceral fear—the fear of the inevitable, a fate that could not be fought, dominated, or conquered. It was a brilliant, insidious attack on the psyche.
"This is not a D-grade soothing power," he stated to the empty, gleaming bridge, his golden eyes narrowing to slits. "This is psychological manipulation. An unconventional weapon." His paranoia, a necessary and deeply ingrained survival trait, began weaving intricate theories. Was this all a ploy? Had she been a plant all along, sent by a rival political faction within the Federation? Her sudden, drastic change in behavior, her demand for a divorce, her rapid rise in a completely new field—it was all too convenient, too orchestrated. Perhaps her previous displays of madness were an act, a performance to be dismissed. Now, freed from the constraints of the marriage, she was executing her true purpose: building a following and influencing the masses with this strange, potent, emotive power. He needed to understand her. To observe her closely. To determine if she was a threat that needed to be monitored, controlled, or… neutralized.
A direct approach was inelegant and would reveal his hand. Instead, with a few deft taps of his claws on the console, he created an anonymous, high-tier subscriber account for himself. He named it GoldenGaze, a name that reflected his nature and his intent—to watch, unblinkingly.
The next time Qu Tang went live for a horror stream, GoldenGaze was there, his anonymous avatar a silent, looming presence in the viewer list. The story tonight was about a sentient, haunted mirror that showed its victims their deepest, most painful regrets. Qu Tang's voice was a masterclass in suspense, dripping with eerie description and pregnant pauses that stretched the tension to its breaking point.
Jin Chen listened, his claws unconsciously extending, scoring faint, hairline marks on the polished obsidian surface of his command console. He felt the story's hooks sink into his own mind, pulling at threads of past battles, of strategic decisions made in split seconds that had cost the lives of good soldiers under his command. It was uncomfortable. Agonizing. A brutal, emotional catharsis he had never allowed himself to experience. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to stop the stream. The pain was… captivating. It was a vulnerability he would never permit in anyone else, but here, in the anonymity of his pod, he endured it.
At the story's most devastating peak, when the protagonist was utterly trapped by the weeping phantom in the glass, Jin Chen's hand spasmed with the tension and he accidentally clicked the donation button, sending a massive, anonymous tip of 10,000 credits—a king's ransom for a streamer in the Trench Sector—flashing across her stream.
In her pod, Qu Tang was mid-sentence, fully immersed in her performance, when the notification blared, accompanied by a dazzling, golden visual effect that dominated her stream overlay. [Anonymous User GoldenGaze] has donated 10,000 Star Credits!
She faltered, the meticulously crafted eerie atmosphere shattered. The chat exploded into a frenzy of disbelief. [FluffyTail]: WHAT IN THE ANCESTRAL REALMS?! [StarScavenger]: By the beast gods! Who is this lavish patron?! [User101]: A TIP LIKE THAT? FOR A HORROR STORY? IS THIS REAL?
Qu Tang's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. It was too much. The anonymity. The name that felt so ominously predatory. GoldenGaze. Was it one of them? Was it Lu Jue checking on her? Jin Chen? Was this a trap? A way to trace her transactions, to remind her that they could snatch away everything she built in an instant? Her blood ran cold.
"Th-thank you, generous viewer GoldenGaze," she stammered, her voice losing its phantom whisper for a moment, revealing the very real, sharp edge of her fear. She quickly gathered the shreds of her composure, finishing the story, but the magical atmosphere had been irrevocably pierced. For the rest of the stream, she felt an invisible weight, the sensation of being watched, studied, hunted from the shadows of the vast network.
After she signed off, the adrenaline drained away, leaving her shaky and cold. She sat in the sudden silence of her pod, staring at the transaction log. The 10,000 credits glowed on the screen, a number that represented both salvation and a profound threat. She couldn't reject it. She desperately needed it for rent, for food, for better equipment. But the chilling certainty settled in her bones: at least one of her ex-husbands was now acutely aware of her. The walls of her tiny, hard-won world were becoming transparent.
Meanwhile, in a luxurious apartment that overlooked the sparkling, silent spires of the elite sector, Bai Youyou watched the stream replay, her delicate, pretty face tightening into a mask of cold fury. She had seen the massive donation from the anonymous benefactor. Jealousy, green and venomous, coiled tightly in her heart. This lowly, discarded Nightingale wasn't just clumsily stumbling into her destined role; she was attracting powerful, anonymous patrons? It was an outrage. She, Bai Youyou, was the one meant to be surrounded by adoration and powerful protectors. This orphan from a fourth-class planet was a stain on the natural order.
She had tried subtlety and condescension. It was time for a more direct and brutal approach. She needed to utterly discredit this upstart, to prove her soothing power was a fake, a dangerous trick that could harm the public. Picking up her expensive, pearl-white terminal, she placed a call, her voice sweet as poisoned honey, a stark contrast to the malice in her eyes.
"Uncle Meng? It's Youyou. I have a small matter I need your help with... it concerns a streamer who might be practicing unlicensed and potentially harmful soothing therapy. Yes, a D-grade, quite reckless... I'm just worried for public safety..."
The net, woven with jealousy and lies, began to tighten.