Chapter 7: The Uninvited Guest and the First Note
The silence in Qu Tang's new apartment was a palpable thing, thick and heavy after the digital thunder of the Arena.
The intoxicating rush of victory had faded, leaving behind the cold, metallic taste of reality. Jin Chen's final donation—50,000 stars—was not a reward; it was a brand. It marked her as his property, a fascinating specimen he had paid to observe and protect.
The credits were a fortress, but she felt its walls were his, not hers.
She moved through the next few days with a mechanical precision. She streamed, sang her songs, and told her stories, but the joy was tempered by a new, constant vigilance. The view from her single window, a sliver of grey sky between towering spires, was a constant reminder that she was still small,
still visible to those who knew where to look. The lavish, unnamed grocery delivery sat in her preservation unit like a trove of poisoned fruit. Using them felt like accepting a tribute, a tacit agreement to her role in the Lion's menagerie.
She could not bring herself to cook with them.
Her only true solace was a secret. In the deep quiet of the night, after her streams ended, she would sit by the window and hum the old lullaby from her childhood, the one she had closed her Arena set with.
It was a fragment of a soul she thought she'd lost, a melody untouched by the Beast World's harshness.
Singing it softly was a balm on the constant, low-grade fear that hummed in her veins. It was her private rebellion, a tiny piece of Qu Tang that belonged to no one but herself.
During an evening stream dedicated to folk songs, she sang a mournful ballad about a lone wolf separated from its pack, its howl a desperate song against a cold, uncaring moon. As the last note faded, a donation notification appeared.
It wasn't accompanied by the usual gaudy visual effects of her new, wealthy patrons. Instead, it was a simple, stark image: a silhouetted wolf against a luminous full moon.
[SilentListener] has donated 500 Star Credits.
Then, beneath it, text appeared. The handle was familiar—a constant, silent presence in her chat—but they had never spoken. [SilentListener]:The wolf does not howl from sadness. It howls to call its pack. To tell the world it survives.
Qu Tang's breath hitched. The comment was not praise; it was understanding. It was a key sliding into a lock deep within her, articulating a feeling she herself had only barely grasped. Before she could even think to respond, another message followed. [SilentListener]:Your howl is heard.
And then, they were gone. The status shifted to offline.
The encounter left her oddly unsettled, yet a fragile warmth bloomed in her chest. Amidst the millions, someone had not just listened; they had heard. It was a connection more genuine and profound than the oppressive, clinical attention of GoldenGaze.
That fragile warmth was shattered the next morning by an official missive from the Interstellar Streamers' Guild. The header alone turned her blood to ice: Formal Complaint Regarding Unlicensed Soothing Practices.
The document was dry, legalistic, and utterly devastating. A complaint had been filed alleging she was practicing unlicensed therapeutic soothing—a highly regulated activity requiring certifications she could never obtain. It cited "public safety concerns regarding unvetted, low-grade power manipulation" and her "repeated on-stream claims of providing mental sea relief." The language was bureaucratic, but the venom behind it was Bai Youyou's.
The serpent had abandoned subtle gossip for a direct, legal strike.
A preliminary review was launched. Until its conclusion, any mention of therapeutic effects could mean immediate license suspension and crippling fines.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. This was it. This was how she would be silenced. Her unique value was the genuine, if weak, soothing power amplified by her performance. If she could not even mention it, how could she explain her appeal? How could she promote her streams? She was being muzzled.
Tears of sheer frustration pricked her eyes. She felt the walls closing in, the legal noose tightening. She was just building something for herself, and the world was systematically trying to tear it down.
The fear curdled, transforming into a hard, cold nugget of anger. No. She would not go quietly. She would not be erased.
That night, her stream was titled: "Whispers from the Attic: A Story of Hidden Things." She did not sing. She did not mention soothing, therapy, or mental seas once. She simply began to tell a story. It was a tale of a young woman in a grand, oppressive house who discovers a forgotten diary hidden in a dusty attic.
The diary belonged to a previous occupant, a gentle soul systematically driven to madness by subtle whispers, poisoned kindness, and cunningly fabricated accusations until she was carted away, her voice forever erased from the world.
Qu Tang poured all her fury, her fear, and her defiance into the narrative. The young heroine of the story fought back not with violence, but with truth, using the rediscovered diary to expose the lies and reveal the strength of the woman wronged.
The allegory was a shield and a sword.
Lang Mo's Perspective:
Aboard the deep-space cruiser Howling Void, Lang Mo watched the stream from his Spartan quarters.
The White Wolf Beastman was a statue of focused intensity, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the screen. The lone wolf ballad had resonated within him on a primal level, echoing the isolation he wore like a second skin. Her voice didn't force calm upon his turbulent mental sea; it spoke to the creature beneath the soldier, acknowledging its existence. It was a resonance he craved.
When he saw the guild notice flash on a news feed, a low, dangerous growl escaped him. He knew the taste of bureaucratic warfare. It was a coward's weapon. His instincts screamed to hunt down the threat, but this one was formless, a ghost in the system.
He watched her story stream, his expression grim. He heard the defiance woven into every word, the clever subversion of the attack into art. A flicker of respect, fierce and protective, ignited in his chest. She was not breaking. She was adapting, fighting with the tools she had. His silent watchfulness sharpened into a vow. He would continue to listen. And if this shadow ever took a form he could sink his teeth into, he would be ready.
Jin Chen's Perspective:
Jin Chen received the report amidst more pressing fleet matters. The guild complaint against "Qu Tang" was flagged by his AI. He scanned it with a dismissive flick of his claw. Petty. Beneath his notice.
Yet, it was an irritation. The "Little Nightingale" was his subject of study, a fascinating variable in a controlled experiment. This complaint was an external contaminant, a clumsy attempt to interfere with his observation. Someone was muddying his waters.
He monitored her stream that night through a secure channel. He decoded her allegorical story instantly. The cleverness of it—turning a legal attack into narrative fuel—pleased his analytical mind. "Resourceful," he murmured. Rather than crumble, she was evolving under pressure. Excellent data.
But the nuisance itself needed to be eliminated. It was… untidy. He would not have his research disrupted. With a few efficient commands, he dispatched a message to his family's legal consortium. The directive was cold and simple: Terminate the Guild's review of streamer Qu Tang. Permanently. Ensure no further interruptions.
He leaned back, satisfied. The Lion had protected his intriguing new possession. Not for her sake, but for the integrity of his own curiosity.