I was sitting on the bed with my laptop on my lap, the empty ice cream tub abandoned on the nightstand, staring at the Wetube screen with a mixture of excitement and terror.
"Okay," I said out loud, because apparently talking to myself had become my default personality now. "Let's do this. Just… upload a video. Simple. Millions of people do it every day."
I was already logged into my personal Wetube account—the one I used to watch videos, leave occasional comments, and generally be a passive viewer.
But to upload content, I needed a creator account.
I clicked on my profile icon in the top right corner and selected "Switch to Creator Account".
A new page loaded with a form:
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WELCOME TO THE WETUBE CREATOR PROGRAM
To begin your journey as a creator, we need some basic information:
Full Name: [Text field]
Date of Birth: [Date field]
Country of Residence: [Dropdown menu]
Content Type: ☐ Music ☐ Vlogs ☐ Educational ☐ Entertainment ☐ Other
Channel Name (Stage Name): [Text field]
This will be the public name viewers see. Choose wisely—you can only change it once every 90 days.
---
I paused at the last field.
Stage name.
This was… actually important. Like, really important.
"Cassandra Whitmore" was out of the question. I had signed away my rights to that surname. Legally, I was just "Cassandra" now.
But "Cassandra" alone felt… incomplete. Exposed. Like something essential was missing.
I needed something that was mine. Something meaningful. Something that represented who I was now, not who Cassandra had been.
And then, as if the universe had decided to make this moment even more dramatic:
Ding.
That familiar sound.
The blue screen appeared, floating in the air in front of my laptop:
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[ NEW MISSION ]
MISSION: Create a stage name
DESCRIPTION: A stage name is not just a label—it's an identity. It's how the world will know you. Choose something that resonates with who you are and who you wish to become. This name will be with you for the rest of your career.
REWARD: ???
---
"Seriously?" I said to the screen. "You couldn't let me have this moment without additional pressure?"
The screen didn't respond. It just hovered there, waiting.
I sighed and leaned back, looking at the ceiling.
Stage name. Something memorable. Something unique. Something that was me.
My first mental attempts were… terrible.
Cass Singer? No, too obvious and uncreative.
Cassandra Rose? Too generic. There were probably already two hundred Cassandra Roses out there.
Winter Voice? Too edgy. Sounded like an anime character name.
I started thinking about who I was. Not just Cassandra from the Whitmore family, but me. The girl who had reincarnated from another world. The girl who had a system. The girl who was trying to rewrite a destiny that was supposed to end in tragedy.
I thought about music. About how it had made me feel when I sang. About how it had made Marcus feel.
About voice. About sound. About echo.
Echo.
The word resonated in my mind.
An echo was something that came back. Something that persisted even after the original sound disappeared. Something that touched and resonated through space.
And I… I had echoed across universes. I had brought songs from another world to this one.
But just "Echo" felt incomplete too.
I needed something more. Something that added layers.
And then it hit me.
Cass Echo.
Simple. Memorable. With a personal meaning that only I fully knew.
"Cass" from Cassandra—keeping my identity but making it more accessible, more modern.
"Echo" for what I was—an echo from another life, bringing sounds that otherwise would never have existed here.
I tested it mentally. Cass Echo.
It sounded good. It flowed naturally when spoken aloud. It wasn't too complicated or pretentious, but it also wasn't generic.
"Cass Echo," I said out loud, testing how it sounded.
And something about it felt… right.
I typed into the field: Cass Echo
I filled out the rest of the form quickly—basic info, selected "Music" as the content type, accepted the terms of service that I definitely didn't read completely.
Clicked "CREATE CREATOR ACCOUNT".
The page loaded for a few seconds.
And then:
Ding.
Not the sound from the site. The sound from the system.
---
[ MISSION COMPLETE! ]
[ REWARD GRANTED: Guitar Skill - Expert Level ]
---
Before I could process it, that familiar warmth sensation ran through my body, concentrating in my hands.
Knowledge began to flow into my mind—not overwhelming like when I received the initial singing skills, but steady and solid.
I knew how to hold a guitar now. I knew the finger positions for every chord. I knew about picking technique, fingerstyle, rhythm. I knew about chord progressions, scales, music theory applied to the instrument.
It was as if I had practiced guitar for years.
When the sensation passed, a new screen appeared:
---
[ SKILLS UPDATED ]
Skills:
• Angelic Voice
• Guitar - Expert Level
NOTE: Skill Levels
Beginner - Basic understanding, requires significant practice
Practitioner - Functional competence, can perform simple pieces
Adept - Solid skill, can perform complex pieces
Expert - High proficiency, can teach others
Master - Exceptional, recognized as an authority
Grandmaster - Legendary, among the best in the world
---
Expert. I had jumped straight to Expert in guitar.
"Okay, that's…" I looked at my hands, flexing my fingers. "That's actually really useful."
Because now I could not only sing—I could accompany myself. I could create more varied content. I could eventually do live performances with just me and a guitar.
"Thank you, system," I said to the air. "That was actually a very practical gift."
The screen blinked once and disappeared.
My attention returned to the laptop, where the Wetube page had loaded my new creator account.
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WELCOME, CASS ECHO!
Your creator account is active.
Subscribers: 0
Total Views: 0
Videos: 0
Ready to upload your first video?
---
Zero. Zero in everything.
It was both terrifying and somehow… liberating?
I was starting from absolute zero. No safety net. No family name to boost me. No connections.
Just me and my talent.
"Okay," I took a deep breath. "Let's do this."
I clicked "UPLOAD VIDEO".
A new window opened, asking to select the file.
I navigated to where I had saved the video Marcus sent—Someone_Like_You_FINAL.mp4—and selected it.
The upload progress bar started crawling across the screen. 1%… 3%… 5%…
While it uploaded, other fields appeared:
Title: [Text field]
Description: [Text box]
Tags: [Text field]
Thumbnail: [Image upload]
Privacy Settings: ☐ Public ☐ Unlisted ☐ Private
For the title, I kept it simple: Someone Like You - Cass Echo (Original Song)
For the description, I wrote:
---
My first original song. About lost love, letting go, and finding the strength to move on.
Thank you for listening. ♥
Composition and Performance: Cass Echo
Production and Editing: VisionWave Studios
---
For tags, I added: original music, ballad, piano, debut, new artist, Someone Like You, Cass Echo
Marcus had included some thumbnail options in the email—screenshots from the video at key moments. I chose one where my eyes were closed, tears visible, capturing the raw emotion of the song.
For privacy, my hand hovered over the options.
Private meant no one could see it unless I shared the link.
Unlisted meant only people with the link could find it.
Public meant anyone could find and watch it.
My heart was pounding hard now.
This was real. This was really happening.
Once I made this public, there was no going back. I would be out there. Exposed. Vulnerable.
But also… free.
I selected Public.
The upload had finished. 100%.
A big blue button appeared at the bottom of the screen: PUBLISH
I looked at it for a long moment.
My hands were trembling slightly.
"Okay," I whispered. "It's fine. You can do this. Just… click the button."
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and clicked.
I heard the confirmation sound from the site—a cheerful little swoosh.
I opened my eyes.
---
VIDEO PUBLISHED SUCCESSFULLY!
Your video is now live at: [wetube.com/watch?v=dQw4xK9pL2m](
---
It was done.
I had really done it.
I clicked the link to see the video page.
The thumbnail was there, sharp and professional. The title was correct. Everything looked good.
And in the corner, the view counter: 0
I looked at it for a moment, then refreshed the page.
1 view
Someone had seen it! Someone was watching right now!
My heart jumped. I refreshed again.
2 views
"Oh my God," I whispered. "It's growing. People are actually—"
I refreshed again. 3 views
And again. 4 views
And again. 5 views
And again. 6 views
I was about to refresh a seventh time when something clicked in my brain.
Wait.
Each refresh counted as a view.
I… I had been refreshing every few seconds.
The six views were… all mine.
"Oh," I said out loud to the empty room.
And then, feeling my face heat up completely with embarrassment: "Oh no."
I had literally given myself the first six views by obsessively refreshing the page.
No one else had seen it.
It was just… me.
I gave an embarrassed cough, as if someone could hear and judge me, and quickly closed the tab.
"Alright," I murmured, burying my face in my hands. "That was… that was embarrassing. Let's just pretend that didn't happen."
I lay back on the bed, looking at the ceiling, the realization slowly sinking in.
The video was beautiful. Marcus had done an amazing job. My performance had been emotionally powerful.
But none of that mattered if no one saw it.
Wetube wasn't just going to… magically promote my video to millions of people. I was a new account. Zero subscribers. Zero history. The algorithm had no reason to push my content.
I needed organic views. I needed people to actually find and watch the video. I needed… marketing?
"Crap," I whispered. "I didn't think about that part."
I had assumed that if the video was good enough, it would somehow just… take off. But the real world—even a web novel world—didn't work like that.
Talent wasn't enough. You also needed exposure.
I picked up my phone, looking at it thoughtfully.
Marcus had mentioned knowing someone who did professional promotion.
But that meant spending more money. And while I had two million, I also didn't want to be stupid about how I spent it.
Maybe… maybe I should wait a bit? See if the video gained traction naturally first?
I put the phone aside and burrowed under the covers.
"Tomorrow," I decided. "I'll check tomorrow morning. See if there's any change. And then decide what to do."
But as I closed my laptop and turned off the light, a part of me couldn't help but worry.
What if no one saw it?
What if all this work—all the emotion, all the vulnerability—just… disappeared into the void of the internet?
"No," I said firmly into the dark. "Don't think like that. You made something amazing. People will see it. Eventually."
I just had to have faith.
And maybe… maybe check the view counter just one more time before bed.
Just to be sure.