In the end, Chunan still filmed the video.

Xiaohan’s singing was actually decent. But whether it was due to his earlier interruption, her voice carried a trace of unnatural tension—like she was nervous.

Chunan hadn’t aimed for perfection anyway. This was just a demo to pitch to entertainment companies. If any showed interest, they’d redo it properly later. Their studios would offer far better conditions than his makeshift setup.

Video editing dragged on until midnight.

Since their bullet train departed at 9 a.m., Xiaohan went to bed early… well, technically early morning now.

But Chunan felt wide awake.

He’d changed little in the footage—only swapped the bedroom backdrop for a sunlit classroom. Warm afternoon light draped over the girl’s shoulders, as if truly transporting her back to student days.

Video production here was simpler than his last world. Most of his time wasn’t spent on effects, but replaying the song again and again.

Since crossing over, he’d never heard music from his past life. As those memories faded, he’d thought he’d made peace with them. Yet here he was, stirred anew.

Through his headphones, the girl’s crystalline voice worked like magic. It pulled him deep inside, retracing half-forgotten moments: every cherished detail, every ripple of youth… and that lost first flutter of young love.

He hadn’t felt this sentimental in years.

Watching the girl strum her guitar on-screen, her silhouette slowly overlapped with another in his mind.

No—not *that* girl. His first love.

People unconsciously polish precious memories until they drift from reality. Now, what remained wasn’t the girl whose face he’d forgotten, but an idealized image: the youth and romance he’d once craved.

In other words, his perfect girlfriend.

…Which looked exactly like Xiaohan. Or rather, the girl on his screen.

The classroom scene showed a lonely girl singing a youthful love song—giddy with first crushes, yet threaded with quiet sorrow.

It sang of youth, hiding a tiny unrequited love story.

A love destined to go unanswered.

Just like his own old regret.

Something inside him twanged.

*SLAP!*

Chunan smacked his own cheek.

“No, no—I’m just tired… She’s Xiaohan. *Xiaohan*.”

Muttering, he uploaded the finished video to his livestream account and shut his laptop. He fled to the bathroom to cool his head.

A full thirty minutes under warm water finally cleared the haze. Dressed and composed, he entered the bedroom.

The bedside lamp still glowed. Xiaohan lay sprawled awkwardly across the bed, limbs akimbo, clothes rumpled. Despite the exposed skin, her posture killed any romantic notion stone-dead.

Chunan’s expression cracked.

*What part of me thought this girl was attractive?*

He could only blame this body’s instincts.

Pity the soul inside wasn’t as bold.

Sighing, he climbed in, gently nudged her aside to claim his space, and turned off the light.

One-third of the night passed in peaceful sleep.

Time flew. They had to leave by 7:30 a.m. for their 9 a.m. train. Xiaohan, clearly unaccustomed to early rises, remained half-asleep even after Chunan guided her onto the bullet train.

The moment they boarded, she snagged his window seat. She folded up the armrest between them, flashed a pleading smile, and tugged him down beside her. Then she curled against him. “So sleepy… Wake me at our stop.”

Chunan: “….”

*If you’re sleeping, why take the window seat?*

Ruining his view.

He said nothing, just sighed and pulled out his phone to check the video.

Posted on his livestream account, it explained Xiaohan’s absence after days off-camera—plus a potential follower boost. But he hadn’t expected it to rocket to #1 in the *single-player games* section within half a day.

…Well, a music video in gaming *was* odd. His default upload settings had placed it there. He’d remembered mid-shower but hadn’t bothered changing it—assuming it’d flop anyway.

This ranking stunned him.

A lucky break, really. Pretty girls drew crowds, and female gamers were rare gems these days. Among them, Xiaohan sat atop the beauty pyramid—even in an industry flooded with filters. Her recent disappearance had only amplified curiosity.

The video became a pressure valve for gossip-hungry viewers. Many clicked for the girl, stayed for the song, then rewatched endlessly—propelling it up the charts. Curious passersby seeing a music video atop gaming rankings clicked too. More clicks meant more heat. Reaching #1 suddenly made sense.

Chunan cared little for the mechanics. He scrolled the comments: praise for Xiaohan’s voice, floods of questions about the song’s origin. Good feedback. Satisfying.

*This should catch some entertainment company’s eye.*

Meanwhile, in an office building in Jiujiang, a man named He Dong clicked the same video.

Head of Dawn Entertainment’s music division—and a hardcore single-player gamer—he often killed downtime browsing gaming content. A rare moment of slacking off.

But today’s #1 spot held a music video. Intriguing.

The uploader, Chunan, looked familiar. He’d enjoyed this young streamer’s style before Chunan switched games.

*So the gamer’s branching into music now?*