Xia Xinyan wasn’t exactly fond of wearing clothes at home.

...Not that she went completely unclothed—she simply preferred skipping pants for the sake of comfort.

Perhaps it was just habit. Now that Ling Mo lived with her, she hadn’t adjusted yet.

And even if she had, she likely wouldn’t have cared.

Though she’d said she didn’t see Ling Mo as another version of herself, their situation was unique. She didn’t treat him as an outsider—he was someone she knew inside and out—so she’d unconsciously let her guard down around him.

Like feeling zero awkwardness about not wearing pants in front of him…

No, no, no… actually, it *was* still a bit inappropriate, right?

Her thoughts drifted back to what she’d pondered that evening.

She turned and headed to her bedroom. “I’ll go put something on.”

Ling Mo remained momentarily stunned even after the bedroom door clicked shut.

Could it be… this was how Xia Xinyan always lived alone?

Maybe she’d just forgotten he was staying here now…

He shook his head to clear those stray thoughts and went to wash his face in the bathroom.

At breakfast, the atmosphere stayed perfectly normal. Neither mentioned the earlier moment—as if nothing happened.

For Xia Xinyan, Ling Mo’s cooking was a pleasant surprise. In her memory, *she* at this age had only just started learning to cook in the dorm, with limited skills. Yet Ling Mo’s spread tasted genuinely good.

It exceeded her expectations.

In every aspect.

Seems this guy had at least basic emotional intelligence—cooking to earn goodwill.

Not bad, not bad.

“Um… how is it?” Ling Mo asked, seeing her enjoy the meal.

“Really good,” Xia Xinyan smiled after wiping her mouth. “Didn’t know you could cook.”

“Ah…” Ling Mo gave a sheepish grin. “Learned back home… not great though…”

“No, it’s quite good,” she encouraged.

A faint blush touched Ling Mo’s cheeks. “Thanks.”

“By the way, any plans today?” Xia Xinyan asked suddenly.

Ling Mo hesitated. “Club gathering this afternoon.”

“I see,” she nodded. “Go ahead. Don’t worry about me—I’ll call if needed.”

“Oh… okay.” He stood awkwardly and began clearing the table.

He’d worried she’d insist on gaming together. Never expected her to agree so readily.

He felt pleased… yet oddly unsettled.

She seemed *too* considerate—almost making him feel undeserving.

Frankly, he just wasn’t used to it.

He said nothing more, bid her goodbye, and left.

Xia Xinyan didn’t stop him.

Rather, she *hoped* he’d go out more.

Ling Mo was naturally conservative. Sudden shifts in his social circle left him struggling to adapt. Her sudden presence was exactly that kind of shift.

This dissonance could leave him lost—and strain their bond. She wanted neither. So she gave him space, without forcing him to cut ties with his old life.

It also gave her quiet time.

Game matters weren’t urgent. Clearing yesterday’s first warzone dungeon was already a solid start. Everything else could wait—you can’t master it all at once. And Ling Mo’s personality needed gentle guidance.

But now… it was time to prepare.

Just one day after Realm of Divine Descent’s launch, early players with game pods had formed strong opinions. Reviews split sharply: fans called it “a miracle, a true second world, the future made real”; critics… deemed the 70% pain setting utterly absurd.

No surprise to Xia Xinyan. In her previous life, discourse unfolded identically.

Realm of Divine Descent *had* realized sci-fi dreams—players could live epic moments, even become heroes. An irresistible allure.

Yet that 70% pain setting was harsh for newcomers. In this pampered era, where even paper cuts were rare, fatal-wound agony felt unbearable. Bad reviews were inevitable.

Then came the twist: safe-zone players questioned the critics. Comments like, “Seriously? Seriously? Are there *wimps* who can’t handle this pain? Stubbing my toe hurts worse than dying in-game!”

The flame war redirected frustration—and ironically drew in curious outsiders. Realm of Divine Descent topped trending charts. Newcomers, lured by praised features, kept joining.

All in all, fascinating.

A tiny minority also flagged the currency exchange issue.

In-game: 10 game points = 1 cash unit. Cash-to-points? 1:1. (Spend 1 cash → get 1 point; exchange 10 points → get 1 cash.)

Wildly unreasonable. No legit company would profit this way. But few noticed yet—their sparse complaints drowned in the pain-setting debate.

By the time most realized it? They were already hooked.

The game’s allure was truly irresistible.

No—this wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a second world.

“At worst, I’ll just not spend cash and only exchange points”—likely what most thought.

How the company profited? Few cared. Except certain “armchair shareholders.”

In her past life, before playing, Xia Xinyan spent days watching online drama unfold.

Now, reborn, she saw deeper patterns in today’s discourse.

Among those discussing the exchange rate? Several familiar names—future leaderboard regulars.

From the start, caliber showed. These players might lack raw skill, but their instincts were sharp: seeing past the “miracle” to hidden mechanics. That foresight gave them a head start.

Or… maybe they just got lucky trying to profit. Who knows.