Three days later was the final deadline for submitting the term project. Rong Ting received a message from Chen Saiyu.
[Sorry, I got back a bit late and found out that Wan Sang has already submitted the assignment.]
Rong Ting: [Oh, it’s fine.]
Chen Saiyu sent over a screenshot. Rong Ting noticed that the entire textbook required a clear compilation order at the end, and she had been placed last. Additionally, the group leader needed to fill out a grading table, and her score proportion was the lowest among everyone.
Chen Saiyu: [I really didn’t know she would do this. The files and grades have already been sent to the TA’s email. Should I try to retrieve them?]
Surprisingly, Rong Ting felt unusually calm at that moment. To use an inappropriate analogy: if a precious porcelain piece gets a chip, people rack their brains trying to figure out how to repair it. But if the porcelain shatters completely, beyond repair, it brings a sense of relief instead.
Because all that’s left is to accept the fact that the porcelain is broken.
Letting things fall apart can be quite a pleasant experience.
That was exactly the state she was in. She replied: [No need, this is fine as it is.]
Chen Saiyu didn’t respond after that. Rong Ting put down her phone, her fingers tapping lightly on the keyboard as she cheerfully moved on to other assignments.
Finally shedding an awkward relationship—time to start a new life!
Ran Jiu had been sleeping deeply all afternoon. The relentless rehearsals over the past few days had nearly drained her completely. When she woke up, she noticed many missed calls on her phone.
Some were from the studio, a few showed local numbers from the capital, and two were from Guizhou.
Her finger hovered over the screen for a moment before slowly tapping on the number from Guizhou.
The phone rang only twice before the other person picked up, their tone sharp and aggressive: “Where are you?”
“At the rented place. Don’t you know?” Ran Jiu got out of bed wearing shorts and a white tank top. Her porcelain-white collarbone peeked out from behind the shoulder straps, sharp and prominent. She casually pulled open the window and leaned halfway against the windowsill.
The woman’s voice on the phone continued relentlessly: “I searched online for the events you’ve been participating in. What kind of things are these, huh? This career can’t make a living. Is it better than your original major? You dropped out without saying a word back then, and now you’re doing this. Is there any future in it?”
“And what’s this about your home being in a Mongolian yurt at Tianmen? Your home is clearly in Guiyang! Your uncle and I are waiting for you here. You haven’t come home once in four years. Do you think that’s fair to us? After all the years we raised you!”
The voice was filled with anger tinged with despair. Ran Jiu waited patiently for her to vent that despair.
Sure enough, after another passionate outburst, the woman’s tone gradually softened.
“Xiao Jiu, I’m sorry. Mom was too emotional just now.”
She seemed to be covering her face, sobbing with a heavy nasal tone and choked cries, her voice strained and fragmented.
“I know you were close to your grandparents, but they’ve both passed away. You can’t go back there anymore, right?”
“You dropped out without saying a word. Mom is very disappointed.”
“Mom once hoped you’d finish university properly and become a great lawyer.”
“You were Mom’s only hope.”
“Xiao Jiu, say something to Mom.”
Ran Jiu’s lips moved almost imperceptibly. “I’m listening.”
She felt there was nothing to say. The destinies of people were separated by several levels—some easily obtained the best, while others had to bloom from the mud.
Even then, many would still say you weren’t trying hard enough.
Ran Jiu fell silent for a moment. “Mom, do you really think I’m all your hope?”
The woman’s voice on the other end choked up, as if her throat had been gripped. Seizing that shallow sense of guilt, Ran Jiu hung up the phone.
Her mother then transferred 2,000 yuan.
[Your uncle has been sick recently, and I haven’t been able to look after you. Take good care of yourself. If you need money, just tell me. Don’t take odd jobs here and there—the waters in that circle are too deep, and I’m afraid you’ll pick up bad habits.]
Ran Jiu immediately returned the money, clearly stating that she earned enough on her own. As for the expenses from raising her in the past, she would repay every penny once she saved up enough.
The other side seemed hurt and never sent another message.
Ran Jiu took out a box of slim cigarettes from the drawer.
It had been a long time since she last smoked. The filter contained a lemon-flavored bead. Her slender fingers pressed down on it, and she felt a slight burst at her fingertips.
Holding the cigarette in one hand, she deftly pulled out a lighter with the other. Just as she was about to bring the cigarette to the flame, she hesitated for a moment, released the lighter’s switch, and tossed the unlit cigarette into the trash can.
She didn’t sleep all night.
The next day, she went to the studio with dark circles under her eyes, but otherwise, everything seemed normal.
At that time, the voice acting circle was just starting out and heavily relied on fans, showing a trend toward idol culture—otherwise, they wouldn’t have used a voice acting celebration to build momentum.
The studio regularly held fan events every week. That Sunday, it was Ran Jiu and Yu Lai’s turn to enter the room and interact with fans.
Logically, livestreams were better held in the evening, but Ran Jiu always said she had no time at night, so Yu Lai adjusted the schedule with her to 9 a.m.
It was a dead time slot, easily leading to social embarrassment due to low fan turnout.
Ran Jiu seemed disinterested, her face paler than usual. Yu Lai didn’t notice at first, thinking she just hadn’t slept well. The two still coordinated seamlessly, and Yu Lai gave her the room number and password.
The studio had promoted the event on Weibo. When Yu Lai entered, only 30 fans were online. Ran Jiu was drinking water nearby, seemingly lost in thought. She joined a bit later, but the moment her ID entered the room, the number of fans skyrocketed to over 1,000.
Yu Lai: “…”
Whether it was due to rapid word-of-mouth or something else, the moderators watched helplessly as the room, with a capacity of 3,000, instantly filled up.
The chat was flooded with comments like “Queen Jiu,” “Little Jiu,” “Long-Legged Goddess,” “Capturing a divine beauty wife,” and “Wife, come closer”—phrases Yu Lai couldn’t bear to look at. Ran Jiu remained unfazed, but the screen was overwhelmed, making it impossible to see what anyone was saying.
It was all a lingering effect of the celebration.
The script prepared for them was an adapted fairy tale, The Snow Queen.
In the original Hans Christian Andersen story, the devil created a mirror that distorted truth. After the mirror shattered, a fragment flew into the eye of a boy named Kai, turning his heart cold. Later, he was taken away by the Snow Queen to her palace.
The story focused on Gerda, the girl who grew up with him, bravely finding the palace, melting the ice in the boy’s heart, and successfully bringing him home.
The adapted version centers the Snow Queen as the protagonist, highlighting her loneliness and adding many scenes of her attempting to win Kai over in her palace. The ending remains similar—the Snow Queen fails to reclaim her power and peacefully melts into snow under the punishment of the angel Angela, while Kai returns to his hometown, forever haunted by a sense of loss.
The informal segment was just a treat for the fans, with the voice actors improvising without much prior preparation.
The Snow Queen’s cool voice intertwined with Kai’s.
Snow Queen: “I had the servants send you carrots. You didn’t eat them.”
Kai: “I didn’t want to.”
Snow Queen: “Why?”
Kai: “Because I want to go home. I’m not happy here. I don’t want to eat carrots.”
Snow Queen: “So it’s not that you can’t smile, it’s just that you won’t smile here. And it’s not that you dislike carrots, it’s just that you dislike the ones I give you.”
Snow Queen: “The shards of the devil in your eyes and heart will be melted away by someone worthy. I am snow—I cannot melt them for you, nor can I melt them for myself.”
Kai remained silent.
The room was as quiet as a mouse at first, but then bullet comments began to drift across the screen.
[Wow, this is the queen’s forced love, huh?]
[Kinda feel like Kai is being ungrateful.]
[Wondering if the queen’s preferences could be a bit more flexible.]
[This rabbit spirit also wants to be fed carrots.]
The Snow Queen had forgotten that the mirror shards made Kai cold—not just toward others, but toward her as well. She seemed wounded by this coldness, even though she was the Snow Queen.
The Snow Queen told him the way to freedom: “Since you wish to leave, spell out the word ‘eternity,’ and you will become your own true master, gaining everlasting freedom.”
Later, the narration was handled by Yu Lai: “Gerda sang, ‘When the roses bloom, we see God.’ The girl melted the shards in Kai’s heart, and as they lay down, they formed the pattern of eternity. The Snow Queen had already melted away.”
Fans quickly flooded the screen with bullet comments.
[My worldview is shattered. Maybe I’m twisted, but I’ve fallen for the Snow Queen.]
[Wah, my Snow Queen melted. Kai is so stubborn—I’d do it!]
[My chest feels tight…]
[That’s intense, heart +1]
[+1]
[+1]
……
Ran Jiu seemed a bit tired and simply muted her mic, quietly staying online to listen as Yu Lai interacted with the fans.
Fans asked if there would be more events like this in the future. Yu Lai said others do it twice a week, but Ran Jiu only once. Fans asked if they could expand the room capacity, as many people from several fan groups hadn’t been able to join. Yu Lai said the livestream was about to end, and next time they’d try to get a bigger room. Fans insisted they must, and Yu Lai laughed, turning to look at Ran Jiu for help.
Then, a fan noticed Ran Jiu hadn’t been on mic for a while and asked suspiciously, “Is Jiu-da still here?”
Ran Jiu turned on her mic: “Yeah, I’m here.”
The channel fell silent for a few seconds.
Then, a dense wave of bullet comments flooded the screen:
[Ahhh! Please call me ‘baby,’ ma’am!]
[Call me your little sweetheart!]
[Jiu, do you have a cold or aren’t feeling well? Your voice sounds a bit hoarse.]
[Jiu-bao, take good care of yourself. Mom loves you.]
[Jiu-da! Quick, say ‘It’s time to wake up!’ I want my dream female alpha voice to wake me up every day!]
The barrage of comments continued to scroll for dozens of screens before gradually thinning out. Some unlucky soul seemed to have just caught on, picking up from the initial comment: “Jiu Da! Please call us, your 180,000 fans, ‘babies’!”
Ran Jiu chuckled, her affectionate tone carrying through the microphone: “Alright, hello, babies.”
The barrage surged even more fiercely than before, filled with playful remarks like “I’m mesmerized,” “My life is complete,” and “I’m pregnant just from hearing that.” One fan even commented, “I can tell she’s just being perfunctory, but I’m still hooked on this ‘scumbag’ voice actor.” Yu Lai teased her about it for quite a while.
After two full hours, the two of them ended the livestream.
Xiao Zhi came to find Ran Jiu. Ever since her face reveal at the recent celebration ceremony, several companies had extended olive branches—ranging from small-scale audio dramas to supporting roles in TV dramas. There were even film and television companies interested in having her try out for opening and ending songs of several series, with offers that were far from low.
They both knew how significant this progress was for the Little Freesia Studio. Initially, their voice acting rates were around a few dozen yuan per hour, gradually rising to hundreds, then thousands. Among them, Ran Jiu was the most expensive, but she had never encountered opportunities like these before.
Xiao Zhi hesitated for a moment. “Xiao Jiu, my suggestion is that you can choose what interests you, but try as many as possible. That way, you can find what suits you best.”
Ran Jiu nodded. “I understand, Sister Xiao Zhi.”
She knew she was lazy and laid-back, but in the early days of the studio, it was largely her work that kept things running. Because of this, Xiao Zhi couldn’t quite gauge her attitude now and didn’t push too hard.
Xiao Zhi specifically mentioned Tianhai Company, the one Luo Sun worked for. Their offer was the highest among all. They wanted her to voice a supporting female character in a major TV drama. The role suited her persona perfectly, and compared to other audio dramas, the pay was several times higher, with a shorter production cycle. It was undoubtedly an excellent opportunity.
Ran Jiu’s gaze drifted toward the sky outside the window. She didn’t give an immediate answer, only saying she would think about it when she got back.