During the second round public screen, other visitors requested songs. Nan Que took the song list and sang a popular tune, thanked the viewers when his shift ended, and went off-list.
Zhang Zhe had long been lurking behind him, staring greedily at his 100.0 traffic score.
“What you earn in a day is more than what I make in a month. I always said you were born for live streaming. Since I brought you into this, why not help me earn some too?”
“When did you ever say I was born for live streaming? In your dreams?”
Nan Que was exhausted, yawning continuously, but his hands kept moving as he imported the day’s live stream recording into editing software.
Overtime, overtime. Finish editing quickly and get some sleep.
“What are you doing?”
“Haven’t you noticed you’ve been gaining fans quickly lately?”
Nan Que opened his fan content alt account “Which Excavator is Strongest” and showed it to him. “The fan content went viral.”
Probably because popular songs naturally attract attention, the edited video received many likes the very next day. However, as a new account, the traffic pool push was unstable, and it only exploded today.
Now his edited video from the first day’s shift had over ten thousand likes, with view counts breaking one million.
Zhang Zhe was astonished. “No wonder I usually only get about a dozen viewers during my individual broadcasts, but today suddenly two to three hundred people showed up.”
He repeatedly watched the video. “You’ve got this skill too! You’ve really helped us gain a lot of fans.”
Nan Que responded indifferently with a hum. “Don’t expose my fan content account. I just want to casually edit and sneak in some personal preferences. If it gets exposed, it’ll be hard to continue.”
“Got it, got it, I understand! I’ll share the video in the group chat. They can’t just reap benefits without contributing—they should help promote it too.”
This reminder suddenly made Nan Que remember Sha Zi, whom he had meant to add last time but forgot due to being angry about the first day’s shift.
Opening WeChat, he laughed.
A row of friend requests—not a single brother from the shifts was missing.
Nan Que accepted them all, but sent a separate message only to Sha Zi.
“Bro, I think your voice is quite beautiful. Want to co-create something?”
Everyone in the group was watching the fan-made video Zhe had shared, all crying and complaining about why they couldn’t get a shift that day—missing out on such massive traffic was a huge loss.
Sha Zi found it amusing but had to admit the video was skillfully edited.
However, he keenly sensed that the poignant song edited at the beginning was the fan content creator’s true intention.
He picked up his phone and replied to the account with the white outline puppy avatar: “Sure! (Take me to prosperity)”
Nan Que added a simple white puppy watermark to the bottom right corner of the edited video.
Scheduled release!
Mission accomplished!
Sleep!
Whether the video’s popularity actually boosted the training camp’s traffic was unclear, but recently, the training camp’s task deduct slots had become highly sought after. Everyone had bravely pushed to 5.0, peaking at 10.0 during high traffic periods.
Through these days of effort, Zhang Zhe’s follower count had risen significantly, enabling him to earn from individual broadcasts and spend on shifts.
Zhe: I’m almost afraid to schedule shifts now. The starting deduct is 5.0—they’re really going all out.
Nan Que: How much have you been fined?
Zhe: Over a thousand in fines these past few days. Mornings have low tasks but no viewers, so I can’t pass. Evenings have more people but higher tasks, so I still can’t pass. It’s really killing me.
Nan Que: I’m in a similar situation…
He never expected to have backed himself into a corner like this.
Those who could enter the Hall to sing were no fools. Recently, the popularity of the Training Camp Hall had almost caught up with the Official Hall. Everyone was scrambling for good shifts, even paying fines to secure them—after all, only with increased traffic could they recoup their costs.
Most others had already started their Individual Broadcasts, managing to earn at least a little something.
But Nan Que had higher standards. Having grown accustomed to the streaming styles of several major Streamers, he had filled a whole stack of notes. His Song List wasn’t substantial enough, and his Chibi Version character still hadn’t been created. He simply had no desire to start an Individual Broadcast.
Nan Que muddled through two shifts with a gloomy expression, paying his fines afterward.
This won’t do—I still need to earn some money. But where?
His WeChat chimed twice.
Xiao: Nan Que Laoshi, how’s my artwork coming along?
Oh no!
Nan Que—the master procrastinator—had completely forgotten.
Terrified, Nan Que didn’t dare reply. He pretended to be dead, secretly opening his computer and burying himself in work.
By around 6 a.m., his eyes were bloodshot from staying up all night, and he finally let out a long sigh of relief.
Xiao had provided the Character Design Art for the Big Electric Man. To save effort, he could have just copied it directly, but that would hardly befit a professional illustrator.
After listening to Xiao’s streams for so many days, Nan Que had gained a thorough understanding of this person’s dedication. Xiao maintained a stable six-hour Individual Broadcast every day, full of energy every minute. Whether singing or competing in PK battles, he was always vibrant. Even when Haters caused trouble, he’d retort in rhythm with the background music.
The special effects, stage design, and Motion Capture for the Big Electric Man were all utilized flawlessly by him.
Nan Que couldn’t help but marvel—truly impressive.
Six hours every day—even without any Show Effects, just singing alone would be exhausting enough to wear anyone out.
While working last night, Nan Que browsed through Xiao’s Secondary Creations and grew increasingly excited as he drew.
He started on the computer but, after a few strokes, felt it wasn’t satisfying enough. So, he switched to a drawing board and began sketching on paper.
With messy yet meticulous lines, he depicted Xiao standing on stage wearing a simple white T-shirt, one arm raised high as he sang. Feathers drifted through the air, and below the stage, a sea of cheering fans waved golden Cheering Sticks.
Behind him, a massive sun was slowly rising. Golden sunlight bathed the stage, casting a romantic reddish-orange hue on the floating feathers.
Nan Que carefully moved the drawing board next to his bed and took a photo of the artwork alongside the early morning sun outside his window.
6:25 a.m.
Nan Que: [Image] Xiao Laoshi, what do you think? Is this acceptable?
When Nan Que woke from his deep slumber, it was already past 4 p.m.
It wasn’t that he had slept enough—he was simply woken by hunger.
Zhang Zhe had knocked on his door several times, eventually giving up and leaving a message.
Zhe: Skipping lunch?
Zhe: Seriously? Still not awake?
Zhe: Bro, what time did you even sleep? What kind of big project has you working so hard?
Nan Que scribbled a quick “I’m awake” in reply and then clicked into Xiao’s chat window.
Xiao: The drawing is good. Can I buy out the rights?
Checking the time, he realized Xiao had replied almost immediately after he sent the image that morning.
Nan Que hurriedly replied: Of course. If you offer a good price, you can use it for your avatar or Zhoubian as you like.
Xiao: Did you draw this last night?
Nan Que: Uh, hehe~ This is just a line art with simple coloring. It still needs some polishing. I’ll send you the finished version.
Xiao: Okay, thank you, Nan Que Laoshi.
Zhu Mingxiao opened the image Nan Que had sent. The art style wasn’t what he had expected, but it was unexpectedly striking.
In the drawing, he looked spirited and confident, like a deity on stage, radiating powerful presence.
Zhu Mingxiao turned off his phone, stuffed the pile of laundry that had accumulated over several days into the washing machine, then gathered the instant noodle containers and leftover takeout from the table into a bag. Slipping on his flip-flops, he went out to dispose of it all.
Passing by the large “Repay Debt” scrawled on the wall, he paused for two seconds before calmly opening the door and stepping back inside.
Entering the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and stared at the disheveled figure in the mirror, feeling a profound disconnect from the world.
The person reflected was shirtless, face etched with indifference, deep dark circles under his eyes, stubble covering his chin, and hair in disarray.
His daily routine began with Scheduling from 4 PM, intermittently until 8 PM. After a brief breather, his Individual Broadcast ran from 9 PM to 2 AM. Once it ended, he’d review that day’s stream, respond to private messages he’d missed during live sessions, and engage with his fans.
Occasionally, he’d also host an extra hour for members-only streams.
By the time everything was wrapped up, 3 or 4 AM was considered an early night. Most other streamers would be exhausted and ready for sleep.
He didn’t dare rest. He still needed to watch other streamers’ content, browse through Secondary Creations, and research new events or programs to prepare for the next day’s broadcast.
Just as he finally finished his work and was about to shut down and sleep, Nan Que sent him a message.
“The radiant singer under the sun in the painting – it’s very well done.”
But it wasn’t him.
He was just an unlucky, debt-ridden creature lurking in the shadows.