Chapter 2: The Unwanted Audience

The golden numerals shimmered, casting a sickly, opulent light across Xiao Zhi’s stunned face. For a solid three seconds, his brain refused to process anything beyond the sheer number of zeroes. Nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine credits. That was a real number someone had just sent him. For watching him fail to find a stop button.

The chat window to the right, which had paused in its chaotic scroll, erupted into a frenzy of disbelief and emojis he didn’t understand. The text moved too fast to read individual lines, just a blur of punctuation and capital letters.

?????????? WHAT WAS THAT 999k????? WHO??? SERPENT_SOVEREIGN IS IN THE CHAT OH MY GOD

Serpent Sovereign. The name meant nothing to him, though the chat’s reaction suggested it should mean everything. The absurdity of the situation, which had been a low-grade background hum of panic, suddenly sharpened into a piercing, immediate alarm. He was live. Hundreds of people were watching. Someone had just thrown a fortune at him. And Bao Bao was still sitting on his head like a living garnish.

His hands, which had been resting limply on the controls, finally reacted. They flew across the interface with a speed that would have impressed his old martial arts instructor, though the goal was far less dignified. Find the mute. Find the stop. Make it end.

His thumb jabbed at a small microphone icon in the corner. A red line slashed through it. The sudden silence from his own end felt loud, somehow. Good. One problem contained, even if the visual disaster continued unabated.

Finding the ‘End Stream’ button proved more challenging. The interface, which had seemed simple before, now felt like a maze designed by a malicious entity. Menus he’d never noticed bloomed under his frantic tapping—donation histories, subscriber alerts, emotes settings. His eyes scanned for anything red, anything that said ‘stop’ or ‘end’ or ‘disappear forever.’

The chat continued its frantic commentary, now speculating on why he’d gone silent.

Did we break him? Bunny boy is in shock lol Where did he go?

There. Tucked away in a sub-menu under ‘Channel Settings,’ half-hidden by a promotional banner for a new battle royale game, was a small, unassuming grey rectangle with white text: TERMINATE BROADCAST. It looked less like a button and more like a footnote.

He didn’t hesitate. His finger slammed onto the virtual surface.

The effect was instantaneous and absolute. The entire streaming interface vanished. The game view of the sunny puppy kennel snapped back to full screen, the cheerful music now horribly incongruous with the cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck. The blinking red light in the camera feed winked out. The silence in his room was no longer just an absence of his own voice; it was a thick, heavy blanket of pure aftermath.

Xiao Zhi didn’t move.

He sat frozen in his chair, staring at the now-static game screen where a digital Shiba Inu puppy had paused mid-tail-chase. The reality of what had just happened seeped into him slowly, like cold water soaking through cloth. He hadn’t been in a private practice session. For… how long? He tried to calculate. From the moment he’d mis-clicked until now. The jump scare. The puppies. The cooing. All of it. Broadcast to strangers.

A hot wave of embarrassment washed over him, followed immediately by a colder, more practical dread. People had seen him. They’d seen Bao Bao. They’d heard his voice shift from flat commentary to unguarded delight over polygons shaped like dogs. They knew his username.

“PinkChaos,” he murmured aloud, the words tasting ridiculous.

On his head, Bao Bao shifted, giving a soft thump with one hind leg against Xiao Zhi’s skull as he resettled himself. The mundane sensation grounded him, oddly enough. Right. Okay. So he’d accidentally become a public spectacle for an evening. It wasn’t the end of the world. Not the real end, anyway, which was still ticking down according to the novel’s plot. This was just a social catastrophe. Those were arguably worse in the moment, but less globally fatal.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, making himself release the death grip on the edge of his desk. The first thing to do was assess the damage. He minimized the game and pulled up the StarCast platform again, this time navigating to his channel page with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.

The page loaded.

His profile picture was default. His bio was empty. But below that was a statistic: Last Live: 23 minutes ago. And next to it, another number: Peak Viewers: 1,847.

He stared at it. Eighteen hundred and forty-seven people. That was more than the entire population of his dormitory wing.

Scrolling down, he found a list of his past streams. There was only one entry: PinkChaos – Playing Echoes of the Abyss. It already had a view count in the thousands and was climbing steadily even now, hours after he’d ended it. Clips were being created and shared by viewers. Thumbnails showed a frozen image of his pink hair with bunny ears silhouetted against a monstrous game face.

He closed the browser tab quickly, as if shutting a lid on something radioactive.

Sleep that night was fitful and full of dreams where golden credit symbols chased him down academy hallways while puppies barked encouragement.

Morning arrived with the gentle chime of his room’s circadian lighting system. Xiao Zhi got ready mechanically, his mind still stuck in a loop replaying the previous night’s disaster. He dressed in his standard cadet uniform—a fitted grey and blue ensemble that felt both restrictive and strangely comforting in its anonymity today. He considered leaving Bao Bao in their room, but the bunny gave him such a look of profound betrayal at the suggestion that he relented, letting him hop into the specially padded inner pocket of his jacket instead.

Walking to the academy grounds usually felt routine. Today, every step felt exposed.

He noticed it before he’d even passed through the main gates. A group of third-year cadets clustered near the entrance turned their heads in near-unison as he approached. Their conversation died mid-sentence. One of them, a tall boy with close-cropped hair, openly stared, his eyes tracking Xiao Zhi from his pink hair down to his polished boots and back up again. There was no malice in the stare, just pure, unvarnished curiosity mixed with something like amused disbelief.

Xiao Zhi kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, adopting what he hoped was the aloof, untouchable expression of the original Lin Xiao Zhi. It was harder than it used to be when his internal monologue was screaming.

Inside the main courtyard, the whispers started. They were soft at first, little more than rustles of sound from clumps of students waiting for first bell.

“…that’s him, right?” “…the bunny streamer…” “…PinkChaos? Seriously?” “…thought he was an Omega in some idol group…”

He caught fragments as he walked, each one landing like a small stone against his composure. A pair of female cadets from the logistics track pointed at him outright before dissolving into stifled giggles behind their hands when he glanced their way. A senior from the mecha pilot track did a visible double-take, nearly dropping his datapad.

It wasn’t hostility, which was somehow worse. It was spectacle. He’d become a walking piece of unexpected entertainment, a bizarre rumor made flesh. The careful neutrality he’d been cultivating since his transmigration—the quiet cadet who kept to himself and only broke equipment by accident—was shattered. Replaced by… what? The guy with the rabbit who talked to video game puppies?

He quickened his pace toward the Applied Tactical Theory lecture hall, aiming for the sanctuary of a seat in the back row.

He didn’t make it that far.

The lecture hall was already half-full when he slipped inside. He chose a seat near the rear corner, sliding into it with a quiet sigh of relief as he placed his bag on the floor. For a few blessed moments, it seemed like he might escape further notice. The professor hadn’t arrived yet, and most cadets were chatting or reviewing notes on their personal datapads.

Then he saw it from the corner of his eye.

Two rows ahead and slightly to his left, a cadet with short brown hair elbowed his friend. He held up his datapad, angling the screen so his friend could see clearly. On it played a short, looped video clip.

The clip showed the back of a head with distinctive pink hair. Perched atop that head was a small white bunny, its ears perked up. On the larger screen portion of the clip—presumably what had been the game feed—a grotesque monster face lunged forward with a silent shriek. The bunny’s ears shot straight up in surprise.

The friend leaning over to look clapped a hand over his mouth instantly, but his shoulders shook with unmistakable laughter. He took the datapad for a closer look, shaking his head as he replayed the five-second loop again.

Xiao Zhi looked away sharply, fixing his gaze on the blank lectern at the front of the hall. His cheeks felt warm despite his best efforts to control it. So it was already circulating on academy networks. Of course it was. Clips traveled faster than light in places like this.

He focused on taking out his own datapad and opening today’s lecture notes, pretending intense interest in pre-Zerg swarm dispersal patterns. He could feel more eyes drifting toward him now, drawn by that muffled laugh and the shared screen. The low murmur in the room seemed to swell slightly, carrying a new, curious energy directed at his corner.

The professor walked in then, her boots clicking authoritatively on the floor tiles, and the room settled into an obedient silence as she began her lecture on flanking maneuvers against crystalline lifeforms.

Xiao Zhi tried to listen. He really did.

But all he could think about was that looping clip—the bunny ears jerking upright—and the fact that somewhere out there in the digital ether, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine anonymous credits were now sitting in an account linked to his biggest mistake

The lecture on crystalline flanking maneuvers dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Xiao Zhi managed to copy down the key diagrams, his handwriting a study in controlled tension, but the professor’s voice was just a distant drone under the constant, prickling awareness of attention. Every time someone shifted in their seat or coughed, he wondered if they were looking at him. The two cadets with the datapad glanced back twice more, their expressions a mix of glee and unabashed curiosity.

When the professor finally dismissed them for a ten-minute break, the room erupted into the usual chatter and movement. Xiao Zhi stayed put for a moment, hoping the crowd would thin. He pretended to be deeply engrossed in reviewing his notes, head bowed over his datapad.

It didn’t work.

A shadow fell across his screen. Then another. He looked up slowly to find himself surrounded. Four cadets, all from different years and tracks by the look of their insignia, had formed a loose semi-circle around his desk. They weren’t smiling. Their expressions hovered somewhere between aggressive curiosity and the kind of probing interest reserved for a strange insect.

The one in front, a Beta with a sharp chin and narrow eyes, leaned his hands on the empty desk in front of Xiao Zhi’s. “Hey. Lin, right?”

Xiao Zhi gave a single, minimal nod.

“That stream last night,” the Beta continued, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by the lingering students nearby. “The ‘PinkChaos’ channel. That was you.”

It wasn’t a question. Xiao Zhi kept his face carefully blank, the old owner’s icy mask sliding into place almost on instinct. “I was testing streaming software,” he said, his tone flat and deliberately uninviting. “There was a technical error.”

A girl to his left, an Alpha from the comms track with her hair in a severe bun, snorted. “A technical error that got nearly two thousand viewers? And a donation big enough to buy a transport shuttle?” She crossed her arms. “Come on. We all saw the clips. The bunny on your head is pretty distinctive.”

Bao Bao chose that moment to wriggle in his inner pocket, a small movement that made the fabric of Xiao Zhi’s jacket twitch. The sharp-chinned Beta’s eyes dropped to the spot immediately, his smirk widening.

“So it’s true,” he said, leaning closer. “You’re the bunny streamer. What’s the deal? You cultivating some kind of… cute Omega persona for donations?” His tone made the words ‘cute Omega persona’ sound like a contagious disease.

Xiao Zhi felt a flare of irritation, hot and sudden. He clamped down on it, keeping his breathing even. “My personal hobbies aren’t relevant to tactical theory,” he stated, gathering his datapad as if to leave.

They didn’t move to let him pass.

“Seems pretty relevant if it’s disrupting academy focus,” another cadet, a bulky male Alpha, chimed in. His gaze was less mocking and more genuinely perplexed. “You were completely deadpan during that jump scare in Abyss. How? That thing makes veterans flinch.”

Before Xiao Zhi could formulate another bland deflection, a new, smoother voice cut through the interrogation from the edge of the circle.

“Now, now. Is this how we treat our newest celebrity?”

The group parted slightly, and Shen Yue stepped through. He wore the same cadet uniform, but on him it looked deliberately elegant, almost casual. His smile was a practiced curve of perfect lips, but it didn’t reach his cold, assessing eyes. Those eyes swept over Xiao Zhi with a familiarity that felt like a violation.

“Cousin,” Shen Yue said, the familial title dripping with false warmth. “I just heard the news. Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”

Xiao Zhi said nothing. He just watched Shen Yue, every muscle in his body going still in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with predatory awareness.

Shen Yue didn’t seem to notice, or perhaps he didn’t care. He turned his smile on the surrounding cadets, playing to his audience. “To think our own Lin Xiao Zhi has found his calling as an entertainment streamer. And such an… adorable niche.” He let the word hang, laced with condescension so thick it was practically syrup. “A fluffy companion, a pretty face for the camera, cooing over virtual pets. The masses do love a harmless Omega providing them with light distraction.”

The emphasis on ‘harmless Omega’ was a deliberate needle. It framed Xiao Zhi’s entire accidental broadcast not as a mistake, but as a calculated performance for a specific, lower-status audience. A few in the crowd shifted uncomfortably at the naked derision, but others nodded, their earlier confusion crystallizing into Shen Yue’s more judgmental narrative.

“It was an accident,” Xiao Zhi repeated, his voice still quiet but losing some of its flatness, gaining an edge of frost. “The stream ended.”

“Oh, I’m sure it did,” Shen Yue said with a light laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “After you made quite the impression, from what I hear. And such a generous patron! Someone must have found your… performance… particularly compelling.” He tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Tell me, cousin, do you plan to make a career of it? Leaving the academy to become a full-time streamer for your adoring public? It would certainly suit your… temperament.”

The challenge was clear: choose between the serious path of a cadet and the frivolous path of an entertainer. It was designed to box him in, to force him to either indignantly defend his dedication (and thus make a scene) or to shrink away and confirm Shen Yue’s insinuations.

Xiao Zhi met his cousin’s gaze directly. He didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t justify himself. He simply held that look for a beat too long, his own red-lashed eyes giving nothing back but a calm, unnerving neutrality that was somehow more unsettling than any retort.

“My studies are my priority,” he said finally, each word deliberate and cool. “Excuse me.”

This time, when he stood up, the circle of cadets broke. Whether it was the sudden, subtle shift in his presence—a stillness that felt less like retreat and more like a coiled spring—or Shen Yue’s slight, involuntary step back, they made room.

He walked out of the lecture hall into the bustling main corridor, leaving behind a pocket of tense silence that quickly filled with renewed whispers.

The break wasn’t over yet. The hallway was packed with cadets moving between classes or lounging against walls chatting. Xiao Zhi aimed for a quieter side passage leading toward the library annex.

He didn’t get far.

As he passed one of the public information terminals mounted on the wall—usually used for checking schedules or academy announcements—he saw it. The screen wasn’t displaying the day’s bulletin. Instead, it was playing a video on mute.

It was a different clip this time. Not the jump scare. This one showed the moment right after. The game screen had transitioned to the sunlit puppy kennel, and the camera feed showed Xiao Zhi’s profile as he leaned forward. Even on silent, the transformation was jarringly clear: the shift from stone-faced observer to someone lit up from within by pure, uncomplicated joy as he watched digital puppies tumble.

A small group had gathered around the terminal, pointing and talking animatedly.

“…see? Right there! The smile!” “…looks so different from usual…” “…gotta be an Omega, right? That kind of softness…” “…maybe he’s just good at acting for tips…”

Further down the hall, near the entrance to the simulation labs, another terminal was playing the bunny-ear jump-scare clip on a loop. A pair of instructors walking by paused for a second, one frowning slightly at the screen before shaking his head and moving on.

The speculative chatter followed him like a cloud. It wasn’t just about the stream anymore; it had metastasized into gossip about his very nature. Designation was the word that kept surfacing in the fragments he overheard. In this world of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, your perceived designation dictated how people saw you—your strengths, your role, your place. The original Lin Xiao Zhi had been an enigma, his coldness allowing people to project whatever they wanted onto him. Now, thanks to five minutes of unguarded puppy admiration broadcast across the galaxy, that enigma was being swiftly solved by public consensus.

The consensus seemed to be settling firmly on ‘Omega.’ A pretty, delicate one with unusual hobbies and a pet bunny. A harmless distraction.

Xiao Zhi kept walking, his expression once again schooled into impassive ice. Inside his jacket pocket, Bao Bao was perfectly still, as if sensing his human’s need for stealth. Inside Xiao Zhi’s head, however, the thoughts were less calm.

This was becoming a problem faster than he’d anticipated. A social problem that could easily become a practical one if it started affecting how instructors treated him or what assignments he was given. Being seen as a fragile Omega streamer wasn’t exactly compatible with secretly preparing for a zombie apocalypse or building a bond with a war machine named Pink Chaos.

He needed this to die down. He needed people to get bored and move on to the next novelty.

Rounding a corner into a slightly less crowded hallway lined with trophy cases for past mecha tournaments, he allowed himself to slow his pace just a fraction. The library annex was just ahead. Maybe he could hide there until his next class.

The thought had barely formed when movement flickered at the edge of his vision from an alcove up ahead on his right.

Across the academy’s central courtyard, Jiang Muyao was leaning against the sun-warmed stone of a colonnade, idly scrolling through his own datapad. A notification from the academy’s internal network had pinged—some viral clip everyone was sharing. He’d almost ignored it, more interested in reviewing the sparring footage from his last match, but the thumbnail caught his eye. A blur of pink and white.

He tapped it.

The clip played silently on his screen. It was the puppy one. Jiang Muyao watched, his initial scowl of impatience softening into a frown of pure bewilderment. He recognized that profile instantly, even softened by that ridiculous, brilliant smile. Lin Xiao Zhi. The first-year who had put him on the training hall floor in eleven seconds flat. The one whose movements had been so clean, so ruthlessly efficient, that Jiang Muyao had replayed the memory a hundred times, trying to find a flaw that wasn’t there.

And here he was on screen, looking like someone had just handed him the keys to a candy store because some game developer had rendered a few polygons into canine shapes.

Jiang Muyao’s brain short-circuited. The competitive fury he usually associated with Lin Xiao Zhi—the drive to challenge him again, to beat him—muddled into something else entirely. It was like seeing a legendary war blade being used to carefully slice a cake. The contrast wasn’t amusing; it was profoundly confusing. And fascinating. He couldn’t look away.

He watched the clip loop three times. The smile. The way Xiao Zhi’s eyes crinkled at the corners. The complete absence of the cold, focused fighter Jiang Muyao had faced.

When he finally looked up from his datapad, his gaze instinctively scanned the courtyard exits. He’d heard the whispers too, the buzz about the ‘bunny streamer’ circulating the halls. If those clips were everywhere, then Xiao Zhi was probably trying to find a hole to crawl into right about now. Jiang Muyao knew a thing or two about being the center of aggressive attention, though his usually came from respect or challenge, not mocking curiosity.

He pushed off from the column, his earlier aimlessness replaced by a new, singular focus. He knew the routes between lecture halls. He knew where someone trying to avoid a crowd might go.

Xiao Zhi saw the alcove and the flicker of movement too late.

He was almost to the library annex door when a tall, solid figure detached itself from the shadowed corner and stepped directly into his path, blocking the way completely. Xiao Zhi stopped short, his head tilting up to meet the other cadet’s gaze.

Jiang Muyao.

He stood with a fighter’s grounded stance, arms loosely at his sides, but everything about him radiated a contained intensity. His expression was nothing like the mocking curiosity of the others or Shen Yue’s venomous condescension. It was stark and serious, his brows drawn together over eyes that burned with a demand for answers.

“You,” Jiang Muyao said, his voice a low rumble that didn’t carry beyond the two of them.

Xiao Zhi didn’t reply. He considered simply stepping around him, but Jiang Muyao shifted minutely, maintaining the block. The message was clear: not yet.

Without another word, Jiang Muyao took a step forward. Xiao Zhi instinctively took a step back. Another step forward, another back, until Xiao Zhi’s shoulders met the cool, unyielding surface of the hallway wall beside a display case of antique pilot helmets. Jiang Muyao closed the final distance, not touching him, but standing well inside anyone’s personal space. He loomed, using his broader frame and height to create a pocket of privacy in the empty hallway, cutting off escape and outside view.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping even lower, a rough whisper that was all command. “That stream. The ‘PinkChaos’ channel. With the bunny.” He searched Xiao Zhi’s face, which had settled back into its neutral mask, though a wary alertness shone in his eyes. “That’s you. Isn’t it.”

It was the same statement he’d heard earlier, but stripped of all mockery. It was just a demand for confirmation, blunt and uncompromising.

Xiao Zhi held his gaze. Denial was pointless. The evidence was playing on loops all over the academy. “There was a technical error,” he said, repeating his flat explanation. “I wasn’t intending to broadcast.”

Jiang Muyao didn’t seem to care about intentions. His eyes didn’t leave Xiao Zhi’s face, studying him with an intensity that felt physical. He was looking for something—the disconnect between the fighter and the streamer, maybe. The fierce competitiveness that usually defined Jiang Muyao’s expression was still there, but it had been complicated, overlaid with something sharper and more possessive.

“They’re all talking,” Jiang Muyao said, his gaze flicking for a second toward the distant murmur of the main hall before locking back onto Xiao Zhi. “Calling you names. Omega streamer. Bunny boy.” He said the words not as an insult, but as a report of facts he found aggravating. “Shen Yue is spinning it like you’re some delicate thing putting on a show for credits.”

His jaw tightened. The protectiveness that had replaced his earlier mockery wasn’t gentle or soft. It was territorial and rough-edged, like a big cat deciding a particular patch of sunlight belonged to it and bristling at any intruders. He didn’t ask if Xiao Zhi was bothered by it; he seemed to have already decided that it was an offense.

“Doesn’t matter what they think,” Xiao Zhi said quietly, though the wall at his back felt very solid, and Jiang Muyao’s presence was overwhelmingly close.

“It matters if they act on it,” Jiang Muyao countered instantly, his voice gaining a harder edge. “If they think you’re weak.” He leaned in another fraction, his eyes blazing with a conviction that felt entirely separate from the reality of who could actually put whom on the floor. “That clip… with the puppies.” He said it like it was a tactical anomaly he couldn’t reconcile. “Was that real?”

The question surprised Xiao Zhi into a moment of honesty. His mask slipped, just a crack—a faint confusion in his eyes at why that was the pressing question. “They were well-rendered,” he said simply.

A strange, almost imperceptible shift went through Jiang Muyao at that answer. Something in the fierce possessiveness of his gaze deepened, solidified. He wasn’t looking at a puzzle anymore; he was looking at an answer he hadn’t known he needed. The fighter who could dismantle an opponent in seconds and the person who smiled at digital puppies were not two different people. They were the same person. That fact seemed to settle something for Jiang Muyao with finality.

He didn’t move back. He stayed right there, crowding Xiao Zhi against the wall, his body language screaming mine to an empty hallway. “Stay off public streams,” he said finally, the command leaving no room for argument. “If you want to game, do it private. This… spectacle isn’t worth it.”

It wasn’t concern for Xiao Zhi’s reputation as a cadet that motivated the order. It was something much more primal: an objection to others seeing what he was seeing now, to others having an opinion on something he had clearly decided fell under his own purview.

Before Xiao Zhi could formulate any kind of response—agreement, refusal, anything—the distant sound of the chime for next period echoed down the hallway.

Jiang Muyao held his position for one second longer, his intense gaze sweeping over Xiao Zhi’s face one last time as if memorizing it under this new context. Then he finally stepped back, clearing the path to the library door and the hallway beyond.

He didn’t say anything else. He just gave a short, sharp nod that seemed to end the conversation on his own terms, then turned and strode away in the opposite direction, his posture radiating a tension that had nothing to do with any fight he was headed toward.

Xiao Zhi pushed himself away from the wall, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The encounter had lasted less than two minutes, but it left him feeling strangely off-balance in a way the public whispering hadn’t. Shen Yue’s barbs were predictable. The crowd’s curiosity was annoying.

Jiang Muyao’s fierce, possessive scrutiny was something else entirely. It felt less like an attack and more like being claimed by a force of nature that hadn’t bothered to ask permission.

He adjusted his jacket, feeling Bao Bao stir again within the pocket as if sensing the departure of the intense energy. Straightening his shoulders, Xiao Zhi turned and finally slipped through the door into the quiet gloom of the library annex. The chaos of the morning wasn't over—he could still feel its echo in his bones—but for now, at least, he was out of its immediate line of sight