The following morning, the atmosphere at Capital University felt taut, as if the entire campus were holding its breath. It was the kind of tension that followed a clean financial execution—swift, silent, and lethal. As Meilin stepped out of her black sedan, the crisp air vibrated with suppressed excitement. Students clustered along walkways and under the ginkgo trees, their voices lowered to urgent whispers, faces illuminated by the glow of their phones. Names were being dropped. Screens refreshed endlessly. Stock graphs plunged like falling knives.
The Shen family's logistics empire wasn't just leaking.
It was hemorrhaging.
Meilin adjusted the strap of her bag and walked forward, heels clicking softly against the stone path. She moved with unhurried grace, her posture relaxed, expression smooth and untroubled—polished jade untouched by the chaos around her. To the outside world, the Shen family's sudden collapse was an unsolved mystery, a storm without visible clouds. To her, it was merely the aftertaste of a lunch filled with gossip and poorly hidden panic. A predictable outcome. Nothing more.
She passed beneath the tall glass façade of the Finance building, the words The Morning Sentinel emblazoned above the entrance in brushed steel. Inside, the corridors buzzed with barely restrained energy. Every conversation seemed to circle back to the same topic, each retelling more dramatic than the last. Meilin didn't slow her pace. Rumors were loud, but power was quiet.
By the time she reached the third-year Finance block, the lecture hall was already alive with chatter. Students leaned across desks, whispering fiercely, some glancing toward the door as if expecting another bombshell to drop. Meilin's gaze swept the room once, sharp and instinctive.
One corner desk was conspicuously empty.
Zihan hadn't arrived.
A faint crease appeared between her brows—there and gone in a heartbeat. She moved toward his seat and placed a sleek, minimalist thermal box atop his worn notebook, the contrast between the two objects stark and deliberate. From her bag, she slipped out a small cream-colored note and tucked it neatly beneath the lid. Her handwriting was sharp, elegant, every stroke deliberate.
The engine cannot run without fuel. Eat before the code eats you.
— M
She ignored the curious glances that followed her, the quiet speculation sparked by the intimacy of the gesture. Without another look back, Meilin turned and left the room, her steps light but purposeful.
Her afternoon belonged to the Life Sciences building.
Microbiology. Genetics.
To most students, they were demanding electives filled with memorization and lab reports. To Meilin, they were something else entirely—a roadmap. Each lecture, each diagram of cellular pathways and protein synthesis, was another thread in the web she was quietly weaving around Zihan's survival. Knowledge, after all, was the sharpest weapon of all.
"Meilin! Wait up!"
Mu Anan jogged toward her, ponytail bouncing, eyes bright with unfiltered enthusiasm. "Can you believe we have Microbiology today? It's my favorite! Tiny organisms holding the secrets of life—it's like an entire universe under the microscope!"
Meilin slowed slightly, allowing Anan to fall into step beside her. A faint smile touched her lips. "It is a universe," she said softly. "And sometimes, it's a battlefield."
Anan blinked, then laughed. "You always make things sound so dramatic."
Meilin didn't respond. She didn't need to.
While Capital University buzzed with speculation and adrenaline, a cramped apartment on the edge of the district sat steeped in stale air and cold coffee. The curtains were drawn tight, sealing out the morning light. The only illumination came from a monitor filled with cascading lines of emerald code.
Xie Zihan had not moved from his chair in hours.
Stress test after stress test slammed into the Immortal Mythfall backend like relentless waves against a seawall. His fingers flew across the keyboard, movements sharp and precise, even as his shoulders stiffened and his vision blurred. He didn't stop until his body betrayed him, slumping forward into a shallow, dreamless sleep sometime after 3:00 a.m.
When he jolted awake, heart racing, the clock read 8:30.
"Damn it."
He grabbed his jacket and was out the door in minutes.
By the time he reached the lecture hall, the class was already in full swing. The professor's voice droned on about derivatives theory, equations filling the board. Zihan slipped into his seat, breath uneven, hair disheveled, mind still half-buried in server logs.
Then he saw it.
The thermal box.
He froze.
Carefully, almost reverently, he opened it. Steam curled upward, carrying the comforting scent of fresh congee and soft steamed buns. Warmth brushed his face, cutting through the lingering chill in his bones. His gaze fell to the note inside. His thumb traced the sharp curve of the letter M.
Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Not excitement. Not adrenaline.
Something steadier. Warmer.
He ate slowly, deliberately, as if anchoring himself back into his body.
His phone vibrated.
ZM Tech Group Chat: Final server optimizations complete. Standing by for your review at the Arc.
The bell rang.
Zihan didn't head to the cafeteria. He didn't hesitate. He moved.
The Building Arc welcomed him with its familiar chill and quiet authority. He took the private elevator straight to the top floor, where Qin He stood reviewing a digital contract, glasses reflecting lines of text.
"Mr. Qin," Zihan said, voice steady despite the exhaustion etched deep into his face.
"Zihan." Qin He looked up and nodded. "The ambassador is confirmed. Reigning global Best Newcomer. Top of every list. Tomorrow at 10:00 a.m., he'll be here."
He adjusted his glasses, gaze sharpening. "By 11:00 a.m. tomorrow, we go live. The world will be watching."
Adrenaline surged through Zihan like electricity. He forced a slow breath, grounding himself. "Good. Triple-check the hardware. I want zero lag. Zero latency."
On the seventh floor—the beating heart of ZM Technology—the air was alive with urgency. Xu Feng juggled four calls at once, coordinating logistics and press with frantic precision.
"Xu Feng," Zihan said, slipping fully into the role of CEO. "Server load reports. Now."
For hours, the office spoke only in keystrokes and cooling fans. Zihan moved between desks, issuing surgical instructions to the four engineers.
"If downloads exceed five hundred thousand in the first minute, reroute traffic through secondary nodes," he said without looking up. "We're not launching a game. We're building a myth."
As midnight approached, Zihan leaned back in his chair, eyes burning. On his screen, the follower count climbed relentlessly.
Tomorrow, the Ghost and the Star would finally meet.
And Capital would never be the same.