After uploading a profile picture and filling out some personal information, Robin's account registration was complete. With that, she posted her first video.
By any standard, the video was as rudimentary as it could possibly be.
Recorded and uploaded directly from her phone, it was in vertical format and completely unedited—just the raw footage.
Robin didn't even bother uploading a custom thumbnail. The default thumbnail was simply the first second of the video, a shot of the night sky outside her windowsill.
She wasn't expecting the video to go viral. She was just posting it casually to test whether the progress bar for her "Songstress" goal would budge at all. Even if it only moved by a tiny fraction—say, 0.01%—she'd consider it a success.
Once she'd finished, she set down her phone and sprawled lazily on the sofa. Thinking about it, she hadn't really done much that day: a trip to the Bureau of Anomalous Investigations, a shopping trip, and that was about it.
Yet she felt utterly exhausted, likely not from physical exertion but from mental fatigue.
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was just after nine. Normally, she'd never go to bed before one or two in the morning. But tonight, she'd make an exception and get some rest early.
"Whew..." Robin took a deep breath, rose from the plush sofa, grabbed the new blanket and sheets from the bag by the door, and headed to the bedroom.
Ideally, she should have washed and sun-dried the newly purchased bedding before using it, but there simply wasn't time for that now. It would have to do. As she finished making the bed, however, Robin suddenly realized something.
She wasn't the same man she used to be, the kind who could just brush his teeth and wash his face before crawling into bed. Robin went to the bathroom, tilted her head to look in the mirror, and examined her pale blue, waist-length hair. It was styled with two intricate braids that coiled together at the back of her head, forming a rose-like bun.
Robin's knowledge of hairstyles was woefully inadequate. She had no idea what this particular style was called, but her immediate concern was how to unravel it.
Her fingers traced the seams of the intricate updo, feeling like she was struggling to untie an overly tightly knotted takeout bag. The difference was, her hair was impossibly smooth, as silky as silk itself. Even without understanding the braiding technique, after several minutes of careful work, Robin successfully restored her hair to its simplest form: long, straight blue strands.
"Should I take a shower before bed?" she murmured to herself.
After all, she wasn't that slovenly man anymore, the one who could just make do. Now, it was better to be more mindful of hygiene.
Without hesitation, Robin gathered her towels, shampoo, body wash, and other toiletries, placing them in the bathroom. Then, she started filling the tub, waiting for the water to reach a comfortable temperature.
As the water warmed, she slowly undressed completely.
Notably, after removing her necklace, a faint scar became visible on her neck. This was likely the wound Robin sustained from a stray bullet during her tour of Kasbelina-VIII in the Honkai: Star Rail storyline.
Robin gently touched the scar, murmuring, "Even this is here..."
An hour later, she opened the fog-shrouded bathroom door, scurried into her bedroom, and burrowed under the freshly made covers.
To be honest, this was the first time she had spent so long bathing. Normally, her showers rarely lasted more than ten minutes—more of a quick rinse. But a girl's bathing routine proved far more elaborate than she had imagined.
Washing and blow-drying her hair alone took up a significant amount of time. Still, even that wouldn't have stretched to an hour. Driven by intense curiosity, she had also indulged in a few other things during her bath.
But none of that mattered now. Robin curled up tightly, clutching the blanket, and soon drifted into a deep sleep.
Song Jianpeng was an ordinary video reviewer at Kuaishou. His job was simple: watch videos uploaded by content creators and check for any content that violated the platform's guidelines.
The definition of "inappropriate content" was fairly broad. Unless a video contained explicit pornography, openly insulted the country, or aggressively promoted extreme negativity, it would pass review.
The only noteworthy exception was the prohibition against spreading negative emotions. The monthly Dimensional Rift incidents were frequent enough, and whenever such an event occurred and victims emerged, bystanders would often record the scene with their phones.
These videos were strictly forbidden from being shared online. They risked triggering widespread negative emotions, and with people's lives already so stressful, there was no need to add fuel to the fire.
Song Jianpeng yawned, dark circles prominent beneath his eyes. Even though the last video he'd reviewed was supposed to be a comedy, he hadn't cracked a single smile. After skimming through it and finding no obvious issues, he approved it without a second thought.
This was his daily routine: reviewing countless videos. There was no way he could watch each one in their entirety.
"Next, next," he muttered, clicking on another video. The title was simple: "Hymn of the Stars Cover." The uploader's follower count—a solid zero—confirmed they were a complete newbie.
Probably someone who spontaneously recorded a cover and uploaded it, Song Jianpeng thought. But when he saw the uploader's name, he paused slightly. "RobinOfficial? Is this a virtual streamer?"
But shouldn't a virtual streamer's first video be a quick Q&A? A short introduction to their avatar, persona, and talents, all wrapped up in a few minutes?
But the video Song Jianpeng was watching didn't even feature a virtual avatar. Instead, it opened with a real-life shot of a balcony under the night sky.
And the title clearly stated it was a cover song. So why was there no backing track?
Just as Song Jianpeng was beginning to wonder, the video advanced a few seconds, and a gentle female voice filled his ears, resonating through his headphones.
He froze instantly, mesmerized. The brief three minutes and forty seconds vanished in a blur. When he snapped back to reality, he realized the video had already ended. He couldn't remember the last time he'd watched an entire video from start to finish while working as a content reviewer.
Trembling, Song Jianpeng raised his arm and wiped the tears from the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. Yes, he had actually been moved to tears by the song.
"This... this... this... Holy shit."
He couldn't articulate the torrent of emotions swirling within him, finally settling for the simple, raw exclamation: "Holy shit."