CHAPTER 36: CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: WHEN ONE STORY ENDS

The system screen flickered awake before An Ning even opened her eyes.

Morning light seeped through the curtains, calm and ordinary, pretending nothing had happened the day before.

[Ding! Major Timeline Divergence Detected!]

[Reward: +80 Luck Points!]

The little melon floated above her head, glowing like a disco ball on caffeine—overly cheerful for the hour. "Ningning! You did it! You managed to avert the original ending! The second branch’s out of the An Group, their reputation’s in shambles, and their wedding—oh, it’s still happening, but no one’s celebrating!"

An Ning blinked, still half-asleep. "So, another eighty."

"Exactly!" the little melon chirped. "You had eighty before, and now another eighty for divergence—that’s one hundred and sixty total!"

Her tone was dry. "Before deductions."

The little melon froze mid-air, its glow dimming slightly, as if calculating ho best to survive the next few seconds.

The little melon hesitated mid-spin. "...Yes. Before deductions."

"Go on."

"You used fifteen points to help An Yancheng track An Yanming, another twenty to make the lookout on the terrace step away, and fifteen more so that you—and everyone else who followed after to watch the drama unfold—stayed undetected."’

An Ning stared at it. "So I basically spent fifty points so that everyone could enjoy their front-row seats."

"Well, technically this is luck value well-spent!" the little melon said brightly. "Isn’t this worthwhile?"

"Mm." Her lips curved faintly. "How generous of me."

"So with the deductions, you’re at one hundred and ten points in total," the little melon concluded.

"So with the deductions, you’re at one hundred and ten points in total," the little melon concluded.

An Ning raised a brow. "All that work and I’m still barely above a passing grade."

"Which means," she added dryly, "I can finally take a hot shower without worrying about the water turning cold halfway through."

She leaned back with a small sigh. How far she had fallen—when surviving a full shower in warmth was enough to make her day.

It was strange how quickly survival could feel like peace.

Right now, An Ning really wished the original An Ning could see this for herself—that this time, the An family wouldn’t end the same way.

No prison sentences. No hospital beds. No graves this time. Just people still standing, still breathing, still given another chance to live differently.

They were no longer just characters in a story, forced to make way for someone else’s spotlight.

No longer unlucky simply because their endings had already been written.

This time, they got to write their own.

An Ning was glad she’d managed to change their endings. The more time she spent with them, the more she realised—they weren’t villains or side characters meant to lose.

They were simply people trying to live as best as they could—quietly, decently, without hurting anyone along the way.

For a brief moment, peace settled around her like sunlight through water—soft, weightless, almost unreal.

The room felt lighter now, though she couldn’t tell if it was peace or simply the fatigue of surviving another round of other people’s disasters.

The little melon floated lazily beside her, humming a tune that was both cheerful and off-key. "So! What’s next? Breakfast? A victory nap?"

"Maybe both," she said, leaning back against her pillow. "In that order."

"Excellent choice. You’ve earned it!"

An Ning smiled faintly. For once, she didn’t feel like arguing.

But as she closed her eyes, a strange sensation brushed against her chest.

It wasn’t pain—just a flicker, a pull, as though the air itself had caught on something unseen.

Her eyes snapped open.

"...Did you feel that?" she asked.

The little melon blinked, mid-spin. "Feel what?"

"That," she said, frowning slightly. "It’s like... something moved."

The little melon rotated once, scanning the air. "Hmm. No major fluctuations detected. Maybe it’s a side effect of excessive brilliance?"

An Ning gave him a flat look. She wished the little melon would stop browsing weird things on the net. "You’re saying I’m too amazing for the world to handle."

"Well, I didn’t want to say it, but since you insist—"

"Never mind." She waved him off, though the faint unease didn’t quite fade.

It wasn’t the kind of feeling that could be easily explained. It wasn’t danger, exactly.

More like a presence—distant, watchful, as if something vast had shifted just beyond sight.

The light outside dimmed for half a second, then brightened again.

Her system screen flickered faintly at the corner of her vision, the numbers rearranging themselves before stabilising.

110 luck points. Normal. Everything looked normal.

And yet, the feeling remained.

She pressed a hand lightly over her heart. "Weird."

The little melon tilted its head. "You’re not glitching, are you? I just fixed your stats after the last deduction!"

"I’m not glitching. And how would I even glitch?" Her tone was calm, but her gaze stayed distant. "It’s just... there’s something."

"’Something’ doesn’t sound like a technical term."

"It’s not."

The little melon bobbed uncertainly, as if debating whether to scan again. "Well, whatever it is, maybe it’s the world giving you a round of applause! You did just rewrite a major plotline."

"Mm." She didn’t answer.

The quiet stretched again—only this time, it wasn’t empty. There was a pulse to it—slow, deep, patient—like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen.

She could almost hear it, faint as a whisper—a thrum beneath the walls, the ground, the air itself.

It faded as quickly as it came, leaving only the faint trace of warmth in her chest.

An Ning drew in a slow breath, letting it go just as slowly.

"Maybe I’m imagining things," she murmured.

"Maybe," the little melon said. "But if you start glowing or levitating, please give me a warning first."

Her lips twitched. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Outside, the wind shifted—soft, stirring, almost thoughtful.

Somewhere in that gentle breeze, something old stirred and took notice.

But An Ning didn’t see it.

Not yet.

She leaned back, gaze unfocused, as sunlight returned to its usual warmth.

The world carried on, ordinary and bright. Only, beneath that calm surface—something had just begun to wake.

And somewhere, deep in that awakening world, a new thread began to stir.

*****

And somewhere else in that same world—while fate quietly rewrote itself—someone was about to make a very questionable creative decision

In the dead of night, when everyone else was asleep, the director of Heartbeat Cottage lay wide awake—trying not to toss or turn, lest his wife kick him off the bed.

Filming had wrapped, editing was done, and the first week’s broadcast had gone live to glowing numbers—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still missing.

He’d captured the drama, the charm, the laughter. But not that spark—the kind that made even silence between two people feel charged.

He stared up at the ceiling, the faint glow from the digital clock blinking 2:47 a.m. in quiet mockery.

It wasn’t that the show was bad—far from it. The audience loved the chaos, the gossip, the subtle glances and not-so-subtle rivalries. But to him, it still lacked something vital.

Romance.

Not the scripted kind that came from candlelit dinners and conveniently timed rainstorms. Real, spontaneous connection—the kind that made viewers clutch their pillows and yell, "Just confess already!"

He’d tried everything. Scenic dates. Surprise tasks. Even a haunted house challenge. But instead of igniting sparks, that one nearly gave half the participants a trauma response.

He groaned softly, pressing a hand to his forehead. "If I throw another escape room their way, they’ll start haunting me instead."

He turned, careful not to disturb his wife, and stared at the ceiling again. Then, as if the universe decided to take pity on his creative misery, a thought struck.

If fear doesn’t bring people together... what about hardship?

He blinked, the phrase looping in his mind until it began to sound almost profound. His eyes widened slightly.

Hardship. Sweat. Shared struggle.

What better way to make them open up than by putting them through a bit of honest, back-breaking work?

His pulse quickened. He sat up a little too fast, earning a sleepy grunt from his wife and a well-aimed kick for his trouble.

He winced, mouthing a silent apology as he grabbed his phone and opened his notes app.

"Week Two," he whispered to himself, typing furiously. "Farmhouse Edition. They’ll live like locals. Plant crops, feed animals, build their own meals..."

The more he wrote, the brighter his eyes gleamed. His thumbs flew faster with every line, adrenaline replacing exhaustion.

"Forget fake dates and fancy villas," he muttered. "Let’s see who can survive a week without air-conditioning."

Beside him, his wife shifted and mumbled, "If you don’t sleep now, you’ll be surviving without me."

He froze, thumb hovering over his phone. "...Yes, dear."

The moment she settled back into slumber, he grinned to himself—half-proud, half-terrified of what he’d just unleashed.

This was it—the perfect formula for ’authentic love.’ After all, nothing united people faster than shared misery and mosquito bites.

He nodded in satisfaction, of course, it had to be him to come up with such a brilliant idea.