Volume Two ~Chapter Two: The First Drop of Blood

The chaos outside faded like a receding tide, leaving only the sound of Shen Qingxu’s own breathing. She didn’t linger by the door. Supporting herself against the wall, she stood up—there was no triumph in her eyes, only a cold, resolute calm.

She walked to the table, picked up her phone, and carefully saved and backed up the recorded file. It was evidence. A weapon. A certificate marking her complete break from the past.

When that was done, she turned her gaze toward the simple livestream setup on the table. The metallic ring of the light reflected her composed yet razor-sharp eyes.

She knew very well that determination and a few recordings alone would never free her from the Shen family’s parasitic grip—nor would they be enough to build the “Stellar Empire” she envisioned. She needed power. She needed influence. She needed the kind of capital that would silence every voice that had ever doubted or hurt her.

And all of it had to start from this small, shabby room.

Instead of rushing into her first broadcast, she opened a notebook titled Stellar Media. The pen scratched softly across the paper—not with vague dreams, but with concrete strategy.

“Niche positioning: ‘Rebuilding from Ruins’ and ‘Aesthetic Revival.’”

“Core content: upcycling, space renewal, and personal transformation. No self-pity, no victimhood—focus on skill, taste, and resilience.”

“Initial goal: Build an audience of loyal followers and establish a persona of strength, intelligence, and refined taste.”

In an age drowning in information, she knew that mere tales of rebirth and revenge wouldn’t hold attention for long without solid, meaningful content. She would not be a victim begging for sympathy—she would be a creator who built value.

Once her plan was laid out, she began transforming her humble room into a “studio.”

She cleared the clutter, hung up a light gray backdrop, adjusted the ring light to soften her features, ensuring it highlighted her eyes—eyes that now held countless untold stories.

Just as she was connecting the power cables, her phone buzzed.

The caller ID made her eyes narrow—“Aunt Zhou,” her mother’s sister. The same woman who claimed to be the “voice of fairness,” yet always fanned the flames of chaos.

After a brief pause, Shen Qingxu accepted the call—and simultaneously turned on the call recorder.

“Qingxu!” Aunt Zhou’s shrill voice pierced through at once, brimming with feigned distress.

“How could you treat your parents and brother like that? They raised you, didn’t they? And I heard you kicked them out? What’s gotten into you, child? Marriage changed you so much? Listen to your aunt—go home and apologize. Family shouldn’t hold grudges overnight…”

It was a performance she’d heard countless times before—moral blackmail disguised as concern.

Shen Qingxu listened quietly, waiting until her aunt paused to catch her breath before replying, her voice calm and clear:

“Aunt Zhou, are you finished?”

The other end went silent for a second.

Shen Qingxu continued, tone steady but with an edge of unshakable authority.

“First, I don’t have a ‘home.’ That place was nothing more than a financial sink—one where I contributed 687,000 yuan and still didn’t have a room of my own.”

“Second, if I’ve become ‘heartless,’ it’s because my family taught me how. They showed me that love could be measured in money, and that daughters exist only to pave the way for sons.”

“And lastly, Aunt Zhou—” she paused, her voice turning as cold as ice, “instead of lecturing me about morality, perhaps you should worry about your son’s unpaid online loans. After all, as you just said, ‘family shouldn’t hold grudges,’ right?”

The line went dead silent.

Aunt Zhou’s breathing turned ragged. She was stunned—her son’s massive online debt was a secret she’d hidden from everyone. How could Shen Qingxu possibly know?

(In her previous life, that scandal had exploded half a year later and become public gossip.)

Without another word, Shen Qingxu hung up.

She stared at the blank screen, her expression unreadable. That had been just a test.

The knowledge her rebirth granted her—the “information gap”—was one of her sharpest weapons. She would not only defend herself, but go on the offensive, forcing every moral judge to first examine whether their own hands were clean.

Setting down the phone, she returned to her position before the ring light and switched the camera to record mode.

No livestream this time. She was building her content library—filming high-quality short videos to attract and anchor her first audience.

In the camera frame, she wore a simple white T-shirt. No makeup. Her hair tied neatly back. She didn’t complain about her hardships or condemn anyone. Instead, she picked up an old pair of scissors and some outdated clothes meant for the trash, and began cutting and stitching.

Her movements were skilled and precise; her gaze focused on creation.

An old shirt transformed into a stylish eco-friendly tote.

A faded pair of jeans became a minimalist iPad sleeve.

As she worked, she occasionally shared small crafting tips with a soft, calming voice—steady, soothing, filled with quiet strength. Her skill, her patience, her ability to create beauty from ruin—these spoke louder than any revenge story ever could.

When the recordings were done, she edited them carefully, added gentle background music and concise captions, tagged them with #Upcycling #MinimalistLiving #HealingCrafts, and posted them online.

By the time she finished, night had fallen and the city lights glimmered outside her window.

Hunger finally reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She made a bowl of instant noodles. The rising steam blurred her vision—not from sadness, but from the tangible warmth of taking control of her own life.

As she ate, she refreshed the analytics dashboard.

The video’s numbers climbed slowly, but a few likes and follows had already appeared.

Then came the first comment:

“You’re so skilled! You seem like someone with a story. Followed!”

Shen Qingxu’s lips curved into a faint smile.

This—was the first drop of blood.

In a quiet, unseen corner of the internet, her stars were beginning to gather light.

(End of Volume Two, Chapter Two)

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