Chapter 167

Less than thirty minutes into the stream, the number of viewers plummeted from over twenty thousand to just over eight thousand. Fang Cheng’s face turned green.

Tonight’s featured streamer was from a family of professional street vendors—three generations of the Jiang family from Sanchaling, all seasoned stall owners. After much deliberation, Fang Cheng and his team had chosen Jiang Xiaozhu to go live, because out of all the socially anxious vendors, he was the most articulate.

Sure enough, when reading the product script, Jiang Xiaozhu didn’t miss a beat. But the way he looked so guilty, avoiding the camera like the plague—what the hell was he doing?

Fang Cheng was watching the stream from the next room, practically tearing his hair out.

But this plan had been approved by the boss. No matter how frustrated he was, he didn’t dare curse anyone in front of Wei Sheng.

Could it be that the boss’s mystical “good luck aura” had finally failed?

As the viewer count dropped from eight thousand to six thousand, Fang Cheng’s heart sank lower and lower.

Since its formation, their team had been a dark horse in the livestreaming world. They’d launched several hit IPs like the “Sunset Red Live Streaming Group” and the “Iron Ladies of Lotus Pond Village.” Were they really going to crash and burn here in Sanchaling?

The more he thought about it, the more terrified he became. Fang Cheng didn’t even dare meet Wei Sheng’s eyes.

He felt like he was catching social anxiety from the folks in Sanchaling.

Two hours later, the first stream ended. The final viewer count? A pitiful 3,228.

It was the worst performance in the history of Wei Sheng’s team.

After the stream ended, the entire team was in a total slump.

“Don’t panic. Take it slow. We’ll stream again tomorrow,” Wei Sheng said, trying to comfort them.

But the team remained in full-on despair mode.

“How about this,” Wei Sheng continued, this time offering a concrete plan. “Pick two people with compelling stories. This Saturday night, I’ll bring them on our company’s ‘Weekend Story Time.’ Let’s try to drive some traffic to Sanchaling’s new account.”

Fang Cheng’s eyes lit up.

If the Sanchaling account could get featured on Weekend Story Time, the traffic boost would be incredible!

When Wei Sheng first launched the “Weekend Story Time” account, to be honest, no one in the company had much faith in it. Most of them were seasoned content creators—specializing in things like film edits or book recommendations. Those accounts gained followers fast, but their monetization was terrible. Sometimes, a film account with a million followers couldn’t earn as much as a lifestyle account with just a hundred thousand.

In reality, Wei Sheng hadn’t created the account for profit. He just wanted to share stories from his poverty alleviation work.

Everyone knew that, thanks to the broadcasting authority’s strict “harmonization” policies, any content deemed “unfavorable to social harmony” would get ruthlessly cut from variety shows. No matter how moving or socially relevant your story was, if the higher-ups thought it was problematic, it would never air.

So if Wei Sheng wanted to share these stories with fans, he had to rely on livestreaming—skirting the line, using interviews and storytelling to share real but “unharmonious” tales from the front lines of poverty relief.

It wasn’t that he wanted to go head-to-head with the broadcasting authority. The real issue was that during his two years at the TV Station, Wei Sheng had come to realize how few platforms there were for ordinary people to speak out.

Sometimes, a journalist would conduct an interview, only for the story to get axed before it ever aired. Other times, when a major social issue arose, mainstream media would collectively go silent. Take, for example, that shocking domestic violence case in J Province a few years ago. The perpetrator was a government official, and suddenly every major outlet in the province went blind. Even when local independent media were blowing up, the mainstream channels stayed silent.

It wasn’t that the media were protecting the abuser—they were just protecting the region’s public image. Still, it left a bitter taste.

That was another reason Wei Sheng insisted on leaving the TV Station.

When he first applied, it wasn’t just because the job matched his major and was easy to get into. Deep down, he admired the media’s supposed sense of social responsibility—the idea of “shouldering justice with iron shoulders.”

But once inside, he realized that “shouldering justice” only applied within the boundaries of what was approved. If the higher-ups decided your story was “unharmonious,” it didn’t matter how touching or powerful it was—it would never see the light of day. All your hard work would be reduced to a pile of wasted drafts.

Wei Sheng used to criticize journalists too, thinking they were cowards who didn’t dare report the truth. But once he entered the industry, he realized the truth: it wasn’t that reporters didn’t dare—it was that they weren’t allowed.

Fine. If they won’t let me write, then I’ll speak through livestreams!

Wei Sheng never regretted quitting the TV Station. Part of it was ideological, but more importantly, being “inside the system” had shackled him. He saw injustice but couldn’t speak out, couldn’t act.

The TV Station even had a ridiculous rule: all employees were forbidden from commenting on social issues on any social media platform—whether Weibo, WeChat, Douyin, or Kuaishou¹.

Wei Sheng had always known he and the TV Station were destined to part ways. He just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Thankfully, on a whim, he had launched the “Weekend Story Time” account. Otherwise, he’d be like a gourd with its mouth sealed—full of stories, but no way to speak.

Now the account had nearly 800,000 followers. What shocked the team was that despite never selling anything during the livestreams, the products linked in the little yellow shopping cart² still sold remarkably well—pulling in hundreds of thousands in sales every week.

While the profits didn’t match their main commercial accounts, for a channel focused solely on storytelling, those sales figures were already top-tier in the industry.

After Sanchaling’s socially anxious livestream debut flopped, the village officials were in a panic.

Village chief Jiang Yongzhi even called an emergency village meeting, urging everyone to go home and call their relatives to watch the livestream. But Sanchaling only had a few hundred residents, most of whom were elderly folks and children who didn’t even watch livestreams. A hundred or so viewers—what good would that do?

Wait a minute!

“Boss! Look at this data trend from the past few days!” Fang Cheng rushed over, waving a printout excitedly.

Wei Sheng had stayed in Sanchaling these past few days to personally oversee the situation. He took the report from Fang Cheng and studied the data carefully. His posture straightened as he read.

Although the number of concurrent viewers remained low, starting from the second day, it had stabilized at around three thousand. Even better, the account’s follower count was steadily rising.

“What did I say? So what if they’re socially anxious? There are plenty of socially anxious viewers out there too—people who don’t like noisy, high-energy streams. They prefer streamers who don’t force interactions.”

“Exactly! Boss, you’re a genius!” Fang Cheng nodded enthusiastically.

“Alright, keep it up. Don’t forget to analyze the data regularly. From now on, the team needs to submit a monthly report specifically for the Sanchaling account. This campaign may be tough, but if we pull it off, we’ll gain invaluable experience in incubating niche accounts. Fang Cheng, I’m assigning this glorious and challenging mission to you. Do you have the confidence to see it through?”

“Yes!” Fang Cheng, fired up by his boss’s pep talk, rushed off to start crunching numbers.

At 8 PM on Saturday, Wei Sheng personally hosted the “Weekend Story Time” livestream, right on schedule.

“Tonight, I want to introduce you to a very special group of people,” he began.

“They come from deep in the mountains. They’re not good with words. For generations, they’ve carried bamboo poles on their shoulders, silently and steadfastly supporting their families.”

“A few days ago, I shared a livestream with everyone on Weibo. I know many of you were disappointed. You felt the streamers weren’t professional, that all they did was read from a script and couldn’t even look into the camera.”

“To be honest, I was just as surprised when I first saw it. But after spending two days with my team at the local market here, I finally understood what was really going on.”

“As for why the folks from Sanchaling don’t look into the camera during livestreams, well, I think it’s best to let them share their own stories with you all…”

The first guest Wei Sheng invited was none other than the “third-generation street vendor” from Sanchaling Village—Jiang Xiaozhu.

In Jiang Xiaozhu’s family, not only had three generations made a living as market peddlers, but all three generations had also been “live-in sons-in-law.”

Actually, calling them “sons-in-law” isn’t quite accurate. To be more precise, from his grandfather to his father and now Jiang Xiaozhu himself, they had all been “walking marriage husbands” in Langshan.

Don’t be fooled by the abundance of goods on their stalls—the profits were meager at best. They certainly couldn’t afford the high bride prices³ demanded in the mountains. So starting with Jiang Xiaozhu’s grandfather, they took advantage of their market rounds to become “walking marriage husbands.”

During the livestream, Wei Sheng had the camera angle adjusted so it pointed at him instead of Jiang Xiaozhu. That way, Jiang Xiaozhu could talk to him directly instead of facing the camera. Sure enough, once the angle changed, Jiang Xiaozhu started speaking much more smoothly.

As he recounted his memories, the tens of thousands of viewers in the livestream felt as though they were being transported deep into the mysterious mountains, getting a firsthand glimpse of the legendary “walking marriage” culture.

Jiang Xiaozhu’s grandfather wasn’t originally from Langshan. He had fled there during wartime to escape the chaos. Since he was familiar with the outside world and didn’t own land or know how to hunt, he survived by venturing out of the mountains to trade for small goods like sewing supplies, salt, and candy. He’d carry them on a shoulder pole, traveling between remote mountain villages to make a living.

Mountain folk were extremely wary of outsiders, especially during times of war. A stranger showing up in the village would immediately raise suspicions.

So over time, a silent understanding formed between the peddlers and the villagers: the peddlers wouldn’t enter the village. Instead, they’d stop at the entrance, set down their goods, and ring a bell to signal their arrival.

Anyone in the village who needed to buy something would come out to the entrance with money in hand.

Because they feared that peddlers might be spies or scouts, the villagers rarely spoke to them. The entire exchange was done in silence, like a covert operation. Once the transaction was over, both sides would quickly go their separate ways. In those days, only constant vigilance could keep people alive.

There was even a story about a village in Langshan that had once taken in a man disguised as a peddler, only to be wiped out by mountain bandits. The reason? Apparently, during casual conversation, a villager had let slip that their ancestors once mined silver for the imperial court.

Wei Sheng was speechless when he heard that.

Forget bandits—even someone like him would be tempted by that kind of information.

If your ancestors mined silver for the court, that means someone in the village probably knew where the silver veins were, right?

In an era of war and chaos, who wouldn’t understand the value of a silver mine?

The mountain folk only knew that the bandits slaughtered the entire village. But Wei Sheng suspected that if the story were true, the villagers had likely suffered torture more brutal than death before the end came.

Still, because Jiang Xiaozhu’s grandfather kept peddling in the same familiar villages around Sanchaling, he eventually became a known face. One day, a mountain girl took a liking to him and made him her “walking marriage husband.”

Now, for those male readers who enjoy harem novels—don’t get too excited. The walking marriage culture in Langshan isn’t nearly as romantic as it sounds.

First off, if a man wants to live with a woman, he has to cover all living expenses during their time together. Otherwise, why should she sleep with him? What if he’s infertile? Then she’s wasted her time for nothing.

On top of that, if the woman gives birth to a daughter, she’s the one responsible for raising her. But if it’s a son, then sorry—the man has to foot the bill. And once the boy grows up, he’s usually taken away by the father.

On the surface, it might look like the man gets to skip the bride price and still ends up with a son to carry on the family line.

But in reality, if mountain men had the means, they’d much rather pay for a proper wife. That way, not only could she bear him sons, but she’d also be a lifelong housekeeper—cooking, cleaning, raising kids, working the fields, and sharing his bed. What’s not to love?

Unfortunately, many women in Langshan had already seen through the harsh truths of marriage. In female-headed villages⁴, women would rather find a walking marriage husband and raise their daughters on their own than spend a lifetime serving a man like a beast of burden… cough.

After Jiang Xiaozhu’s grandmother gave birth to her second daughter, she kicked his grandfather out, baby boy in tow.

So the old man went back to peddling, carrying goods in one basket and his son in the other, raising Jiang Xiaozhu’s father on the road.

The next two generations followed the exact same pattern, as if their fates had been copy-pasted.

You really have to hand it to the women of Langshan’s female-headed households—they’re some of the most clear-eyed people on earth.

But Jiang Xiaozhu had a dream: he and his current “temporary wife” made a promise. If he could earn enough money to build her a three-story house in town before she gave birth to a daughter, she would marry him for real and become his legal wife.

When Wei Sheng first heard this, he knew that with Jiang Xiaozhu’s income at the time, even ten more years of peddling wouldn’t be enough to buy land and build that house. The woman was clearly trying to let him down gently.

Still, maybe because she hadn’t gotten him to father a daughter yet, she didn’t want to reject him outright… cough.

But who would’ve thought—Jiang Xiaozhu actually took it seriously. Not only that, he even signed up to become a livestream sales host. Looks like he’s determined to make this marriage a reality. Sigh… let’s just hope he doesn’t end up heartbroken and abandoned.

That’s exactly why Wei Sheng invited him to tell his story on stream.

Sure enough, when Jiang Xiaozhu talked about how his grandfather got kicked out by his “temporary wife,” the female viewers burst into laughter. The comment section exploded, with countless single women chiming in: “Noted!”

But when Jiang Xiaozhu started talking about the promise he made with his “wife,” his voice full of longing and hope, the more experienced female viewers couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

Any woman with a bit of dating experience could tell—his “wife’s” promise was classic player talk, just in reverse.

It’s like when a guy says to a girl, “Once I’m rich, I’ll buy you a mansion and hire ten maids for you…” But when he finally makes it big, the first thing he does is dump the woman who stuck with him through the hard times.

Thinking about it that way, the female viewers only felt more sympathy for Jiang Xiaozhu.

Men or women, players are players. Poor Jiang Xiaozhu actually believed that building a big house would win him a lifetime of love. But chances are, the moment that baby girl is born, he’ll be shown the door. Pfft.

Still, pity aside, the viewers couldn’t help siding with their fellow women. If they had the means to raise a child on their own, who would want to marry a man and become his lifelong servant?

After some thought, the fans decided to follow the Sanchaling account. They couldn’t let this poor guy end up with nothing—not the girl, not the money. If he couldn’t win her heart, at least he could earn some cash, right?

And hey, if Jiang Xiaozhu made enough money, even if his current “wife” didn’t want to marry him, maybe someone else would.

But no—Jiang Xiaozhu was dead set on this one woman who didn’t even want to get married. He was about to head into the mountains to forage wild herbs when Wei Sheng pulled him into livestreaming.

And what do you know—one year later, after Sanchaling’s short video network took off, Jiang Xiaozhu’s personal account had over half a million followers and was bringing in over a million yuan annually. He actually won the girl’s heart and made her his wife.

But for now, he was still just a camera-shy newbie in the livestream world, possibly being strung along by a woman who had no intention of marrying him.

(End of this chapter)

Translator’s Notes

• “harmonization” policies: In Chinese media and internet slang, ‘harmonization’ is a euphemism for censorship, referring to the government’s efforts to suppress content deemed disruptive to social stability or harmony.

• “shouldering justice with iron shoulders”: This is a reference to a famous line from Chinese literature by Liu Yazi: ‘On my iron shoulders, I bear justice’ (铁肩担道义), symbolizing the ideal of journalists or writers carrying the moral responsibility to uphold truth and justice.

• “walking marriage”: A traditional matrilineal practice among the Mosuo people in southwestern China, where couples do not live together or form formal marriages; instead, men visit women at night and return home in the morning, with children raised by the mother’s family.