Chapter 168

Maybe Jiang Xiaozhu’s story was just too outrageous, because instead of scaring people off, it actually drew over thirty thousand more viewers to the livestream.

Everyone was eagerly waiting for the next juicy tale. After all, this was way more entertaining than those cheesy, over-the-top romance dramas on TV—and it was real people, live on camera! Get your fix in the livestream now, and when your annual leave rolls around, make sure to visit Sanchaling in person for the full experience!

But no one expected the second guest, Jiang Dayu, to bring an entirely different vibe—a heartfelt story of a hardworking father supporting his daughter’s education.

In this era, tearjerker variety shows are a dime a dozen. At first, the viewers thought this story was going to be boring. But when Jiang Dayu, his face glowing with pride, pulled out an entire folder of his daughter’s awards and said that no matter how hard life got, he and his wife were determined to help their daughter leave the mountains behind, the female viewers were deeply moved.

They’d heard too many stories of girls being undervalued. The more remote and impoverished the region, the harder it was for a girl to escape poverty.

So what if she was a good student? Ever heard of Zhang Guimei¹? The girls she brought back from the mountains—weren’t they all top of their class? But their families still forced them to quit school, go home to care for younger siblings, and wait to be married off for a bride price to fund their brothers’ futures.

And then there’s Jiang Dayu. This middle-aged man who couldn’t even look directly at the camera could have easily asked his eldest daughter to drop out and work in the city, using her income to support her younger brother’s education. That would’ve eased the burden on the whole family. But he refused.

In Jiang Dayu’s eyes, for a girl to walk out of the mountains and onto the right path, she had to work even harder than a boy.

Tuition wasn’t the biggest worry. Jiang Dayu had heard that many female students from rural areas, because of their poor backgrounds, were easily deceived while trying to make money. Some were led astray, their lives ruined forever.

He and his wife hadn’t had much schooling themselves, and they didn’t know that part-time jobs could actually help students adapt to society. All they knew was that some girls from the mountains had been tricked or taken advantage of while doing work-study, so they instinctively wanted to steer their daughter away from that risk.

So the couple made a silent vow long ago: not only would they earn enough to pay for their daughter’s tuition, they’d also give her enough living expenses.

They wanted her to study in peace at university, without worrying about part-time jobs. Their precious daughter, raised with so much care, wasn’t going to be thrown to the wolves.

That’s why, even though he was painfully shy and could barely get a word out on camera, Jiang Dayu still forced himself to livestream every night. He saw it as a craft, a skill that could change his family’s fate. If once wasn’t enough, he’d try a hundred times.

Just like farming. When they first cleared land in the mountains, the harvests were poor. But over time, the barren land became fertile, and they could grow corn and potatoes just like anyone else.

Jiang Dayu’s story didn’t have dramatic twists or laugh-out-loud moments. But as he spoke, many viewers with soft hearts found their eyes welling up with tears.

His daughter was truly fortunate.

Yes, Jiang Dayu was just a humble farmer. He and his wife were so shy they couldn’t even manage a small roadside stall. During the off-season, they’d go down the mountain to do odd jobs, just to earn a bit of money for their kids’ study guides. But so what?

He didn’t have much money, but he gave his children an abundance of love.

This kind of unconditional fatherly love is rare—not just in poor mountain villages, but even in the cities. These days, there are too many men who think their job ends at making a baby, and the rest is the mother’s responsibility.

As for being a dad? “I have to work, I don’t have time for the kids.”

But look at Jiang Dayu. He farms, feeds pigs, chops wood, and still goes down the mountain to do odd jobs. Yet somehow, he still finds time to pick up his daughter from school.

Sanchaling is remote, and there are no good schools nearby. Both of his children board at school. Normally, at that age, kids just get some money and take the bus home on weekends.

But a few years ago, something terrible happened near Sanchaling. A schoolgirl disappeared on her way home. Days later, her body was found in a remote mountain area, not far from her home. She’d been buried shallowly and was dragged out by wild animals. By the time she was discovered, her body was unrecognizable.

Since then, Jiang Dayu never let his children travel home alone again.

He found a job escorting deliveries for a braised meat shop in town. The shop needed to restock from the county every week. The owner used to go himself, but later hired Jiang Dayu to help. The owner would call ahead to the cold storage, and Jiang Dayu would go to check and load the goods, then ride back with the delivery. It wasn’t hard work, so the pay was low, but Jiang Dayu was happy.

Because after the delivery was done on Friday, it coincided with school dismissal. He could hitch a ride on the delivery truck, pick up his kids, save on bus fare, and even earn a few dozen yuan.

The shop owner didn’t mind either—spending a bit to save half a day of work was worth it. He could make much more selling braised meat in that time.

So think about it. All men carry the responsibility of providing for their families. Why is it that Jiang Dayu can brave wind and rain to pick up his kids, but some of you can’t lift a finger?

With that in mind, how could people not support Jiang Dayu’s livestream?

What’s more, word got out that Jiang Dayu’s eldest daughter was a top student at the county’s best high school. Several wealthy women in the fan group privately messaged, offering to sponsor both of his children through school.

Jiang Dayu thought it over and politely declined.

He knew that if he accepted, their current struggles could be resolved instantly. But—

“If we take that money, my kids will owe them a huge debt of gratitude.”

And as the saying goes, favors are the hardest debts to repay. Jiang Dayu was a man of principle. He’d rather work himself to the bone than have his children carry a lifelong burden of gratitude.

There were already cases like that in their village. One family had a bright student but couldn’t afford tuition. The villagers chipped in—one gave a hundred, another two hundred—and helped him go to college. But after he graduated and found a job, every time someone’s kid went to work in the city, the family would call him, asking for help.

Jiang Dayu appreciated the kindness of the online community. He knew they probably didn’t expect anything in return. But the more decent a person is, the less they want to owe anyone.

Because they know they can’t repay it, they’d rather not let their children carry that weight.

Wei Sheng didn’t explain all this to the well-meaning fans. he simply told them that Jiang Dayu wanted to earn the money himself to support his kids through school.

That night’s “Weekend Story Time” unexpectedly made the fledgling Sanchaling livestream account go semi-viral. At the very least, most of the hundreds of thousands of viewers who tuned in that night ended up following the account.

Wei Sheng had used storytelling to funnel traffic to the Sanchaling livestream, and he’d been worried that the new followers wouldn’t take to the “socially anxious” style of the streams.

But the next day’s analytics left the whole team stunned.

While many viewers initially said it felt a bit awkward, once they got used to the quiet, low-pressure style, they actually found it hard to go back to the noisy chaos of other livestreams.

“I’m seriously obsessed with the Sanchaling account. This is how livestream shopping should be—less gimmick, more sincerity! Just introduce the product honestly, no dancing, please. My head hurts!”

“As someone with social anxiety, this is the most comfortable livestream I’ve ever watched. I don’t want to be stared at and asked if I’ve placed an order. I don’t want to spam 666² in the chat. I definitely don’t want to wait for the host to shout ‘3, 2, 1, link up!’ I just want to quietly place my order. This is perfect.”

“Same here. I hope those shouty streamers learn something from Sanchaling. Enough with the fake bargaining scripts! Can’t we just shop in peace?”

“This reminds me of shopping in physical stores. I used to hate being followed around by salespeople! Sometimes I just wanted to say, ‘Please, go play on your phone. Don’t mind me. You’re making me nervous!’”

“Pfft hahaha~ fellow socially anxious shopper here. I hate being chased by sales staff. I’m sticking with Sanchaling for good. This is the shopping experience I’ve always dreamed of—no pressure, no hard sell. I love it!”

“This livestream room is seriously addictive! Once you’re in, you don’t want to leave. It’s peak social-anxiety-core—awkward, hilarious, and totally addictive, hahaha~ Last night during Brother Dayu’s stream, he came across a couple of obscure characters he didn’t recognize and actually looked them up in a dictionary on the spot, haha! As a lifelong underachiever, I finally got to sit up straight with pride—I knew those rare characters!”

Wei Sheng: “…”

So this is how you all manage to feel superior—by watching a bunch of socially anxious streamers? Aren’t you all just socially anxious yourselves?

After all, if you weren’t, why would you get so nervous you want to swipe away the moment a streamer stares into the camera and urges you to place an order?

Who would’ve thought that this hilariously awkward and pitiful “social-anxiety-avoidance-style livestream” would quietly explode in popularity?

At first, it was just the socially anxious fans in Wei Sheng’s fan group who loved this calm, no-hype, no-dancing livestream room. But as the platform started funneling more traffic into it, more and more randomly assigned viewers ended up staying.

Just like one fan said, this livestream room is basically a “social-anxiety-friendly account.”

The streamers don’t nag you to follow or place an order. They don’t shout into the mic with over-the-top enthusiasm that makes your skin crawl. The whole process of selling and buying happens with zero interaction. One side focuses on the product, the other listens like they’re being briefed by a robot. If the price feels right, they just place the order.

How is it even possible that such a heavenly livestream room exists? I’m obsessed!

Turns out the old fans were right—once you enter, you never want to leave.

Even better, the products sold here aren’t just the usual bargain-bin stuff with free shipping. Many are local specialties produced and sold directly by the towns around Sanchaling.

After surviving the initial adjustment period, the socially anxious streamers still couldn’t bring themselves to face the camera directly, but they grew more and more comfortable introducing the products. As long as they didn’t have to look into the lens, they could talk about these familiar hometown goods with ease and confidence.

For other streamers, some of these local specialties might be things they’re encountering for the first time. But for the folks from Sanchaling, whether it’s sweet potato noodles, misty mountain tea, handmade rice cakes, or chili powder, these are just everyday staples from their own kitchens.

At first, they had to read from product descriptions written by the team, word by word. But once they got the hang of it, they realized the scripts didn’t capture things as well as they could themselves. With Wei Sheng’s encouragement, the socially anxious streamers began to improvise.

They started sharing the origins, legends, recipes, and ways to enjoy each product, bit by bit, in a gentle, engaging way. It didn’t feel like a sales pitch at all—it felt more like a livestream promoting intangible cultural heritage.

Who would’ve guessed that this quirky, amateurish livestream room—with no hype team, no DJ, and no flashy antics—would quietly edge out the professionals and climb into the platform’s top ten sales rankings?

The good news is, now that the stream is popular, the algorithm is sending even more traffic their way. The follower count for the Sanchaling account has been snowballing, skyrocketing exponentially. In just three short months, the main account has surpassed five million followers!

The bad news? Others have started copying their style…

(End of chapter)

Translator’s Notes