I Became the Female Lead’s Current Obsession - Chapter 50.1

Today was the college entrance exam.

Hou Xue sat in the examination hall, clutching her pen tightly, the tip hovering over the test paper.

At that moment, her mind was clear—filled only with the knowledge she’d accumulated. She had always been good at performing under pressure, pushing aside distractions and focusing with unwavering determination.

The two-day exam passed quickly. Hou Xue didn’t return to the Jiang household during this time; instead, she rented a room near the exam site.

Partly because the Jiang home was too far from the venue, and partly because of the growing whispers and gossip.

This year, it wasn’t just Hou Xue who was supposed to take the exam—Jiang Qing, the second daughter of the Jiang family, was also due to sit for it.

Although no one in the Jiang family said anything outright, the household staff loved their gossip—especially since Jiang Xing had brought Jiang Qing home from the hospital a week ago.

Jiang Xing believed it was pointless to leave her in the hospital any longer and had contacted foreign specialists to investigate her condition.

As for the outcome, Hou Xue hadn’t heard yet. Nor did she have the energy to care.

She had to get into Ting University.

It felt like there had once been a promise made to someone about that.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

After the exams, Hou Xue entered the most relaxed three months of her life.

At least in theory.

In reality, she was busy. Even before the exams, she had lined up several freelance jobs for the final summer of high school. Now, she spent nearly all her time holed up in her room. Though she lived in a private villa belonging to the Jiang family, aside from the servants, there were only two residents: herself, an outsider, and the vegetative second daughter.

Hou Xue spent her days typing code. Meals were brought directly to her room, so she rarely stepped outside. To others, it might have seemed like she was just lazing at home, but in truth, her days were filled with a quiet but purposeful busyness.

The rest of the Jiang family was either inexplicably abroad again or drowning in studies—like the younger brother who had just entered his final year of high school. On top of that, he was responsible for coordinating with doctors for his sister, leaving him little time to come home.

The actual head of the household and his mistress were still playing happy family elsewhere, staying in one of their other properties. Apparently, they were off traveling again.

What did surprise Hou Xue was that Jiang Bin seemed utterly indifferent to Jiang Qing’s vegetative state—as if she weren’t even his daughter.

But that, too, wasn’t something an outsider like her had the right to worry about.

Hou Xue typed the last line of code and closed her laptop with a sigh of satisfaction. Stretching, she stood up and walked a few laps around the room. She opened the tightly shut window, letting in a wave of hot summer air that swept through the room previously cooled by air conditioning and now clung to her face.

In the garden, the roses were in full bloom.

Just like a year ago.

It felt like time had changed something… and yet, nothing at all.

The sun rises and sets, the seas change into mulberry fields—only time remains eternal and unchanging.

In fact, today was Hou Xue’s birthday.

When she was younger, she used to wonder about the irony of her name—Xue, meaning “snow”—and her summer birth. It was as if her very existence had been a mistake, hinted at by the name given by Cao Fenlan.

But that was just childhood nonsense.

She shut the window again, sealing out the summer heat, and sat back down.

Her mouse clicked a few times at random, then she opened a hidden folder.

Inside was a small game.

Its icon was a little snowman.

She hesitated. Opening it had been a subconscious act, and yet… she didn’t remember this game at all.

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she clicked to run it.

The interface was simple, with administrator access still enabled.

Apparently, she had created the game—but she had no memory of doing so.

There was only one user listed.

Licht.

She felt like she was on the verge of remembering something important but couldn’t quite grasp it.

She clicked further and discovered there was even a chat log between her and this user.

Most of the messages were casual, just daily life sharing. Based on the conversations, she had posed as an AI.

Had she really done something that ridiculous? Why didn’t she remember any of it?

There weren’t many messages. She quickly read through them all.

Licht was a female college student who had fallen in love with someone. She poured her heart out to this “AI” and later discovered its true identity. The later messages became more vague, full of cryptic remarks.

Hou Xue read them with growing confusion.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, closed the chat window, and stared blankly.

It felt like a huge chunk of her memory was missing.

Or maybe… her real memories were missing.

“If we run another initialization, the energy cost will exceed the net gain from this entire world.”

Tang Wan pondered this carefully, then reluctantly agreed.

Sometimes, you had to see the bigger picture. There was no benefit to dragging things out in this ordinary world.

But there were too many bugs. Whether to conceal or eliminate them, it was all going to be a hassle. Still, they couldn’t afford more delays—this was the consensus.

The top priority was locating the original Jiang Qing’s consciousness, which had somehow gone missing from the designated sleep zone. It took Tang Wan and the tech team three to four hours to find a hidden breach.

It had been hiding in a flickering space near the world of Waiting for the Snow to Stop. But the gap was so subtle, no one had noticed it.

Tang Wan also discovered that this world, being too close to the Waiting for the Snow to Stop system, had been orbiting it like a moon around a much larger planet. During certain time intervals, the two would sync—causing gravitational resonance. If left unchecked, this could eventually lead to one world being absorbed by the other.

A cosmic collision.

And neither side would survive unscathed.

“Good thing we caught it in time,” muttered Tech 032. “Otherwise the cost of patching this would’ve doubled.”

“I still don’t know what went wrong.” Tang Wan sighed, rubbing her temples. “Anyway, separate the original Jiang Qing’s consciousness from the world. The bug version wants to meet her—don’t let her enter the sleep zone yet. Bring her to base.”

“Roger,” Tech 032 replied without complaint, getting to work.

You had to give it to 032—he really was one of the top engineers. In no time, he’d done exactly what Tang Wan asked.

So when “Jiang Qing” suddenly appeared in front of the real Jiang Qing, even the latter was startled.

After entering the base, Jiang Qing’s appearance had returned to her original look. So, although the bug version wasn’t shocked by her, Jiang Qing herself—having worn that face for so long—was understandably taken aback.

“Where is this? Why did I suddenly end up here?” “Jiang Qing” frowned and questioned the only person in sight.

“This is a higher-level space than the world you came from,” Jiang Qing replied nonchalantly, giving her no chance to gain control of the conversation. “After you left your original world, someone dragged me in to take your place. I’ve been living your life. You’re here because I want to ask you something. Otherwise, they’ll force you back into the sleep zone.”

“Jiang Qing” tensed immediately, wariness flashing across her face.

“So what is this? A trial? You here to confront me?”

“No.” Jiang Qing shook her head gently. “Quite the opposite. I’m here to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh?” “Jiang Qing” seemed to regain some confidence. Though the unease didn’t disappear, her tone became more assertive. “What kind of favor?”

“Before that, answer me—was it your choice to leave the original world?”

“Jiang Qing” bit her lip, then murmured, “… I guess so.”

“I’ve always wondered—how did you figure out that world was a novel?” Jiang Qing asked.

“How would I know?” she snapped. “Maybe there was a bug. I started dreaming about future events. You should know—of course I didn’t want that fate. One day, I just woke up in a world without Hou Xue. But hey, maybe it was a blessing in disguise.”

Jiang Qing was taken aback. Even the original version didn’t know how she had been pulled into another world.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was—

“Do you want to go back? To that world where everything eventually revolves around Hou Xue?”

“Jiang Qing” narrowed her eyes.

“You mean you want to keep living my life?”

“You could put it that way,” Jiang Qing said. “We can both get what we want.”

“Then I want something in return,” she demanded.

“Your reward is a second chance at life—but it comes with a cost.” Jiang Qing glanced behind “Jiang Qing.”

“You’ll have to discuss the details with her.”

Tang Wan stood at the doorway. “Jiang Qing” turned to see a beautiful woman waving at her.

“She agreed faster than I expected,” Jiang Qing remarked.

“She seemed to think it was fun… Like she didn’t really care. Maybe she’s naturally a bit toxic. Honestly, she might be perfect for the job…” Tang Wan hesitated, remembering the character’s manipulative role in the original novel. “But maybe we made a mistake just throwing her into this.”

On the surface, they had scored free labor. But in truth, everyone was just using each other. They hadn’t gained any extra energy from the situation.

Still, their core mission remained: to keep the world running.

Tang Wan comforted herself with that thought.

“Once you’ve collected enough energy from Waiting for the Snow to Stop, you can return,” she said. “But tell me—do you really want to become just another character in a book?”

Jiang Qing thought for a moment before answering:

“If you call them ‘worlds’ now, why still treat the people inside them like soulless puppets?”

Tang Wan didn’t reply.

Because if they truly accepted that the characters were real people, then everything they’d done suddenly seemed horrifyingly cruel.

But to maintain order, sacrifices—no matter how small—were sometimes necessary.

Spring turned to summer, then fall and winter.

Time passed, or maybe it didn’t. Nothing seemed to change.

Snow was falling.

Hou Xue stood at a street corner, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green.

Snowflakes landed on her coat, not melting immediately but resting there like delicate ornaments.

The red light seemed endless. The green was fleeting.

But Hou Xue’s pace didn’t change. She had nothing urgent to do—just a casual afternoon stroll.

She was twenty-nine years old now.

At an age where most were still finding their footing, she stood atop a business empire she built from scratch. A rare genius, truly.

She stopped beneath a streetlamp, tilting her head up to the snowy sky.

The snow was beginning to stop.

The flakes on her coat disappeared. The sky darkened, and the drifting snow slowly vanished.

The snow had stopped.

Hou Xue raised her wrist and glanced at the time.

It was late. Time to go home.

Maybe it was the cold, or maybe her coat was too heavy, but her steps felt heavier than usual.

This land once belonged to the Jiangs. Now it was hers.

The street was empty. This was her private estate.

She walked slowly but steadily, exuding calm and control.

Maybe that’s what success looked like—measured and composed, no matter the chaos. It was something she had learned over the years.

Deception. Betrayal. Schemes and survival. She had followed the plot, growing from a teen into a formidable adult. Time had yet to mark her face, but her heart was no longer that of the eighteen-year-old girl she once was. It was a heart wearied but still moving forward.

Hou Xue was tired—like an old machine that needed someone to wind it back up, to piece her scattered, broken self together again.

The snow had stopped, but the wind still blew cold.

Hou Xue glanced at her watch.

It was late. Time to head home.

Perhaps it was the chill in the air or the weight of her coat, but her steps felt unusually heavy.

This land had once belonged to the Jiang family. Now, it was hers.

The streets were quiet. This was her private residence, after all.

She walked at an unhurried pace—neither fast nor slow—composed and serene. It was the air of someone who had succeeded, the kind of calm that came from not needing to prove anything. This was a quality Hou

Xue had carefully cultivated over the years.