My Idol Turns Out To Be My Ex-Girlfriend - Chapter 8

Lin Sanyuan followed very few bloggers on Weibo, but Qiu Feng was one of those rare exceptions.

Even though Qiu Feng never spoke during her live streams, only offering a soft, quiet “Goodnight” at the very end of each session, it didn’t detract from the quality of her teaching. Her artistic foundation was profound, and Lin Sanyuan consistently learned a great deal from her.

Qiu Feng was patient. While painting, she would occasionally glance at the fans’ comments in the chat. If she encountered a follower asking a genuine question about technique, she wouldn’t speak, but she would set aside her current work and use a fresh sheet of white paper to meticulously sketch out the composition process for them.

Of course, Lin Sanyuan wasn’t just there for the art lessons. This blogger didn’t just have skill, she had incredible hands with an exceptionally elegant bone structure.

Lin Sanyuan was a bit of a hand person.

She hadn’t always been this way, the obsession had started about a year ago.

She hadn’t tried to dig too deep into the blogger’s personal life, but that didn’t change the fact that Qiu Feng was incredibly popular. Her Weibo follower count was higher than the word count of the novels Lin Sanyuan wrote.

Specifically, about six months ago, her already significant fame exploded overnight. The cause of this viral surge was a simple silver pinky ring.

Originally, Qiu Feng was a mysterious figure. Lin Sanyuan had followed her for a year without ever seeing her face on stream. Six months ago, Qiu Feng never wore any jewelry while painting. By chance, she must have forgotten to take off that pinky ring once, and it was caught on camera.

An eagle eyed netizen recognized exactly who that ring belonged to.

Tang Hengzhi.

Qiu Feng was the online handle, Tang Hengzhi was the real name.

Qiu Feng was famous and mysterious. Tang Hengzhi was also famous, and equally mysterious. It was just that their social circles and professional spheres were entirely different.

The day their identities were linked, two worlds collided.

As a webcomic artist and blogger, Qiu Feng had millions of followers, in the 2D world of manhua, everyone knew the name Qiu Feng, but they didn’t know Tang Hengzhi.

Tang Hengzhi didn’t belong to the 2D world. Her circle was niche, so niche that the average person couldn’t even afford to get close to it.

Tang Hengzhi was a painter, a “proper” artist in the traditional sense. Her works weren’t usually posted online, they appeared in major museum exhibitions or prestigious art academies.

This “wall breaking” effect sent the name Qiu Feng viral beyond her original community. Fans of ACG (Anime, Comic, and Games) content usually have a bit of a flair for the dramatic, and Lin Sanyuan was no exception.

She understood perfectly why Qiu Feng blew up.

A prestigious, skilled, high-status artist whose name was etched in museums—this revelation made Qiu Feng seem even more unreachable, someone to be looked up to, shrouded in an aura of mystery.

Wasn’t this exactly like the “secret identity” tropes found in powerful female leads in novels? Modern fans of web novels and comics absolutely live for that kind of “satisfaction” in a plot.

Lin Sanyuan was just as susceptible to this charm as anyone else. Whenever she had free time, she would tune into the streams, acting as one small fan among the masses, a tiny fish in a vast ocean.

Eventually, Qiu Feng returned to Weibo and resumed her daily streams. She still didn’t show her face or speak, only her hands. After the initial storm of publicity died down, the only difference was the silver band permanently gracing her pinky finger.

She never gave a direct response to the frenzy of the fans following her “unmasking.” She remained cool and aloof.

Since then, not only did the viewership reach terrifying levels, but Lin Sanyuan could sense that there were many “big shots” hidden among the followers. The “Gifts” and “Carnivals” rained down like people were just liking a video, often taking over the entire screen.

Lin Sanyuan, who harbored a tiny bit of “eat the rich” sentiment, didn’t really enjoy seeing that. She usually blocked the gift effects when she entered the room, but today her finger slipped, and she clicked them on.

Aside from the flying rockets and carnivals, the comment section was an endless stream of scrolling text.

“Ahhh! My wife’s art is too good!!!”

“You don’t understand, even without seeing her face, just seeing the way my wife holds herself while painting is enough for me.”

“Hngh, I want to be the pen in her hand.”

“Does any big shot know the real-life Tang Hengzhi? Help! I need to know what my wife looks like.”

“Don’t start drama, Qiu Feng doesn’t show her face because she doesn’t want people digging into her real life. Can’t we just watch the art quietly?”

“She’s been streaming for three years and never showed her face. She won’t start now. We aren’t here for a ‘beauty’ streamer anyway.”

In the heated comment section, most fans were fiercely loyal, and there were many high-level “iron fans” defending her. However, out of every ten comments, there were usually three or four negative ones.

“Yeah, ‘not a beauty streamer.’ She probably doesn’t show her face because she’s not good looking, right?”

“If she were pretty, she would have shown herself long ago. Isn’t that how the internet works? You only show your best parts. If a part of you is lacking, you hide it so you don’t ruin the perfect image people have in their heads.”

“The person above has a foul mouth!”

“Just telling the truth! Why are Qiu fans so aggressive?”

Lin Sanyuan skimmed through the mess. What was all this? Why was the comment section being invaded by these greasy, weird guys? It didn’t fit the peaceful, aesthetic vibe of Qiu Feng’s stream at all.

Speaking of which, aren’t most people who study art girls? Why were they all calling her “wife”?

Then again, the internet is a strange place. Behind a screen, people can drop their real-life masks and inhibitions, letting themselves go completely. Even intimate nicknames become “normalized.”

She was socially anxious enough in real life, why was she still this silent and reserved online? She should try to be more like Qiao Lian—join the crowd, mingle with the group, and work on her personality. After all, nobody could see her face here.

Okay…

Lin Sanyuan tapped the comment box and hesitated for a long time. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything suggestive or bold. She also didn’t want to be a hater who attacked everything in sight.

She wasn’t a Corgi, after all.

Thinking of Corgis, she suddenly remembered how pet bloggers talked to their “fur babies.” She tapped the keyboard and, after following for a year and a half, finally posted her very first comment in the chat.

“Baby, your hands are so beautiful.”

Her modest little comment was like a pebble thrown into a crashing tide, quickly swallowed up and lost.

On screen, Qiu Feng was focusing on the eyes of the character. The eyes are the soul of a character’s anatomy, and the artist usually doesn’t allow for any distractions.

But Qiu Feng slipped.

As the brush swept toward the corner of the eye, there was a visible pause. The wrist, which was usually incredibly steady, faltered slightly, causing the brush to drag downward and leave a long, trailing line.

It wasn’t exactly a “streaming disaster.” People who didn’t know art wouldn’t even see the problem. But Lin Sanyuan saw it; the eye was definitely ruined.

A soft chuckle drifted through the speakers. The voice was low, like a cold mist in a forest, nearly ethereal, yet sounding like a sigh.

Lin Sanyuan, who had always considered herself a “hand person,” realized on this quiet night that she might be a “voice person” too.

On screen, the hand seemed to be showing off on purpose. It skillfully twirled the brush, letting it hook loosely around the pinky finger. There was a smudge of light blue paint on the pale pads of her fingers. Those snow white, beautiful fingers occupied the entire screen as she seemingly swiped her phone.

Lin Sanyuan saw the fingers hover, then curl slightly. The pale nails slowly turned a soft pink as blood rushed to the tips, looking exceptionally lovely.

The “thirsty” girls in the chat lost their minds.

“Ahhh! With hands like those, who cares about her face!”

“Why are her hands blushing!!”

“I could stare at those hands forever!”

“Does my wife need a dog? The kind that’s really good at licking fingers!”

Perhaps she saw the comments, because another laugh escaped. This time it was clearer, with a warm, slow tone that felt dangerously charming in the dead of night.

The chat was exploding with messages now.

Lin Sanyuan wasn’t wearing headphones, but that clear laugh seemed to vibrate straight into her soul. Her ears felt tingly, and a strange shiver ran down her spine. It reminded her of a popular internet phrase: My ears are pregnant.

Holy crap! This streamer is dangerous. Lin Sanyuan, who never spent money on the internet, actually felt the urge to send her a “Rocket” gift.

It was just a laugh, so why did it feel like she had just watched something NSFW?

This wasn’t right. This wasn’t a “wholesome” teaching stream anymore. Time to go…

The determination she had a moment ago to “interact with the crowd” vanished instantly. Lin Sanyuan prepared to swipe away and exit the room.

But before she could steady her grip on the phone, the screen tilted, and a woman appeared in the frame.

She was sitting on a linen gray sofa, wearing a simple yet expensive-looking white shirt. Her long black hair was half-tied, half-loose. Her shirt buttons were done up casually, the collar slightly open, revealing a pale neck and a delicate, clear collarbone.

She was still loosely holding the thin brush with her pinky. She tilted her head back slightly, revealing a face with a stunning bone structure, light brows, and a calm, undisturbed expression.

In short, she was breathtaking.

Lin Sanyuan’s brain buzzed. She froze.

She didn’t know why her brain was buzzing, but the command it sent was clear: do not exit the stream.

The woman in the phone looked at the screen with eyes as quiet as a lake. She seemed to ignore the chaotic, obsessed comment section. With a faint smile that made her look almost unreal, she spoke into the microphone in that beautiful voice: “Is that so? Just how beautiful are they?”

Lin Sanyuan’s fingertips, which had just typed that comment, felt scorched. For a moment, she couldn’t tell who that question was directed toward.

Because it felt far too much like a direct response to her specific comment.

But that was impossible. The streamer had thousands of fans, and the comments were rushing by like a flood. Her plain, short message shouldn’t have been caught, let alone warrant such a deliberate, face-to-face response.

Lin Sanyuan gave a self-deprecating smile. When did she become so narcissistic?

Sure enough, the comment section below was already descending into total madness.

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