Chapter 4: The Commission and the Full-Body Photo

Suddenly cursed as a fake-Alpha scammer, Sang Ling blanked for a moment.

She sent a question mark over, wanting to ask why she was being called a scammer.

The result was a vivid red question mark appearing on her interface.

“You have been blocked by the other party.”

Blocking someone over nothing? She really was an Alpha, though.

Probably just a paranoid HR. Sang Ling tried a different recruiter.

This time the job was attendant at a high-end café. The opening was friendly as ever; Sang Ling copied over her personal info as before.

The next second, blocked again.

The other party even left a parting shot: “May scammers die a horrible death.”

She tried several more in a row, same result: the instant they received Sang Ling’s personal info, their attitude flipped—curse first, then block.

Sang Ling stared at her few short lines of self-introduction, racking her brains. Nothing wrong with it—age, build, occupation, all perfectly respectable. Very promising, even.

Could the problem be the Alpha gender itself?

Impossible. Alphas were the apex gender of this society’s food chain. How could they be discriminated against?

She browsed Myriad Phenomena in depth, analyzing again and again the attitudes implicit in the interstellar public’s speech, and arrived at a conclusion she could scarcely believe herself.

Don’t tell me they think Alphas are too noble to take ordinary jobs?

She searched the job board for the keyword “Alpha.” Barely any posts, and several had been posted just today.

One look at the titles: “Who else gets it—someone actually dared to impersonate an Alpha to apply for a job.”

One look at the posters: all of them were the HRs who had just blocked her.

Sang Ling rubbed her nose guiltily. So innocent. She truly wasn’t trying to toy with these HRs—she was just a rare, poverty-stricken Alpha. What was she supposed to do about that?

She opened the one post that wasn’t cursing her. The OP’s title: [Long-term search for cosplay commission, must be an Alpha, budget unlimited]

Cosplay commissions—or just “commissions”—Sang Ling had known of these before transmigrating. In the 21st century, they usually meant a woman hiring another woman to portray a fictional character, so she could spend a lovely stretch of real life with the character she loved.

The performer had to resemble the character not only in looks but in tone of voice and manner, satisfying the client’s every need.

This client’s post had several thousand comments. Sang Ling had assumed they’d all be people volunteering, and that the client must have long since found a performer who met her requirements.

But when she clicked in, she discovered those thousands of comments were all roasting the OP.

Floor 1: [Am I seeing things? The OP wants an Alpha to be her plaything?]

Floor 2: [I think I’ve gone blind. The OP sure knows how to dream.]

Floor 3: [Verdict: OP’s brain is broken. Real Alphas are at Military Headquarters killing Zerg and defending humanity. Who has time for her?]

……

Floor 55: [I said Dating AI characters were a bad idea. The OP’s brain has been rotted by games.]

Floor 56: [OP’s brain rotted by games +1. Fall in love with an Alpha in a dating game and you start believing a real Alpha would actually want you.]

Floor 57: [Don’t be like that. Who hasn’t dreamed of dating an Alpha? Can’t you cut the OP some slack?]

Floor 58: [White knight above, the OP doesn’t even want to date an Alpha—she wants an Alpha to play a fictional character. What Alpha could stomach that humiliation?]

Floor 59: [Exactly. What Alpha would pass up a doting Omega with pheromone attraction to date a Beta like the OP?]

Floor 60: [And Alpha pay at Military Headquarters is so high. What Alpha would trade her pride for money?]

Reading this, Sang Ling rubbed her nose again: Sorry, this Alpha would absolutely trade her pride for money.

It seemed the OP hadn’t found a performer willing to take the commission. Sang Ling’s interest was piqued, and she reread the main post.

The main post read:

[I’m a Beta, female, seeking a commission performer for Chu Zhou. The performer must be an Alpha. You don’t have to look like her, but you must be an Alpha. I will cover all expenses, including costume and styling.]

[My Chu Zhou complex is severe, so the budget starts at two hundred thousand, no upper limit.]

The OP’s words were earnest.

[If you really are an Alpha and you’re seeing this post—name any conditions, I will meet them all. I only ask that you give me a chance to make this dream come true. I truly, truly love Chu Zhou.]

Attached was a photo of Chu Zhou and a character profile.

Sang Ling read the profile carefully and discovered that Chu Zhou was Myriad Phenomena’s most popular virtual Dating AI of the year. With her female Alpha setting, gentle personality, and stunning looks, she had won millions of devoted fans.

She opened the image and zoomed in. The frenzied popularity was hardly surprising.

In the picture, Chu Zhou had waist-length silver-white hair. The female Alpha was tall and long-legged, dressed in a crisp white military officer’s uniform, the straps and firearms on her person lending her an air of danger—yet her expression was gentle, and she was smiling as she reached her hand out toward you.

Who could refuse the tenderness of such a commanding character?

No wonder the OP was willing to throw fortunes at her.

Sang Ling didn’t hesitate, sending the OP a private message.

“Hello, do you still need an Alpha for the Chu Zhou commission?”

The reply came quickly: “Yes, but I’ll need to verify your identity first.”

Meanwhile, in the tallest commercial tower of Capital Star’s most prosperous business district, on the top floor of the 118th story, a scream erupted from the President’s office.

President Su Qingyue, wearing an expensive, tailored women’s suit and gold-rimmed glasses, lifted her head from the documents awaiting her approval and looked coldly toward the source of the scream.

“Su Qingqing. Keep quiet, or get out.”

She coldly warned her younger sister, who was sprawled on the President’s office sofa playing on her computer—the source of that sudden scream.

Su Qingqing realized her fault, sat up, and complained, “I’m just a Beta girl who likes Chu Zhou. What did I do wrong? Why won’t these people leave me alone?”

Su Qingqing was the OP who had posted looking for someone to play Chu Zhou the Dating AI. Since posting, she’d received several thousand attacking comments—fine, she could bear that—but people also kept coming with malice in their hearts, out to prank her or swindle money, impersonating Alphas to apply.

Some demanded money up front; some started mocking her within two exchanges. But without exception, every one of them broke down the moment Su Qingqing asked for proof of Alpha status, cursing her out.

By now Su Qingqing had learned her lesson and demanded Alpha identification up front—but she no longer believed anyone who provided it. Just as those cursing comments said: no Alpha would lower herself to play dress-up with a Beta for a day.

She assumed Sang Ling was just another scammer. Having been cursed at endlessly, she had just lost control of her emotions and screamed in frustration.

Su Qingyue signed a document for mining-star land development without looking up. “I’ve warned you. Don’t obsess over a virtual Dating AI. Even if the AI tells you she’s an Alpha, she’s still virtual.”

Su Qingqing rolled around on the sofa, whining, “I don’t care, I don’t care! I just like Chu Zhou! Sis, have you even looked at our Zhouzhou? Our Zhouzhou is handsome and beautiful and so, so gentle.”

“Let me tell you, if you just try it once, you’re guaranteed to fall for our Zhouzhou.”

Su Qingyue cut her off flatly. Behind her high-transparency gold-rimmed glasses, her gaze was indifferent, and her words spared no feelings. “I am not you. I will not obsess over a fake Alpha. Stop recommending it to me.”

Rejected, Su Qingqing could only sulkily sit back up and pick up her Light Brain. Fine—she’d see what new tricks this fake Alpha had this time.

Seeing her fully absorbed in the Light Brain, Su Qingyue imperceptibly breathed a sigh of relief. Her eternally indifferent expression turned complicated.

She quietly reached for her own Light Brain, unlocked it with pupil verification, then entered several layers of complex passwords before opening a deliberately hidden page.

As the loading light-stream faded, a female Alpha in a white officer’s uniform with silver-white hair was smiling at her. In the upper right corner, glaringly, read: Affection: 100%.

This was Chu Zhou—the virtual Dating Alpha whom President Su Qingyue, helmswoman of the Human Federation’s largest financial group, had claimed, mere minutes ago, she would never like.

Just then, Su Qingqing on the sofa suddenly screamed again—louder this time, more heartfelt, almost tinged with terror.

Su Qingyue’s hand shot out and killed the Light Brain’s screen. She pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses, brow furrowed, and this time said mercilessly, “Out.”

But Su Qingqing, who always trembled at Su Qingyue’s word, kept screaming, nearly out of breath. She leapt up from the sofa, one hand jabbing at the Light Brain, face full of terror as she looked toward Su Qingyue, the big sister she trusted most.

With great difficulty, she forced a few syllables from her throat. “Alpha……”

“A living Alpha……”

Su Qingyue’s hand tightened, imperceptibly.

On Su Qingqing’s Light Brain screen was Sang Ling’s selfie holding up her Military Academy cadet ID: a female Alpha with a wolf-tail hairstyle, smiling shyly.

Sang Ling turned the Military Academy cadet ID over in her hands. The crystal card bore her ID photo and gave off a faint pale-blue sheen.

She had just rummaged through every cabinet to dig out the original host’s cadet ID. Considering that in the interstellar era only Alphas could attend the Military Academy, she figured this one card was proof enough.

She held the ID up to the Light Brain’s camera and took a selfie, planning to send it to the client.

Because it was her first time doing this sort of thing—sending selfies—and her first time discovering she might have to live off her face rather than her abilities, she even felt a little shy.

The selfie sent, the other side didn’t reply for a long, long while.

After waiting forever, Sang Ling saw the name at the top of the page—Little Cyan Bunny—change to “the other party is typing.”

Then it changed back to the nickname.

Then back to “the other party is typing…….”

The other side seemed to be gathering tremendous resolve, weighing every word, before finally sending one sentence, cautious and careful between the lines.

“Your Excellency Alpha, hello. I never imagined anyone would actually accept my commission. I am beyond honored.”

“If I may be so bold—might I see a full-body photo of you? If this offends you, I am truly sorry. You’re also free not to send it.”

What’s offensive about that?

Sang Ling understood. Roleplay, of course—you’d want to see how closely the performer resembled the character you loved. Perfectly normal. Why so careful?

Whoosh—

Another message. Light Brain notification:

[User ‘Little Cyan Bunny’ has transferred 100,000 to you.]

Sang Ling’s hand paused.

Especially with money involved—forget a full-body photo; if the client wanted a pose, Sang Ling would strike her any pose she liked.

Sang Ling rose and dug the original host’s Military Academy white uniform out of the closet. This uniform was only worn for important ceremonies like the opening convocation; the original host, finding it restrictive, had left it gathering dust.

But since Sang Ling was going to play the role now, dressing the part for the photo was only natural.

She changed into the white uniform, tidied her hair, picked up the Light Brain, and walked out of the bedroom.

A full-body shot wasn’t easy to take alone. She wanted to ask Lin Jinxu to help take it.

Lin Jinxu was sitting on the sofa, deep in thought.

She had sat motionless like this for over half an hour, her lush, voluminous long hair falling naturally, hiding half that too-beautiful face, making her seem more mysterious—like a dark-purple iris in full bloom.

Her slender index finger tapped lightly on the wooden coffee table.

Lin Jinxu couldn’t work out the reason for Sang Ling’s sudden change in temperament. The change looked like it might be good, yet it kept her awake at night, feeling dangerous. How could an Alpha change?

Aside from being exceptionally useless, Sang Ling had been an Alpha typical to the point of caricature. Lin Jinxu had seen many such Alphas—coddled by society from childhood, raised from childhood on brutal training.

Power and social status together forged the Alpha’s unshakable arrogance.

Nothing could change an Alpha. Not even the Omega fated for her.

Lin Jinxu had once believed Sang Ling’s older sister Sang Chi loved her, that she was a treasure held in Sang Chi’s palm, and had even preened over her own skill—how, without giving up anything at all, she had kept that young, powerful Alpha wrapped around her finger.

She had once believed the Omega’s strength lay in this: the ability to control an Alpha through love.

But Sang Chi had proven with her actions that she did not love Lin Jinxu. All she needed was an Omega pretty enough to be seen with, one that brought her face. That was why she never asked anything of Lin Jinxu.

Precisely because there was no love, Sang Chi had refused without hesitation the proposal to arrange an escape route for her Omega. She didn’t care about Lin Jinxu and Little Yao, made no plans for them—and that was why Lin Jinxu had nearly been sold to the casino.

All Alphas should be like Sang Chi. Incapable of love, and therefore incapable of change.

Then Sang Ling’s transformation—this attitude of hers, that earlier promise of “I swear”—what was she scheming?

If Sang Ling truly had some plot, should she dispose of this Alpha in advance?

Lin Jinxu’s index finger tapped the coffee table. The thoughts in her heart grew darker and more extreme, that blackness of mind nearly burying the once-naive Omega beneath it.

Knock knock knock.

A crisp knock interrupted her thoughts. Lin Jinxu looked toward the sound: Sang Ling, in a full white uniform, standing at her bedroom door. It was she who had knocked, coming to ask Lin Jinxu.

Seeing Lin Jinxu look over, Sang Ling broke into a smile—the smile she always used when asking favors, warm and sunny. “Do you have a moment to take a full-body photo for me?”

Lin Jinxu had to maintain her gentle, docile facade and naturally wouldn’t refuse. She took the Light Brain Sang Ling handed over and asked with feigned concern, “If I remember right, Family Head, you don’t like wearing this white uniform. Why put it on today?”

School requirements or something of the sort, no doubt, she thought indifferently.

But she heard the female Alpha say, in a mild voice with irrepressible laughter in it:

“Ah, there’s a girl who wants to see me photographed in this uniform.”

Lin Jinxu’s grip on the Light Brain tightened, for some reason. For the sake of one woman, she was willing to put on the uniform she hated most?

Sang Ling went on, “She likes a virtual romance character and wants to see whether I look like her, so I’m taking a photo.”

Look like a virtual character? Did Sang Ling not understand what a humiliation it was, for an Alpha proud and self-important by nature, to play a fictional character?

How could this Alpha tolerate doing such a thing!

Yet she had done it anyway, for the sake of one woman—for that girl, who might be a Beta or an Omega—she had changed herself.

Lin Jinxu heard herself say, in a voice false to the extreme, sweetly simpering: “She must be very lovely, then. Someone you’re very fond of.”

While her mind was cold—brimming with malice—as it thought:

So a love that makes people change for another does exist. It simply would never happen to someone like her.