Chapter 14: Allow Me to Introduce Our Lord and Heavenly Father, the Pure Saintess Yinlin  

Sunday, and it’s back to work.  

Didn’t bring Diamond, but left it some food and showed it how to use the microwave.  

Not sure if its little paws could handle the microwave properly.  

Left it a phone to contact him if needed.  

On the subway, something felt off—lots of people today, many wearing odd T-shirts.  

The T-shirts had a person’s face printed on them.  

Song Wuli’s face flushed with embarrassment.  

The design was Magical Girl Yinlin’s face—merch was out in just days.  

Did anyone pay for the copyright?

No one asked Song Wuli.  

Even worse, some otakus carried Yinlin-themed body pillows, cuddling them on the subway.  

They were gathered, discussing something.  

Listening closely, he learned they were on a “pilgrimage” to Yinlin’s “holy site.”  

Meaning, they were visiting the spot where Yinlin and Huanhong defeated two demons.  

Some were from the Magical Girl Fan Club, Liang Tai’s group.  

Others were just Yinlin fans making the pilgrimage.  

There were local fans and others from different cities.  

In this era, traveling between cities was dangerous, yet these fervent Yinlin fans came anyway.  

He couldn’t help but eavesdrop.  

Why were they so obsessed with Yinlin?  

“She’s so cute, even when she’s tiny.”  

“She’s like a total bratty imp, gets me hyped!”  

“Can’t wait for Yinlin vs. tentacle monster!”  

Ugh, wish he hadn’t listened.  

Just a bunch of meme lords.  

Song Wuli considered getting off early to check out his own “holy site” but decided against it—work was waiting.  

At the office, he spotted Huang Yijun chilling under the AC from afar.  

The sight gave Song Wuli goosebumps; he covered his face, pretending not to know him.  

Tried to slip by, but Huang Yijun called out, “Morning, Old Song!”  

“Morning.” Song Wuli hurried past, but Huang grabbed his shoulder.  

Huang Yijun: “Hey, Old Song, let me introduce our Lord and Heavenly Father, the Pure Saintess…”  

Song Wuli cut him off: “I’m not interested in Yinlin.”  

“Holy crap, how’d you know I was talking about Yinlin?” 

Huang Yijun was shocked.  

How’d he know? 

This 37-year-old team leader was wearing a black T-shirt with Magical Girl Yinlin’s face.  

He had a silver ring he didn’t wear yesterday.  

A hat with Yinlin’s face.  

His phone screen played a video of Yinlin fighting a demon.  

You ask how I knew he meant Yinlin?  

Huang Yijun stared, stunned: “You’re not interested in our great Lord and Heavenly Father, our Pure Saintess Yinlin? Even if you’re my friend, don’t blame me for getting mad!”  

His voice rose, tinged with genuine anger.  

He wasn’t joking—this 37-year-old was obsessed with the bratty imp.  

Song Wuli didn’t dare engage, heading to his desk to prepare for work.  

Huang Yijun kept hounding him, unable to fathom someone not liking Yinlin.  

“What, are you a demon hiding among humans?” 

He poked and prodded Song Wuli, checking him.  

Then muttered, “Weird, definitely human. How could a human not love our Lord and Heavenly Father, our Pure Saintess Yinlin?”  

He rambled for ten minutes before moving on to bother someone else.  

At another desk: “Little Zhao, let me introduce our Lord and Heavenly Father, our Pure Saintess Yinlin…”  

Then: “Little Liu, let me introduce…”  

Song Wuli’s face burned red to his ears.  

He covered his face, too embarrassed to be seen.  

It was mortifying.  

Checking the work group chat, the copywriting team was unusually quiet—nobody dared mention Huang Yijun or Yinlin.  

In a smaller group without Huang Yijun, just low-level copywriters:  

[Group leader’s off today, be careful, guys.]  

[So scary, what’s up with Leader Huang?]  

[Just go along with him, or he’ll nag you to death.]  

Someone shared videos: [Saw this on the way today.]  

It was the site of Yinlin’s battle two days ago, now packed with people, blocking construction and traffic.  

In the videos, thousands gathered, snapping selfies at the wrecked site.  

Half wore Yinlin T-shirts or hats.  

The spot where Yinlin stood was a photo hotspot, with a massive queue.  

Song Wuli started work, busy until lunch break.  

He didn’t eat with Huang Yijun, instead heading to the pilgrimage site.  

The crowd was even bigger, the street completely blocked.  

Savvy merchants capitalized—a Sichuan restaurant had a 1:1 Yinlin standee at the door, clearly prepared.  

It was packed with Yinlin fans.  

The hotpot place next door followed suit, slapping a Yinlin photo on their door with “Yinlin recommends, top-tier hotpot!”  

Also packed, with a waitlist reaching 100.  

Seriously? 

Nobody asked Yinlin’s permission, and they’re raking in profits while she gets nothing.  

Song Wuli couldn’t find a place to eat—every shop was bursting, all riding Yinlin’s fame.  

He squeezed into a stir-fry joint, but it was full, no seats.  

Thinking fast, he ordered two dishes to go, no seat needed.  

Waited over 20 minutes—fast, considering.  

With his takeout, he looked for a place to eat and spotted “No. 8 Milk Tea Shop” with one empty table.  

He rushed in.  

“Boss, one milk tea.”  

Store manager: “What flavor?”  

Song Wuli: “Pearl milk tea.”  

Manager: “8 bucks.”  

Song Wuli: “Add pearls, how much?”  

Manager: “10 bucks.”  

Song Wuli: “Then just milk tea, no pearls. 6 bucks, right?”  

“Huh?” The manager blinked, never meeting a customer like this. “Fine.”  

Not a bad deal—still profitable.  

While preparing the tea, the manager looked up and saw Song Wuli unpacking his takeout, starting to eat.  

“Sir, we don’t allow outside food,” the manager reminded me.  

“Come on, I’m a worker, nowhere else to eat. I’m buying your tea, aren’t I?” 

Song Wuli pleaded.  

After a few minutes of convincing, the manager, a reasonable guy, relented.  

Suddenly, a woman’s voice spoke beside Song Wuli.  

“So bloody hot, wot a day, mister, anyone sittin’ here?”  

Looking up, he saw a trendy girl in sunglasses. 

Her age was hard to pin—maybe an adult, with makeup making her look both young and mature.  

She eyed the seat across from Song Wuli.  

Song Wuli: “I don’t understand. Speak Mandarin.”  

The girl asked again, “Mister, is this seat taken?”  

Song Wuli shook his head: “No.”  

Fanning herself, she sat down.