Chapter 18: Gold Coins Are This Easy to Farm?

Song Wuli noticed the woman’s ID: Chen Jiayuan.  

He sensed her aura—no trace of magic.  

Either she wasn’t transformed, or she wasn’t carrying anything magical, like Song Wuli now.  

Probably not Huanhong—too much of a coincidence, right?  

He chatted briefly with her, avoiding overly sharp remarks, keeping a playful, haughty vibe.  

The bratty imp persona had a nice perk compared to others.  

In its default mode, it could mask most personalities—tsundere, cool, lively—and when push came to shove, just lean into the “bratty” part.  

The imp persona demanded a lot from appearance, hence “imp,” but was lax on other aspects.  

So, Yinlin could act normal in her default state.  

Chen Jiayuan claimed she was applying too—how could she resist that money?  

1,000 yuan an hour—if there were no time limits, 20 hours a day could bankrupt the shop.  

Soon, it was Chen Jiayuan’s turn.  

She was confident, even after seeing Song Wuli.  

“Cosplay? I got this. Just cosplaying Huanhong, right? I’m super confident,” she said.  

Five minutes later, she came out, head down.  

She glared at Song Wuli, eyes shimmering with tears.  

What did I do? 

I didn’t say anything this time.  

Song Wuli felt innocent.  

He entered the milk tea shop for his interview with two people: the manager and the advising regular.  

The manager dropped his phone, jaw dropped, staring at Song Wuli.  

The regular’s milk tea slipped onto the table, eyes glued to him.  

The regular rushed over, measured Song Wuli’s height with his hand, and nodded.  

He clapped hard: “It’s her!”  

The manager nodded vigorously but asked, “Could you take off your glasses?”  

Song Wuli removed his sunglasses.  

Gasps followed. The manager clapped: “So alike, and with such charm.”  

The regular marveled, “Flawless. It’d be our honor to have her.”  

Crowds outside pressed against the glass, murmuring in awe.  

“Could it be her? She looks so much like her.”  

“Seriously, too similar.”  

“Not the real deal, right?”  

Chen Jiayuan, still outside, turned back, squeezing in to peek.  

She saw Song Wuli’s side profile without sunglasses.  

Her face twisted with suspicion, fists clenched tight.  

“You’re hired. Everyone else, disperse,” the manager waved at the lingering line.  

“Wait,” Song Wuli said, embarrassed by their enthusiasm. 

“I don’t have much time. I can only do an hour at noon, and evenings.”  

Manager: “No problem. Come whenever, we’ll schedule you.”  

Song Wuli: “Uh… could the hourly rate… go higher?”  

A bit shameless—1,000 an hour wasn’t enough?  

He knew it was a bold ask, too outrageous, and dropped the persona, fearing they’d get mad.  

The manager and regular exchanged a glance, nodding.  

Manager: “What’s your target rate?”  

Song Wuli tested: “1,200?”  

The manager nodded instantly: “Done.”  

He realized he’d aimed too low—their enthusiasm was so high, they’d have settled for more.  

“Manager, I want her in a swimsuit!” a crowd member shouted.  

“I want a maid outfit!” another joined in.  

The crowd adored Song Wuli’s look, treating her as Yinlin, hence the swimsuit and maid outfit requests.  

Someone looking like Yinlin in a swimsuit was as good as Yinlin herself.  

“No, no, manager, I want the magical girl outfit!”  

“Yeah, the uniform!”  

“I vote uniform!”  

The manager ignored the crowd but was grinning ear to ear—this marketing was working. 

The shop was packed before even opening.  

Next, he quietly discussed the job with Song Wuli.  

The gig would last at least a week, minimum one hour daily, up to eight.  

Tasks: make milk tea, serve customers, and wear a Yinlin cosplay outfit during shifts.  

He’d provide his own cosplay outfit; the shop wouldn’t supply it.  

Deal settled.  

“When does she start? I’ll come!”  

“Can she start now?”  

The crowd kept hyping.  

Song Wuli exchanged contacts with the manager and left.  

Squeezing through the crowd was tough—too many people.  

Outside, some followed him.  

Chen Jiayuan tailed him, eyes locked.  

Crap, he’d be late for work at this rate.  

Song Wuli flagged a taxi and sped off.  

Chen Jiayuan got a cab too, telling it to follow.  

She was too obvious. Luckily, at a traffic light, Song Wuli’s taxi slipped through.  

Chen Jiayuan was stopped by the red light, watching him get away.  

Ten minutes later, she caught up at another light, jumped out, and rushed to intercept, but Song Wuli was gone—he’d ditched the cab earlier.  

By now, Song Wuli was far away, in a secluded spot, reverting to his male form and changing into the male clothes from his backpack.  

He hurried to the office.  

Still good—20 minutes until work. Time for a bun and soy milk.  

He browsed shopping sites on his phone, checking for Yinlin cosplay outfits.  

There were already tons, despite her recent debut.  

He paid extra to cut the line, and the seller promised to intercept someone else’s order and ship it to him today.  

Perfect—money makes things happen.  

Done, he strolled into the office.  

From afar, he saw Huang Yijun approaching, now in a blue shirt but still with Yinlin’s face printed on it.  

Song Wuli tried to detour.  

Huang Yijun came over: “Hey, Old Song, why’re you avoiding me? Get to work.”  

Song Wuli braced himself and walked over.  

Huang Yijun said earnestly, “Old Song…”  

“No interest,” Song Wuli cut in.  

“No interest? I’m talking about work,” Huang Yijun shook his head.

 “You’ve been distracted lately, falling behind on tasks. What’s up?”  

Song Wuli: “Nothing, just tired. I’ll catch up.”  

Taking two steps, Huang Yijun grabbed his shoulder: “Old Song, maybe take a break. Don’t burn out. Work’s slipping.”  

Song Wuli: “Thanks for the concern. I’ll think about it.”  

About to leave, he was stopped again.  

Huang Yijun: “Oh, try joining us. Let me introduce our Lord and Heavenly Father, our Saintess Yinlin.”  

Dammit, he knew this guy was still on about that.