Rinna raised her hand and opened her arms.
Hisaki slipped into Rinna’s embrace, moving with perfect naturalness.
Her chin rested on Rinna’s shoulder, her arms slid around Rinna’s waist, fingers lightly clasping between Rinna’s shoulder blades.
Rinna patted Hisaki’s back, her own chin resting on top of Hisaki’s head.
Her body was still processing the warmth of the hug, but her mind had already started drifting.
The direction it drifted toward was…
How to handle things online?
Offline was no longer an option.
That restriction was something she herself had agreed to—no coercion, no hesitation. She genuinely felt that if Xiao Fei got so agitated just because Rinna directed her attention elsewhere, then it was better to stop.
The femdom tiny devil girl act was efficient at generating malice value, but if the cost was Hisaki burying her face in Rinna’s lap and staying silent and sullen, that price wasn’t worth it.
So offline was officially over.
But malice value still had to be earned.
That meant online was the only way.
The internet was full of ready-made targets.
Register a few anonymous accounts, lob insults, and leave—no fear of being recognized as Shirase Rinna, no fear of having videos archived in the Black Rapids’ intelligence network, no fear of Hisaki mumbling into her lap, “Don’t just go attracting attention from random people.”
Online was safe and efficient—in theory.
In theory.
But when theory hit reality, Rinna’s brain started veering in a very dangerous direction.
‘What if I create a small account, go to the comment section of some top-tier girl group A and post “Popular female idol B is better-looking than top-tier girl group A,” then go to popular female idol B’s comment section and post “Top-tier girl group A is better-looking than popular female idol B”?’
Rinna felt the warm, soft Xiao Fei in her arms while her mind was seriously evaluating the feasibility of this plan.
Fandom wars were already at a boiling point. The fans of top-tier girl group A and the fans of popular female idol B had been at each other’s throats for years—fighting from Korean forums to here, from streaming numbers to endorsement deals, from beautiful photos to malicious edits.
All it would take was dropping a spark in each super topic, and the comment sections would ignite into a wildfire.
All she had to do was sit behind a screen and watch the malice value rise.
But the risk was too high. The malice in fandoms wasn’t on the level of ordinary netizens going, “Man, this guy sounds punchable.” It was a larger, more systematic, more precise form of focus-fire attack.
Her information would be dug up completely. The real identity behind a small account couldn’t withstand that level of scrutiny. Within three hours, someone would post her real name and address, and the Black Rapids’ security system would have to work overtime.
No, no.
Then switch to another plan.
Change the avatar to Xiao Cao Shen…
Then indiscriminately tease everyone who attacked her. After the other side wrote a long rebuttal, she’d reply with just one line:
“Not as good as… the graphics.”
The logic of that line existed outside any common sense or rational discussion.
No matter what they were cursing at, no matter whether their insults had merit, no matter how long they spent crafting a word-by-word counterattack—those six characters rendered it all equally meaningless.
That was pure damage.
But the problem was that it was actively drawing hate and indiscriminately provoking every passerby.
Enraged netizens would start digging into her account info: registration time, history of posts, previous updates.
Then she would become “a fandom troll using an avatar to hide her real identity” and get hammered by both sides.
And she had experienced the malice of the gamer crowd too many times. Once they identified her as a troll, the flood of hatred was far more terrifying than being targeted by a single opposing fanbase.
No, too dangerous. Pass.
What about switching to Nai Long?
Then go to some softcore influencer’s comment section and type a single character: “免.”
This originated from the classic “warm guys” comment: “Stop with the softcore stuff—you deserve to be loved.”
One character “免” essentially hit the undo button on that entire paragraph for all the warm guys. Sarcastic and contemptuous, one character would make half the comment section feel insulted.
And she could also funnel traffic to herself by changing the avatar to that kind of filtered, big-eyed, fair-skinned influencer selfie.
When someone private-messaged asking for pictures or videos, she’d respond by sending a meme of Nai Long wearing black stockings.
That yellow, dumb, thick-calved little body stuffed into black stockings, stretched tight and about to tear.
The other party would probably fly into a rage. Then she’d toss in a few insults, end the conversation with the word “auction,” and quickly block and delete.
This plan was sufficiently disgusting, and malice value would be stable. But the problem was that it was easy to get reported.
The Nai Long character itself was controversial in the anime community—the work was full of internet memes, and reviews were polarized.
Using its memes to bomb people would generate malice value consistently, but it would also attract a flood of reports and complaints. A small account surviving a full day would be a miracle.
What she needed was a base of operations with sufficient sustainability, concealment, and no risk of dragging malice back to her real identity.
Rinna kept thinking.
One final brainstorm…
Go to Jia Hao’s comment section.
Jia Hao was a very abstract campus internet celebrity on a short-video platform. His comment section was one of the most active places for memes and sarcastic trolling on the whole internet.
Go there and give Jia Hao some encouragement—“Hao Qing Zai Tian”—and see if she could spur him into creating more entertainment.
Then she’d pretend to join in with a “Hao Qing Zai Tian” persona, posting chuunibyou and aggravating content under Jia Hao’s identity.
After nine days, a new account titled “Hao Qing Zai Tian” would surface online, embarrassing itself everywhere, infuriating Jia Hao’s fans while making them laugh and cry.
But the consequences would be brutal.
Doxxing.
In other words, doxing…
The next morning, she’d wake up, open her phone, and see her own face photoshopped onto some random dance video, spreading like wildfire across the Yin Fu Platform.
Malice value would fill her pockets, maybe even break a thousand points. Vitality pills would be buyable in bulk, and her physique could jump from 3.1 straight to 4.0.
But she’d also be basically dead…
Xiao Fei would go insane. Explaining herself to the Black Rapids clan would be impossible.
Rinna shuddered. Her fingers unconsciously paused on Hisaki’s back.
‘Absolutely cannot do that. I want to live a long life.’
No, that route was a definite no-go.
Offline was off-limits, and online wasn’t some safe playground either.
She needed a method that was steadier, more covert, and could produce malice value consistently without bringing fire down on herself.
Hisaki shifted in her arms, probably noticing that Rinna’s fingers had stopped.
Rinna immediately resumed running her fingers through Hisaki’s hair.
“What are you thinking about?”
Hisaki’s voice came from somewhere around Rinna’s chest, simply curious.
‘Thinking about how to avoid being controlled by you.’
Rinna deliberately used a provocation.
Hisaki lifted her head from Rinna’s embrace, her dark brown eyes meeting Rinna’s.
She looked at Rinna with that focused, pinning gaze, then spoke.
“If it’s about controlling Rinna, I’ll control anything.”
Rinna burst out laughing at her serious tone—a “pfft” escaping.
Then she patted Hisaki’s back and said:
“Alright, alright, got it.”
Hisaki buried her face back into Rinna’s chest.
She’ll think about it again tomorrow.