Chapter 71: Dream
A computer chair materialized under Jima’s bottom. She plopped down, leaning her back against the backrest and crossing her legs.
“Nothing beats a human engineering chair bought with my own hands,” Jima said, her tail swaying contentedly from the side of the chair.
Suddenly, a figure weighing four hundred pounds appeared before her. Dressed in a large sleeping robe, lying on the “ground,” it startled Jima, who almost jumped up. She then noticed that the four hundred pounds had their eyes closed, and she sighed in relief, sitting back down.
The inherited memories were awakened. Jima instantly understood that even if the other person saw her, they wouldn’t reveal anything; dreamers could not recall their own faces and could not stay aware. Unless they realized they were dreaming and perceived someone entering their dream.
Moreover, Jima saw seven colored orbs of energy materializing on the chest of the four hundred pounds. This indicated that in the dream, she could use “teasing desire.”
Jima crossed her legs again, raising a hand to conjure a large bowl that covered the bothersome four hundred pounds. She lowered the chair’s backrest and reclined—this was how she liked to think about business logic in her past life; she was accustomed to it.
She pondered what kind of beautiful dream to weave for the four hundred pounds to make them madly pursue George.
Several ideas flashed across Jima’s mind in succession.
Weave a spring dream.
As soon as Jima thought of the youngest and most promising hero of the Sanctuary Star, crashing forward with a pair of elephant legs, her tail couldn’t help but perk up.
Not only would she weave a spring dream, but she’d also tease the four hundred pounds’ desires, ensuring that they enjoyed in the dream what they had never experienced in reality.
If she crafted a few impactful positions, the next time the four hundred pounds saw George’s face, they would inevitably become weak-kneed.
Just the thought of the four hundred pounds seeing George’s face in the future made Jima chuckle at the image—their legs would surely weaken, their thighs clamped together, cheeks flushed as they looked at George.
Just thinking about that scene, Jima couldn’t help but tilt her head back and let out a wicked laugh.
“Hehehehehe…”
As the initial excitement faded, Jima began to seriously evaluate the plan.
She discovered a major problem.
For the four hundred pounds, that kind of desire was the easiest to satisfy, lacking irreplaceability. Based on her personal experience, once satisfied, they would enter a wise man’s time, and the four hundred pounds would lose interest in George.
So, what did the four hundred pounds like?
It was then that Jima realized, aside from their appearance, she knew nothing about the four hundred pounds.
She felt a bit irritated. How could she properly utilize the four hundred pounds if she didn’t even understand the tool? How could she make them have a frenzy of love for George?
She absolutely had to understand the four hundred pounds better.
Jima’s gaze fell upon the overturned porcelain bowl in front of her.
Since people relax their guard in dreams, how about using it to gather intelligence?
She raised her hand, and the large porcelain bowl vanished without a trace. The sleeping four hundred pounds appeared before her, and Jima gazed at her, wanting to awaken her memory of the most comforting scene.
Suddenly, the surrounding dreamscape began to twist and change.
A room filled with excessive decorations appeared around Jima. With one glance, she could tell it was the four hundred pounds’ boudoir, identical to what she had seen in the dream, though the dream did not possess such rich colors.
Gold, enamel blue, and the sparkle of jewels together composed this luxurious room.
Several noblewomen were chatting together, books beside them. Servants came and went, attending to their masters, and Jima noticed that most of the servants had no faces.
It seemed that the four hundred pounds had no impression of most of the servants. Similar to her own experiences in some regions, masters regard servants much like vacuum robots, without avoiding even intimate matters.
Among the noblewomen, the most outstanding was the four hundred pounds. The four hundred pounds stubbornly chose a smaller size of clothing; the high-quality fabric tightly restrained her belly fat.
Jima felt an impulse to slice through the fabric.
No one noticed Jima; she simply sat with her legs crossed in the computer chair, watching the group of noblewomen.
The noblewomen praised the four hundred pounds, calling her skin fair.
“Your skin looks like that of a fifteen-year-old girl, so much better than last time.”
“You hardly seem like a woman who has given birth.”
Indeed, just based on appearance, one might think she was pregnant.
“Let me show you the painting I commissioned from the artist; it’s my private treasure.” The four hundred pounds said joyfully, clapping her hands.
Two maids approached, holding an oil painting, standing before the noblewomen. Just blocking Jima’s view.
Jima snapped her fingers, and the computer chair moved on its own, carrying her to the front of the painting.
This painting reminded Jima of the brilliant civilization of ancient Greece—her only impression of ancient Greek art was a group of nude men and women.
The painting fit Jima’s stereotype. A man and woman with significantly exposed skin that would surely warrant a 404 error in her past life.
In the painting, a painterly rider, dressed as a knight, charged at a scantily clad beauty. His expression was one of dominance, quite different from his scholarly demeanor, as he grabbed the beauty, attempting to pull her onto his horse.
The beauty was voluptuous, draped in only a white robe, her face panic-stricken as she clutched what little fabric remained. Her skin was porcelain-like, a beauty of fullness.
“This is our private painting, my dear artist,” the four hundred pounds said with a smile, the fat on her face jiggling.
Jima carefully compared her own face with those in the painting—the painting showed an oval face and a small mouth. Outside the painting… best not to look. She finally found a commonality: the hair and eye color in the painting matched that of the four hundred pounds.
Another round of unnutritious compliments followed.
Jima thought it through carefully.
“The man in the painting is slender, with the aura of an artist yet wild—a contrast. It’s like a twink trying to pull a willow tree.”
“So she likes artist-type domineering CEOs?”
Jima recalled the female-oriented novels she had read online in her past life. Many male protagonists were strong-headed, fitting the domineering CEO archetype, unlike the milquetoast male protagonists common in male-oriented stories.
Although such novels may not match in number to BL novels, just thinking about it— even BL novels have distinctions between top and bottom. Surely, female readers enjoyed powerful and aggressive male protagonists.
Human nature is universal. Jima figured she could apply some of the tropes she had seen in her past life.
The noblewomen continued their unnutritious flattery.
She casually picked up a novel beside the noblewomen and flipped through it briefly. It was one of those not very reputable, H-content novels, akin to otherworldly web fiction.
Jima assessed it, stating that from a rhetorical perspective, it could beat 95% of web novels.
But in terms of satisfaction, it would be beaten by 95% of web novels.
Focusing on serving readers and meeting their needs. Without the internet and the vast market of Shalin City, no novel could match web fiction in terms of satisfaction.
Jima contemplated, recalling several overused tropes from her past life.
Clichéd tropes, the more clichéd, indicated they were very popular among readers. Otherwise, no one would write them.
CJs kicking off, domineering CEOs pinning women against walls, and the Buddhist abstinent guy characters…
Just as Jima was pondering, one of the noblewomen casually remarked,
“How about introducing that artist to the sisters?”
The entire dream shook slightly, and Jima gripped the armrests, looking at the four hundred pounds.
The four hundred pounds remained calm and said, “Ah, he accidentally fell and broke a bone; he’s healing now. You know how artists are—they never care for their bodies, even though I reminded him.”
Things weren’t that simple… Jima asked,
“What happened to the artist who draws for you?”
Like someone being inquired by someone they trusted deeply, the four hundred pounds casually replied, “I just asked him to lift me up; he even said he couldn’t because I was too heavy. I just sat on him and told him to lift me, and only then was he willing, but when he got halfway, he fell, and I ended up sitting on him.”
Jima’s gaze fell on the four hundred pounds, whose backside was difficult even for her hands to encompass. Imagining that scene was surely like a meteor colliding with Earth.
The four hundred pounds continued to grumble, “I was about to lift my butt, and he broke a bone. Clearly, he was thinner than a goblin, but when told to exercise, he wouldn’t go.”
No problem, George was strong enough to crush a goblin’s head into its chest; he’d be just right for her.
Jima smiled, thinking of a good dream, and clapped her hands.
The four hundred pounds instantly closed her eyes and fell back asleep.
The dream changed. Surrounded by flowers on the grass, the four hundred pounds opened her eyes, looking around in confusion.
It was early morning. A bird perched on her head, chirping, amidst the morning mist in the woods. “George” appeared in her sight, carrying an easel, his chest exposed, riding a magnificent white horse.
As the four hundred pounds recognized George’s face, her eyes widened, and she covered her mouth.
Jima perched on a tree branch, her tail pointed at the purple orb of desire symbolizing the four hundred pounds, flicking it. The four hundred pounds instantly blushed, gazing dreamily at George.
“Who are you to breach my kingdom?” George said domineeringly. “You’ll pay the price, woman.”
“No, I’m here by accident.”
“Very well, you’ve caught my attention.”
“Help!”
George charged over on his horse, tearing the clothes off the four hundred pounds with one hand….
Well, anyway, dreams never adhere to logic.
Jima wore a mischievous expression as she controlled George to start doing those things.
“Ah! Your Majesty, please don’t!”
“Wuwuwu, don’t touch there.”
“I can’t move…”
Jima turned her head, covered her ears, and opened her mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit.
…
…
The great benefactor Bransie frowned, stifling the nausea deep inside.
Before her was a massive lump of wriggling flesh. The smell of rot and bile filled the entire room.
Though it had contributed significantly to Shalin City, and Bransie had used it multiple times, she still felt a sense of disgust.
On the platform in the room lay a beautiful girl who had just emerged from the writhing flesh. She was covered by a layer of pristine cloth, obscuring her face and figure, with a porcelain-white calf exposed, its exquisite curve igniting endless fantasies in men.
A man nearby was examining her body.
“How is it? Was the transplant successful?”
“No, she’s still rejecting it,” said the man. As he spoke, he gently pressed down with both hands, and a stream of pale green pus dripped down her calf. “If this continues, it could be life-threatening.”
“Proceed with the transplant; this time the flower of Shalin City must be the brightest in history.” Bransie commanded, “I can use my daughter’s mature transplant; I’ll do it myself. No one else can touch my daughter’s corpse.”
“Yes, my lady.”
No one noticed a shadow twist at the edge of the corridor, issuing a low mocking voice: “Yes, my lady.”
