Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The next day, Star Dome’s market value evaporated by three billion.

The trending topics were dominated by the fallout all day long.

“He Linchuan stole technology.”

“Muse is a fraud.”

“AI Girlfriend recognizes its true creator during live stream.”

Calls from reporters, lawyers, headhunters, and former colleagues made my phone run hot.

I didn’t answer a single one.

I simply handed over my development logs, email correspondence, offline backups, and original copyright drafts to my lawyer, letting them issue a formal statement on my behalf.

Everything was there in black and white, with timestamps accurate to the second.

Meanwhile, the backend for NOVA’s closed beta was overwhelmed.

Clients who had originally only requested invitation codes brought in hundreds of new applications overnight. Everyone wanted to know what kind of product the person who had publicly dismantled Muse had actually created.

I held an online demonstration.

There was no virtual girlfriend, and no soft, cutesy cooing.

I had NOVA connect to a real company’s inventory and cash flow. In ten minutes, it provided a complete loss-mitigation plan; in twenty minutes, it ran a profit-recovery model.

After the demonstration ended, there was a long silence on the other side of the screen.

Then, the first client spoke up: “Ms. Lin, we’re signing for a pilot program tonight.”

The second said, “Name your price.”

The third was even more direct: “We’re not renewing with Star Dome. We’re switching everything over to you.”

I shut down my computer, finally feeling the resentment that had been bottled up for three years begin to dissipate.

He Linchuan said I didn’t understand business.

But what’s truly valuable has never been about sweet-talking people into a frenzy.

It’s about delivering results.

At eleven that night, He Linchuan called me for the first time.

I declined it.

A minute later, he called again.

I declined it again.

On the third attempt, he sent a message.

“Lin Yan, we need to talk.”

I replied with one word.

“Scram.”

The next afternoon, he cornered me downstairs at Critical Point.

Compared to the day of the live stream, he looked like he had aged five years overnight. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his stubble was unkempt. That perpetually refined, perpetually dignified facade had finally shattered.

“Did you have to be so ruthless?” His first words were still a confrontation.

I looked at him and nearly laughed out loud.

“Ruthless?” I said. “He Linchuan, you took the system I wrote to go public, you used me as a stepping stone in interviews, and you told the whole internet that I have no commercial value. Now that it’s all blown up in your face, you’re calling me ruthless?”

He stared at me, his voice very low. “That author verification code… you left it there on purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you were a thief long ago.”

His expression instantly soured.

Yet, he managed to restrain his temper and finally said what he came to say.

Pressure from shareholders, regulatory intervention, clients terminating contracts, and partners seeking damages.

Star Dome was on the verge of collapse.

“Lin Yan.” He looked at me, finally dropping his ego. “Come back. Shares, position, cash-whatever you want, just name it.”

I took a step forward.

“He Linchuan.”

“Did you forget? You were the one who said, in your own words, that I have no commercial value.”

His lips quivered.

I didn’t give him a chance to explain.

“Now you know.”

“The one without value was never me.”