12 The Victor

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Zhiwei paid the deposit. She planned to come by in the afternoon or tomorrow to pick it up once she had enough money. André was babbling on, still dissatisfied with the small amount of donations they had received so far.

“They should be contacting the consortium. The donations gathered through websites and rallies are usually very little,” he muttered. “Voters donate sporadically, so the sums aren’t significant. But donations from consortia to candidates are substantial.”

Zhiwei glanced at him. She could tell André was trying to persuade her to join an organization.

Without an organization, it was definitely a disadvantage. Since the selection of gods had already begun, running as an independent candidate offered almost no advantage.

Sure enough, André noticed her expression and began to circle around his point carefully. “But donations from consortia usually go to the organization, not directly to the candidate.”

His meaning was clear: he hoped Zhiwei had an organization backing her.

Ideally, a large organization that would inherit a loyal voter base and stronghold districts, easing her pressure considerably.

Zhiwei ignored him.

She always felt André was like a young master clueless about worldly hardships but striving blindly. It wasn’t that he wasn’t earnest, but he often made things worse.

She didn’t want false help that went against her wishes—that was truly counterproductive!

This was nothing like the scenario she had envisioned when she first invited André to be her deputy.

Since they were already on the satellite, having come all this way, Zhiwei thought she might as well take a stroll.

The satellite city around the temple was similar to the main planet she had stayed on before, except there were more shops and many more people out shopping.

Zhiwei and André parked their hovercraft to one side and walked about, soaking in the lively atmosphere.

After a short while, they spotted a particularly crowded gathering nearby.

“Looks like a rally over there,” André guessed. “This satellite city has many tourists; holding a rally in a tourist-heavy area targets more constituencies.”

They approached and joined the crowd at the outskirts, curious.

As they got closer, Zhiwei realized this wasn’t a rally for a single candidate or organization.

It was many small groups holding a combined rally.

Curious, Zhiwei listened as André explained, “Because rallies are costly, it’s common for small groups to hold joint events.”

“Some small groups don’t have candidates who passed the preliminary election this round but still need to promote themselves; otherwise, they risk being forgotten.”

“Not having a constituency isn’t a big deal, but being forgotten and losing donations is.”

Zhiwei understood—it was about maintaining visibility.

She examined the names on the advertisements, recognizing many with names like “Apocalypse,” “Heaven’s Blessing,” and “Shrine,” typical for organizations of this nature. Amid them, the name “Rusty Gear” stood out starkly.

Zhiwei found it amusing. “There’s an organization with that name?”

The rally resembled an idol group’s signing or handshake event she was familiar with.

Many staff handed out flyers and booklets printed with platforms and even candidates’ photos.

Several people sat behind a long table on stage, interacting with donors.

As Zhiwei approached, a little girl of five or six was having her photo taken with a female candidate.

This candidate had flowing red hair, delicate features, and a gentle demeanor.

Seeing the child wanting a photo, she stepped down from behind the table, half-kneeling to the child’s level, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulders and holding her close.

André checked his neural interface and whispered to Zhiwei, “She’s a candidate from the Apocalypse organization, ranked very low. Her platform focuses on protecting children’s emotional and mental health.”

Zhiwei crossed her arms, watching the warm scene on stage. “That’s quite good.”

“Protecting children is more practical than your chocolate deity’s platform.”

“A theoretical candidate can’t compete with a practical god,” André snorted. He seemed to have seen such scenes before, his words carrying subtext. “What they offer kids isn’t even as good as a piece of chocolate.”

The little girl clearly admired the candidate holding her.

Her clothes were worn but tidy; her flushed face showed excitement. Clutching the candidate’s skirt with small hands, she shyly but firmly spoke, “When I grow up, can I run to be a god like you? Can I join Apocalypse and be a candidate too?”

The candidate smiled gently, hugging the girl once more. “Of course. You are the future of the stars.”

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Many around them were taking photos, kindly applauding, encouraging the little girl’s budding dream.

The girl’s mother stood nearby, tears welling as she expressed heartfelt thanks. When the girl smiled and leapt back into her mother’s arms, a tear dropped onto her hair.

Zhiwei stood still, watching.

Her breath light, a smile in her eyes, she said, “See? It’s quite nice, isn’t it?”

André’s gaze was indifferent but he said nothing.

Having had her fill of the scene, Zhiwei was about to leave when a voice beside her spoke.

“Hello, are you… ‘that’ Zhiwei?”

At first, the voice was uncertain, but when Zhiwei turned, it became sure.

“Yes! You’re that Zhiwei! Hello, hello!”

Zhiwei greeted them with mild helplessness, inwardly wondering which Zhiwei they meant and why she was always “that” Zhiwei.

The person who recognized her was a staff member of an organization, wearing a finely embroidered badge on her chest that read [Rusty Gear].

Her complexion was flawless, delicate as fine porcelain, skin smooth without a hint of redness, and she spoke softly and politely.

“Would you like to speak on stage?” she asked.

Normally, why would anyone let you speak without paying? Everyone had to pay!

But Zhiwei was different—currently the most popular candidate. Having her speak would raise the rally’s profile and spread its influence.

Zhiwei waved her hand repeatedly. “No need.”

She really didn’t want to spout more nonsense about platforms.

As she was about to say more, the voice of the little girl and her mother came from behind.

“I forgot to give the flowers to the sister! Mom, I forgot to give the flowers!”

She held up a bright orange flower high.

But since the rally was a patchwork event, the “sister’s” turn was over; she was no longer on stage.

The mother comforted her, “She’s already gone. We’ll come again next time, okay?”

The girl obeyed, though disappointed and sad, her flower drooped.

Still, she brightened up and forced a smile, nodding obediently, “Okay.”

Zhiwei didn’t need to look back.

From the voice alone, she could hear the little girl’s regret.

Zhiwei sighed inwardly and turned around, intending to speak to the girl, only to find André already crouched, comforting the child.

Zhiwei was surprised; the young master was so considerate, even coaxing a child. No wonder his chest was so broad—the best quality in a man was a touch of maternal kindness.

Seeing this, André’s “dad vibe” made him even more attractive than usual.

But before this pleasant thought lasted five seconds, André spoke.

He reached out for the bouquet the girl was holding, looking entirely natural. “My commander is also a candidate. You should give her the flowers.”

Zhiwei: …André, what nonsense are you spouting?!

She jabbed him hard in the small of the back.

André straightened, looking gently at the little girl.

“She’s the best candidate,” André said to the child. “If you don’t give her flowers, you really have no taste.”

Zhiwei nearly fainted.

The child looked up at Zhiwei, scrutinized her, then giggled.

“I know you. You’re the Zhiwei who’s running to be the sole god.”

She said seriously, “You want to be the only god so no one else can run, but if I want to be a god in the future, then we have different platforms. So, I can’t give you the flowers.”

Zhiwei looked at her, noting how fluent she spoke despite her young age, and asked, “You know about platforms? How old are you?”

“Five,” she said proudly, puffing out her chest like a little yellow fluffy duckling.

Zhiwei pondered, then looked at the staff member. “If I don’t speak on stage, can I go backstage to greet everyone?”

Her meaning was that she consented to being photographed and tacitly allowed these small organizations to ride her wave of popularity.

The staff’s eyes flickered, then she nodded. “Of course. It’s our honor.”

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Having received permission, Zhiwei bent slightly and patted the little girl’s shoulder.

“I’ll take you to give those flowers to that sister, okay?” she asked the mother. “Would you like to come along?”

The mother looked obviously flustered. “Ah, thank you…”

“Am I scary?” Zhiwei teased. “I should be okay, right?”

The mother relaxed a bit. “No, you’re not scary at all. I didn’t expect you to be so… considerate. We never donated to you, yet you’re so kind to us.”

Zhiwei didn’t think that was special.

To her, it was no more than a small kindness.

The path backstage was quiet. Staff led the way, and they followed closely behind.

But it was too quiet.

Voices carried faintly on the wind.

“Did you get a good shot?”

“Of course, the angle’s perfect. I’ll upload it to the star network and contact the media for a write-up.”

“That’s worth it then. Is she pretty? The photos won’t look bad, right?”

“Ugly, but her mother cried well—going for the sentimental family angle still works.”

Zhiwei sensed something was wrong.

Then the familiar voice spoke coldly.

The one who had said “You are the future of the stars” earlier sneered, “That kid’s filthy, with sticky candy residue on her hands.”

She mocked, “Disgusting little poor brat tagging along with paupers, yet she dares to ask if she can be a god someday.”

Zhiwei raised her hand instantly, covering the little girl’s ears.

But it was too late.

The little girl was young but spoke clearly and logically. She was obviously smart, not a dullard.

How could she not understand?

Her face turned pale.

The staff member ahead quickened her pace and rushed backstage. Then silence fell.

It was the kind of silence it should be, Zhiwei thought.

The platform was about protecting children’s emotional and mental well-being, from Apocalypse.

This staff member was from Rusty Gear.

They were from different organizations, so with an outsider present, she naturally concealed her true self and stayed silent.

But this silence did not mean nothing had happened.

Zhiwei turned away, abandoning the thought of meeting those people.

She led the little girl, stiff and dazed, some distance away before stopping and softly sighing.

She deliberately ignored the mother’s pale face and simply ruffled the silent girl’s hair.

“You’re very good, really. I wasn’t this capable at five.”

“If being a god is truly your life goal, then don’t mind what others say.”

Her tone was gentle, like a snowflake melting into a parched hollow, crystal clear.

“Don’t worry about my platform. If you think I’m talking nonsense, then go your own way.”

Zhiwei bent down and whispered in the girl’s ear, a voice only they could hear, “Also think that sister is talking nonsense, think everyone’s talking nonsense, okay?”

Her tone was soft yet moving.

The little girl fell silent, then suddenly looked up.

She thrust the big bunch of orange flowers she held into Zhiwei’s arms.

“I will support you,” she said, eyes red-rimmed, stubbornly. “This isn’t something others didn’t want and gave to you. You won it by beating others.”

“You’re the victor, and you will be until the very end.”

Having said that, she grabbed her mother’s hand and ran off.

Zhiwei: …Hmm.

Her good intentions, and the child actually cursed her to victory!