Like a man stumbling through a dark forest who suddenly breaks into a sun-dappled clearing, Harry Potter Michael, now with the tantalizing prospect of easy money gleaming before him, had no patience left for idle chatter. The thought of lingering with the drooling, middle-aged Boss Liu to dissect the anatomical wonders of the video's stars held less than zero appeal. Let the lecherous old dog ponder why the foreign girls' waists were so slender or their legs so impossibly long,he thought dismissively, loading the last remaining boxes of 'Weiyou' spicy gluten strips—Zach's promised reward—into his van. Those were questions he, frankly, already knew the answers to, and they held no intellectual fascination for him now.
His mind was a hive of activity, buzzing with plans. He gave a curt wave to Liu, who was still staring slack-jawed at his phone, and gunned the engine of his little truck, its suspension groaning in protest. In truth, he didn't go far. Just a few hundred meters outside the market's chaotic perimeter, he found a quiet, garbage-strewn alley behind a shuttered furniture warehouse. The air here smelled of stale urine and rotting cardboard. Cutting the engine, he was plunged into a dusty silence broken only by the distant rumble of the city. Here, in this grimy sanctuary, he pulled out his phone and a dog-eared notepad, the tools of his new enterprise.
The private message inbox on the 'Wasteland Curiosities' account was a digital hydra—for every one he read, two more seemed to appear. Facing the deluge, Michael, the erstwhile salesman, fell back on his old skills: categorization and triage. He needed a system, a way to process this bizarre new form of customer inquiry with ruthless efficiency.
The First Category: The Admirers.
These were the foot soldiers of his accidental fame. Their messages were a torrent of emojis—hearts, fire, drooling faces—and simple, heartfelt declarations. "So beautiful!" "Angels on earth!" "Marry me please!" A more cynical part of him, forged in the cutthroat negotiations of the Wasteland, labeled them instantly: the舔狗, the simps. His response was automated, a single, benign smiling emoji sent in reply. It was dismissive yet polite, a digital nod that took seconds. He could batch-process dozens a minute. The more brazen among them, those who proposed "meeting for coffee" or "becoming friends," were met with the cold, silent void of being ignored. One message, however, gave him a moment's pause: "I want to send a gift! Please provide an address! Anything for my queens!" The idea of parcels flooding into his flimsy warehouse was both tempting and terrifying. Security, however, won out. He scrolled past, a twinge of regret for the unclaimed loot in his heart.
The Second Category: The Connoisseurs. An Upgraded, and Much Weirder, Breed.
These were the admirers with disposable income and… specific tastes. Their messages made even Michael, who had seen a man try to barter a grenade for a can of beans, blush a little. They bypassed pleasantries and made startlingly direct offers. They weren't interested in the girls; they were interested in their… artifacts. Used socks. Worn JK uniforms. The scuffed practice shoes. Prices offered started in the high three figures and climbed swiftly into four. For items specifically noted as "unwashed," the bids were particularly fervent.
Michael scratched his head, genuinely baffled. Why would anyone in a world of cheap, mass-produced clothing pay a small fortune for used garments? And insist they not be cleaned? Did they… enjoy the smell? The Wasteland had many mysteries, but this was a new one. Still, a salesman's instinct recognized sincere demand. And where there was demand, there was opportunity. A slow, calculating grin spread across his face. The "inventory" was currently limited, of course. But supply could be arranged. He envisioned a trip back, a quick distribution of cheap modern socks and simple dresses to the women of Meili—perhaps the wives of the former miners. A day of hard work in the dusty settlement would imbue the garments with a certain… authenticity. The "scent profile" would be, as he thought with grim amusement, truly potent. He didn't reply to these messages yet. Instead, he created a new note on his phone: "Premium Collectors – Used Garments. High Value. Requires supply chain setup." He'd get to them. Business was business.
The Third Category: The Business Propositions. The Money Men.
This was the category that made his pulse quicken. Here, the responses had to be surgical.
The Speculators: Several messages offered straight cash to buy the entire 'Wasteland Curiosities' account outright, or for the exclusive rights to the viral videos. Offers ranged from a tempting 50,000 yuan to a staggering 200,000. Michael scoffed, a dry sound in the quiet cab. Did they take him for a fool? Selling the golden goose for a single meal? Am I someone who lacks money?The arrogant title he'd given himself in the other world surfaced in his mind. Well, yes, actually, he was desperately short. But he wasn't lacking tens of thousands; he was lacking millions. Building a city from mud and hope required capital on a different scale. His replies to these were terse, two-character masterpieces: "免谈 (No discussion)."
The Talent Scouts: These messages arrived on digital letterheads from "Starlight Talent Agency" or "New Vision Media." They were full of grandiose promises, name-dropping C-list celebrities they claimed to have made, and breathless predictions. According to them, with Lynda and Faye's "stunning visuals" (which Michael readily conceded) and their "jaw-dropping, innate talent" (here, Michael nearly snorted—what talent? Wagging tails and giggling?), they would dominate the nation within a year, conquer Asia in two, and be global icons in three. One overenthusiastic scout even promised to "livestream himself eating shit" if it didn't happen. Michael shook his head, a pang of something almost like regret touching him. Lynda and Faye, blissfully unaware, mending fences or sharpening arrows in another world, had just missed their shot at international superstardom. It was, he mused, probably for the best. The idea of trying to explain a talent contract, or a film set, to the wolf-girl was a headache he didn't need.
The Platforms: DouSha itself and several rival live-streaming apps had sent formal invitations. They dangled promises of "top-tier promotion," "favored algorithm status," and "generous revenue splits." Michael could easily imagine it: Lynda, in her simple tunic, looking baffled at a camera, her wolf ears twitching as she haltingly repeated, "Xie-xie… Ge-ge de… huo… jian?" The deluge of digital gifts, the supercars and rockets filling the screen, the cash pouring in… It was a siren song of unbelievable power. And it was far, far too dangerous. The scrutiny, the need for consistent appearances, the paperwork—it was a minefield. "Not yet," he whispered to himself. "Maybe not ever."
The Partners. The Golden Geese. This was the sweet spot. A quick tally made his heart beat faster. Eleven clothing and footwear companies. Eight cosmetics brands. Six snack food manufacturers. Even two razor companies and three tea merchants. The common thread? They were all obscure, no-name brands Michael had never heard of. They didn't want to buy his account or his people; they wanted him to sell their stuff. This was the "live commerce" gold rush he'd heard about, and he'd just struck a vein.
After careful deliberation, he chose the manufacturer from Guangzhou—the one who claimed the JK uniforms in the video were their own product—as his first test. It felt poetic, and the connection was direct. He typed a short, professional inquiry.
The effect was instantaneous. Across the city, in a noisy garment factory office, the beleaguered sales director, who had been staring at his silent phone for hours under the glowering eye of his boss, nearly wept with relief when the notification popped up. His reply was a masterpiece of frantic enthusiasm and concession. Not only would he express-ship thirty samples of everystyle in their catalogue, he agreed to pay the 50,000 yuan deposit for the 200,000 yuan promotional fee upfront, as a show of "sincere goodwill."
Michael leaned back in the driver's seat, the grimy windshield of his van framing a slice of grey Guangzhou sky. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. The first deal was struck. The machinery of commerce, modern and relentless, was now engaged with the strange, fragile economy of the Wasteland. And as an added, delicious bonus, he had just secured an entire new wardrobe for the women of Meili, free of charge. The pieces, it seemed, were finally starting to move in his favor.