“A... a Galactic Film and TV Studio?”
Sitting in Old Guo’s dining car with a grain of steamed rice still stuck to the corner of her mouth, Empress Huan blinked her bright purple eyes in confusion.
“Lord Pei, I have cultivated the Illusion Dao for five thousand years,” Empress Huan said, holding her porcelain soup bowl carefully with both hands. “I know how to weave phantom palaces, conjure ten-thousand-mile mirages, and make rocks look like dancing fairies. What is a ‘movie’ and a ‘TV drama’?”
Pei Xuan pulled up a wooden chair across from her and smiled.
“Think about it, Empress Huan,” Pei Xuan said. “Why did your old Pink Nebula make your soul sick? Because you were using your Half-Step Rank 9 Illusion Dao to trick people in the dark and steal their money. Whenever your victims woke up broke and miserable, their resentment flowed back through the array and poisoned your soul-sea.”
Empress Huan shivered slightly and nodded. That was the exact root of her five-thousand-year migraine.
“Now think about the opposite,” Pei Xuan continued, tapping the table. “Across our Spiral Arm Empire, we now have forty trillion hard-working citizens. During the day, our Titan engineers move moons, our farmers harvest nebula rice, and our children study in public schools. When six o’clock in the evening rolls around and everyone sits down at the dinner table with a bowl of hot soup, what do they want?”
