Chapter Sixteen: Choosing a Livestream Location—An Eerie Mass Burial Ground Haunted by Dark Energy?
He Yu’s “Return of the King” was like a powerful tonic injected straight into the hearts of every supporter.
The onlookers no longer hesitated.
The skeptics chose silence.
On the official website’s backend, the donation figures in bright red leapt with near-manic energy, each refresh marking tens of thousands of funds pouring in.
One hundred eighty million...
One hundred ninety million...
The moment the number broke through the two hundred million mark, the website even celebrated with a simple yet fiery fireworks effect.
Everyone understood—the colossal ship named “Longhai” had gathered enough fuel and was ready to set sail.
Amidst the eager anticipation of the masses, He Yu launched his first outdoor livestream since his return.
Without any warm-up or promotion, the moment the broadcast began, viewers surged like a torrential flood, instantly surpassing one million.
The livestream’s title was simple: “Longhai University, Site Selection.”
On screen, He Yu wore a plain outdoor sports outfit, adjusting a professional-grade drone before him.
“Brothers, is the sound and picture all good?”
He smiled at the camera, expertly completing the final checks.
A low, powerful hum filled the air as the drone’s rotors spun up, kicking up a swirl of dust before smoothly ascending.
The camera rose, soaring over He Yu’s head and flying toward the distance.
The audience’s perspective instantly transformed into that of a hawk gliding through the sky.
Below stretched the city’s steel and concrete, traffic weaving like threads, while the drone sped toward the city’s outskirts, a vast expanse of suburban wilderness.
The chatroom’s barrage of messages began to stir.
“Here it comes! Finally site selection! My suggestion: downtown, prime real estate, top-notch prestige!”
“You must be dreaming. Downtown land prices are insane. Two hundred million sounds big, but it’s not enough to buy land there!”
“Principal’s amazing! Using a drone for aerial shots, so professional—love it!”
The drone’s camera was terrifyingly stable, racing forward until it hovered over a forgotten corner of the city.
The lens slowly descended.
A barren stretch of land appeared before millions of viewers’ eyes.
No planning, no roads—only waist-high wild grass swaying in the wind like a silent green ocean.
Scraggly, chaotic trees grew haphazardly, every inch radiating a primal, abandoned decay.
What sent chills down spines was what the camera revealed as it zoomed in among the grass.
Tombstones.
Broken, fractured, moss- and vine-covered gravestones.
Some leaning, half-buried in the earth; others shattered into pieces, scattered among the withered roots.
A cold, ominous chill seemed to seep through even the screen.
For a moment, the chatroom went completely silent.
Everyone was stunned by the scene.
Then He Yu’s voice cut through the stillness clearly through the microphone.
“Brothers, this land you’re seeing now is the cheapest I could find.”
His tone was calm, as if describing an ordinary product.
“The price is extremely, extremely low.”
“But…”
He deliberately paused, teasing everyone’s curiosity.
“The feng shui here seems... not very good. I just asked around at the village entrance. Apparently, this used to be a mass burial ground.”
A mass burial ground.
Those three words exploded like a deep-water bomb in the livestream.
The frozen chatroom suddenly erupted into a frenzy.
“Holy sh*t!!!”
“A mass burial ground??? Principal, don’t scare me! I’m a coward!”
“No way, sir! Building a university on a mass burial site? Are you trying to create a university for the underworld? That’s so unlucky!”
“I’m dumbfounded—I just donated ten thousand bucks, and you’re telling me you want to build the school on a graveyard?”
“Calm down, Principal! We can donate more if we have to, really—we’ll figure something out, just please don’t pick this place!”
“I’d rather score a hundred more points on the exam than study on a mass burial ground! Can you imagine night study sessions with seniors sitting next door?”
“Stop it, I’m already scared!”
“The vibe is so eerie, not to mention night study—I’d probably shiver just walking across campus during the day!”
“If anyone dares build the school here, I’m the first to ask for a refund! I mean it! I’ll prove it!”
“Seconded! Refund +1!”
“Refund +10086! This isn’t about money, it’s about being disgusted!”
Fury, fear, confusion, even curses interwove in the chatroom, almost drowning the screen.
For the first time, the donation counter’s jump slowed.
In fact, the website’s backend began receiving sporadic refund requests.
The crowd was stirred.
He Yu watched the drone’s feed, where the chatroom’s torrent of messages rolled like a waterfall, and a faint, unnoticed curve lifted the corner of his mouth.
This was exactly the effect he wanted.
He understood clearly—the connection forged by mere donations was fragile.
These supporters were, at this moment, more like generous “spectators” than “participants.” They donated money, then sat back to watch the show and wait for the outcome.
That wouldn’t do.
What he wanted was not a crowd of spectators.
He wanted a group bound by shared beliefs and goals, breathing as one with a common destiny—true “founders.”
He aimed to firmly bind these millions of supporters to the war chariot named Longhai University.
And the best way was to manufacture a controlled “crisis”—one everyone could get involved in.
Let them be angry, let them worry, let them argue and shout for the future of Longhai University.
Only then would they genuinely feel the powerful recognition of “We are the founders of this university.”
Seeing the moment was ripe, He Yu faced the camera, displaying a perfectly measured expression of “helplessness” and “dilemma.”
He sighed deeply.
That sigh, captured by a high-quality microphone, was transmitted clearly into every ear, heavy with the sense of concession.
“All right, all right.”
“Brothers, don’t get worked up, don’t get worked up.”
He raised both hands, making a calming gesture.
“I’ll listen to you all—I’ll listen to my brothers.”
“Since everyone is so opposed, then we’ll PASS on this place! We’ll look elsewhere!”
His tone was sincere, as if truly convinced by the overwhelming public opinion.
The effect was immediate.
The wild storm of chat messages shifted direction in an instant.
“Phew... That scared me. Glad the Principal listened.”
“That’s more like it! This is the leader we want! Always listening to us!”
“Principal, remember, we’re your strong backing. Money’s no problem, but the site selection must be spot on!”
“Suddenly feeling great—like we’re really in charge!”
“Yes, yes! We’re shareholders of Longhai University too! Our opinions were heard!”
The storm of public opinion, ignited and then extinguished by He Yu himself, came to a perfect close.
Those who had shouted for refunds moments ago had long abandoned the idea.
In their place was an unprecedented sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.
They were no longer mere donors.
At this moment, they were part of the decision-makers of Longhai University.
This powerful sense of participation and belonging—“We are also the founders of this university”—was like the strongest glue, binding the hearts of millions tightly to this yet-to-be-born institution.