Chapter 64: Unexpected Turn

As the camera kept switching angles, Qin Yun was now only about twenty meters from the cliff bottom—roughly seven or eight stories down.

By now, viewers knew an accident was virtually impossible.

“Qin Ye is awesome! Climbed down over a hundred meters with no gear—real man.”

“Incredible, I’m in awe—Qin Ye is mighty.”

“666, I wonder if this guy’s married? My younger sister wants to introduce herself to him.”

“Strength, courage, boldness, looks, physique—Qin Ye excels in all. In ancient times, he’d be a legendary warrior.”

Qin Yun ignored the online praise, steadied his breathing, glanced down, and smiled: “Phew—almost down. But the closer you get, the more careful you must be. Twenty meters up, one misstep is still deadly.”

As he continued descending, having crossed another ten meters, Qin Yun suddenly noticed something wrong below.

“Shit, fucked!”

Qin Yun’s sudden change in expression startled the live audience.

“What’s going on? Why does Qin Ye look panicked?”

“What happened? Is there a problem below?”

Qin Yun immediately directed the drone downward, and viewers immediately saw a massive inward depression in the cliff face—hundreds of meters wide horizontally, with a depth of over ten meters, before sloping outward again.

That meant to proceed, he had to climb into this deep recess before continuing.

But once inside, the difficulty was obvious to anyone—far beyond the original descent.

“We’re screwed—Qin Ye can’t get down.”

“Shit, this inward section is completely flat—no curvature at all. How’s he supposed to climb it?”

“Why not just jump? Maybe you won’t die.”

“You’re an idiot—twenty meters up, an adult won’t die from a fall?”

“Even if you survive, you’ll break every bone.”

Qin Yun studied the cliff face through the drone, took a deep breath, and said calmly: “At least three hundred meters horizontally before the cliff returns to normal. Vertical descent is doable with my stamina, but horizontal? I can’t hold out. My only choice is to keep going.”

“Qin Ye’s gone mad—how’s he climbing that?”

“Is he going to swing across with just his hands?”

“I can’t watch anymore.”

Qin Yun wasn’t as tense as he appeared—he remained calm. But crossing twenty meters of inward cliff was still a massive challenge. Now was the test of his strength and endurance.

Outside the stream, his friends and family were terrified—luckily, his mother Hu Fen was at work and hadn’t seen this, or she might’ve had a heart attack.

Song Ya, however, felt a complex mix of emotions.

Though she’d watched every one of Qin Yun’s livestreams these past days, amazed by his transformation, she didn’t want him to succeed too much—yet also didn’t want him hurt. Even divorced, even with all her grievances, they’d parted amicably; she couldn’t harbor truly malicious thoughts.

Friends like Xia Qingqing, Chu Xin, Fang Nan, Su Ying, and Shen Hu clenched their fists, hearts racing involuntarily.

Countless strangers, watching the man on screen, were already captivated by his unique charisma.

“Friends, wish me luck.”

Qin Yun showed the drone lens a bright, white smile—utterly carefree. The sight moved viewers deeply; countless women felt their hearts tremble at that grin.

Qin Yun shifted his center of gravity. He didn’t choose to climb across—drone footage showed no footholds in the recess. He could only grip protruding rock points with his hands and swing across using finger strength alone.

The next second, his entire body hung suspended, supported only by his hands, eye-level with the inward cliff face.

He took a deep breath, gripped a rock point with his left hand, confirmed it was solid, then released his right hand and reached for another protrusion in the recess.

After gripping the rock, testing its stability, and ensuring it could bear his weight, he said: “Every rock point ahead must be tested repeatedly—it’ll drain me. But it’s necessary. Right now, I only have two support points. If one hand lets go to grab a new hold and the other suddenly slips, I’ll fall.”

“This twenty-meter stretch is a huge challenge for me.”

“Qin Ye’s balls are made of steel.”

“Qin Ye’s a real man—a iron-blooded warrior. I can’t even hold a pull-up bar long.”

“Ninety-nine percent of men couldn’t do this—this is true Chinese strength.”

Qin Yun gripped a rock point with his right hand, released his left, and dropped sharply—then snapped his right arm out to latch onto a pre-confirmed hold.

In the drone’s view, Qin Yun was now fully inside the recess, muscles bulging with veins, his entire body suspended solely by his hands—blowing the audience’s minds.

At this point, he dared not speak.

The comment flood slowed drastically; only new viewers still commented.

Qin Yun had to ensure every rock point was secure, so each move from old to new hold was short—otherwise he couldn’t test it. Safe, yes—but it would take far longer.

That twenty-meter stretch took nearly thirty minutes to cross.

Viewers were flushed with tension—let alone Qin Yun himself.

For the first time, he felt his physical limits: his hands, arms, fingers—all ached and fatigued. He knew this meant he was nearing collapse.

Even on camera, his arm muscles visibly trembled—a clear sight transmitted to the live stream.

“Shit, the streamer’s about to give out—fall from this height? Unimaginable.”

“Where is this? What kind of idiot streamer is this? Performing suicide?”

“Sigh—once he falls, we taxpayers will have to pay for the rescue.”

“You’re a dead horse, spewing shit. Asshole.”

“Have some decency. Speak with conscience. What the hell.”

“If you don’t like it, leave.”

“I’ll curse him—I hope he falls and gets crushed into pulp.”

“Trash streamer—I’m reporting him.”

There were true fans—and there were haters who couldn’t stand others succeeding.

The live comments were now filled with every kind of noise. With no moderation, Qin Yun had no time to read them—soon, the chat erupted into a full-blown war.

Liu Wei noticed this, frowned after watching a while, then used his authority to ban all the barking trolls.

It couldn’t be helped—any livestream faced this. Not everyone will like you; someone will always find a way to attack. Nothing surprising—China’s population is huge, and people come in all kinds.

Qin Yun gripped a protrusion with his left hand, eyes locked on four secure points at the cliff’s end.

After tapping them to confirm stability, he grabbed another point with his right hand, then swung his body forward and backward—launching himself over two meters.

*Thwack!*

In the stream, everyone saw Qin Yun do a daring move—swinging himself like a trapeze artist, catching the cliff edge—but the next second—

*Crash!*

His left foot slipped, and his whole body plunged downward.

“Holy shit, scared the hell out of me!”

“Qin Ye is awesome.”

“Qin Ye is mighty.”

“Holy crap—he made it! Qin Ye’s unbelievable—he crossed it!”

“But why is Qin Ye’s face so pale?”

“Obviously—he’s at his limit. Thirty minutes? Holy shit, I can’t imagine how he is in bed.”

“Damn it, we’re being serious—why are you talking shit?”

The drone flew to his face. Qin Yun pushed himself up, stabilized, then looked into the lens.

His face was deathly pale, his breathing rapid, his body drenched in sweat—but his eyes held a clear sense of relief.

“Thank heaven and earth—thank you all for your encouragement. I made it. The next ten meters won’t be a problem. We’ll talk once I’m down.”

Qin Yun desperately needed rest. After speaking, he refocused and began descending rapidly.

Ten meters was easy for him in normal condition—but now, after exhausting his strength and focus, every step was taken with extreme caution. His margin for error was near zero; he had no energy left to recover from mistakes.

When only two meters remained, he released both hands and jumped straight down, landing with bent knees, rolling forward, then standing steady.

He brushed off dirt and leaves, turned to the camera, and opened his arms: “Thank you!”

“So hot.”

“Holy shit, I want to have his baby.”

“Qin Ye is awesome.”

At this moment, Qin Yun wasn’t just watched by ordinary viewers—some Douyin streamers were quietly watching too: Xuxu Baobao, Lan Zhanfei, Chen He—

When they saw Qin Yun land safely, each collapsed into their chairs as if drained.

“Bolang’s gift: 100 Carnivals—Qin Ye, from now on I’m your fan.”

“Fengliu’s gift: 100 Carnivals—Qin Ye, let’s meet offline sometime.”

“Xuxu Baobao’s gift: 10 Carnivals—Qin Ye is awesome.”

“Chen He’s gift: 10 Carnivals—Qin Ye is incredible. I watched the whole thing on my knees.”

“Kun Kun’s gift—”

The moment Qin Yun said “Thank you,” Carnival gifts flooded the stream like rain—colorful tags bursting across the screen, maximizing the performance’s profit.

At this moment, not only Qin Yun was happy—Liu Wei beamed with joy.

While a top streamer brings good revenue, official platforms don’t care much about money. What they truly care about is brand perception—so they push streamers upward. Every top streamer has official backing.

The more top streamers, the stronger the platform’s market advantage.

Money? The platform doesn’t care about these petty sums!

“Thank you all for the gifts—I can’t thank you enough,” Qin Yun said, suppressing his excitement. His strength was slowly returning. His viewer count had reached an absurd level—he knew without thinking that Douyin’s backend had pushed him hard. “New viewers, please hit follow. I’m Qin Yun, currently a temporary wilderness outdoor newbie streamer…”

“666—if this is a newbie, the bar’s way too high.”

“Qin Ye’s stream blew up—his followers already broke three million.”

"This popularity—by the end of today’s stream, he’ll hit five million. Amazing."

So some people are just born for this line of work.

Qin Yun finished his narration and turned the camera toward the forest ahead: “Now I just need to keep walking forward, get out of this forest, and I’m sure I’ll find someone.”