The Cannon Fodder Alpha Who Made the Heroine Pregnant - Chapter 7

7:

Seeing the intimate embrace between Chu Zhao and the stranger, Zhou Lan wisely retreated.

Not my business.

The security alarm couldn’t be canceled—once triggered, the team would investigate regardless. But with Chu Zhao present, her companion likely wouldn’t be detained.

Through the twilight, Zhou Lan observed their heated exchange. The “intruder” struggled toward the villa while Chu Zhao restrained them.

What’s their relationship?

The novel portrayed Chu Zhao as solitary, with allies but no intimate connections. This development was unexpected.

Shaking her head, Zhou Lan withdrew. Her priority was survival, changing her cannon fodder fate in this borrowed life.

With the pheromone crisis resolved, her next steps were clear:

1. Assist Chu Zhao’s rise to earn clemency.
2. Leave Jiangning—perhaps abroad—once the dust settled.

But escape required funds.

—

The Music Gambit

Zhou Lan’s lifeline was songwriting. Yet talent alone wouldn’t suffice, she needed visibility without celebrity.

Options considered:

Traditional Submissions
– Risk: Songs buried or plagiarized.
– Reality: Even strict copyright laws couldn’t prevent theft.

Reality Shows
– Drawback: Public scrutiny would tether her to the Zhou name.

Short-Video Platforms
– Solution: Visual Feast, this world’s TikTok equivalent.
– Advantage: Anonymous streaming—masked, hat-low, voice-only.

—

Rebirth as “Ming Xiao Zhou”

Rifling through the original’s hoard of unopened tech (a grotesque display of wealth), Zhou Lan assembled her arsenal:

– Burner Phone (pre-activated by sycophantic lackeys)

Fresh Accounts
– Platform: Shi Yan
– Alias: “Tomorrow’s Zhou”
– Identity: Ghostwriter/composer

Her debut piece? “Dim Light”, a half-finished work inspired by Chu Zhao’s tragedy.

The lyrics need revision now that I’ve met her.

—

The Creative Process

With a music app emulating a grand piano, Zhou Lan’s fingers danced across the screen. Melodies flowed, this body remembers muscle memory.

The original’s conservatory training, though neglected, provided foundation.

As chords swelled, she scribbled notation, lost in the catharsis of creation—

CRASH.

The door flung open.