After the convention, Wen Ning thought maybe—just maybe—the hype would calm down. Surely people would get bored eventually, move on to some other strange trend. Maybe there would be a new viral raccoon or a dancing grandma to replace him. That was how the internet worked, wasn’t it?

Unfortunately, Wen Ning underestimated both the tenacity of his fans and the sheer determination of Wei Wuxian.

The fan theories got wilder.

One Twitter thread with 300k retweets claimed to have “proof” that Wen Ning had been painted in a Qing dynasty scroll. Another insisted he was sighted in blurry background photos throughout history, always standing quietly, always looking vaguely startled. People began compiling timelines of “Wen Ning sightings.”

Wei Wuxian scrolled through them at two in the morning, tears streaming down his face from laughing too hard. “LAN ZHAN. LOOK. SOMEONE PUT YOU IN THE TIMELINE TOO. They said you’re his ‘eternal soulmate who carries the sacred ring light across centuries.’”

Lan Wangji, brushing his teeth, muttered, “…Untrue.”

“ADORABLE!” Wei Wuxian crowed. “You’re the immortal husband, Lan Zhan! The fandom ships it!”

Lan Wangji closed the bathroom door with quiet finality.

Meanwhile, Wen Ning’s inbox was flooded daily. Brand deals, collaboration requests, interview invitations, even a university philosophy department asking him to “guest lecture on existential silence as performance.”

He nearly fainted when he read that one. “Wei-gongzi, I can’t—I don’t even know what existential silence is!”

“That’s the beauty of it!” Wei Wuxian beamed. “You don’t need to know! You ARE it!”

Lan Wangji: “…No.”

Wei Wuxian: “Yes.”

Lan Wangji: “…No.”

Wei Wuxian flopped dramatically on the couch. “Lan Zhan, one day your relentless ‘no’ will stifle the greatest artistic movement of our generation.”

“Good.”

But the biggest storm was yet to come.

It started when Wen Ning accidentally joined a TikTok live. He had only meant to scroll, but somehow pressed the wrong button and suddenly his face was broadcast to thousands of people. He panicked. His wide eyes stared into the camera. He didn’t say a word. Just sat there, frozen, for three straight minutes before fumbling to turn it off.

That three minutes was enough.

The clip was screen-recorded, spread everywhere, and declared “the most powerful livestream in history.”

“Do you see the way he blinked at exactly 1:47? That was the blink of someone who’s seen civilizations crumble.”
“I think he transmitted an ancient curse through the screen.”
“No, no, it was a blessing! My acne cleared after watching!”
“I just got dumped but his silence healed me.”

One user even claimed their dead goldfish came back to life after they accidentally left Wen Ning’s live running in the background.

Wei Wuxian read that comment aloud, doubled over laughing. “WEN NING, YOU’RE A PET HEALER NOW. PETS RESURRECT AFTER WATCHING YOU. COMFORT ZOMBIE, LORD OF THE GOLDFISH.”

Wen Ning covered his face with both hands. “Please stop saying that…”

But the internet never stopped.

A week later, a popular talk show invited Wen Ning as a guest. Wei Wuxian screamed so loud the neighbors filed a noise complaint.

“This is it, Wen Ning! Mainstream fame! Daytime television! You’ll be a household name!”

“I’ll ruin everything,” Wen Ning whispered.

“You’ll be perfect,” Wei Wuxian insisted.

Lan Wangji only said: “…Dangerous.”

Still, Wen Ning agreed—because Wei Wuxian looked so excited, and because some small part of him thought maybe it was time to… try.

The day of the show, chaos reigned. Wei Wuxian burst into Wen Ning’s apartment at dawn armed with hair gel, a lint roller, and five backup gray hoodies.

“Wardrobe is everything, Wen Ning! Simplicity! Mystery! Eternal chic!”

Lan Wangji followed with the ring light.

By the time they arrived at the studio, Wen Ning was trembling. The host—a relentlessly cheerful woman in a bright yellow blazer—greeted him like he was a rock star.

“COMFORT ZOMBIE! We’re so excited to have you!”

Wen Ning squeaked.

They sat him on stage under blinding lights. The audience clapped wildly. The host leaned forward with a big smile.

“So, Comfort Zombie, the world wants to know—what’s your secret? How do you create such powerful, haunting content?”

Wen Ning froze. His brain emptied completely. Silence stretched. The cameras zoomed in on his wide eyes.

Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said: “…Porridge.”

The audience screamed. The host gasped dramatically. “Iconic!”

Wei Wuxian, watching from backstage, fist-pumped. “YES. NAILED IT.”

The interview continued, though “continued” might be generous. The host asked questions. Wen Ning gave one-word answers.

“Do you believe in immortality?”
“…Yes.”

“Do you think your content is performance art?”
“…Maybe.”

“What message are you sending to the world?”
“…Eat slowly.”

The crowd lost their collective minds.

“GENIUS!”
“SO DEEP!”
“HE’S A PHILOSOPHER!”

The clip went viral within hours. “Eat slowly” became a global slogan. People printed it on T-shirts, mugs, even protest banners. Lifestyle influencers started posting long captions about “embracing the Comfort Zombie mindset” and “living immortally through patience and porridge.”

Wei Wuxian strutted around like a proud rooster. “Do you see this, Lan Zhan? We’ve created a movement! A philosophy! Comfortism! Future generations will study him alongside Confucius!”

Lan Wangji, pouring tea, replied simply: “…Annoying.”

But Wen Ning—Wen Ning wasn’t so sure.

Every time he opened his phone, millions of strangers were projecting their hopes and jokes and philosophies onto him. They didn’t know him. They didn’t know the truth. They thought his silence was an act, his awkwardness a brand. They thought his immortality was a meme.

But it wasn’t.

One night, overwhelmed, Wen Ning slipped out alone. He walked through the quiet streets, hood pulled low, hands stuffed in his pockets. For a moment, it felt almost normal—like the world before all this madness.

Then someone gasped.

“Comfort Zombie?!”

A group of college students recognized him instantly. Phones came out. They begged for selfies, for him to “just stare at the camera real quick.” One girl whispered reverently: “Can you… can you bless me?”

Wen Ning’s heart sank.

“I’m not—” he tried to say, but they cut him off with cheers.

He fled.

When he got home, Wei Wuxian was waiting with snacks and new “content ideas.” But one look at Wen Ning’s pale face stopped him.

“Wen Ning…?”

“…I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Wen Ning whispered.

The room fell silent.

Wei Wuxian blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? You’re doing amazing—better than amazing, you’re a legend—”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Wen Ning said, voice trembling. “I never wanted millions of people watching me. I just wanted to… to make porridge. Quietly. Without everyone expecting me to be something I’m not.”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth, then shut it. For once, he had no quick words.

Lan Wangji spoke instead. “You do not have to continue.”

Wen Ning looked up, startled.

“You are not responsible for their expectations,” Lan Wangji said calmly. “You owe them nothing.”

Wei Wuxian rubbed the back of his neck. “I… I guess I got carried away, huh? I just thought—it was fun, you know? Seeing you loved instead of feared. But maybe I wasn’t thinking about you. Not enough.”

Wen Ning bit his lip. “I don’t… hate it. Sometimes it feels nice. But it’s too much. Too loud.”

Wei Wuxian nodded slowly. Then his grin returned, softer this time. “Okay. Then we slow it down. Less chaos. More… you. Whatever you want. Comfort Zombie doesn’t have to be a hurricane. He can just be… Wen Ning.”

Wen Ning blinked. “…Really?”

“Of course!” Wei Wuxian clapped his shoulder. “We’re not monsters. Well, maybe Lan Zhan when he says no too much, but that’s different.”

“…Mn,” Lan Wangji said.

From then on, the content shifted. No more stunts, no more memes pushed too hard. Just quiet videos of Wen Ning making simple meals, sometimes even speaking softly—“This is soup,” “I like tea,” “It’s raining outside.” The fandom didn’t shrink. If anything, it grew stronger.

Because Wen Ning wasn’t just Comfort Zombie anymore. He was real. Human, even in his immortality.

And maybe that was enough.