Reborn, I Became a Male God - Chapter 21-25

Before Hongguang Films took over promotion, very few people knew about The Song of Eternal Joy. Only diehard book fans clocked in at the official blog every day, occasionally joined by one or two fans of the supporting cast who stumbled in by mistake. After it was scheduled for the Nanzhou platform’s weekly drama slot, the drama entered an aggressive promotion phase, and only then did it start to gain some traction. But at the time, the industry had no expectations for the drama, because from the original novel to the production team to the cast—there wasn’t a single highlight.

 

Nowadays, television dramas start promotion as early as the planning and project approval stages. The casting phase is the first major focus: each character—leads and important supporting roles alike—gets a round of fan hype. Ambiguous news gets released through entertainment outlets, while water armies flood message boards, Weibo, and forums with rumors both true and false, inciting fan wars. Last year, there was a drama so bold and dark-hearted that it teased nearly every top-tier popular idol in the industry as potential leads. During that period, major entertainment forums were ablaze with fan vs. anti-fan battles. The rate of post updates was several times faster than usual.

 

After the cast is finalized, the release of costume stills marks another wave of promotion. Once filming officially begins, various leaks hit public view, supported by press releases and comparisons to other dramas and actors to boost visibility and buzz. After a solid pre-launch campaign, the official premiere triggers another round of promotion, and even after the broadcast ends, there’s a final push. And that’s just the standard promotional playbook from the production team—on top of that, the actors run their own separate promotions.

 

In short, from project initiation to the end of the broadcast, promotion is nonstop.

 

Compared to that standard drama production flow, the Song of Eternal Joy crew were complete amateurs. Promotion that should have started long ago didn’t begin until one month before the premiere. No matter how grand the efforts were, it all came off as too rushed.

 

Of course, whether a drama becomes a hit can’t depend on promotion alone. It also involves the actors, storyline, costumes, props, and a rather mysterious blend of timing, location, and human factors. Anyway, the Song of Eternal Joy crew didn’t look like they had what it took to go viral. Add to that the weekly broadcast + online streaming model with no satellite TV slot, and it didn’t seem like it would even make a splash.

 

This was the unanimous view within the industry before the premiere of The Song of Eternal Joy.

 

No one expected to be slapped in the face so quickly. At the beginning of August, The Song of Eternal Joy launched on the Nanzhou platform. Within an hour, its view count exceeded 40 million. The Weibo follower count for the male and female leads skyrocketed, and discussions on major entertainment forums surged—most of them positive. The next night at 8 PM, after the second episode aired, the view count broke the 100 million mark. No doubt about it—the show was a hit. Still, no one foresaw that it would explode this much, ultimately sweeping both the popularity and sales charts for the year’s web dramas.

 

The online drama profit model in this world differs from traditional television. It doesn’t rely on licensing fees sold to streaming platforms, but instead uses a paid-viewing model. After a web drama goes online, the first six episodes are free, and then it shifts to paid access. There are two options: pay 0.2 yuan per episode, or buy out the entire series. For dramas under 30 episodes, the buyout fee is uniformly 3 yuan. For those over 30, the cost increases by 1 yuan for every additional 10 episodes, rounded accordingly. While the drama is ongoing, only per-episode payments are available.

 

The Song of Eternal Joy aired two episodes per week, and by the end of August, it officially switched to paid access. Within an hour, the number of purchases exceeded 20 million, most of them bundles of four episodes at once, raking in over 12 million yuan. When the data came out, the entire industry was stunned.

 

But at that time, Jing Ling had just finished filming all his scenes and rushed to school to register. Then came military training, and he hadn’t really paid much attention to the news. During training, Jiang Sijin did contact him, but they didn’t talk much about it.

 

After military training ended, Jing Ling posted a selfie on Weibo and casually glanced at the comments on his previous post. That’s when he found out that The Song of Eternal Joy had topped both charts.

 

His Weibo account had only been created when the drama premiered, and it had only been a bit over two months since then, yet his follower count had already surpassed 10 million. But since he was lazy and barely posted, his total number of posts was still in the single digits. The last time he posted was half a month ago.

 

Fans had never seen such a lazy celebrity before. Every day, they pitifully camped out in his Weibo comments, drooling over his previous crossdressing photo while praying for a new post to drop.

 

Later, based on posts by fangirls who went to the same school and ran into him during registration—posts they shared on the Nanzhou forum—fans discovered that he was a freshman at Yizhou University of Transport. Once they realized he was doing military training, they fed their addiction with all kinds of candid shots from those same fangirls. By the end of September, with training wrapping up, fans guessed that their male god would surely post something to celebrate the end of this hardship. So they all waited, eyes glued to his Weibo.

 

Heaven helps those who are sincere. At dusk, a new Weibo post finally appeared.

 

Jing Ling No.2 Under Heaven V: Born naturally beautiful. [Photo]

 

The long-awaited post, paired with a selfie in military fatigues, made fans go wild. Comment numbers skyrocketed in an instant—dozens more with every refresh.

 

Guagua: I don’t care, male god marry me!

 

Lilith Doesn’t Cry: Finally waited for you, thank goodness I didn’t give up [Love You] [Love You] [Love You]

Team Yuzhen Hug Me: Eh? Why is my screen dirty? Let me lick it clean!

 

Muhanhan No.3 Under Heaven V: I’ve never seen someone so narcissistic! You post a selfie? Then post more! Post a few more if you’ve got the guts!

 

Within less than half an hour, the comment count passed 10,000, and the number of reposts and likes was several times higher. The top comment alone surpassed 50,000 likes.

 

Sleeping Beauty God Won’t Wake: “Born beautiful, hard to abandon; chosen to stand by the emperor’s side.” No lies detected. [Image]

 

The image attached to this comment was a screenshot from The Song of Eternal Joy—the scene where Li Yu proposes to Zhao Zizhen after ascending the throne. The subtitle at the bottom read: “Zizhen, marry me and be my empress, will you?”

 

The comments under that post were all filled with rows and rows of hahahahahaha.

 

Jing Ling stared at the comments, speechless for a long time, and gave silent kudos to this quick-witted girl.

 

Several other hot comments were all asking about the ending of The Song of Eternal Joy. The drama had 28 episodes total, started airing in August, with two episodes per week for the first three weeks, and after going paid, updated four episodes weekly. Three days ago, it had reached episode 26—only two episodes left.

 

Whether TV or film, most viewers prefer happy endings. Fans were particularly concerned about the finale because the original novel by Jiang Sijin was notorious: the male lead killed the female lead on their wedding night and then committed suicide himself. Honestly, when this story was serialized on Green River Literature, it was a miracle that readers didn’t flood her with 1-star reviews.

 

Fans had been asking about the ending for ages—starting from the drama’s official account to the director, the screenwriter, and the main cast—everyone was asked, but no one would say a word. Anyone with a brain could see something was off, but until the finale aired, everyone clung to a sliver of hope.

 

Seeing how worried the fans were, Jing Ling thought back to the script’s ending. Although it wasn’t a double death like the original, it wasn’t that much better either.

 

Just a few days left until the finale… time to preemptively feel sorry for the drama fans.

 

After the military parade in the afternoon, students left the base in groups on buses printed with “Yizhou University of Transport.” Around 5 or 6 PM, they started arriving back on campus. Jing Ling was in the third group. By the time he got back to school, it was nearly 7 PM.

 

After a month of being unoccupied, the dorm was too dusty to sleep in without cleaning. Everyone had to hold it in and do a major cleanup. Another half-hour passed.

 

Once the bed sheets and quilt covers were freshly laid, Jing Ling collapsed on the bed like a corpse and didn’t move. While zoning out, he suddenly remembered something, pulled out his phone, and without even opening his contacts, dialed a number manually.

 

This was a habit Jing Ling had developed ever since unlocking his photographic memory skill—he never saved phone numbers. Anyone he might need to contact, he had memorized.

 

After three rings, the call connected.

 

“Hello, Jing Ling.” A deep male voice came from the other end.

 

“Hello, A-Ze,” Jing Ling replied. “I have something to ask you.”

 

Shen Ze was the manager the company had assigned to him. Initially, during internal discussions, they had planned to have Chen Bing manage him. But due to certain circumstances and another round of meetings, they eventually decided Shen Ze would take over.

 

“Go ahead,” Shen Ze said.

 

“This afternoon, I was browsing Weibo and saw my follower count passed ten million. I was curious—how many of those did you buy?”

 

There was a suspicious silence on the other end for a few seconds before the response came: “You’re overthinking it. Without your permission, I wouldn’t meddle in that.”

 

He said this for a reason. Hongguang had many signed artists, including quite a few popular ones, but no one had ever signed a contract like Jing Ling’s. At first, the company assigned their top-tier manager Chen Bing, who was very willing to take him on. During their first meeting, Chen even brought a detailed two-year career plan. Jing Ling appreciated the gesture, but then mentioned a few terms in his contract—mainly that he didn’t want interference in certain matters. The two didn’t see eye to eye on this and parted ways. Afterward, the company reassigned Shen Ze, who was willing to accept Jing Ling’s conditions.

 

Jing Ling chuckled. “A-Ze, you’re really thoughtful!”

 

Shen Ze’s voice remained calm. “That’s what I’m here for. Anything else?”

 

Jing Ling thought for a moment, then asked, “What kind of scripts do you have on hand? After military training, I’m feeling kind of bored.”

 

“Plenty,” Shen Ze replied.

 

“When do you have time? Bring them over for me to take a look.”

 

“I’m free now. Want me to bring them to your dorm?”

 

Jing Ling: “…Is it really necessary to be this enthusiastic?”

 

Chapter 22

 

Shen Ze used his actions to show Jing Ling that it was indeed necessary to be this proactive. In less than half an hour, he had already arrived at the café outside Yizhou University and then called Jing Ling.

After all, he was someone with tens of millions of fans. When Jing Ling received the call, he tidied himself up a bit before heading out. Since it was nighttime and he had disguised himself a little, he wasn’t recognized on the way. 

 

Following the directions Shen Ze gave him, he found the café, went up to the second floor, and located the private room at the far end. He stood at the door, staring at the heart-shaped logo on the doorframe for quite a while before finally raising his hand to knock.

 

“Come in.”

 

Jing Ling pushed the door open and saw Shen Ze, dressed in a formal suit and sitting properly on a pink sofa. A neat stack of scripts was placed on the table in front of him, with a few more by his side. He was holding one as well, appearing to be sorting and organizing them.

 

“This many?” Jing Ling casually closed the door, walked over, and sat on the gray sofa opposite.

 

Shen Ze glanced up at him, then lowered his head again to continue working. “Not too bad. Most of them are garbage in my opinion, but based on our previous agreement, I brought them all. The tallest stack is over there—you can check it out if you want. The rest are roughly divided into three categories: historical romance dramas, modern romance dramas, and films. The one I’m most optimistic about is Director Gu’s film. Although it’s just a third-tier supporting role, the cast is strong, and it’s for the big screen. Take a look yourself.”

 

“Thanks for your hard work,” said Jing Ling.

 

Indeed, Shen Ze wasn’t one of the top-tier agents at Hongguang Entertainment—at most he clung to the tail end of the second tier. But he was the most suitable for Jing Ling because he was willing to accommodate him. Those top-tier agents all had one or two big-name stars under their wing. While those stars might be difficult in some ways, none were as hard to manage in every way like Jing Ling, who insisted on approving everything and allowed no interference. If he were as popular as those big names dominating the entertainment scene, maybe some agents would tolerate his quirks while holding their nose. But the truth was, he was at best a top internet celebrity. No agent would be willing to put up with him for nothing.

 

“I’m just doing what I should,” Shen Ze said as he placed the script in his hand on the table and picked up the next one.

 

Jing Ling casually drew a script from the tallest pile. The title read “The First Imperial Consort.” He flipped through the contents and quickly summed it up: a typical Mary Sue palace drama. The female lead was innocent, kind, tenacious, and impossibly lucky—beloved by all. Even after entering the palace as the emperor’s concubine, she still attracted a swarm of princes and dukes who fell for her uncontrollably, shielded her from danger, and eliminated her enemies, finally placing her on the throne as the First Imperial Consort. Jing Ling’s role was that of a male supporting character—a devoted admirer of the female lead who lived for her, died for her, and suffered for her.

 

If he took this role, it was easy to imagine viewers tearing the female lead apart later. Comments like “This woman passed over such a devoted, handsome man—are her eyes okay?” would surely pop up. Out of sympathy for the actress, Jing Ling tossed the script aside and picked up another. Still a historical romance, still another Mary Sue big-female-lead drama. He tossed that too. After flipping through several, he gave up on digging for gold in the trash pile and moved on.

 

Among the scripts on the table, one pile had only two scripts—most likely the film scripts. Jing Ling picked the one on top. The title read: “Deserted Island.”

 

It was a thriller crime film, telling the story of a group of shipwreck survivors stranded on an uninhabited island. Jing Ling’s script featured a hot-tempered celebrity who died shortly after the story began.

“Whose film is this?” Jing Ling asked.

 

Shen Ze looked up. “Director Gu’s.”

 

“I’m interested in this script, but I don’t like the role. Can I look at others?”

 

“This is Director Gu’s film! Do you know who he is? One of the top five directors in the country!” Shen Ze emphasized deliberately. “Everyone got role-specific scripts. This third-tier supporting role was secured by the company for you. Otherwise, as an internet celebrity ranked at the bottom, you wouldn’t even have a shot at Director Gu’s project!”

 

Jing Internet Celebrity Ling nodded. “I’m not stupid. Of course, I know who Director Gu is. Talk to the company for me. I don’t want this throwaway role—see if they can get me an audition for the murderer.”

 

Jing Ling was speculating about the murderer role. A group of survivors stranded on a deserted island, a celebrity who dies early—it was easy to guess what came next. People would die one by one, likely from murder or a mix of accidents and murder. Pure accidents were unlikely.

 

The celebrity role he got was essentially irrelevant—could be swapped with any other profession. This was a part clearly reserved for someone with connections. Anyone with money or ties could take it. The screentime was short and didn’t demand acting skills, so it wouldn’t affect the film’s quality. But it did show that the company still valued him.

 

Shen Ze looked at Jing Ling with slight surprise. He fell silent, fingers lightly tapping the table. After about two minutes, he nodded. “Got it. I’ll try. I’ll get back to you within three days. For now, look at the others.”

 

Jing Ling shook his head. “Just this one. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll talk again.” After a pause, he pointed to the tallest pile. “In the future, skip this type of script. No need to show them to me—I trust your judgment.”

 

“Alright,” Shen Ze nodded. “Anything else? If not, I’ll head out.”

 

Jing Ling shook his head. So Shen Ze got up, picked up the oversized travel bag behind him, stuffed all the scripts on the table inside, zipped it up, slung it over his shoulder, and left.

 

—

 

Two days later, on the morning of the third day after finishing a general education class, Jing Ling got a call from Shen Ze. The company had managed to get him an audition. The timing was tight—scheduled for that weekend. The script had already been sent to his email, and Shen Ze told him to prepare well.

 

Jing Ling printed the script at a shop outside the school gate and brought it back to the dormitory.

 

The weekend came quickly.

 

The audition for Deserted Island was in Jiangcheng, Huaizhou—a coastal tourist city. Shen Ze had booked Jing Ling’s ticket in advance. He only had one class Friday morning, and after that he flew from Qincheng to Jiangcheng, arriving in the evening and checking into a local hotel. After a night’s rest, he would spend the second day preparing and audition on the third morning.

 

There were eight actors auditioning for the role, including Jing Ling. The other seven had some degree of fame and a decent reputation. Only Jing Ling was young and inexperienced—clearly someone with connections. Naturally, he was the last to audition. The others went in and out one by one, all seasoned pros. It was impossible to read anything from their expressions.

 

By the time it was Jing Ling’s turn, it was nearly noon. He pushed open the door to a spacious room. 

Against the wall directly facing the door was a long table, behind which sat five people. He only recognized one—the person in the middle, Director Gu.

 

He greeted them politely and introduced himself. “I’m Jing Ling. Auditioning for the role of Chen Huaimin.”

 

Everyone present was older and experienced. Though they didn’t think Jing Ling could play the role well, they didn’t show it openly—at most, their attitudes were a bit casual.

 

“Try this scene. You have five minutes to prepare,” Director Gu said, and a staff member handed Jing Ling a script.

 

It was more of a snippet than a full script, just a short passage. The content showed Chen Huaimin cooking. That was it.

 

Jing Ling connected it to the story background and began to flesh out the scene.

 

Chen Huaimin was cooking. But where did the ingredients come from? There obviously wouldn’t be vegetables growing conveniently on a deserted island, so the food was most likely meat. And where did the meat come from? There could be animals on the island, but Chen Huaimin’s character was a frail literary type—unlikely to have hunted anything himself. So the meat was either given to him by others… or came from some unspeakable source. The group had washed ashore after a shipwreck, so there wouldn’t be proper kitchen tools like a chef’s knife—at most, a pocketknife. Likewise, there wouldn’t be cutting boards, so he’d probably be slicing on a flat rock…

 

The five minutes passed quickly.

 

“Begin,” said Director Gu.

 

Chapter 23

 

Jing Ling recalled a girl he had once assisted—one of the most memorable people in his memory, and one of the few times in his career of traversing lives that he regretted getting involved in someone else’s story.

 

Song Zhenzhen, a rookie who had just graduated from the police academy, dreamed of serving the people like her father once did. However, her father had died in the line of duty when she was in her first year of middle school, killed by a vicious and cruel drug dealer. After finishing the college entrance exams, she applied to the police academy. Her mother was so against it that they nearly severed their mother-daughter relationship.

 

After graduation, Song Zhenzhen was accepted into the city’s criminal investigation unit and assigned under Jing Ling. She was a serious and responsible girl with great talent, and her future looked bright. However, as time passed, Jing Ling began to question the purpose of the mission issued by the system this time. The original intention was to assist the host in becoming an industry elite, but could the profession of a police officer really be so simply and crudely defined?

 

There was a widely circulated saying online: “The so-called peaceful times are merely because someone is bearing the weight for you and moving forward.” It was the perfect portrayal of the police profession. In other careers, if you do your best, the rewards are undoubtedly rich. But in this one, if you give your best, then by the time you receive flowers, applause, and blessings, you may already be forever resting in a cemetery.

 

Jing Ling’s premonition came true two years later. Song Zhenzhen took on a child trafficking case. As she followed the clues, she unexpectedly uncovered a larger criminal network behind it—human trafficking, smuggling, drug dealing. All these evils intertwined into a dark underground web, and the truth hidden behind it could easily destroy one’s faith.

 

Concerned about Song Zhenzhen’s lack of experience and for her safety, Jing Ling removed her from the case. But he had underestimated the girl’s stubbornness and resolve. Since he wouldn’t let her be involved, she investigated privately.

 

Later…

 

—

 

Regarding the character Chen Huaimin, Director Gu already had someone in mind and was simply waiting for this round of auditions to confirm it. A few days ago, Mr. Shang from Hongguang personally called him to request an audition slot for a newly signed artist from the company. As a director of his status, he usually didn’t care about which company signed whom. After asking his assistant, he realized it was Jing Ling—the one who had originally been selected to play the movie star.

 

At the time, Director Gu was furious and almost blurted out, “So arrogant yet so incapable, always wanting more.”Though he ultimately held back because of Shang Mingcheng’s face and agreed to one audition slot, he had a poor impression of Jing Ling and directly placed him as the last audition of the day.

 

By the time Jing Ling’s turn came, seven others had already performed, and Director Gu had basically settled on someone for the role of Chen Huaimin. Watching Jing Ling’s audition was just a formality. Still, the process remained the same as always—fair and equal.

 

He was given a scene to perform and five minutes to prepare.

 

“Begin.”

 

The moment those words were spoken, the youth before them seemed to transform. With a strikingly handsome face that was hard to look away from, he now gave off a dangerous aura. The emotions in his eyes were chilling.

 

He crouched down, right hand slightly clenched as if holding something. His left hand lifted and opened slightly in the air as if pressing on something. Then his right hand moved—pushing forward and pulling back. It was a cutting motion. He repeated it again and again. At first, his expression was a bit twisted, and his hands visibly trembled. But gradually, his emotions calmed. The grimace faded, and if one looked closely, there was even a trace of a smile? His hands steadied, and the cutting became fluid—as if his skills had been honed—graceful even, especially when paired with that overly attractive face. It gave off an illusion of elegance.

 

Soon, he was done cutting. He placed the imaginary knife aside, picked up the “slices” he had just made, and began arranging them carefully. His expression at that moment was almost reverent, as if he were performing a solemn and sacred act.

 

—

 

“Director Gu, I’ve finished!” Jing Ling broke from the role immediately after placing the last imaginary item.

 

Hearing his voice, everyone finally snapped out of their daze.

 

Director Gu looked at him with a complicated expression. After a long pause, he asked, “Tell me your understanding of this scene.”

 

Jing Ling nodded. “The script suggests that Chen Huaimin is cooking… It’s his first time facing such a bloody scene, so at the start, he’s naturally a bit uncomfortable, even flustered. But cutting food isn’t all that hard—he quickly gets the hang of it… As a writer, he can be seen as an artist, and people like that tend to be extreme or obsessive in certain ways. The environment adds pressure, which inevitably affects his mind… Setting aside the bl00d, he treats the act of cutting as a form of art, striving to make every slice as uniform and thin as possible. Once he neatly arranges the slices, the artwork is complete.”

Director Gu and the others: “……”

 

“Ahem!” Director Gu awkwardly cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re auditioning for the role of Chen Huaimin?”

 

Jing Ling nodded. “Is there a problem?”

 

“Chen Huaimin is a reflection of certain people in real life—introverted, timid, frail, bullied by everyone, never daring to resist, trapped in his own world, afraid to take a single step out. He doesn’t know how to cook and has barely even entered a kitchen. But under pressure from his peers, he’s forced to pick up a small knife and clumsily slice the carcass of a dead animal. Seeing the bl00d flow from the wounds, he trembles in fear…”

 

The more Jing Ling listened, the more wrong it sounded. He interrupted before the director could finish, “Wait—wasn’t this character supposed to be a murderer???”

 

Director Gu: “…In the movie, aside from the movie star who dies at the beginning, you could say every character is a murderer.” He finally understood why Jing Ling had such a strange expression earlier—he had gotten the wrong role.

 

Jing Ling: “……”

 

Everyone present looked at each other in awkward silence.

 

After a long moment, Jing Ling broke it, “Sorry, Director Gu. I don’t think Chen Huaimin is the right role for me. But I still want to thank you all for the opportunity and for watching me perform…”

 

Before he could finish, Director Gu said, “You’re right—Chen Huaimin really doesn’t suit you.”

 

Jing Ling: “……”

 

Director Gu paused, then added, “But there’s another role I think you’re quite fitting for. Would you be interested in trying it?”

 

Well, that was an unexpected development—getting the right outcome through the wrong means.

 

“Absolutely!”

 

So the staff handed him a different script—the one Director Gu was actually interested in. Jing Ling performed well in this second audition. Director Gu was very satisfied, though he did point out a few areas for improvement.

 

Jing Ling took the feedback humbly.

 

In the end, Director Gu remarked, “You did really well. It’s just a shame your looks don’t quite fit the role. Otherwise, it would’ve been perfect.”

 

Jing Ling exclaimed angrily, “Director Gu! You can’t judge people by their looks like this!”

 

Everyone around looked at Jing Ling’s near-perfect face. While they didn’t say anything out loud, they were all sneering inside, wanting to get up and hit him. Top student from a prestigious university, huh? Is that what ‘judging by appearances’ means to you?!

 

—

 

Shen Ze raised his hand to check the time—ten more minutes to two o’clock. Jing Ling still hadn’t come out. He had kept track of the previous seven auditions, which all took around half an hour. Yet Jing Ling had been inside for nearly two hours.

 

He couldn’t help but worry. What if Jing Ling had been mistreated in there?

 

Someone like Jing Ling, blessed by the heavens, typically had an extremely strong sense of pride. Shen Ze had watched his performance in Song of Eternal Joy, and to be honest, it had a special spark. The fictional character Zhao Zizhen had come alive in his portrayal. But Jing Ling was still new to the industry. Talent was important, but learning and accumulation were equally essential. Plus, television and film were two completely different platforms. Director Gu was a top-tier director in the country, with much higher standards than the average.

 

The more he thought, the more worried he became. Shen Ze was seriously considering barging in.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the previously shut door open. A slender, upright youth appeared in the doorway, his handsome face expressionless.

 

“How did it go? You didn’t… get humiliated, did you?” Shen Ze quickly walked over and examined his expression carefully before lowering his voice as he remembered who was behind the door.

 

As they walked, Jing Ling said, “Director Gu said that role didn’t suit me.”

 

That result didn’t surprise Shen Ze. If Jing Ling had passed, that would’ve been shocking. He tried to console him. “It’s okay. This was your first audition, and you barely had any time to prepare. It’s totally normal not to pass. Next time, with proper prep, you’ll definitely make it!”

 

Jing Ling nodded. “Mm. But Director Gu said I fit another role in the movie and had me audition again. I passed. So now it’s your turn to do your job and go help me sign the contract with the production team.”

 

Shen Ze thought he misheard. His eyes widened in disbelief. “What did you just say? I didn’t catch that—can you repeat it?”

 

“I said I passed the audition for another role. And it has more screen time than the original one.”

 

Shen Ze froze for several seconds. Then he took a deep breath, stared at Jing Ling, and gritted his teeth, “Jing Ling, you bastard!”

 

Jing Ling’s carefully neutral expression broke into a wide smile. “Hahahaha! I wanted to give you a surprise! If you don’t appreciate it, fine—but to curse me? Is that really okay?!”

 

His smile was like snow melting in winter, spring breeze warming the earth, white flowers blooming in full glory—so beautiful it was impossible to look away.

 

Shen Ze stared for several seconds before snapping out of it. Without a word, he turned and walked away. Though he looked furious, if one looked closely, they’d see the tips of his ears tinged red.

 

Chapter 24

 

Shen Ze wasn’t the kind of person to be petty, and besides, Jing Ling had only played a harmless little joke. After leaving the audition site and on the way back, Shen Ze asked Jing Ling what exactly had happened during the audition.

 

“Don’t even get me started! Ah Ze, I was totally screwed over by you, do you know that?” Jing Ling said indignantly. “You didn’t see the expressions on the judges’ faces after my performance—they looked like they’d been constipated for days. Later, I found out I’d auditioned for the wrong role and played an ordinary person as if he were a psychotic killer… Ah Ze, what happened to the promised murderer role? Why did you send me to play a regular guy???”

 

Shen Ze looked at him blankly. “This was arranged through Director Shang and their side. Since technically everyone in that script could be considered a murderer, I asked them for a relatively easier one. I didn’t expect this kind of screw-up, and I apologize for that. But I have one question—didn’t you read the script beforehand?”

 

Jing Ling refused to answer. Would he admit that he had assumed from the beginning that the character was a killer and interpreted the role accordingly? Honest, dull, introverted… aren’t those all common traits of psychotic killers? They look harmless on the outside, but when pushed, they can do anything… In short, it was a case of preconceived notions.

 

After returning to the hotel, Jing Ling quickly packed his things and headed to the airport. Shen Ze had already booked him a flight for that afternoon since he had class on Monday morning and had also made plans to go out with Jing Qiu that night.

 

The flight from Jiangcheng to Qincheng landed at 6:30 in the evening. After leaving the airport, Jing Ling flagged down a taxi back to school, then spent about twenty minutes in his dorm before heading out just before 8. He walked through the bustling streets to the neighboring Normal University. Once at the bottom of the dorm building, he called Jing Qiu, and in less than five minutes, she came downstairs, accompanied by her dormmate.

 

“Xiao Ling, this is my roommate Yang Zhenzhen,” Jing Qiu introduced. 

 

“Zhenzhen, this is my younger brother.” She originally intended to say his name, but stopped herself—after all, Jing Ling was now a celebrity. The drama  Song of Eternal Joy he starred in was being watched by people around her, and she had even overheard strangers discussing it. If he were recognized, things could get troublesome.

 

Fortunately, Yang Zhenzhen wasn’t the type to overthink things. She gave Jing Ling a curious look and smiled. “Hello there, little handsome Jing!”

 

Jing Ling nodded. “Hello, Sister Zhenzhen.”

 

Yang Zhenzhen had just come out to see what the fuss was about. After taking a look, she told Jing Qiu, “Have fun!” and left. The siblings exited the school gate and turned right into the University Town’s food street. On the way, Jing Qiu told Jing Ling about some recent happenings and mentioned the TV series he had acted in.

 

“Xiao Ling, listen to this—my other three roommates all watched Song of Eternal Joy. The final episode aired yesterday, and Jiajia cried when she saw it. She told me she had to go to the neighboring university to catch a glimpse of you, to heal her broken heart!” Even though they both had the surname Jing, Jing Qiu looked nothing like Jing Ling, and since the surname wasn’t rare, no one would link her to him unless she said something.

 

Jing Ling couldn’t help but laugh. In the original novel, the story ended with a double death. In the show, it was changed to Zhao Zizhen’s suicide—the jade hairpin originally plunged into Li Yu’s chest was instead inserted into his own.

 

In fact, the screenwriter initially wanted to change it to a happy ending, but Jiang Sijin insisted on her vision. After several rounds of negotiation, she compromised only slightly—from two deaths to one. She believed that someone as proud as Zhao Zizhen, even if he loved Li Yu, would never want to share her with anyone. Emperors are never truly devoted for life, and Li Yu was no exception. Maybe she once wanted to spend her life with Zhao Zizhen, but after gaining ultimate power, she changed. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have kept him imprisoned for six whole years.

 

They hadn’t even made it a third of the way down the food street when Jing Qiu was already full, so from then on, she focused on the entertainment. Both sides of the street were filled with all kinds of stalls—selling food, clothes, jewelry, cosmetics, and more. The two of them walked until they came across a stall full of plush toys. A poster on the front advertised that if someone could write the numbers from 1 to 500 without a single mistake, they could take home the biggest teddy bear for free—white and 1.8 meters tall. Each attempt cost 10 yuan. No refunds on failure, but you’d get a small keychain.

 

There were many similar games around—throwing balls into baskets, knocking down cans, tossing rings to catch fish, and so on. Most of them were tricks, and people knew that, but since the cost wasn’t high, they played just for fun. Jing Ling glanced at the people carefully writing at the table and suddenly got interested.

 

“Jie, do you want that bear?” he asked Jing Qiu.

 

She looked at the giant bear and was a bit tempted. “I do, but it seems hard.”

 

Jing Ling smiled. “It’s only 500 numbers. Just wait, it’ll be yours soon!”

 

The stall owner happened to hear and chuckled, “Ambitious young man! Paper and pen are on the table—good luck!”

 

Jing Ling handed over 10 yuan, walked straight to the table, grabbed the paper and pen, and started writing quickly and confidently. The stall owner, watching his lightning-fast strokes, suspected he was faking it and walked over to check—only to be completely stunned, his expression frozen in disbelief until Jing Ling finished.

 

It was a game that really tested people. The others had made mistakes one after another and gave up on their own. The typical crowd-loving Chinese audience gathered around to watch Jing Ling fail—only to be just as shocked as the owner.

 

At first, everyone writes fast, but over time, they hesitate and make mistakes. That didn’t apply to Jing Ling—his speed was consistent, his writing was clean and legible, not a single messy number that needed deciphering.

 

Soon, he reached 500. He put down his pen and handed the paper to the stall owner. “You can check, boss. If everything’s good, I’ll take the bear.”

 

The owner was mentally crushed—he never expected anyone to actually finish it. But a business is a business, even if it hurts. Though he had watched Jing Ling write the whole time, he still carefully checked in case there was a mistake. Unfortunately for him, there wasn’t even one—no sloppy numbers, no errors, no room to argue. Not that he was planning to cheat.

 

The burly owner, 1.8 meters tall himself, looked pitifully like a little girl losing her favorite toy as he handed the bear over. Jing Ling, creeped out by the expression, took the bear and walked off with Jing Qiu.

 

Then, Jing Ling went on to challenge all the similar games along the street. He succeeded every time—no exaggeration. The face of every stall owner he visited turned sour. Fortunately, he only had two hands—though he won a ton, he only took one or two prizes from each game. Still, by the end, both of them were carrying armfuls of stuff.

 

They passed by a shopping mall, and when Jing Ling saw a claw machine outside, he was tempted again. Jing Qiu saw it and said, half-laughing, half-exasperated, “Xiao Ling, we really can’t carry any more!”

 

Jing Ling knew she was right and reluctantly gave up.

 

There were a lot of people on the street, and Jing Ling’s haul made him extremely noticeable. Jing Qiu, a bit self-conscious, felt awkward being stared at, but she was also unwilling to throw anything away.

 

Jing Ling had studied the map around University Town before. After a quick recollection, he led Jing Qiu into a quieter alley. Compared to the lively food street, this place was like another world—narrow, dark, and silent. The winding road stretched on, with only a few dimly lit houses scattered here and there. Most buildings were low and shrouded in gloom.

 

As they walked, Jing Ling explained, “Another twenty meters ahead and a turn, and we’ll be at the back gate of the Normal University. Jie, this is a special case today—I got carried away and grabbed so much stuff. That’s the only reason I’m bringing you through here. But don’t ever come this way alone again. Even with someone else—just don’t.”

 

“Okay,” Jing Qiu agreed. Honestly, she found the alley a bit creepy, but having Jing Ling by her side gave her a sense of safety.

 

They were close to the exit when Jing Ling was about to say something, and suddenly, a loud, crude shout echoed through the quiet alley:

 

“You f***ing b1tch, who told you to buy toys for that useless piece of trash?! I never should’ve let her stay! Now I have to feed and clothe her—should’ve just strangled her back then!”

 

With a loud bang, a door on the right side of the alley flew open, and something rolled out.

 

Startled, Jing Qiu almost dropped everything she was holding.

 

“It’s okay. Just a domestic fight,” Jing Ling reassured her, stepping in front protectively.

 

Thanks to his good night vision, he could clearly see that what had rolled out of the door was a woman—hair disheveled, with visible bruises at the corners of her eyes and mouth.

 

Chapter 25

 

“And you! Jinx, money-losing wretch! I feed you, clothe you—isn’t that enough?! Buying toys, buying toys—do you know how much that money could’ve gotten me? Enough for two packs of cigarettes! Just because others have something, you want it too. Your shallow eyes are just like that b1tch of a mother of yours!” The cursing continued.

 

From the corner by the low wall came the soft sobs of a small, wounded creature—pitiful whimpering that tugged at one’s heart.

 

“Cry, cry, cry—all you damn well know how to do is cry! It’s your fault I lose at cards every day! Bad luck! Stop crying!… I said stop crying, didn’t you hear me?! I’ll beat you to death!”

 

“Don’t hit my little one, don’t hit her!” The woman who had fallen to the floor suddenly scrambled up and rushed madly into the room.

 

On the other side of the wall, the sounds of the woman’s stifled groans and the terrified cries of the child mingled together.

 

“Sweetie, don’t be scared. Daddy’s just drunk… ahh!”

 

“Daddy, don’t hit Mommy! Please, don’t hit Mommy! Wuwuwu…”

 

Just now Jing Ling had told Jing Qiu it was just a quarrel, but that wasn’t true. This wasn’t a fight—it was one-sided verbal abuse at best. It didn’t qualify as a quarrel at all. And then, in just two or three minutes, it escalated into domestic violence.

 

He had hesitated about whether or not to intervene, but now that things had turned out like this, pretending he didn’t know anything and just walking away would be too much to stomach.

 

“Sis, call the police. Just say the address is the alley diagonally across from the back gate of the Normal University. Then wait for me by the door. If the police can’t find this place, go meet them at the alley entrance.” After instructing Jing Qiu, he ignored whatever was on the ground, tossed the items in his hand toward the wall, and ran toward that household ahead.

 

“Xiao Ling…” Jing Qiu only reacted after Jing Ling had already run a distance. Instinctively, she wanted to stop him, to tell him it was enough to call the police and wait—after all, that man was clearly a drunk. What if he did something irrational… But just as she opened her mouth, she saw Jing Ling, still a distance from the courtyard wall, take a running start, grab the top of the wall with both hands, step onto the rough surface, and then flip straight into the yard.

 

Jing Qiu: “!!!”

 

Meanwhile, Hu Kui was viciously kicking and punching his wife Zhu Xiufen, who was curled up in the corner. Earlier in the afternoon, some friends had invited him out for drinks. They downed two cases of beer, then went to the game room to play mahjong. In less than an hour, he’d lost all his money, and even racked up over two hundred in debt. The others refused to play with him anymore. Cursing as he left the game room and returned home, he saw Zhu Xiufen playing with their daughter Hu Qian, surrounded by several toys—and his rage erupted.

 

“Wuwuwu, Daddy, stop hitting! Mommy, Mommy!” The little girl cried out in anguish. But to him, her cries didn’t spark even a shred of pity—they only irritated him further. He had wanted a son from the start. 

Before the child was born, he’d even secretly taken Zhu Xiufen to get checked; they had said it would be a big, healthy boy. But in the end, out came a money-losing girl with frail health, always getting sick. They had spent so much treating her. His mother had always disliked this granddaughter, and seeing the situation now only made her angrier. In private, she even told him they shouldn’t keep the child—money wasted on the hospital could be used to buy so many things for a grandson in the future. But at the time, Zhu Xiufen had watched the girl too closely, and the matter fizzled out.

 

The dim lightbulb under the eaves cast a yellowish glow, which grew faint toward the corner of the wall. Zhu Xiufen held her daughter tightly in her arms, curled up in pain and pressed against the wall. The little girl, distressed for her mother, wriggled her small hands free and wrapped them around her mother’s waist.

 

“Cry cry cry—cry your damn mother! Ever since you were born, I’ve had nothing but bad luck. I lose at cards all the time!” Thinking of this made Hu Kui even angrier. He bent down, reaching to grab the girl. “Let’s see if I don’t beat you to death today!”

 

Just as his hand was about to reach the child, a dark figure suddenly descended from the sky and blocked his way. He thought it was the alcohol playing tricks on his eyes and instinctively rubbed them. But before he could recover, a heavy force slammed into his chest, and his body was suddenly airborne—floating before crashing hard to the ground. Something beneath him jabbed into his back, sending a searing pain through him.

 

“Aiyo!” Hu Kui cried out involuntarily.

 

Over the years, his drinking had bloated his previously overweight frame into something balloon-like. His belly now looked so inflated that if he were a woman, people might believe he was eight months pregnant.

 

The sudden pain and the cold of the floor jolted his nerves. Some of the drunkenness dissipated. Wailing, he twisted on the ground, then turned to look toward the corner.

 

In the dim light, a figure had appeared by the wall. The face couldn’t be seen, only a simple T-shirt and long pants—clothes you could see on any street. The person’s tall silhouette cast a long shadow on the rough wall.

 

To have someone suddenly appear in your home at night would scare most people half to death. But there’s a saying—alcohol gives courage. Instead of being frightened, Hu Kui’s temper flared. He flipped himself up from the ground, cursing, “Who the hell are you?! Who let you in, huh?! Get the fvck out!”

 

Jing Ling looked at the short, fat man staggering toward him and felt nothing but disgust. This kind of scum only dared to bully women and children—if he went up against another man, he’d get his ass handed to him eight times out of ten.

 

As the man drew near, Jing Ling frowned and raised his foot, kicking him squarely in the stomach. Hu Kui, who had just gotten up, fell again. With sharp vision, Jing Ling clearly saw the fat on the man’s body tremble from the impact.

 

“Disgusting trash,” he said coldly.

 

Right after he spoke, he heard a trembling child’s voice from behind: “Big Brother?”

 

Did she recognize him? Jing Ling turned his head slightly, a bit puzzled, and saw a little girl peeking out from under her mother’s armpit. Her tiny face had a pointed chin and strikingly large eyes—though the right side of her face was swollen badly.

 

“Big Brother, it really is you!” Her eyes lit up instantly, and she nudged the person holding her. “Mommy, Mommy, it’s Big Brother—the one who won lots of toys!”

 

The woman’s body remained stiff. At her daughter’s words, she slowly raised her head. Her eyes were hollow and numb. She looked at Jing Ling, but it was more like she was staring blankly ahead—her gaze unfocused. As her eyes lowered and her pupils suddenly contracted, she reflexively tightened her grip on the little girl, hugging her with one arm and pushing her head down with the other, forcing her back into her embrace.

 

Fear rooted in trauma doesn’t come out of nowhere—it’s formed when someone has been truly hurt before. Clearly, she had just seen the man lying on the ground.

 

“Mommy, it’s Big Brother! The Big Brother who was with that Big Sister earlier!” 

 

The little girl cried, struggling to wriggle free from her mother’s arms. Then suddenly, her expression changed to one of fear. “Big Brother!” she shouted, her voice trembling.

 

Jing Ling knew why. That trash lying on the ground had gotten up again—this time sneakily, silently.

He sidestepped, and the man lunged into empty air. His drunken coordination failed him, and he face-planted onto the floor. Another pained cry followed.

 

Footsteps sounded from the door—Jing Qiu had arrived. The door was open, and she cautiously peeked in. “Xiao Ling!”she called, stepping into the courtyard.

 

“Sis, over here,” Jing Ling replied.

 

Jing Qiu followed his voice and saw Jing Ling standing in the corner. She was just about to say something when a little girl’s voice called out: “Big Sister!”

 

The courtyard light was dim, and Jing Qiu’s vision wasn’t as sharp as Jing Ling’s, so she didn’t see clearly at first. Once closer, she recognized the girl. “Ah, it’s you!” she said, her surprise unhidden.

 

She didn’t know the little girl personally—she had just seen her on the street earlier. At the time, her own hands were full of prizes Jing Ling had won, and she accidentally dropped one. The little girl had picked it up for her. The way the child looked at those toys reminded her of her own childhood—she too had once looked at others’ toys with the same longing. Since she had so many, she’d casually given the girl two.

 

While on the phone outside earlier, she had heard the drunkard’s shouting. At first, she had just felt furious—but now she felt guilty too. Because of the toys she gave, the girl was misunderstood and both mother and daughter were beaten.

 

“Xiao Ling, I…”

 

“Don’t blame yourself. Kindness isn’t a fault. Even if you hadn’t given anything, that trash would’ve found another excuse to lash out.” From their exchange, Jing Ling more or less guessed what had happened earlier.

 

The woman clung to her daughter like a drowning person clinging to driftwood. She curled up in the corner, silent and unmoving.

 

Jing Qiu cautiously approached. Seeing the woman didn’t resist, she squatted beside her and gently comforted the little girl.

 

Jing Ling stood nearby, his foot still planted firmly on the man’s back. No matter how much the man cursed or writhed, his bloated body couldn’t flip over.

 

The police arrived soon after—a man and a woman. Just before entering, one muttered, “I knew it’d be this place again.” Once inside, seeing Jing Qiu and Jing Ling didn’t surprise them either. They each began asking for details.

 

“You’re the one who called, right?” the female officer asked Jing Qiu, more as a statement than a question.

 

The male officer addressed Jing Ling, “Alright, young man, take your foot off him now.” Then turned to the man on the floor, “Hu Kui, drunk again, huh?”

 

Jing Ling had once been a police officer himself. Although not on the front lines, he still understood how these situations went. From their tone, he could tell this wasn’t the first time. The woman’s reaction earlier confirmed that too.

 

“Young man, stepping in to help is admirable,” said the officer, “but this family’s business… maybe don’t get involved anymore.” After following standard procedure, the two officers prepared to leave.

 

“You’re not taking this trash in with you?” Jing Ling stopped them.