Chapter 50: Su Huan

The hotel room wasn’t large—just a big bed and a bathroom, no different from a standard budget hotel.

Qin Yun, having drunk too much, felt drowsy the moment he lay down, and soon let out a soft snore.

Su Huan pushed him gently; seeing he was truly asleep, she sighed in exasperation.

“You’re such an adult, yet you sleep in your clothes? With Harbin’s weather, you’ll catch a cold tomorrow for sure.”

She muttered under her breath, hesitating.

But then she thought: I’m only doing this to keep him from catching a chill—why overthink it?

Convinced, she unbuttoned Qin Yun’s suit jacket, took it off, but left his undershirt untouched.

She hung the jacket on the hook by the door, removed his leather shoes, then tried to shift both of them onto the bed.

But her strength was too weak—she couldn’t budge a sleeping man.

“He doesn’t even look heavy, why’s he so hard to move?”

Su Huan gave up, exasperated. She pulled the blanket over and decided to just drape it on Qin Yun.

But the moment she tugged the blanket, her entire body froze.

Two arms suddenly wrapped around her waist, pulling her sideways with force.

Her mind went blank—until she found herself lying on the bed, held tightly in Qin Yun’s arms, and only then did she snap back to awareness.

She was about to scream, but clapped a hand over her mouth—Qin Yun’s eyes were closed, he murmured softly, and snored again.

This bastard’s still asleep?!

She’d thought he was deliberately taking advantage of her, and had already decided she wouldn’t let him off easy.

Su Huan struggled slightly; Qin Yun wasn’t using any real strength—his arms merely rested lightly on her waist. She easily slipped them free.

Finally free of the bed, her face burned red.

“Asshole, even asleep you’re taking advantage of me—I’m furious!”

She said she was furious, but Su Huan didn’t look angry—she looked more flustered than annoyed.

She pulled the blanket back over Qin Yun, didn’t dare stay another moment, and hurried back to her own room.

Yet the feeling of being held in that instant lingered in her heart, refusing to fade.

The next morning, Qin Yun woke up feeling reeking, rushed into the bathroom, and washed thoroughly.

Only then did he feel refreshed and go to find Su Huan.

When Su Huan opened the door, Qin Yun paused, staring at her strangely: “Why do you look like you didn’t sleep all night?”

*Bang!*

The door slammed shut. Su Huan glared at her reflection, seething inside.

She hadn’t slept a wink, yet he looked utterly energized. Next time, I should’ve just let him catch a cold.

Qin Yun rubbed his nose, wondering who had pissed off Su the Class Monitor—she looked ready to kill.

“I’m going for breakfast. Want me to bring you something, or will you go yourself later?”

Su Huan, hearing him, thought a moment: “Just bring me something.”

“Alright.”

Qin Yun went downstairs for breakfast. Su Huan quickly washed up, reapplied her makeup, and packed her things.

When Qin Yun saw her again, she looked exactly as she had the day before.

While Su Huan ate breakfast, Qin Yun asked: “What time’s your flight?”

Su Huan swallowed her tea egg: “Three in the afternoon. Still early.”

She looked up at Qin Yun: “What about you? When are you heading to Jilin?”

To reach Qin Yun’s destination from Harbin, you didn’t need a plane—just a long-distance bus.

“I can leave anytime.”

Qin Yun had already told Su Huan about his plan to survive in the wild. She was surprised by his choice, but said nothing.

Besides, he’d already decided—her opinion didn’t matter.

“Still streaming the whole time? Are you sure there’s signal in the Daxinganling?”

Su Huan was deeply skeptical.

Qin Yun didn’t care: “Li Rui said this streaming drone was tested in forests like Daxinganling—satellite signal’s flawless. Even if streaming fails, I can still record video.”

“Fine, then be careful,” Su Huan nodded. “I’ll contact DJI later.”

The sponsorship deal wasn’t even settled yet—right before the stream? That’s ridiculous.

Though they’d partnered with DJI and reached a preliminary video sponsorship agreement,

it didn’t mean every video or livestream would get DJI’s support.

Further business negotiations were necessary. Otherwise, if he signed a contract paying per stream, he could just livestream from home every day.

The current contract only gave DJI priority advertising rights.

“Thanks for your help.”

Watching Su Huan enjoy her meal, Qin Yun suddenly remembered: “By the way, did I fall asleep fast last night? Did you take off my clothes?”

Su Huan’s face flushed. She glared at him: “What? Want to thank me? You were dead to the world—couldn’t even budge you. You don’t look fat, so why are you so heavy?”

Qin Yun scratched his head, laughed it off: “Really? I’m only 160 pounds.”

At 1.85 meters tall, 160 pounds was perfectly proportioned—slim in clothes, muscular underneath.

Su Huan sighed: “Only 160? I’m only 90.”

“90?” Qin Yun glanced at her figure, skeptical. “You’re at least 100.”

*Whoosh…*

A fried bun flew past his nose and hit the TV.

Su Huan’s voice dripped with murder: “The last guy who said I weighed 100? His grave grass is already three zhang tall.”

Qin Yun turned pale and bolted: “My bad! Just a slip of the tongue! Give me a chance to rephrase!”

“Die!”

…

The plane grew smaller, then vanished from his sight.

Only when it was completely gone did Qin Yun pick up his suitcase, hail a ride-hailing car, and head straight for the bus station.

Around 8:30 p.m., he arrived in Jilin and checked into a budget hotel near the station.

The next day, he took another bus, jolting for three hours, and reached a small town near the southern foothills’ secondary forest zone by noon.

Then, Qin Yun paid a local man to drive him toward the forest in a rickety tricycle.

For this challenge, Qin Yun prepared four devices: one streaming drone, one backup drone, and two action cameras.

Sitting on the bumpy tricycle, Qin Yun opened his phone and created a livestream announcement.

[A spontaneous five-day journey into the primitive forest]

As soon as he posted it, fans noticed.

Comments across his videos exploded with chatter and promotion.

He’d set the livestream for 2 p.m.—still nearly two and a half hours away.

Just from posting the announcement, the number of viewer reservations skyrocketed.

By the time the tricycle stopped and Qin Yun stepped out, the livestream’s reservation count had surpassed three thousand.

This was insane—his previous livestream peak had been five thousand, and now the reservation count was nearly there.

Qin Yun felt exhilarated. Back in Hangzhou, Su Huan felt even more confident about her next negotiation with DJI.

Though Qin Yun’s follower count wasn’t high, his fans were extremely loyal—proving his audience were intensely goal-driven.

For DJI or any sponsor, this was the perfect target group.

“Kid, walk three kilometers straight ahead—that’s your destination.”

Qin Yun thanked him. Once the man turned around and left, Qin Yun prepared to enter.

But first, he checked all his gear again.

Most importantly, the main drone, then the three backup cameras.

All devices were fine—the issue was batteries.

Fortunately, DJI’s main streaming drone came with a solar charger.

Plus, the device could externally power other equipment.

Otherwise, it’d be a real problem.

The main drone’s battery would be heavily tested—it had only three batteries, needed to power his livestream and also provide reverse charging.

Qin Yun could only hope nothing broke during these five days.

As he neared the forest, he checked the time and turned on the livestream—only the main drone was active.

As soon as he went live, fans flooded in. Before he even spoke, the viewer count on the drone’s display soared past one thousand.

“Happy holiday, everyone. I’m Qin Yun, currently at the edge of the southern foothills’ secondary forest zone in Jilin. This livestream is my five-day survival challenge inside the Daxinganling’s primitive forest, exiting toward Inner Mongolia.”

“I won’t carry any weapons or gear—just livestreaming equipment. I want to see if I can make it. Let me be clear: I can’t guarantee I’ll survive. Who knows if I’ll run into bears or tigers?”

“Can’t be reckless, right?”

As he spoke, the viewer count hit two thousand.

“Holy shit, is the host that hardcore? Heading into Daxinganling’s primitive forest? Tigers everywhere, grizzlies everywhere!”

“You’re an idiot—tigers are solitary animals!”

“Insane. After watching his rock climbing livestream, I thought he’d be climbing again—never expected him to switch to wilderness survival.”

"Surviving in the wild is great—I love watching Bear Grylls and Derick’s shows."

"Fake as hell. Walking into a primeval forest with no gear? What else would you call that but stupid?"

"I don’t believe this is a primeval forest—maybe they just picked some random national park."

"I’m from Jilin. Everyone step back, let me check. Yep, these are definitely the vegetation characteristics of Daxinganling—I can guarantee it."

At this moment, Qin Yun stood at the forest’s edge, gazing out at an endless expanse.

He saw the comments, so he flew the drone upward, instantly broadcasting the boundless forest to his livestream.

The skeptics who had been doubting fell silent immediately.

But some still said:

"What kind of equipment does the streamer have? How can he livestream in a primeval forest? Doesn’t he worry about signal? When did our country install cell towers in primeval forests?"

"Yeah, forget primeval forests—even in my basement, I get no signal."

Qin Yun reoriented the drone toward himself and smiled as he replied: "You’ll have to ask DJI about that. This device is sponsored by DJI, specifically designed for livestreaming. It doesn’t connect to cell towers—it uses satellite signals. According to DJI’s official statement, as long as you’re within China’s borders, you’ll get signal."

"Holy shit, that’s insane. DJI really is amazing."

Qin Yun guided the drone forward as he walked, saying: "Daxinganling lies in northeastern China, stretching 1,200 kilometers with endless mountains, dense forests, and countless wild beasts—it’s extremely dangerous. Let me say this again: don’t copy me and come here alone. If you go missing, no one will hear you cry for help."

"Here we go again. Why on earth would we, just for the heck of it, come here to copy you? Isn’t it better to just lie on the couch at home and watch your stream?"

"Exactly. You didn’t need to say that."

Qin Yun chuckled softly and said: "Alright, I overstepped."

He glanced at his phone, then spoke seriously: "The time is now 3:12 p.m., October 5, 2026. I’m about to enter the forest and begin my official livestream. Due to battery constraints, I’ll livestream only during daylight hours, and possibly at night depending on circumstances."