Chapter 4: Challenging My Moral Bottom Line

Qi Hao made a cameo in “Li Mi’s Guesswork” without taking any payment, not even transportation fees.

If you’ve chosen to do someone a favor, don’t drag it out.

Cao Baoping was deeply moved by this; he held onto Qi Hao, begged him not to leave, arranged a hotel room for him, and even treated him to a Yunnan mushroom banquet that night.

After dinner, they returned to the hotel.

After washing up, Qi Hao locked the door from inside and closed his eyes as the system required.

Before officially entering, there were still some options.

For instance, choosing a script—any film he had watched could serve as training material.

He could also select specific film clips.

Qi Hao casually picked “Suzhou River.”

It was a film with a very distinct style, one of Lou Ye’s masterpieces, somewhat reminiscent of Shunji Iwai but far more brutal.

Qi Hao had once auditioned for “Suzhou River”; back then, he would never have missed any chance, no matter how slim.

Of course, he was eliminated in the first round—the director thought he was too green.

He never expected he’d now be able to perform its iconic scenes in a dream.

“Hey, Haozi!”

As the scene switched, Qi Hao opened the door and Zhou Xun stepped in, drenched in rain.

He had assumed this training mode would be like a computer program, everything pre-set by the system, simply following the film’s shots.

But this younger Zhou Xun immediately called him by his real name.

“You’re Zhou Xun?”

Qi Hao felt his scalp go numb.

Did I eat too many mushrooms and start hallucinating?

If the setting weren’t so clearly wrong, he might have suspected Zhou Xun had secretly broken into his room to do something improper.

“I’m Zhou Xun—Mudan and Meimei were both me,” Zhou Xun said with a grin.

“That doesn’t make sense—are you a real person who came into my dream?”

Qi Hao immediately called out to the system; if Zhou Xun remembered this visit after waking tomorrow, he’d never be able to explain it.

“What are you afraid of? I’m just an NPC, here to help you train.”

Without waiting for the system to explain, Zhou Xun clarified it herself—clearly, though intelligent, she fully understood her NPC status.

“Then what’s your relationship to the real Zhou Xun?” Qi Hao once again suspected the system was broken.

Why not just set the training as a fixed program?

Why make it so “intelligent”?

“Relax—I’m fake, she’s real, and I have nothing to do with her,” Zhou Xun stepped closer, her rain-dampened hand resting on Qi Hao’s chest, smiling: “If you want to ask me about her secrets, I know nothing—but here, I obey you completely. Whatever you ask me to do, I’ll comply…”

“Shit!” Qi Hao stumbled backward violently and collapsed onto the sofa.

This is seriously testing my moral bottom line!

“The training lasts eight hours—after that, I’ll cease to exist. Even if you want to do something now, it won’t affect the training later. There’s a sofa right here… Don’t be afraid, just treat it like a spring dream… You’re not impotent, are you?”

Zhou-NPC-Mudan-Meimei-Xun’s voice dripped with seduction.

“Stop! From now on, train. I order you to act like a robot—only do what’s needed for my training.”

Qi Hao wiped his face.

He had no interest in Zhou Xun; even if he did, he’d pursue her openly.

Not…

He didn’t even understand what this was anymore.

Fortunately, Qi Hao’s words were like imperial edicts in the training space; the “Zhou Xun” instantly shed her flirtatious demeanor and slipped into the role of “Mudan.”

“Suzhou River” was Zhou Xun’s first leading role, earning her the Best Actress award at the 15th Paris International Film Festival.

It was also her first film where her acting fully blossomed.

Though her performance stood out most, Jia Hongsheng, her co-star, also delivered an excellent performance.

Qi Hao was training Jia Hongsheng’s part.

This was a style of acting he had rarely encountered.

He could understand and explore it himself during training, or compare himself directly with Jia Hongsheng.

The system had a highly humanized scoring system.

Even the “Zhou Xun” acting opposite him would offer pointers during their scenes.

Of course, Zhou Xun herself was a naturally gifted non-professional; she had little to offer in terms of actual advice.

Just being able to act alongside her had already benefited Qi Hao immensely…

After spending the night “tussling” with Zhou Xun, Qi Hao woke up the next day utterly drained.

The hotel offered a buffet breakfast; he and Lao Tian went to the dining room, ate something, and prepared to leave Kunming.

“Now I finally understand why everyone loves eating mushrooms—yesterday’s meal was amazing. I was even worried I’d end up on a slab,” Lao Tian said, piling food onto his tray.

He was an agent, not a star.

So he didn’t need to watch his diet—he ate heartily every day.

“If you get any fatter, don’t expect to find a girlfriend. You’re nearly forty—get a partner soon, or you’ll end up marrying someone with a pension.”

Qi Hao was cold and aloof in public, but privately loved to roast people.

“I’m only thirty-one—how am I nearly forty? Fuck…” Lao Tian was furious.

“Hey, Prince Zhou, here for breakfast too?” Qi Hao spotted Zhou Xun arriving with her assistant and instantly tensed up.

Thinking of the things “Zhou Xun” had said in the training space, he couldn’t even meet her eyes.

Some people are just born for this film business.

Whether pure or seductive, they handle both effortlessly.

“Yeah, gotta eat something—otherwise I won’t have the energy to shoot.”

Zhou Xun had no idea what Qi Hao was thinking.

The “Zhou Xun” in the training space had nothing to do with her at all.

“Keep going—this film will definitely win you another Best Actress award.”

Seeing no unusual behavior from Zhou Xun, Qi Hao finally breathed a sigh of relief.

He hadn’t acted recklessly last night—not only because of his own principles, but also because he feared the real Zhou Xun might sense something.

He’d even cut out the kissing scene from “Suzhou River.”

Removing the kiss from this banned film had seriously dulled its impact.

Imagine being able to choose different female stars as training NPCs.

And being able to do whatever you want in the training space.

This was absolutely a nerd’s dream device.

He was a decent guy; any less decent man who got access to this training space would be utterly addicted, wasting away…

Yeah, dying fast too.

After breakfast, Qi Hao left with his agent Lao Tian.

Upon hearing this news, Deng Zhao finally relaxed—he always felt that as long as Qi Hao stayed, he might one day replace him.

He even worried he might be tempted to kill Qi Hao.

When he married Sun Li in the future, he’d definitely not invite this guy.

Meanwhile, in the VIP airport lounge, Lao Tian kept complaining.

“Do you know what people online are saying? You turned down the male lead to do a cameo—they think you’re insane. Are you really feeling guilty because of Sun Li and letting Deng Zhao off easy?”

“What do I have with Sun Li? Don’t you know that better than anyone?”

Qi Hao could tolerate most people questioning him, but having his own agent join in was deeply hurtful.

“How am I supposed to know you? Your knack for attracting romance has worn me out handling your scandals—when will you ever settle down?”

“Just say your schedule was full—you were promoting ‘The Promise’ and had no time to join the cast.”

Qi Hao ignored Lao Tian’s complaints.

He paid Lao Tian such a high salary precisely so he could work like a beast.

“I get it—for insiders, it’s a favor to Cao Baoping’s side; for the public, you’re staying true to your roots—whether lead or minor role, you take every part seriously. Then get the crew to release a few photos of you shooting, saying you did your own stunt—jumping off a building without a double—and got your wig knocked off when Deng Zhao ran you over with his car…”

As an agent, Lao Tian’s professional ability was unquestionable.

Qi Hao’s rise to become one of the Four Great Young Actors and a Best Actor award winner wasn’t just due to his talent and effort—it also depended on Lao Tian’s years of protection and support.

“Do as you see fit—and… help me with one more thing.”

Qi Hao couldn’t even look at Lao Tian’s face—he could already imagine the expression Lao Tian would wear when he learned Qi Hao was going to endorse spicy strips.

It would be even more spectacular than eating a bag of them.

“Why so polite? I notice you’ve changed,” Lao Tian laughed, clapping Qi Hao on the back.

“Help me find a sponsorship deal for spicy strips.”

Qi Hao swallowed hard.

“You… what did you just say?”

Lao Tian suspected his hearing was broken.

Or maybe Qi Hao’s speech center had malfunctioned.

Either way, one of them had to be insane.

“I want to endorse spicy strips!” Qi Hao thought of Old Tian, the man he’d hired, and immediately felt justified again.

“Why?” Old Tian gasped.

“Why? Because I just want to endorse them—is that not enough?” Qi Hao couldn’t come up with a better reason.

“Are they paying you a lot?” Old Tian suddenly asked: “Could this be another trick from Ziwen?”

With the contract nearing expiration, Ziwen wanted to renew, but Qi Hao had no intention of extending it.

After all, Ziwen hadn’t brought Qi Hao any good projects these past few years.

Most of his projects were secured through his own talent, a decade of connections in the entertainment industry, and Old Tian’s skillful maneuvering.

Even to land the role in Ziwen’s own “The Legend of the Condor Heroes,” Qi Hao had to outcompete Huang Xiaoming and Nie Yuan.

In short, Ziwen had been feeding off Qi Hao’s blood these past few years.

A large portion of the money Qi Hao earned over the years ended up in Ziwen’s pockets.

Since Qi Hao refused to renew, Ziwen pulled a nasty move.

They sold Qi Hao to Tangren and signed him to a TV drama where he’d play second fiddle to Hu Ge.

Hu Ge had gained some fame through TV dramas like “Xian Jian 1,” “New Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio,” and “The Immortal’s Flying Immortal,” and even landed the lead in “The Legend of the Condor Heroes.”

But he still couldn’t compare to Qi Hao.

Now, Tangren was producing “Xian Jian 3,” with Hu Ge as the male lead and Qi Hao as the second male lead.

Qi Hao was clearly lowering his status to elevate Hu Ge.

Tangren didn’t want the situation to look too bad, so they claimed both Hu Ge and Qi Hao were co-leads.

This trick was probably copied from “The Forbidden Kingdom.”

That movie is currently in promotion, with Fang Long and Li Lianjie both listed as top-billed.

Moreover, Hu Ge earns 40,000 yuan per episode, while Qi Hao earns 120,000 yuan—three times Hu Ge’s pay.

It was simply too much.

Qi Hao, having secured over 100,000 yuan per episode, found himself less resistant to the role.

But this forced, humiliating arrangement still rankled Old Tian.

“It has nothing to do with Ziwen. I just genuinely like spicy strips—I want to endorse a cleaner brand. Old Tian, I know you’re capable; you’ll get this done.”

“You’d better like hot girls—you’re trying to fool ghosts if you claim you like spicy strips.”