Chapter 9

Lao Tian could imagine how heartbroken Qi Hao’s fans would be if it became known that he was doing commercial performances.

And how furious netizens would become.

Even Lao Tian, who had been Qi Hao’s close friend for years, found it hard to believe Qi Hao wasn’t doing this on purpose.

Killing someone is just a matter of chopping off their head—it’s over.

Why go to such lengths to torment your own agency?

The guy… he hasn’t done anything truly unforgivable.

This villain role is too crushing.

Ziwen has really drawn the worst luck by getting stuck with you.

But lately Qi Hao had been acting crazy all the time, and Lao Tian was numb to it—what could he do even if he didn’t want to go along?

He could only keep coddling Qi Hao.

But any commercial move must be communicated to Ziwen first.

Especially in these final months before the contract expires—any misstep could become ammunition for rivals.

“Wait, did I hear that right? Qi Hao’s going to do commercial performances?”

Ziwen’s Artist Management Director stared at Lao Tian, his head throbbing—he had no idea why any of this was happening.

The chairman had called the general manager in and chewed him out.

The general manager claimed he didn’t know, so he summoned the deputy general manager—who had previously gloated when Qi Hao endorsed spicy strips.

But now, facing his superiors, the deputy pretended he knew nothing.

This blame landed squarely on the Artist Management Director’s head.

Damn it, I still had two burdens on my back, and now another one’s flying straight at me.

“Yeah, sometime soon.”

Lao Tian had just come to give a heads-up.

Qi Hao has extremely high autonomy—his own team can handle commercial gigs on their own.

“Why?!” the director’s voice cracked.

There wasn’t a single line of polished technique—just raw, bloody, tearful accusations.

According to the original plan, besides giving Qi Hao junk endorsements, forcing him to tour the country for commercial gigs was also a strategy.

And he had to be scheduled for three gigs a day, overwhelming his body with impossible labor.

Marketing firms could also be used to leak his dirt, crushing his reputation.

Agencies and artists are nearly one entity—they all know some hidden dirt about their artists. Leaking it recklessly is a total annihilation strike.

In this industry, who doesn’t have some dirt?

If an artist survives the agency’s exploitation, they soar free; if not, they either submit to the agency’s control or vanish without a trace.

But!

The current online sentiment? The director dared not touch it.

Not only did he dare not act—he now feared Qi Hao might sabotage himself, because the blame would still land on him.

He simply couldn’t understand why Qi Hao was doing this.

“It’s not that complicated—he just wants to do it, and I can’t stop him,” Lao Tian muttered.

“Aren’t you his agent? Haven’t you been with him for over a decade? Why can’t you talk some sense into him?” The director vented his frustration—he felt deeply wronged.

Being misunderstood by the whole world wasn’t pleasant.

“If I could talk him out of it, I would’ve done it already,” Lao Tian said, equally wronged.

He understood the director’s pain.

If this commercial gig news broke, it’d trigger another massive public backlash.

Holy hell, Ziwen would get absolutely shredded by netizens and fans.

The one taking the blame? Probably this guy again.

“Isn’t there any way out?” The director stared at Lao Tian with watery eyes—he felt his job was already slipping away.

“I didn’t expect…” Lao Tian looked awkward.

Look at what they’ve done to this poor director.

Sure, this guy wasn’t particularly capable or likable, but he was still a human being—he deserved to live.

“Is he insane?!” the director shouted in anguish.

“Think of it this way—in three months, our contract ends and you’re finally free. But me?” Lao Tian pointed to his chest, pained: “I still have to keep going along with his madness—who understands my suffering?”

“Three months…” The director had never felt three months so long—but then a sudden insight struck him: “We don’t have to wait three months. If you don’t want to renew, we can terminate the contract right now.”

Holy shit, I’m brilliant.

If we announce termination now, no matter if Qi Hao crashes into his rival, endorses spicy strips, or does commercial gigs—it’s all off Ziwen’s record.

The more he thought about it, the more excited he got—he immediately grabbed Lao Tian to draft the termination.

“Hey, hey, no need—it’s only three months left, really no need…” Lao Tian hurried to stop him.

What the hell is going on?

But the director ignored him completely, ordering him to bring Qi Hao right over to sign.

Fuck, get out already!

By the time Qi Hao and Lao Tian stepped out of Ziwen Tower, Qi Hao still felt it wasn’t real.

Too sudden.

We finished the contract smoothly with the agency—but why do I feel zero sense of reality?

And the signing was absurdly fast.

The terms were entirely drafted by Qi Hao and Lao Tian.

It was just too smooth.

“Lao Tian, how did you convince them?” Qi Hao decided to give Lao Tian a bonus.

That morning he’d been worried Ziwen might turn hostile and abuse him.

Piling on endless work.

Even forcing him to drink with rich old ladies.

Worse—those twisted bigwigs with questionable tastes.

In ten years in the industry, Qi Hao had heard rumors that some bigshot was interested in him—he always avoided them.

This time… was he doomed?

And yet, out of nowhere, he was called in, signed a few lines, and got kicked out.

Because the company breached first—you can break up with me, but you can’t break up with me early. The company didn’t even argue over the payment for Immortal Sword 3 or demand a cut from commercial gigs.

“I didn’t convince them,” Lao Tian gazed at the sky.

No smog today—white clouds floated above, cold but otherwise fine.

When will this hell end?

“Sigh… after five years here, suddenly leaving… I’m kind of sad…”

Qi Hao felt a wave of emotion, then turned and realized with deeper sorrow—no one was there to see him off.

It was daytime—why were they even closing the front gates?

“I’ll go get the car. Stay right here, don’t move,” Lao Tian said, too tired to explain.

The two got in the car and headed home.

“I’ve lined up a singing commercial gig,” Lao Tian pulled himself together, driving as he spoke.

“Great, great—I knew you were the fattest, Lao Tian,” Qi Hao praised.

Sure, I’ve got a ridiculous system—but I’ve got reliable Lao Tian!

Balance it all out, and everything’s peaceful.

“Do you remember Gao Yang?” Lao Tian asked.

“Of course—he’s out?” Qi Hao nodded vigorously. When he first debuted, he was good-looking, so people always eyed him.

Once, at a bar with investors, a rich lady started groping him.

She wasn’t attractive, so Qi Hao naturally refused.

Well, he’d never accepted anyone attractive either.

Back then he had no status or polish—he made the investors lose face.

Luckily, it was Gao Yang’s scene.

Gao Yang saw the situation and immediately stepped in as mediator.

He had wide connections, black and white alike—investors even gave him face.

He even declared Qi Hao was his friend.

He said Qi Hao was young, and everyone should show him some leniency.

Though they hadn’t stayed close since, Gao Yang had done Qi Hao a real favor—so when Lao Tian mentioned his name, Qi Hao remembered.

“He never went to prison,” Lao Tian said flatly.

“I heard he got locked up, and no one’s seen or heard from him for years.”

Qi Hao was stunned.

He’d once considered finding out where Gao Yang was imprisoned and bringing him some gifts.

“He went into coal mining in 2002. Rumor has it the state’s about to reform the coal industry—private mines will be nationalized—so he decided to return to his old trade.”

Lao Tian gave a brief explanation.

“A bar or nightclub?” Qi Hao realized.

It wasn’t really his fault—Gao Yang had suddenly vanished from the capital’s circle, even selling off his several establishments, and rumors spread everywhere that he’d been arrested.

Who would have thought he went into coal to get rich?

Over these past few years, those in coal really made fortunes; many became billionaires.

“Something like that. I didn’t chat much with him—he recently opened a big venue in Sanlitun and plans to invite a few stars to perform; all you have to do is go up and sing a song.”

Usually, such venues invite singers.

Second- or third-tier singers are easy to hire; even top-tier ones aren’t impossible if the money’s right.

But Qi Hao, as one of the Four Great Leading Men and a Best Actor, generally wouldn’t bother with such events.

But then again, Qi Hao is sick.

He’s currently a patient.

“When?”

“Next weekend.”

“That won’t work—it’s too late. Ask him if this weekend is possible. Say I’m busy next weekend.”

Qi Hao’s missions have time limits.

The extra’s deadline is fifteen days; finding an extra with even one line of dialogue isn’t easy.

The spicy strip ad—whether endorsement or not—gave him fifteen days.

This stage performance is easier than the spicy strip ad, and only seven days are given.

“That’s Gao Yang—someone who used to command respect from both underworld and official circles—and you want him to change the date?”

Lao Tian felt a massive headache coming on.

“Then tell him I’ll sing two songs, but charge him just one yuan.”

Qi Hao was already reluctant to take money; after all, Gao Yang had once protected his chastity.

But if he took not a single cent, the system wouldn’t accept it.

“Fine,” Lao Tian grumbled.

In the past, Qi Hao would just lift his butt and Lao Tian could tell exactly what color his shit would be.

Now he couldn’t understand him at all.