Chapter 41: The 2002 Freshmen of Beidian and

Yan Li returned to Beijing alone.

It wasn’t because he was too ashamed to keep Zhou Yiwei—he just left him behind because Zhou’s scenes weren’t finished.

As mentioned earlier, Zhou Yiwei’s role as a police officer had even more screen time than Yan Li’s, but most of it was background, with little presence.

So Yan Li wrapped up and came back to Beijing, but Zhou still had to keep shooting—he wouldn’t return until October.

With Zhou Yiwei gone, and Zhang Songwen and Lin Jiachuan also not back, the apartment was empty, quiet, and a little lonely.

But soon, Dong Xuan heard the news and dragged Guan Yue and another close friend, Yin Xu, over to welcome him back.

It was September now; Beidian had already started classes, and the three of them had moved out of their rental and returned to the dorms.

Dong Xuan and Guan Yue had auditioned for roles and done minor cameos, but they’d never stayed long on a set or played significant parts, so they were curious about set life.

Over dinner, the girls peppered Yan Li with questions about the filming of “Conquest.”

“Conquest” was a small crew; even the director, Gao Qunshu, and the lead actor, Sun Honglei, had little fame.

The only noteworthy name was Jiang Shan, who had been popular years ago.

Hearing that Yan Li had acted opposite Jiang Shan and gotten along well, Guan Yue and Yin Xu were envious.

“Teacher Jiang really likes Yan Li—she even adopted him as her younger brother.”

Dong Xuan proudly boasted—she and Yan Li talked and texted often, so she knew about his relationship with Jiang Shan, and she’d pestered Yan Li until he gave her Jiang Shan’s autographed photo.

Yan Li said nothing, just quietly ate.

When he’d asked for the autograph, he and Jiang Shan really were like brother and sister—but things later changed.

Fortunately, Dong Xuan didn’t know—if she had, she’d have torn up both Jiang Shan and the photo…

Besides asking about the “Conquest” set, the girls also talked about the newly enrolled 2002 cohort.

Compared to previous years, this year’s incoming class had a notably famous girl—rumored to be Wang Yuyan from Zhang Dahu’s “Demigods and Semi-Devils.”

Many Beidian students spent years after graduation just trying to land a lead role; most couldn’t even secure a steady job, struggling through hardship.

Yet this girl had already become the female lead in a Jin Yong drama before even enrolling—no wonder she became the talk of Beidian the moment school started.

“What’s the new student’s name?”

When Yan Li heard she was Wang Yuyan from “Demigods and Semi-Devils,” he became interested—this drama had appeared in his [Monthly Intelligence] as a future event, said to have huge influence; this girl might blow up.

“What are you planning to do?”

To Yan Li’s surprise, his simple question triggered strong reactions from Dong Xuan, Guan Yue, and the others—they all eyed him warily.

Yan Li was speechless: “You brought it up—I’m just curious.”

“Others asking is fine. You asking? Not okay.”

Guan Yue spoke sharply; Yin Xu added: “The 2001 junior already fell victim to someone’s hands. If you still have any conscience toward your alma mater, leave the 2002 cohort some purity.”

Yan Li laughed bitterly: “If you put it that way, I really want to meet this junior—I’m single, after all.”

The last words carried extra weight; the women suddenly remembered that Yan Li and Dong Xuan hadn’t officially reconciled yet.

Dong Xuan couldn’t sit still—Yan Li was like a well-groomed donkey: soft words worked, hard ones backfired.

When he was in a good mood, he’d humor anything—jealousy, tantrums, teasing—he’d grin and take it. But if he got stubborn, he’d do the opposite of what you wanted.

She quickly signaled her friends to ease up, then served Yan Li food and soothed the mood gently.

“Don’t talk nonsense—she’s not even eighteen yet, barely fifteen.”

“She took the college entrance exam at that age?”

Yan Li wasn’t truly angry—he knew he’d been an asshole before; their strong reactions were understandable.

He’d only been using reverse psychology—feigning interest to deflect their teasing before they piled on and attacked him as a heartless cad.

So the moment Dong Xuan spoke, he let the matter drop and steered the conversation back to the new student.

Dong Xuan clearly didn’t know much: “They say it’s a special admission—we’re not sure.”

Yan Li pondered: “What’s her name?”

“Liu Yifei.”

Yan Li thought back—he’d never heard the name, and she hadn’t appeared in his intelligence system, so he dismissed it.

Compared to this unknown freshman, Yan Li cared more about Dong Xuan’s situation.

“Did you contact that crew I told you about?”

Dong Xuan shook her head: “I still haven’t found it.”

Yan Li frowned: “That shouldn’t be possible.”

In September, he received a new [Monthly Intelligence]—perhaps because he’d been in frequent contact with Dong Xuan, a new film-related future intelligence triggered for her—

“Snow Goddess Dragon”

The intelligence indicated this might be Dong Xuan’s debut role, and she could become a rising star through it.

After learning this, Yan Li was happy for her and immediately urged her to submit her resume and audition, to avoid being scooped by someone else.

Future intelligence didn’t guarantee safety—if Yan Li could scoop others, his own interference might cause someone else to scoop Dong Xuan.

That’s called the [Butterfly Effect]—he’d looked it up online.

In truth, Yan Li still didn’t understand whether the system’s future intelligence pointed to an untouched future or a reality altered by the system’s influence.

So far, his own name had never appeared in any future intelligence—he wondered if his own future would ever show up.

But with limited intelligence data and his confusion over all these time theories, he eventually gave up.

Whatever—it was still a win if it involved the word “future.” The rest didn’t matter.

Yan Li was usually cautious, but sometimes he acted like a reckless, shameless rogue.

It was just unavoidable—he couldn’t control the system, so he had no choice but to accept it passively…

Back to “Snow Goddess Dragon”: after receiving the intelligence, Yan Li told Dong Xuan to submit her resume and audition—but after asking around, she couldn’t find the crew.

Logically, that was unlikely.

Information spread easily now—print media, mobile phones, the internet. Unless it was some amateur troupe, any real activity would generate whispers in the industry.

Hadn’t the project been greenlit?

Or were Dong Xuan and her friends just lacking connections?

Yan Li thought the first unlikely—the intelligence said “Snow Goddess Dragon” would air next year; it was already the second half of the year, so it couldn’t still be unapproved.

More likely, it was Dong Xuan’s limited network—she was just a student, with no contacts.

“I’ll ask around myself.”

Yan Li decided to take action—he had far more connections than Dong Xuan, not to mention his intelligence system as a killer advantage.

————

The next morning, Yan Li peeled off the soft, white arm draped over his neck, adjusted into a comfortable sleeping position, hugged Dong Xuan, and opened the system.

Hmm—the system was thoughtful; no need to ask around.

【Daily Intelligence 1: The TV drama “A Mother’s Long Journey” found its title too dull and is considering a rename—tentatively titled “Snow Goddess Dragon”…】

No wonder they couldn’t find it—the name had been changed later.

The new name was better; “A Mother’s Long Journey” sounded awful.

【Daily Intelligence 2: The producer of “A Mother’s Long Journey,” Li Peng, was deeply troubled—the originally cast female lead, Xiao Qiang, had withdrawn due to salary, duration, and shooting location issues… The crew was about to start; someone suggested Li Peng check Beidian or Zhongxi for suitable newcomers—they had good looks, acting skills, low pay, and could endure hardship…】

【……】

Yan Li scrolled through the intelligence, gradually forming a plan. He leaned down and kissed Dong Xuan awake; she mumbled and snuggled against him, cooing.

“I really can’t—I’m sore all over. Tonight? No, tomorrow, okay?”

Yan Li: “…”

To be fair, older women were tougher and more adventurous—easy to play with…

(End of Chapter)