Chapter 26: Chapter Twenty-Five: I Hate Favoritism

“What? You want me to play the female lead?”

Outside the female dormitory of the Central Drama Academy, Cheng Hao clenched her Nokia phone in her palm, her bright, lively eyes instantly filled with surprise.

“Of course—among all the people I know, you’re the only female star. Who else would I ask?”

From the phone, Zhou Yi’s unmistakable voice came through the speaker: “How’s that? Am I not being a good friend? I thought of you first the moment I had a paying opportunity.”

“Recording a music video won’t interfere with your preparation for the Beijing People’s Art Theatre, and you’ll earn extra cash.”

“Of course, the pay won’t compare to your roles in ‘Li Wei as an Official’ and ‘Desire Strike’—but still.”

At the moment, Cheng Hao wasn’t a star of any standing—she’d only made a cameo in the film ‘That Mountain, That Man, That Dog.’ Even if her performance was full of spirit, the producers couldn’t afford to spend much on her salary.

If they paid so little for TV dramas, how much more so for a music video? Even if Zhou Yi wanted to give her a high fee, Warner wouldn’t approve it.

After all, the highest-paid Hong Kong actor in mainland TV dramas right now was Zhang Jianhui at 150,000 yuan per episode—a rate he’d earned only after years of hard work and a string of critically acclaimed dramas, plus his Hong Kong star status.

Mainland actors like Chen Daoming earned roughly the same, while female actors generally earned less than their male counterparts.

This was essentially the top salary in the TV drama industry at the dawn of the millennium.

Cheng Hao was still a student—Warner paying her market rate was already generous.

“...Female star? You really think highly of me.”

Cheng Hao, fully aware of her own status, smiled faintly, bending down as she absentmindedly plucked weeds from the grass beneath her feet: “Someone like Xiao Yanzi is a female star. By your standards, I’m just cannon fodder in the film and TV industry.”

“Just tell me—will you do it or not?”

“Of course I’ll do it! Why wouldn’t I? Free money? I’m not an idiot.” Worried Zhou Yi might change his mind, Cheng Hao stopped pulling weeds and answered quickly.

“Alright, I’ll come back around finals. After the exams, I’ll come find you. Oh, by the way—ask your teacher if she knows anyone in Peking Opera.”

“Peking Opera?”

“Yes. The new song for your female lead was inspired by the Peking Opera ‘Hua Tian Cuo,’ so the music video wants to showcase the charm of Peking Opera. We’ll need professional performers and venues.”

Zhou Yi affirmed: “So that’s why I need you, big star. Money’s no issue—Warner’s got deep pockets. Don’t worry about saving them any.”

Under the streetlamp, Cheng Hao nodded: “That’s fine—I’ll ask my teacher tomorrow. She’ll probably help.”

As an arts academy, the Central Drama Academy had strong connections in this area, especially since she was her teacher’s favorite protégée.

“But if it’s related to Peking Opera, I’ve never studied it. Maybe you should just find another female lead.” At the mention of national cultural heritage, Cheng Hao—who had almost no exposure to it—immediately felt a wave of hesitation.

Whether she got paid or not didn’t matter—what mattered was that if she ruined Zhou Yi’s music video, she’d never forgive herself.

“You don’t need to learn it. You’re so beautiful—you just stand there and you’re the most stunning sight.”

“So you’re saying I’m a dumb blonde?”

“How could I? You’re way prettier than a vase.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Cheng Hao, her legs numb from squatting, puffed out her cheeks slightly. Her shadow stretched long and quiet under the streetlamp along the empty path.

Before she could complain, she suddenly heard another woman’s voice beside Zhou Yi—

“Zhou Yi, I’m ready. Come quick.”

The voice was pleasant, but her Mandarin was noticeably awkward, as if she were a foreigner.

What the hell was she calling him to at this hour??

“OK, coming right away.”

Before Cheng Hao could speak, Zhou Yi on the other end cut her off: “My senior called me—I’ve gotta go. Talk later. Bye.”

“...”

Cheng Hao stared at the phone screen lighting up after the call ended. The top entry in the call log—“Big Radish”—stung her eyes.

Senior?

When did he start dating his senior?

It’s only been about a week, right?

Slowly rising from the ground, Cheng Hao’s face darkened. She spat inwardly, then limped awkwardly toward the dormitory building, her numb legs dragging.

Why does it feel like he’s even more at home in the entertainment industry now? Just arrived somewhere new and already so flirtatious...

Meanwhile, in Taiwan, Warner Building, rehearsal room.

Zhou Yi pushed open the door after hanging up. Sun Yanzi sat cross-legged on the bare floor, gray socks on her feet, stacks of thick books arranged beside her.

Seeing him enter, Sun Yanzi looked up from her book with a teasing smile: “So, your mainland girlfriend? Didn’t you say you didn’t have one last time?”

“Don’t smear me with dirt, thanks.”

Zhou Yi grumbled, bent down, and grabbed a book at random, flipping through a few pages: “Though her figure is definitely better than yours.”

“Go die, Zhou Yi.”

Sun Yanzi, fully exposed, laughed and hurled the book at him: “Show some respect to your teacher, please.”

Zhou Yi, seated on the floor, caught the book effortlessly and smirked: “Of course, Teacher Sun Yanzi.”

Sun Yanzi, unable to deny her own slightly less-than-airplane-worthy figure, glared at him mock-angrily.

Her leg proportions were fine—she had long legs, for heaven’s sake.

“Let’s start practicing. Fix your vocal technique quickly. After this period, we’ll consider formal training.”

At eight p.m., the Warner rehearsal room was brightly lit.

Sun Yanzi, acting as a temporary tutor, used every ounce of her knowledge to help Zhou Yi correct his ingrained singing habits, drawing from the books before her.

Far away in Beijing, Cheng Hao tossed and turned, unable to sleep, her mind replaying every piece of information she could find about Warner’s female singers.

Xiao Yaxuan, exhausted from a day of criticism, soaked in the bathtub, sipping wine to unwind.

Zhang Shaohan, full of hopeful anticipation for tomorrow, pulled the covers over her head and fell asleep peacefully—until a face with a sunny smile suddenly appeared in her dream, reaching out to pull her from hell straight into heaven.

The next day brought a brand-new beginning.

Wu Zongxian, Taiwan’s king of variety shows, kept his promise and delivered Zhou Yi an invitation.

An invitation to ‘Food Junction,’ Taiwan’s most popular variety show, ranked number one in ratings for five consecutive years, with bookings stretching into October.

A phenomenon-level variety show that had featured all three of Taiwan’s male superstars—except Zhang Xueyou.

Top-tier artists like the Asian whirlwind Lin Zhiying, the tragic ballad king Zhang Yu, the love song prince Zhang Xinzhe, and the last king of the millennium, Ren Xianqi, had all appeared on it.

Only current stars were allowed on the show—that was the rule.

Of course, Wu Zongxian had a condition: Warner must release at least one single for Zhou Yi before October 10.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a hit—just release one single, have a product, and you can walk right through his back door onto the show.

“Let me make one thing clear.”

In the recording studio, facing Sun Yanzi and Zhang Shaohan, who looked at him with envy, Zhou Yi kicked his leg and declared with righteous indignation: “I absolutely despise favoritism.”

Sun Yanzi: “...”

Zhang Shaohan: “...”