Chapter 32: Cheng Hao

“What did you say? Peking Opera?”

Central Academy of Drama, faculty office.

Ma Shuyun, teacher of the 1997 Performance Department undergraduate class, paused mid-sip of her tea; the wrinkles around her eyes deepened further under her student Cheng Hao’s question: “Why out of nowhere are you asking about Peking Opera? Did you turn down ‘Li Wei as Official’ to pursue Peking Opera?”

“Uh… how should I put it, Teacher?”

Cheng Hao, deeply grateful for her teacher’s help securing film and television opportunities, smiled awkwardly: “I just feel my acting isn’t good enough yet to carry the female lead in ‘Li Wei as Official’—that’s the original cast of ‘Emperor Yongzheng.’”

“Ridiculous. Xu Zheng from Shanghai Theatre Academy, who played Zhu Bajie, got the lead role in ‘Li Wei as Official.’ Your acting is better than his.”

“It’s just a fictional historical drama. Why are you so insecure about yourself? That’s not like you, Cheng Hao.”

After covering her porcelain teacup, Ma Shuyun smoothed her slightly disheveled curls and turned her sharp gaze toward her most promising student.

It wasn’t bragging—Xu Zheng’s acting wasn’t that great. Her student’s performance as lead couldn’t possibly be overshadowed; if anything, she’d overshadow him.

She’d read the script of ‘Li Wei as Official’ and understood its positioning. This was the role she’d carefully selected as perfect for Cheng Hao, which was why she’d wanted to push her student to compete for the female lead.

But she’d refused it—and also turned down another urban crime drama, ‘Desire Intercept.’

This left Ma Shuyun deeply puzzled.

As a teacher of the 1997 Performance Department undergraduate class, she felt pressure.

The 1996 Performance Department had already produced several actors with undeniable talent and fame, while her own 1997 class had only Cheng Hao as a standout.

Naturally, she had competitive instincts.

And Cheng Hao was precisely the student who gave her the confidence to compete.

Beautiful face, elegant figure, flawless diction for her age.

Talent radiated, spirit overflowed.

Privately, Ma Shuyun always described her student this way to her colleagues at the Central Academy of Drama.

After recognizing Cheng Hao’s talent, Ma Shuyun had poured immense effort into her.

After a year of rigorous training, in 1998, Cheng Hao delivered an outstanding film debut in ‘That Mountain, That Man, That Dog,’ holding her own against her senior classmate Liu Ye.

After that, Ma Shuyun persuaded Cheng Hao to decline many offers, helping her refine her acting further until she deemed her ready—then selected ‘Li Wei as Official’ and ‘Desire Intercept’ as the next targets, recommending her for the female lead roles.

And then… nothing happened.

Cheng Hao turned them all down, saying she wanted to focus entirely on preparing for the People’s Art Theatre audition, hoping to join them after graduation.

When Ma Shuyun heard this, she felt both relieved and slightly regretful.

Relieved that her student hadn’t been blinded by the glittering world outside; regretful because she truly believed these two dramas were perfect for Cheng Hao.

But now, before she’d even had time to feel relieved, Cheng Hao returned, asking her to help find connections in Peking Opera—and specifically named the play ‘Flower Garden Mistake.’

That was intriguing.

As far as she knew, her student had no interest in Peking Opera; she didn’t even care much for Qiong Yao’s novels or dramas.

“Actually, I have a friend—he just wrote a new song inspired by Peking Opera. He wants to promote our traditional culture.”

“But he has no connections, and since he knows me, he asked if I had any relevant channels.”

Cheng Hao explained cautiously, like a child addressing a parent: “I thought, the Central Academy of Drama must have Peking Opera connections, so I promised him I’d help—and now I’m here asking you, Teacher. Hehe…”

The more she spoke, the smoother it sounded—even she almost believed it. Her expression relaxed, and she grinned mischievously.

“That guy from Peking University?”

With a narrowed gaze, Ma Shuyun, well-versed in such matters, rested her hand on the porcelain cup and spoke casually—

Cheng Hao’s smile froze visibly.

“Didn’t I tell you last year? Stay away from boys like him. You’ll only end up burning yourself like a moth to a flame.”

Seeing her student’s expression, Ma Shuyun sighed: “You’ve seen his performances. You must know his reputation.”

“Yes, he’s good-looking, talented. But precisely because of that, girls will always swarm around him.”

“You’re fundamentally a traditional, good girl, Cheng Hao. You don’t need to wait for a playboy to change and notice you.”

Playboys are charming, handsome—but only to outsiders.

“I’ve been there. Who hasn’t been young? But sometimes, if you stubbornly insist, the one who gets hurt will be you.”

“I know, Teacher.”

As her teacher spoke, Cheng Hao’s smile faded, replaced by determination: “But I still want to try. I want to see if I can wait for him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s truly wonderful.”

Whether it was the carefree, witty Zhou Yi who always made her laugh when they first met, or the Zhou Yi who, upon learning her father needed money for medicine, took her out to earn it together rather than simply giving her cash to spare her pride—

She remembered every detail.

Zhou Yi’s mind always came up with strange, wild ideas. She didn’t understand them all, but she believed she had another advantage—

Compared to the beautiful female stars in today’s entertainment industry, she had no strong ambition for fame, so she wouldn’t face any hidden rules.

Worst case, she’d quit acting and quietly perform in Peking Art Theatre plays, or later take the civil service exam to become a teacher back at the Central Academy of Drama.

She didn’t care about staying in or leaving the industry.

Besides, in looks and figure, she was confident she wouldn’t lose to any female star in the industry—she even thought she was prettier.

She could position herself as a harbor, a quiet place Zhou Yi would grow accustomed to returning to when tired, a harbor uniquely his, eventually turning it into a true home, a safe haven.

Purity—this was her natural advantage.

She understood Zhou Yi: for other women, his attitude was always “play around,” never marriage, never even official dating.

To defeat the seductive, manipulative women in the entertainment industry and win this battle, she only needed to leverage her own strength.

Fame was fine; lack of fame didn’t matter.

With all these female stars in the industry—no matter their status—constantly embroiled in scandals, how could they possibly be her rivals?

After leaving her teacher’s office, Cheng Hao looked up at the distant sunset, triumphant.

With connections in high places, things were easier. Zhou Yi’s problem? She solved it by asking her teacher.

……………………………………………………

“Achoo!”

On Baodao, on the balcony of the Warner rental apartment.

Sun Yanzi, mid-bite on a skewer, wrinkled her nose, then swiftly covered her mouth and turned her head to sneeze.

Zhou Yi, chewing loudly on lamb skewers, chuckled: “Someone’s talking behind your back. Name a few candidates—I’ll have a laugh.”

The low-profile Zhang Shaohan, fearing being caught in the crossfire, instinctively shifted his small stool away from Zhou Yi, sliding closer to Sun Yanzi.

“Beef skewers are ready, squid’s almost done. Zhou Yi, come lend a hand.”

“Jielun’s skills are great—this grilling is way better than mine.”

Zhou Yi, who’d been banished from the grill after burning a few skewers, watched Zhou Jielun bring out fresh, sizzling skewers and gave him a thumbs-up.

Zhou Jielun, still wearing gloves, smiled shyly: “Try them first—I haven’t grilled squid in a long time, afraid I’ve lost the timing.”

“You’re right—homemade really does taste better than restaurant food.” Zhou Yi picked up a skewer, bit into it, savoring the rich flavor.

“Enjoy this quiet time now—once you debut, you won’t have time to barbecue at home anymore.” Watching the two Zous, who’d become inseparable in just one day, Sun Yanzi could only sigh: Zhou Yi really had social skills.

Zhou Jielun was just a minor songwriter. After Zhou Yi’s album dropped, his fame was obvious. This fledgling friendship between them would likely be severed soon.

After all, even the best friendships fade with time and distance.

“The ‘I Love You’ MV shoot is done—three takes, barbecue celebration complete—cheers!”

With Zhou Yi’s excited voice, Sun Yanzi, who’d played guitar with unrestrained joy all day, reluctantly swapped her drink for a Sprite, raising her bottle in toast: “Cheers.”