Chapter 70

“You mean you’ve been busy with your thesis lately?”

“Yes, so don’t ask me for my opinion on those rumors. Fellow reporters, I’m sure you’ve all been to university—you know how important a thesis is.”

At the end, Zhou Yi couldn’t resist teasing: “I hope none of you reporters want to see me fail to graduate? You’re not that heartless, are you?”

“...”

Although the news of Zhou Yi failing to graduate would clearly be more appealing to gossip reporters, since he’d spoken so plainly, the “kingmakers” with their long lenses and microphones could only smile awkwardly and watch him and his agent leave.

Though they knew Zhou Yi was playing word games and issuing a veiled warning, they had no grounds to retaliate.

In this era, preventing a highly famous Peking University graduating student from completing his degree would be major news—no one wanted to become the public’s scapegoat.

“For the next six months, mainland newspapers will probably tone down your scandal coverage. You’re really something, Yi.”

In the airport VIP lounge, agent Qian Jiang grinned and gave a thumbs-up: “I was even planning to pay off some loudmouth newspapers to shut them up.”

“No need to waste money on southern newspapers—they’re just parasites.”

Zhou Yi took a sip of mineral water and sneered: “Besides, you overestimate the southern papers’ moral bottom line. Wait—they’ll forget you’re busy with your thesis within a month.”

“Worse, because of what I just said, within three months they’ll latch onto this trend and fabricate fake news to distract you, drain your energy.”

“Because right now, in mainland China, I’m the hottest star—I’m the biggest entertainment news hotspot.”

“So by saying that, aren’t you just walking into a trap?”

Qian Jiang frowned; as an agent, his first instinct was to bribe his way out.

If Zhou Yi really got distracted and failed to graduate, things would get messy.

“Who says that? Isn’t this exactly my thesis material?”

“?”

Qian Jiang felt he couldn’t keep up with Zhou Yi’s train of thought. He slowly raised a questioning eyebrow: “What are you planning, Zhou Yi? Don’t do anything reckless.”

Zhou Yi turned his head toward him and smiled slightly: “Uncle Qian, how long do you think I’d need to promote my second album to maximize its buzz?”

“At least a month.”

“What if the southern newspapers, lured by the thesis buzz I’ve created, spontaneously churn out endless fake news to hype me up before my album drops?”

“...?”

Watching Qian Jiang freeze in place, Zhou Yi leaned back, crossed his legs, and swung the pear in his hand, confident: “Uncle Qian, you know I’m studying law.”

“As a law student, my thesis must relate to law.”

Damn, Qian Jiang muttered under his breath.

After decades in the entertainment industry across the three regions, he’d never seen anyone dare to weaponize hype against mainland newspapers.

And yet, there was no way to fault it.

Zhou Yi was a Peking University Law School student, embedded in entertainment—if such events happened, using himself as a case study in his thesis would be beyond reproach.

Thus, by anchoring his album release to the peak of this buzz, Zhou Yi could save himself countless promotional appearances.

The only concern was that this move might permanently alienate certain figures in the southern press—after all, a thesis could truly nail someone to the shame pillar.

Not necessarily eternal infamy, but as long as Zhou Yi lived, this incident would never fade.

And no one could interfere.

If they spread lies, Zhou Yi’s resistance based on that foundation had zero flaws.

So what if a young man is hot-headed?

It’s just that...

The more Qian Jiang thought about it, the more something felt off.

One moment he sees his own rumors selling out, and instead of paying to silence them, he’s already thinking how to exploit them?

Are law students really this cunning these days?

“The southern press is one of mainland China’s top media groups—they wouldn’t... really do that, would they? You’re mainland-born too.”

Though he found Zhou Yi’s idea bold, Qian Jiang still doubted whether the southern papers would take the bait.

“You’re wrong—it’s precisely because I’m mainland-born that they resent me more. They want buzz, heat, sales.”

“I’m a mainland kid from Jiangxi—a province with massive population and media presence. As long as my reputation doesn’t cross the red line, they don’t care.”

“After all, they can just shut down a few entertainment tabloids. As long as their main news outlets don’t smear me, their core audience won’t budge.”

Zhou Yi knew the southern press’s old habits far better than Qian Jiang did.

He’d been pondering his thesis topic when Fan Bingbing and Qiong Yao’s lawsuit first broke—it was originally his backup idea.

Since Fan Bingbing and Qiong Yao had already torn each other apart, and Zhou Yi had helped Fan Bingbing so significantly, using this contract case to enrich his thesis would surely please Fan—not object.

As for Qiong Yao, her opinion meant nothing to Zhou Yi—he never acted in her dramas anyway.

Besides, once the post-New Year restrictions hit, all Taiwan dramas would be off-limits to him.

Besides, everyone’s a hypocrite—and Qiong Yao’s hypocrisy dwarfs his. Sacrificing her for his thesis gave him zero guilt.

After all, he wasn’t spreading lies—he was simply writing his thesis with the fairness and objectivity of a legal professional.

Not knowing Zhou Yi’s true intentions, Qian Jiang paused, then spoke: “This plan might work, but it’s too uncertain—too dependent on the southern press cooperating.”

“I think you still need a backup thesis topic.”

“If you want authenticity and timeliness, the Fan Bingbing–Qiong Yao contract case is perfect—it fits your position in entertainment. If you can’t graduate with this, there’s something wrong.”

“Besides, since you helped Fan Bingbing, her circle has already cut all ties with you. Some media close to her are still slandering you behind your back—might as well use them as waste material.”

Zhou Yi glanced at him, then gave a thumbs-up.

Setting aside the era’s limitations, Qian Jiang’s mind moved fast.

“I’ll contact Fan Bingbing’s new agent and arrange a meeting for you two—see if it’s feasible.” Seeing Zhou Yi didn’t object, Qian Jiang immediately locked in the backup plan.

But this sparked Zhou Yi’s curiosity: “Fan Bingbing’s new agent? You know her? Who?”

“Chen Shufen—a famous Hong Kong agent who’s managed many big names and has strong ties to the mainland recently.”

Back in his element, Qian Jiang laid out everything about the Hong Kong industry’s famed “Madam Chen”: “Chen Shufen had been chasing Zhou Jie, trying to sign him—Fukang, who hadn’t signed with Qiong Yao’s company.”

“Zhou Jie landed the role of Bao Zheng in ‘Young Bao Qingtian’—Chen Shufen secretly helped. I heard the role was originally meant for Wu Qilong of Little Tiger Team, but after he refused, Chen pushed hard.”

“After Qiong Yao’s company suddenly settled out of court with Fan Bingbing, Chen, who’d already been negotiating with Zhou Jie, seized the chance and signed him as Jin Suo from ‘My Fair Princess.’”

“Huayi also wanted him, but Fan Bingbing refused quickly—it seems someone inside Huayi had been blocking her from taking mainland film and TV roles...”

Zhou Yi, unfamiliar with Hong Kong’s entertainment scene, didn’t recognize Chen Shufen’s name—but when Qian Jiang listed off the big names, Zhou Yi could only think: damn.

Hong Kong and Taiwan stars: Zhang Xueyou, Zhang Guorong, Zhou Jiajian, Mei Yanfang; mainland stars: Mao Ami, Na Ying, Cai Guoqing. Though she managed few artists, each was a giant.

She’d even handled Teresa Teng’s concerts and Michael Jackson’s Hong Kong performances.

Her connections were truly impressive—no wonder Fan Bingbing rejected Huayi so fast.

At the time, Hong Kong’s entertainment industry was still thriving. Though friction with the mainland was constant, Hong Kong still held dominance.

Hong Kong’s decline wouldn’t begin for years—if Zhou Yi remembered right, not until after 2006. When Edison Chen started “fixing computers,” Hong Kong’s next-gen stars were wiped out in one fell swoop, and the industry collapsed.

That’s why, when Zhou Yi arrived in Hong Kong, Fan Bingbing—radiant with joy—appeared at the airport, led by her agent Chen Shufen.

“Long time no see, Qian Jiang.”

After a warm embrace between the two familiar Hong Kong agents, the plump Chen Shufen adjusted her glasses—whether they had prescription or not—and smiled at Zhou Yi’s outstanding appearance, extending her hand: “Welcome to Hong Kong, Zhou Yi.”

“Bingbing knew you were coming—she specifically asked me to reserve a table at a restaurant to welcome you.”

“Thank you, Madam Chen.”

After the cordial greetings, Zhou Yi turned to Fan Bingbing and smiled: “Thanks.”

Fan Bingbing smiled and shook her head: “I should be thanking you. If you want to go out and sightsee during your award trip, just call me anytime.”

Without Zhou Yi’s earlier help, she’d still be tangled in lawsuits with Qiong Yao’s company, forced to sign with Huayi.

“Having a future film queen take me shopping—I’d be dead if I asked. Evidently, Madam Chen would strangle me.” Zhou Yi’s compliment to both women impressed Chen Shufen, but after glancing at Qian Jiang, she sighed inwardly.

Shit.

That bastard Qian Jiang had been resting so long—how did he, after being dragged out by Zhou Jianhui, stumble upon Zhou Yi?