`Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Inside the Bentley, Shiyin leaned against the luxurious leather seat and spoke softly: “Master Cheng… didn’t we agree to be low-key and switch to another car?”

Master Cheng cast a sincere look through the rearview mirror: “I did switch! Miss Shiyin, you’re right, we should rotate the cars. Otherwise, having more than a dozen cars sitting in the garage all the time would damage them. I reported it to the captain, and he agreed too.”

A dozen cars in the garage… rotate them…

Haha, that’s insane.

“What about Yue A88688?” Shiyin asked, unwilling to give up. “I think that one is just fine.”

The pure black MPV looked calm and modest on the outside, practical and reliable—a real hardworking car.

Master Cheng shook his head: “That car is only for Brother Li to drive.”

Shiyin disappointedly said, “Oh.”

Makes sense. Yue A88688 was clearly customized for Li Xuan and couldn’t just be sent out for odd jobs. Although she had only seen it once, the impression Li Xuan left… how to describe it? Probably something like, “It’s fine to live, fine to die.” His eyes showed no worldly desire, indifferent to everything.

But Shiyin couldn’t understand—if Li Xuan preferred low-key personal cars, why buy so many flashy ones? Collecting them like figurines? Who would’ve guessed that Brother Dan had such a hobby—buying cars just to park them! The joys of the rich are truly beyond understanding.

“Master Cheng,” Shiyin leaned closer and lowered her voice, “what happened to Li Xuan’s legs?”

Master Cheng’s hand trembled, the steering wheel shook slightly: “Ah, Miss Shiyin! Don’t ask me, don’t ask me! I don’t know!”

“…” Shiyin quietly pulled back, fastened her seatbelt, “Alright, alright, I won’t ask.”

After running with Prince for two hours, Shiyin had nowhere else to go and decided to arrive early at Sky Mountain Café.

Bored while waiting, she habitually summoned the system, patrolling her domain like a queen. The task list was quiet, except the gossip blind box icon stood out. Shiyin clicked it and did a ten-draw.

Hmm, nothing happened, all ten were blanks.

The newbie guarantee had indeed disappeared.

Slightly disappointed, Shiyin tapped each blank ball and suddenly noticed a purple light cluster in the corner.

Huh?

Curious, she clicked it.

【Zhuang Wanyan’s Gossip (Purple) x1】

Ah, it was the reward for completing side quest A “Turn Hand into Clouds.”

At that time, she had been focused on practicing her newly acquired sanda skills and forcing calmness in front of Luo Wensheng, completely forgetting about this… Really, this little assistant should’ve reminded her with a red dot.

Shiyin naturally blamed the system, knowing it couldn’t talk.

Little Assistant: …

【Beneath all the glamour, rot lies at the root】

【Zhuang Wanyan had long forgotten her original self. In the whirlpool of fame and fortune, she gradually lost herself, twisted, letting hatred grow uncontrollably. She hated herself for not being famous—because without fame, she deserved to be belittled; because without fame, even her dignity could be trampled.

She hated her manager Aken for pushing her into the abyss; hated Yang Tianming for treating her like a commodity to be bought, even assistants and drivers became her spies; hated Xu Wei’s cold hands, murky eyes, cutting her edges and pride like trimming a bonsai.

If “not being famous” is the original sin, then she would become famous as quickly as possible, completely breaking free from the shackles these people put on her!】

【Zhuang Wanyan has joined Spark Entertainment】

Shiyin remained silent for a long time.

She turned her gaze to the window; in the morning light, her eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings.

Spark Entertainment was a company famous for marketing, with a boss who believed that “any kind of attention is still attention,” with unscrupulous hype methods. Whether Zhuang Wanyan’s choice of this path was fortunate or not, Shiyin couldn’t judge.

It only reminded her of herself—if she hadn’t been clear-headed and resolute, if she had been brainwashed by Yang Tianming over and over, she might have ended up as another “Zhuang Wanyan.”

The wind chime rang lightly as Wen Jinhé, dressed in a khaki work jumpsuit, pushed the door open and sat neatly in front of Shiyin.

She ordered a flat white, stirring it casually with a silver spoon.

Wen Jinhé had recently been irritable and picky. The few new recruits forced on her by Hengxing were mediocre, far below her standards—acting is a profession where diligence determines the floor and talent determines the ceiling. With ten years of experience, she could instantly see who couldn’t handle it.

When she received Shiyin’s message, she clearly remembered the girl’s two performances and unexpectedly felt a rare spark of expectation, deciding to see her again.

“Sister Wen, I still hope you can be my manager.” Shiyin pushed over her carefully prepared resume, expression calm and composed.

Wen Jinhé casually flipped through it, first noting her education: “Tancheng No.2 High School? That’s high school, right? This year, Central Academy of Drama, Beijing Film Academy, Shanghai Theatre Academy—you didn’t get into any of them?”

“I didn’t take the art entrance exams.”

“Although formal training isn’t an absolute advantage,” Wen Jinhé frowned, “but… dropping out of high school? That sounds terrible. Planning to be a ‘hopeless illiterate’?”

“I graduated,” Shiyin corrected, “my grades were okay. I could’ve gotten into a comprehensive university.”

“Okay? How okay?” Wen Jinhé, out of school for more than twenty years, had no sense of scores.

“About 38th or 39th in class?” Shiyin counted on her fingers, recalling her mock exam rank.

Wen Jinhé raised an eyebrow: “How many students are in your class total?”

“…45.”

Wen Jinhé sipped her coffee, speechless.

Shiyin hesitated to explain. She wanted to clarify that theirs was an advanced class, ranks didn’t mean much, and Tancheng No.2 High School had a 98% rate of students entering top universities; the remaining 2% even went abroad—she wasn’t that bad, she definitely could get into college.

But then she thought, the college entrance results would be announced in a couple of days; talking now wouldn’t help.

Fine, I’ll let the facts speak for themselves later—scare her!

Wen Jinhé now gave her the look for a struggling student—no, a “lost schoolgirl”: “You have a nice face and some talent for acting. If I didn’t see your resume, I’d think you’d had professional training. But this isn’t enough. What you have, the kids under me also have. Why should I spend extra energy on you?”

“Because I have something they don’t—absolute obedience, and a clear goal.”

Shiyin’s fingertips unconsciously traced the cup’s rim, leaving a faint mist mark.

“You are an excellent strategist. I will fully follow your overall plan for my development. In this, I’m different from Actor Guan,” Shiyin pitched herself while subtly taking a jab at Guan Xi. “I trust your professional judgment, especially your eye for scripts.”

“You can treat me as your sharpest knife: wherever you point, I strike. I can skip romance, forgo vacations, avoid variety shows, strictly control my diet, maintain my training, and study scripts daily. Any courses you assign, I won’t complain. Of course, my obedience doesn’t include banquet or industry-rule compromises; I hope monetary and sexual transactions are your last resort.”

Wen Jinhé sipped her coffee, voice cold: “To clarify, though I manage everything, running that kind of dirty business—only the lowest-class managers in this industry would do that.”

“So your goal?” Her sharp gaze locked on Shiyin.

“I want to be Best Actress,” Shiyin straightened her spine, eyes burning with a hidden fire. “Not just a celebrity, not traffic-driven, but a Grand Slam Best Actress. Within three years, I want my first substantial newcomer or supporting actress award. Within five years, I’ll aim for Best Actress at a mainstream film festival. Within ten years, I’ll be at the top of this industry, where everyone can only look up to me.”

—Shiyin never shied away from showing her ambition.

Unlike Yan Li’s reaction before, Wen Jinhé did not show a trace of ridicule at this almost “arrogant” declaration. Her narrow phoenix eyes scrutinized Shiyin without blinking, for what seemed like a dozen seconds, as if trying to pierce through her skin and discern how much was bluff and how much was true determination.

“Your ambition is considerable.” Wen Jinhé slowly put down her coffee cup; it clicked crisply against the saucer. “Guan Xi took ten full years to win his first Best Actor. This path is far harder than you think.”

“Don’t assume that talent and good works will automatically hand you trophies. Failure is the norm. You must get used to starting over with hope, again and again, watching opportunities slip through your fingers.”

“Many current Best Actors and Actresses maintained exposure with bad films. You may be the same, needing three, maybe four unsatisfactory works before earning a truly good script.”

She paused slightly, deliberately emphasizing harsh reality:

“Even—just as an example—I might fail. When I’ve given my all but still can’t win the honor you deserve, letting you miss the trophy, could you bear it?”

Wen Jinhé was confident in her ability but knew she couldn’t control all capital.

“That’s why I came to you.” Shiyin met her gaze. “Only you have successfully walked this path—from nothing to a hall full of high-profile guests, hand-delivering a Grand Slam Best Actress. Isn’t that more fulfilling than a double-Gold Best Actor?”

She smiled warmly at Wen Jinhé: “Sister Wen, you need a warrior. Sign me, make me famous, and we give each other a chance. You can go conquer the territories you once conquered, that should rightfully belong to you.”

“As for me, I know better than anyone how hard the road ahead is. But I have reason to reach the top, so I will never give up. Even if the path is full of thorns, and I must crawl to the end, I will give my all and reach the finish.”

Her gaze burned, and she repeated deliberately, word by word: “I must reach the finish.”

Wen Jinhé was silent for a moment and drank the coffee in one go: “You want to join Hengxing? I can sign you, but I can’t guarantee you’ll be the only one. I am Hengxing’s manager, after all; company tasks must be completed.”

“I don’t want to sign with Hengxing.” Shiyin answered decisively.

They say you learn from mistakes. She had just escaped a bitter past—she couldn’t afford to repeat it.

“Actually, I’d rather sign with you personally…” Shiyin smiled shyly. “But my lawyer said the legal risks are too high. She suggested a compromise: don’t you have an independent management company under your name? We could sign a separate film and TV contract. I’ll compromise on profit distribution. My lawyer will discuss the details with you.”

Shiyin slyly blinked, imitating Li Xuan’s calm and effortless tone: “You can treat it as a part-time role. I don’t want to be just one of many artists; I want to earn your special favor.”

Working for Hengxing and nurturing an artist who truly belongs to oneself were ultimately different. Wen Jinhé, though still part of Hengxing, who could say she hadn’t secretly harbored the thought of going independent?

“Sister Wen, I know right now I’m just a penniless individual, but if one day I become strong enough to establish my own studio—” Shiyin looked steadily into Wen Jinhé’s eyes, calm and resolute, “I want to ask you to be my one and only, exclusive manager.”

She stood fully bathed in sunlight streaming through the window, features clear and sharp, even the tips of her hair glinting with fine golden light—a brilliance uniquely youthful, untouched by worldly corrosion.

“I’m someone who goes all-in. I hope you’ll also go all-in on this project with me.”

Wen Jinhé rested her chin on one hand and slowly smiled.

She felt her blood silently boiling, her bones trembling slightly, every cell eager and ready, as if poised to charge.

A sense of unprecedented clarity struck her. All previous confusion, fussiness, and waiting seemed to find a definite answer at this moment:

—It’s her.

Wen Jinhé gracefully wiped her red lips with a tissue and pulled out a neatly bound document: “Actually, I brought a script with me today, but didn’t plan on showing it.”

She pushed the document toward Shiyin: “Now, consider it a meeting gift. I hope our cooperation will be pleasant.”

Shiyin took the script and examined it carefully. The pages still carried the warmth of the printer, the ink clear and crisp.

“Director Qu’s drama, 12-episode suspense web series, major IP, top production team. The male lead is Duan Wenting.” Wen Jinhé said concisely.

Shiyin quickly searched her mind: “Director Qu… is that Director Qu Ping?”

Qu Ping was one of the few female directors in the industry known for quality suspense dramas. Famous for rigorous quality control and precise storytelling, nicknamed the “detail maniac,” even a half cigarette in a supporting actor’s pocket would be used as a foreshadowing device.

“That’s right. The series has been filmed. It was scheduled to release this summer on Butterfly Video’s ‘Dark Night Theater,’ just awaiting review,” Wen Jinhé said.

Shiyin was puzzled: “Then this is…?”

The series was already filmed. What use was the script?

Wen Jinhé lightly snorted: “Something happened. An important actor was exposed for tax evasion, with a huge sum involved. Now they’re a risky talent. Both the platform and investors are panicking.”

Shiyin’s eyes brightened: “Do they need to recast and reshoot?”

Wen Jinhé shook her head, then nodded: “Qu Ping is my college classmate. She told me that the actor involved, Zheng Ruwei—the post-2000 rising actress—her team is frantically doing public relations, trying to save the series, even willing to accept massive cuts. But the production side, including Qu Ping herself, leans toward recasting and reshooting. That role is the heart of the series. If it’s deleted or replaced with AI, the story logic will completely collapse, and the series will be ruined.”

Shiyin’s heartbeat accelerated, but her face remained calm: “What role?”

“A high-IQ villain, the suspect of a shocking citywide dismemberment case.”

Wen Jinhé spoke faster, like a machine gun: “We need to do two things. First, I can bypass the chaos over there and get Qu Ping to give you an internal audition. Second, you must master this role within 48 hours and deliver a flawless performance to convince them: if they reshoot, it must be you.”

Wen Jinhé leaned forward, eyes blazing:

“Shiyin, this is a mess, but also your stepping stone. Everyone will be watching you, the ‘firefighter.’ As long as you perform well, buzz, reputation, traffic, and industry recognition will all explode toward you.”

“You need an absolutely stunning debut.”

“I want you to step on Zheng Ruwei, making her the stepping stone for your rise.”

“You must prove this role was born to belong to you.”

Shiyin did not respond.

She was completely immersed in the world of the script.

On the thin printed paper, the cover’s five bold, powerful characters shone brightly:

—Saint in the Fog.