As soon as Lu Zixiao finished speaking, the well-trained driver immediately hit the brakes.

At this moment, Cheng Youran had already inched herself into the corner, doing her best to lower her presence with an intense survival instinct, fearing that Lu Zixiao might use her as a punching bag.

She stole a glance at him and Lu Zixiao’s expression was cold as he dialed a number on his phone, not sparing her even a glance.

Well, her strategy seemed to be working.

But before she could feel relieved, the car came to an abrupt stop. Caught off guard, her body lurched forward sharply.

Just as her head was about to collide with the back of the front seat, Lu Zixiao, still holding the phone in one hand, reached out with the other and grabbed the collar of her shirt, yanking her back into place.

“Sit properly.”

His voice was low, almost gravelly, as he let go of her.

Cheng Youran: “……”

It wasn’t that she wasn’t sitting properly—it was the car that decided to stop so suddenly! But she dared not say a word. Not a single word. QWQ.

She took advantage of adjusting her seating position to sneak a glance at the document Lu Zixiao had opened. Just one look left her utterly stunned. Suddenly, she seemed to understand why Lu Zixiao was acting like a completely different person.

On the page was a bolded name—Li Zhichen—standing out starkly against the pristine white paper.

Lu Zixiao’s family history was both simple and complicated. His mother, Jiang Rong, had been the pampered daughter of the former richest man in the country.

Jiang Rong had fallen in love with Lu Zixiao’s father, Lu Zhengrong, at first sight. She brought an astonishingly vast fortune with her when she married into the Lu family, which at the time was already showing signs of decline.

In her youth, Jiang Rong had been both breathtakingly beautiful and fabulously wealthy, earning her the title of the country’s top socialite. Unfortunately, Lu Zhengrong never truly loved her. The person he had always cared for was his “white moonlight,” a frail and delicate woman who couldn’t even manage to care for herself.

Due to pressure from his family, he was forced to separate from his white moonlight. However, even after the separation, the lovers and mistresses he secretly pursued all bore some resemblance—more or less—to her.

—In the original novel, this was described as “a lifetime of devotion.”

The author of that novel clearly had some serious misconceptions about what “devotion” meant.

As for why Lu Zhengrong never rekindled his romance with the white moonlight, the reason was simple: the moment he married Jiang Rong, his white moonlight married into the Li family, becoming their eldest daughter-in-law.

When Cheng Youran first read this part of the novel, she already thought it was scandalous enough. But life (or fiction) has a way of proving that there’s always a bigger twist waiting in the wings!

When the white moonlight married into the Li family, she was already two months pregnant—a secret she kept from her husband. In other words, the male lead of the original novel, Li Zhichen, was Lu Zixiao’s half-brother, sharing the same father!

Before his death, Lu Zhengrong had left a will bequeathing all his assets to Li Zhichen.

—Including the dowry that belonged to Lu Zixiao’s mother.

Seriously, who could tolerate that?

Cheng Youran sneaked another glance at Lu Zixiao. Judging by his demeanor, he might already know about this, or maybe not—after all, Lu Zixiao was notoriously unpredictable.

“Yes, at the Central District,” he said into the phone.

The moment he hung up, his gaze locked onto Cheng Youran’s conflicted expression. Her face was a battlefield between gossip-fueled curiosity and her survival instincts.

Their eyes met squarely.

Cheng Youran quickly turned her head, pretending to admire the view outside the window.

A trace of curiosity flickered in the man’s deep, dark eyes. The usual indifference and faint laziness on his face were gone. He raised an eyebrow and asked. “Cheng Youran, are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

Cheng Youran replied with minimal words, almost stingily.

Her answer didn’t satisfy Lu Zixiao. Watching her struggle to feign composure, the suffocating anger that had been clouding his mind seemed to dissipate slightly. A mischievous thought suddenly arose.

He let out a low sigh, his tone relaxing. “You’re afraid I’m broke, aren’t you?”

“I really am out of money. Cheng Youran, what do you think we should do?”

Cheng Youran stiffened. Had things gotten this bad? Was it really that serious? Lu Zhengrong truly had no conscience—he not only swallowed Jiang Rong’s dowry but also didn’t leave Lu Zixiao a single cent. At least in the original novel, he’d begrudgingly tossed him a couple of million.

In the front seat, Fang Liuyun chuckled softly. You had to admit, some people were simply born with no relationship to the concept of being broke.

Rather than saying Lu Zixiao relied on the Lu Group’s wealth, it would be more accurate to say the Lu Group relied on Lu Zixiao.

Without the Lu Group, Lu Zixiao could rise again elsewhere. But without Lu Zixiao, would the Lu family depend on Lu Zhengrong, who spent his days lounging in women’s beds? The Lu Group would have collapsed a decade ago.

The reason the Lu Group could stand toe-to-toe with the Li family today—the South Lu and the North Li—and even vaguely overshadow them was seven parts due to Lu Zixiao’s efforts and three parts thanks to Jiang Rong’s dowry.

“Mr. Lu, we’ve arrived.”

Suddenly, someone knocked on the car door. Lu Zixiao responded with a faint “Mm,” opened the door, and stepped out toward a newly arrived Porsche. Gao Qiao unfastened his seatbelt and followed him out.

In an instant, only Cheng Youran, Fang Liuyun, and the driver were left in the car.

Noticing Cheng Youran’s distressed expression, Fang Liuyun couldn’t help but tease, “You didn’t actually take Mr. Lu’s words seriously, did you?”

Silence.

Fang Liuyun: ………… Oh dear, this poor girl. Mr. Lu was just messing with you.

Yes, that’s right—Cheng Youran had taken Lu Zixiao’s words at face value. Even after returning home, she still carried a look of heavy concern on her face.

At dinner, even though the kitchen had prepared her favorite dish, Sichuan boiled fish, Cheng Youran had no appetite. She nibbled a few bites before heading upstairs to her room.

The moment she entered, her gaze inevitably drifted to the computer. The game Super Cat Mario she had bought on Steam last time was still waiting for her to play.

But as soon as she thought of Lu Zixiao, reason kicked in: she needed to focus on earning money. Otherwise, Lu Zixiao might actually starve to death because he couldn’t tolerate cheap food.

She closed her eyes and vividly imagined Lu Zixiao lying weakly on a hospital bed, dressed in a fifteen-yuan tank top for seniors. Barely lifting his eyelids, he muttered. “I don’t eat anything that costs less than two hundred yuan per person.”

Cheng Youran shuddered at the thought.

Just then, her phone buzzed with a push notification from UC News:

“Rural Boy Turns Game Streamer, Earns Millions Monthly.”

Cheng Youran felt a very real… sense of temptation.

…

Hengdian Film City, Doomsday production set.

“Alright, everyone, take a break. Extras, come collect your boxed meals from me. We’ve got another scene tonight.”

As soon as the assistant director finished speaking, a collective sigh of relief swept through the set. The extras changed out of their costumes and quickly lined up to collect their boxed meals.

“Brother Junze, have some water. This scene must’ve been exhausting for you.”

The assistant director approached Yan Junze with a bottle of water, his eyes filled with a hint of admiration. It was already May, and the weather was turning hot. Just standing under the sun for a short while was enough to leave anyone drenched in sweat.

What’s more, this scene was set in winter, so the actors had to bundle up in thick cotton-padded coats. Some of the more pampered actresses openly voiced their complaints, yet Yan Junze—the biggest star on set—didn’t utter a single word of dissatisfaction.

The assistant director couldn’t help but marvel. Yan Junze’s enduring popularity over the years wasn’t without reason. This level of professionalism was something many younger actors simply couldn’t match.

“Thank you.”

Yan Junze took the water and, accompanied by his manager, climbed into the nanny van.

Once seated, he opened Super Cat Mario on his device and started playing.

—Predictably, he died on the first level.

“Still haven’t…”

—Cleared it, huh?

The manager glanced at Yan Junze’s furrowed brows and immediately knew he had died on the first level again. Yan Junze was exceptional in every way—looks, acting skills, and conversational charm were all top-tier.

For someone like him, a true gentleman, fans assumed his leisure activities would involve playing piano, horseback riding, or fencing. But in reality, Yan Junze was obsessed with casual mobile games. Even if he were into The Witcher or The Elder Scrolls, that would’ve been something.

Instead, he had a soft spot for games like Candy Crush Saga, Subway Surfers, and Idle Immortal. These games, far from sophisticated and utterly lacked prestige. To make matters worse, Yan Junze was a terrible gamer, hopelessly bad at even the simplest ones.

As a result, he had issued a strict gag order across the company: under no circumstances, absolutely none, was anyone allowed to disclose the emperor of film’s gaming preferences.

“Did you finish the level?”

The manager, considerate of his pride, rephrased the question into something gentler.

Yan Junze shook his head, his handsome face clouded with frustration.

The manager had expected as much.

After a moment of thought, he carefully suggested. “Junze, why not check out some gameplay videos from streamers on Bilibili? One of the interns at the company was watching one last time.”

—Stop playing it yourself. You just don’t have the skills.

However, Yan Junze clearly didn’t pick up on the subtext in his manager’s words. Resting his hand on his chin, his almond-shaped eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re right. If I watch how others play, I’ll figure it out myself.”

Manager: ………… That’s not what I meant.

With the manager’s help, Yan Junze downloaded the Bilibili app. Once opened, just as the manager had said, the platform had plenty of game streamers sharing walkthrough videos.

—This would undoubtedly help him clear Super Cat Mario.

This game was infamously rage-inducing, bordering on sadistic. Its levels were designed to catch players off guard, requiring split-second reactions and lightning-fast hand speed. Even after dying hundreds of times, Yan Junze hadn’t managed to get past the first level.

He clicked on the newest upload.

—“Super Cat Mario Speedrun: All 8 Levels” by a streamer named “Struggling Breadwinner.”

To anyone unfamiliar with the game, the title might seem unimpressive. But for those who’d played it, they knew how monumental it was to clear all eight levels in one go.

Curious, Yan Junze opened the video.

The streamer didn’t show their face. The video was accompanied by the game’s signature BGM as the streamer’s fluid, precise movements avoided every obstacle, progressing effortlessly through the levels.

First level, second level…

By the final level, Yan Junze couldn’t help but hold his breath. Would the streamer really clear it? He felt a bit nervous, his beautiful almond-shaped eyes fixed intently on the screen, watching the little white Cat Mario jump and dodge as if he were the one playing.

The streamer didn’t disappoint—they cleared it!

All eight levels, completed!

“Thank you for watching my video.”

At the end of the video, the streamer finally spoke. To Yan Junze’s surprise, the voice was soft and sweet, carrying a youthful, slightly unpolished tone. It sounded like the streamer was young and likely new to streaming.

So young, yet already shouldering responsibilities?

Yan Junze stared at the screen, which froze on the triumphant words “Level Cleared.” Suddenly, he stood up, startling his manager, who was leisurely scrolling through Douyin.

The manager, alarmed by this uncharacteristic burst of energy, furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yan Junze shook his head, handing over his phone with a puzzled expression. “How do you send gifts on Bilibili?”

“How much do you want to send?”

The manager let out a sigh of relief, asking casually. After all, Yan Junze’s father was the CEO of Yongcheng Coal Industries—a classic “coal tycoon” with deep pockets.

Unlike his father, who could drop millions on actresses and streamers without a second thought, Yan Junze had always been grounded and low-key. The manager trusted him completely.

“Not much, just a million.”

Manager: ………… Junze, you’ve changed!!!

=^_^=