Chapter 127: You’re Different from Her

It was impossible for her to misjudge something so obvious!

Before she could dwell on it further, Dong Ran was summoned by the company’s executives. At that moment, Zhao Chenyu and another man were already in the office.

Dong Ran recognized him.

His name was Zhang Chenrui, a manager from Shenghuang Entertainment. Among the artists he handled, the most prominent was Jing Yuan.

Who was Jing Yuan? He was the male lead of Fireworks Rose, the actor who portrayed the warlord commander.

Shenghuang and Tangming had long been fierce rivals, constantly vying for dominance. Yet now, a Shenghuang manager stood openly in Tangming’s office, right beside Zhao Chenyu—

Dong Ran’s breathing grew unsteady, her face turning pale as ash.

“Because of Sister Ran’s oversight, the brand terminated my contract. I’m now liable for a substantial penalty, and my reputation has suffered. That’s why I’ve decided to end my agreement with Tangming. I’m here today to sign the termination papers,” Zhao Chenyu said calmly, stating her purpose.

It felt as though a basin of ice water had been dumped over Dong Ran. Her body trembled faintly, and in that instant, everything clicked into place.

“Here’s the truth, Zhao Chenyu had already connected with Shenghuang through Zhang Chenrui back when she was filming Fireworks Rose. The necklace mix-up and the contract cancellation? That was all a performance they staged together! She swapped the necklace herself, pinning the blame entirely on Sister Ran. It gave her a perfectly justifiable reason to leave Tangming without damaging her reputation,” Ming Zhu said, her voice rising with anger.

Terminating a contract midway could severely tarnish an artist’s image. After all, the company invests effort and resources to promote you, only for you to abandon them at the peak of your fame—how would that look to others?

But with a convenient excuse to shift the blame, it ceased to be an issue.

“She saw her chance to rise and likely wanted a better contract,” Jiang Xiaobai remarked, understanding dawning in her tone.

Actors typically signed long-term contracts—ten or twenty years was common, with anything less than a decade being rare. The longer the term, the greater the benefit to the agency. Those one or two decades covered the most brilliant years of an actor’s career. This “buyout” arrangement was a low-cost investment, the more successful the actor, the greater the agency’s profits.

If an actor failed to gain traction and faded, the agency had ways to recover their losses—pushing them into commercial appearances or low-quality dramas to generate revenue. The worst-case scenario involved exploiting their looks for favors or investments, though such practices were widely considered unethical.

“You’re right. Sister Ran only learned later that Zhao Chenyu had privately approached the executives to renegotiate her contract. They rejected her,” Ming Zhu confirmed with a nod.

Jiang Xiaobai nearly let out a laugh.

“A second-tier actress daring to demand a new contract? She’s bolder than I thought.”

“It’s unclear whether she requested a new contract first or began colluding with Shenghuang earlier, but that hardly matters now. Either way, she stabbed Sister Ran in the back,” Ming Zhu said with a hint of lament. “After that incident, Sister Ran was demoted to a silver-tier manager. Her salary and bonuses were cut significantly. She took a few months off before returning to the company, and then she signed you.”

The diamond necklace hadn’t been lost—Dong Ran was merely deemed negligent, not a thief. Had it been otherwise, the consequences would have far exceeded a demotion and salary reduction.

Ming Zhu added, “Xiaobai, did you know? The reason Sister Ran chose you was your personality.”

Jiang Xiaobai let out a puzzled “Hm?”

“Zhao Chenyu was too calculating. She’d been in the industry for years and rarely made enemies, maintaining good relations with everyone—even Sister Ran misjudged her. If not for this sudden betrayal, Sister Ran might still have seen her as an ally,” Ming Zhu explained.

Jiang Xiaobai caught on. “So I’m different from Zhao Chenyu. I wear my feelings on my sleeve, and that makes Sister Ran feel I’m ‘safe’?”

Ming Zhu nodded. “Exactly. Sister Ran thinks you don’t put on a front. Your temper might flare, but it’s honest and oddly endearing. She feels at ease with you… though…”

Ming Zhu stopped herself mid-sentence.

What she left unsaid was that Sister Ran regretted it later…

Because Jiang Xiaobai was a bit too honest—like a stubborn mule, refusing to heed advice and always forging her own path. Worse, she was hard to elevate.

Sister Ran had offered her decent opportunities. With a touch more acting skill or tact, Jiang Xiaobai could have reached third-tier status by now. Instead, every role she took turned into a decorative flower vase—striking but hollow—and she invariably stirred up trouble with the crew.

Take the time a male actor, more famous than her, hinted at a late-night meeting—likely out of boredom on set. Most actresses, however annoyed, would keep up appearances, brushing it off lightly or declining gracefully to avoid friction.

But Jiang Xiaobai?

“I could end you with one glare—want to test that?”

And if that didn’t work, “Get lost!”

Dong Ran found this approach exasperating. Jiang Xiaobai’s refusal was justified, but couldn’t she handle it with a little more finesse?

Dear, could we try a softer touch? 

That explained Jiang Xiaobai’s poor reputation and the rumors shadowing her. Part of it stemmed from her actions, but a significant portion came from those male actors retaliating behind the scenes.

“Still, Xiaobai, you’re doing well now. Your temper’s calmed down a lot,” Ming Zhu said, shifting to a brighter note with a smile.

A calm temper…

She’d certainly picked the right person to praise.

If you had to name the profession requiring the steadiest disposition, it would undoubtedly be talisman masters! Anyone with an unsteady resolve or quick temper wouldn’t last a day drawing talismans—one glance at those intricate, maze-like arrays would drive them to frustration. Patience was a prerequisite.

That said, a calm temper didn’t mean no temper at all. Jiang Xiaobai never considered herself devoid of spirit.

“How has Zhao Chenyu been doing in the three years since leaving Tangming for Shenghuang?” Jiang Xiaobai asked, struck by a sudden thought.

The original Jiang Xiaobai definitely remembered Zhao Chenyu, though her impression lingered on Fireworks Rose. She’d heard the name mentioned since, but the specifics remained vague.

Some actors were like that—years in the industry, never pausing their work, yet if asked about their projects, you might recall only one. Beyond that, nothing came to mind.

Reaching a peak you couldn’t surpass wasn’t exactly a promising sign.

“To outsiders, she seems to be holding up well, with decent visibility,” Ming Zhu replied, perhaps with a slight grimace. “But those in the know see she’s on a downward trend. She’s taken on plenty of ads and drama roles—even two films—but not a single one as the female lead. Even second-lead roles are few and far between.”

Her words jogged Jiang Xiaobai’s memory. Indeed, she’d glimpsed Zhao Chenyu in dramas over the past two years, but no standout role came to mind.

Chapter 128: Too Well Protected

“When Zhao Chenyu first joined Shenghuang, they gave her the lead role in a movie—an urban romance film with Jing Yuan as her co-star. She didn’t perform well, and the script was overly melodramatic, so it flopped,” Ming Zhu said, a faint note of glee in her voice.

She still harbored resentment on Dong Ran’s behalf, so Zhao Chenyu’s stumble naturally lifted her spirits.

Jiang Xiaobai tried to recall that film but drew a blank.

It must have been a complete failure.

“Plenty of people at Tangming know Zhao Chenyu terminated her contract, but few understand the full story. If you ask around, they’ll say Sister Ran’s mistake led to her current position. Their words aren’t reliable,” Ming Zhu cautioned.

Dong Ran’s rapid success with Zhao Chenyu had sparked envy within the company. When she fell, those same colleagues turned her into a target of mockery. If Jiang Xiaobai inquired, she wouldn’t hear anything favorable.

“So that’s how it is…” Jiang Xiaobai murmured, lost in thought.

“Xiaobai, keep this to yourself. Don’t mention it to Sister Ran—she still gets upset thinking about Zhao Chenyu,” Ming Zhu whispered as a final warning before returning to her room.

Jiang Xiaobai lingered in place for a moment, then switched off the lights and went to bed.

Three years had passed—uncovering the truth to clear Dong Ran’s name seemed nearly impossible now. Still, if the chance arose to cross paths with Zhao Chenyu, Jiang Xiaobai resolved to observe her closely.

The next day, topics related to A Family in the Small Town  once again dominated the trending lists.

This time, however, the focus wasn’t on the show itself—it was on Jiang Xiaobai.

The episode showcased her full pursuit and takedown of “Old Bie San”—a sequence that was thrilling, intense, and inexplicably amusing. That alone made her stand out among the guests. Add her innovative shift to painting as a business venture, and viewers were astonished by her skill—particularly the final artwork she presented to the crew.

With the episode’s ratings surging—breaking the show’s all-time record—the production team posted on Weibo that morning. They thanked viewers for their support, tagged Jiang Xiaobai, and shared a high-resolution image of her painting, captioned, “Forever a family.”

The post quickly amassed likes. Netizens marveled at the vivid character details, a testament to Jiang Xiaobai’s meticulous attention.

Where praise arose, criticism followed.

Unsurprisingly, Cai Cai became the target.

Jiang Xiaobai’s diligence at the internet café highlighted Cai Cai’s shortcuts, making her appear idle and unlikable. Though her screen time was limited, it vividly captured her laziness and the Yang siblings’ clear frustration.

Online backlash against her intensified. Some fans, either too sensitive or too principled, abandoned the Raindow duo outright. Others, originally drawn to their music, shifted their support to Xiao Qi after seeing Cai Cai’s behavior, noticeably boosting Xiao Qi’s follower count.

“So this is what you meant by ‘no big deal’?”

In Shengyang Entertainment’s office, manager Anan had already vented his initial anger. By the time the Raindow duo arrived, he’d calmed enough to offer a smile.

But that smile sent a chill through Cai Cai.

“Sorry, Brother Anan… I didn’t expect the online reaction to explode like this. I didn’t even—”

“Didn’t even what?” Anan cut in, his frustration flaring again. “Don’t you have any sense of your actions? Can’t you tell whether you did well or botched it?”

Cai Cai’s eyes reddened with a sense of grievance.

“But I’m a celebrity! I was there to record a show, not to do real work! Staying at that shabby internet café was already a favor to them. Once the episode aired, their business would skyrocket. My presence there was free advertising—I didn’t even charge them! Why should they order me around? They cut my pay in the afternoon, and I didn’t complain!”

The more she spoke, the more distressed she became, tears spilling over.

The past two weeks of airing had been relentless. She’d faced constant criticism—too afraid to check her phone, yet unable to resist. Each glance brought fresh ridicule and fan defections. For someone accustomed to praise, it was unbearable.

“You’ve got some nerve!”

Despite their time working together, Cai Cai’s reasoning still left Anan stunned, as if his intelligence had been insulted.

“You knew you were filming a show! That means showing your best side! Look at the others—aren’t they celebrities too? Yet they worked without issue! Take Luo Quan—he hauled express boxes for two days straight. And you? You wouldn’t even hand over a bottle of water or a piece of bread!”

“Luo Quan isn’t as famous as me. Everyone in the music scene knows he’s running out of good opportunities—he’s practically fading. Of course, he’d work hard to stay relevant,” Cai Cai replied, stifling sobs. “But Lu Xiao Qian’s bigger than me—did he work hard? He slacked off and took advantage of the shop—I didn’t do that! So why are they attacking me instead of him?”

Exactly. Cai Cai felt her laziness was excusable because Lu Xiao Qian’s behavior was worse.

After three days together, everyone’s true nature emerged. Cai Cai knew Lu Xiao Qian’s work ethic barely outshone hers. At the fried chicken shop, he snacked on chicken strips and burgers during shifts and even took raw eggs home!

As the most prominent figure in the group, his actions convinced Cai Cai her conduct was minor by comparison.

So why were viewers targeting her and ignoring him?

Xiao Qi remained silent, fading into the background. This wasn’t her moment to speak—her presence was barely noticeable.

“It seems I’ve sheltered you too well these past two years,” Anan sighed, his gaze heavy with disappointment.

He was a skilled manager at Shengyang. When the Raindow duo signed on, Young Master Fang personally chose him to guide them.

Knowing Cai Cai’s connection to Young Master Fang, Anan had always taken extra care with her. The endorsements, performances, and events he secured for them were top-notch. They’d even done a reality show before, with decent results.

That show had been sports-oriented—climbing and leaping, wrapped up in a day. Guest interactions were minimal, with the focus on the games’ entertainment value. It revealed little.

In fact, their youthful, vibrant charm had earned them a wave of new fans at the time.

Chapter 129: An Indirect Boost

The Raindow duo had appeared on studio variety shows before—scripted programs where the schedule and host’s questions were provided in advance, allowing preparation.

With Anan’s guidance, they’d shone brightly.

When A Family in the Small Town contacted him about featuring the sisters, Anan had hesitated, concerned that Cai Cai might falter. But Xiao Qi’s steady presence reassured him, and the show’s substantial viewership offered a prime opportunity. After some deliberation, he agreed.

Now, however…

Alas, I miscalculated! 

“Brother Anan, I’m sorry! I know I messed up. I’ll listen to you from now on. But what should I do now? Should I explain myself online or apologize?” Cai Cai asked, her tone turning pleading.

She still didn’t fully grasp why Lu Xiao Qian escaped criticism while she bore the brunt, but no matter—offering an apology first seemed wise.

If she could coax Anan into resolving this mess, then—

No more wretched reality shows! Let someone else deal with them!

If she couldn’t confront it, she’d avoid it altogether.

“There’s no need to respond publicly. Act as if nothing’s happened,” Anan said, his plan already forming. “Jiang Xiaobai’s drawing more attention than you right now. With her in the spotlight, people will soon forget your misstep.”

Fortunately, a bigger name in the same episode could divert focus. All he needed was the PR team to manage the narrative and suppress Cai Cai’s criticism, and the issue would fade.

“Your new album will be released in less than a month. Focus on practicing your songs and keep a low profile for now. Perform well when the time comes,” Anan instructed the pair. “After the album drops, you’ll appear on Starlight Unlimited. Play it charming and clever—you might win back some goodwill.”

Cai Cai’s face brightened. “Got it! Thank you, Brother Anan—you’re the best!”

Starlight Unlimited was a long-standing variety show that invited trending celebrities each episode. Guests participated in light games, with a performance segment midway—typically singing or dancing.

Though less popular amid the flood of new, flashy formats, its history and ability to attract notable guests maintained a loyal audience.

A strong performance could indeed turn things around.

Anan’s lip twitched as he gave her a resigned glance, then turned to Xiao Qi. “Xiao Qi, you need to practice diligently, too. You’re singing the lead track—it has a wide high-note range. Don’t falter.”

“I will, Brother Anan,” Xiao Qi replied with a smile.

Anan left the office to set the PR efforts in motion.

His approach was shrewd. He had the team curb negative comments about Cai Cai while amplifying Jiang Xiaobai’s buzz, heightening her visibility. Sure enough, attention shifted away from Cai Cai.

He also subtly stirred discussion about Lu Xiao Qian, framing him as “innocent and lively,” full of “vibrant energy”—still the “Little Yuanbao” fans adored from his past role. He and Cai Cai were positioned as the episode’s “two cheerful spirits”—youthful, spirited, and refreshingly genuine.

Mere words wouldn’t suffice. He commissioned detailed posts with images, cataloging Cai Cai and Lu Xiao Qian’s blunders from the show. Cai Cai’s photos were carefully chosen for flattering angles, paired with a fond, teasing tone that prompted readers to smile and think, they’re just endearing kids! Sure, they’re a bit reckless, but their authenticity is rare in this industry—a breath of fresh air! 

The strategy worked effectively. While some fans still drifted away, it stabilized the remaining base, preventing a worse fallout.

Jiang Xiaobai noticed nothing unusual.

She’d been consumed with filming, too busy to catch any orchestrated trends.

Dong Ran, however, picked up on it.

Jiang Xiaobai’s popularity spiked abruptly. Lu Xiao Qian was suddenly paired with Cai Cai for playful jabs, and Cai Cai’s negative comments had nearly vanished. What did this indicate?

Why would Lu Xiao Qian and Cai Cai even be compared without someone steering the conversation? Their performances were hardly similar!

Lu Xiao Qian was genuinely energetic and eager to work, though a little clumsy. The fried chicken shop owner treated him like a son, too fond to burden him heavily—so he slacked openly, chatting and nibbling on snacks.

Cai Cai, on the other hand?

The internet café owner had nearly driven her out—perhaps had, though she’d missed the cue!

“Anan’s truly dedicated to his artists. This looks like a serious push,” Dong Ran mused, setting her phone down with mild surprise.

Executing this series of moves was no small feat—costly and intricate. It suggested Shengyang was committed to promoting the Raindow duo. Why else would they invest such resources in average talent?

Yet Dong Ran couldn’t fathom it. With Cai Cai’s emotional intelligence and wit, banking heavily on her was a gamble that might not pay off. What was Shengyang’s reasoning?

Did Cai Cai have a backer?

Her eyes flickered with the possibility before she dismissed it.

It wasn’t her concern. As long as it didn’t affect Xiaobai, their paths wouldn’t cross.

If anything, their maneuvering had indirectly given Xiaobai a boost.

“How much of Xiaobai’s scenes are left?” she asked, refocusing.

“Just the last one—it should be soon,” Zhu Zhu replied.

“Good. Start packing. We’ll head back to the hotel afterward.”

“Understood, Sister Ran.”

Online attention spans were fleeting—trending topics flared up and faded quickly. Jiang Xiaobai had gained many fans and increased discussion from A Family in the Small Town, lifting her from obscurity.

But truly famous? Not entirely.

A single news item or show brought only temporary buzz. Lasting prominence required sustained exposure, supported by solid work.

Jiang Xiaobai didn’t linger in the fleeting attention. She kept her focus on her craft.

Her remaining scenes were few, and with Director Niu pressing the pace, her final shoot arrived in just over a week.

Chapter 130: Picking Up the Lunchbox

Jiang Xiaobai’s final scene was a grand one.

By this point, Liu Ruyan had betrayed her sect, consumed demon blood, and turned to the demonic path, becoming a feared figure in the cultivation world.

She allied with the primary antagonist—Gui Jian, another fallen cultivator—with ambitions to conquer the cultivation realm. They had kidnapped numerous sect leaders, elders, and prodigies from righteous factions to force the male lead, Liu Feng, into submission.

Liu Feng wielded the cultivation world’s ultimate treasure, the Immortal-Slaying Sword. Forged from rare materials and infused with the soul of Chaotian Sect’s founding ancestor—the realm’s most formidable master—its power was unparalleled.

The sword was a natural counter to evil and demonic forces. Even Gui Jian, who had achieved an undying body, dared not face it directly, hindering his plans to seize control.

Thus, they used the hostages’ lives as leverage, demanding Liu Feng surrender the blade.

When Liu Feng and the female lead, Wanran, arrived after receiving word, Gui Jian had already slain over a dozen elders in a fury, leaving red pooling across the ground.

As he struck again to reinforce his threat, Liu Feng charged with the Immortal-Slaying Sword—only to be blocked by Liu Ruyan’s magical treasure, the Red Silk Veil.

Though she parried the blow, Liu Ruyan still suffered injury. The sword’s might was too great—she wasn’t immortal and couldn’t fully withstand it.

Gui Jian, seeing this, flew into a rage. With a sweeping gesture, he unleashed a full-force attack toward a group of hostages, intending their ends to serve as a warning to Liu Feng.

But then Liu Ruyan’s gaze caught a figure in the crowd, and she cried out in alarm—

“Senior Sister Fang!”

She hadn’t realized Fang Qing from Chaotian Sect was among the captives!

Fang Qing was the one who had brought Liu Ruyan from a remote village into the cultivation world. Abandoned by her parents in an uninhabited forest, Liu Ruyan had nearly been devoured by a demonic beast. Passing through on a sect mission, Fang Qing intervened and saved her.

Having been forsaken once, Liu Ruyan struggled to trust others. The only two people she’d ever relied on were Fang Qing and her junior sister Wanran. But after a falling-out with Wanran over a misunderstanding, Fang Qing remained her sole source of warmth.

Liu Ruyan hadn’t noticed Fang Qing among the crowd earlier. It was only when Gui Jian attacked and Fang Qing rose in panic that she spotted her.

Without hesitation, she lunged toward Fang Qing—directly into the path of Gui Jian’s devastating strike.

Clad in black, Liu Ruyan crashed heavily into the ground, her dark robes settling as a streak of crimson slowly spread.

Gui Jian let out an anguished cry of her name, pulling her into his arms, but he saw only her eyes closing gently.

“Cut! Perfect—excellent work!”

The clapperboard snapped shut, and the assistant gave Jiang Xiaobai a thumbs-up.

As the “villainous second female lead,” Liu Ruyan’s end was inevitable, yet her end carried a lingering note of regret.

Fang Qing was an utterly ordinary disciple within the sect—mediocre in talent and appearance. With no prospects for advancing her cultivation, she was frequently assigned minor tasks, which was how she’d encountered Liu Ruyan in the mortal realm years ago.

Most cultivators scorned mortals, rarely deigning to step beyond the cultivation world’s boundaries. Fang Qing’s role in the story was minimal, serving as little more than a background figure, easily overlooked.

But Liu Ruyan? She possessed exceptional gifts and striking beauty. From the moment she entered the sect, she distinguished herself, earning the admiration of male disciples and the title “Moonlit Immortal”—a true goddess of the cultivation realm.

Even after her fall to the demonic path, she remained an object of fascination for many, her descent a source of shock and sorrow.

Yet this radiant Moonlit Immortal gave her life to save someone as unremarkable as Fang Qing. She departed without a final line—just a few close-up shots, her end imbued with the mournful elegance of a flower wilting in silence.

Particularly striking was the moment before her eyes closed, when her gaze drifted across three figures: first Wanran, then Liu Feng, and finally resting on Gui Jian.

A glance that spanned a thousand years—then the light faded, and she slipped into eternal stillness.

Upon hearing “cut,” Jiang Xiaobai slowly opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of Qiao Yan, who portrayed Gui Jian.

Qiao Yan’s eyes were rimmed with red, and his body trembled, still immersed in the scene’s emotions. They held each other’s stare for a time before he regained composure and released her from his embrace.

The formidable Gui Jian appeared emotionless, but he had harbored a deep affection for Liu Ruyan all along. Aware of her complex feelings for Liu Feng—a blend of love and resentment—he never revealed his own emotions. Instead, he channeled his inner turmoil into challenging Liu Feng, pushing him to his limits on multiple occasions.

“Well, friend, I’ve ‘died.’ Your turn’s not far off—make the most of your remaining moments,” Jiang Xiaobai said with a shake of her head, her tone a blend of jest and reflection.

Gui Jian was a challenging role. Played poorly, he’d come across as expressionless. His icy restraint surpassed even Liu Ruyan’s, requiring an actor to convey subtle inner shifts precisely.

Qiao Yan fully embodied the part. As the story progressed, his demeanor grew increasingly somber, his words sparse. At times, his gaze was unsettling—rumor had it that some actresses avoided meeting his eyes off-set.

Gui Jian’s buried affection for Liu Ruyan erupted at her end. His cries, his trembling hands, his focus solely on her—forgetting Liu Feng entirely—left Qiao Yan reeling, the sorrow still evident in his eyes.

But Jiang Xiaobai’s remark broke the tension. He laughed, the gloom lifting.

“True—I’ll savor it. My end will be far worse than yours,” he replied, helping her to her feet.

Liu Ruyan’s end was swift, but Gui Jian’s demise under the Immortal-Slaying Sword would be protracted and agonizing—a fittingly grim fate.

As the chief villain, responsible for countless lives and deemed more heinous than Liu Ruyan, anything less wouldn’t satisfy the audience’s sense of justice.

With that, Jiang Xiaobai’s scenes were complete. The following sequence featured no close-ups of Liu Ruyan—only a fleeting glimpse of her black robes in the distance.

The narrative shifted to the protagonists’ climactic battle. A mountain collapsed, burying Liu Ruyan and the other fallen under rubble. Gui Jian, severely wounded, fled, while the leads rescued the surviving sect elders.

Having picked up her lunchbox, Jiang Xiaobai concluded her work on the set.

For minor actors, confirming no reshoots meant packing up and leaving. But as the pivotal second female lead, her final day ended with a dinner organized by Director Niu—a modest “wrap celebration” of sorts.

Chapter 131: Talisman Beads

The wrap dinner was ordinary. Everyone toasted and chatted briefly.

Director Niu encouraged Jiang Xiaobai, praising her highly and expressing hope for future collaborations if possible. It wasn’t just politeness—he genuinely valued her. Jiang Xiaobai was hardworking and resilient, able to toil like a man. To a director, she was more reliable than most. Leaders loved subordinates who could bear heavy loads—working women as hard as men, and men beyond their limits. That was their ideal. Jiang Xiaobai surpassed it. No matter the task, she endured, a pillar on set. He almost didn’t want her to leave.

Unaware of his thoughts, Jiang Xiaobai thanked him sincerely for his guidance and care over the months, saying she’d gained a lot. During filming, she got along fairly well with the cast and crew. There were no big conflicts, though she didn’t form deep bonds either—except perhaps with Li Biying, Gu Xue, and Rong Juan, who’d given her plenty of advice.

She toasted Rong Juan, expressing genuine thanks.

“It’s nice to meet a diligent young person like you,” Rong Juan replied, clinking glasses with a smile. “I hope you go far.”

“Alright, everyone, don’t drink too much,” Director Niu cut in, pretending to scold. “If you overdo it and delay tomorrow’s shoot, I’ll cut your pay!”

The group laughed and agreed.

Jiang Xiaobai drank a few glasses of red wine, her eyes still clear, showing no sign of drunkenness. At the end, Director Niu followed tradition and gave her a completion red envelope. Its thickness showed his satisfaction with her work.

Afterward, she returned to the hotel, slept well, and went back to her B City apartment the next morning with her luggage. Filming had worn her out—physically, she could recover quickly, but the mental fatigue needed a few days’ rest. She planned to relax there for a day or two, living lazily, before heading to S City to see her parents and brother.

But that first day, Dong Ran interrupted her rest with news of a new job.

“Shoot an MV?” Jiang Xiaobai asked, looking at Dong Ran with surprise.

“Yes, and not just as the female lead—you’ll sing a duet too. Just a few lines, though. You’ll manage,” Dong Ran said, stepping inside and sitting on the sofa. Ming Zhu quickly handed her a glass of water.

So considerate! Dong Ran gave Ming Zhu an approving glance.

“But I’ve never recorded a song. What if I mess it up?” Jiang Xiaobai’s voice showed a hint of worry.

“You won’t mess it up. Even if it’s off, the sound engineers will fix it—they’re experts,” Dong Ran replied casually. She’d heard Jiang Xiaobai sing before. It wasn’t professional, but it beat the average person’s. A few mistakes wouldn’t ruin it, especially with top engineers. No need to fret.

“Alright, I’ll try. When do we start?” Jiang Xiaobai asked.

“Tomorrow, go to the company for a costume fitting and practice. Then it’s off to the filming location. It’s a quick job—a few days at most.”

Jiang Xiaobai nodded, accepting it despite her interrupted rest. Staying busy was good—it had been the original Jiang Xiaobai’s dream, even if she hadn’t lived to see it.

After Dong Ran left, Jiang Xiaobai went to her room and laid out several items on her desk, a set of small carving knives, three smooth jade beads, two larger jade plaques, and the yellow jade she’d found at Yangjiao Mountain.

These were things she’d asked Ming Zhu to buy during filming. There weren’t many, but they weren’t cheap. The knives were a trusted brand, and the jade beads and plaques were real, their quality ranging widely. The cheapest cost a few hundred yuan, the most expensive plaque tens of thousands.

The yellow jade had given her an idea for talisman-making. Its faint spiritual energy inspired her, leading her to buy jade pieces of different grades to experiment with. In the Yaoyue Continent, talismans weren’t just paper—there were talisman plaques, a broad category split by material and shape.

Bead-shaped ones were called talisman beads.

Talisman patterns could even be carved on jewelry—hairpins, bracelets, rings—making talisman pins, bracelets, or rings. On Yaoyue, these plaques used special materials rich in spiritual energy, some fit for magical artifacts. Here, those materials didn’t exist.

At first, Jiang Xiaobai thought she’d be stuck with paper or void talismans. But then she found a local material with spiritual energy: jade.

She’d seen jade before—like the emerald necklace from the DS ad shoot—but hadn’t felt energy then. Thinking back to that small, teardrop-shaped pendant, she guessed its size might’ve hidden any spiritual traces.

When she told Ming Zhu to buy these, she’d asked for medium-to-large beads. When they arrived, she sensed spiritual energy, confirming her guess. Cheaper jade had more impurities and less energy; pricier ones had more.

She didn’t touch the yellow jade yet—it was for Li Biying, and she couldn’t risk ruining it without practice. Instead, she picked up the cheapest bead, a faintly green, less translucent one worth its low price, and started carving a good luck talisman with her knife.

It was her first try at a talisman bead in this world, and she began carefully, unsure of her skill. But as she worked, she grew confident. Channeling her spiritual energy, the knife sharpened, moving over the bead’s surface as easily as paper. Complex talisman arrays formed smoothly, with only bits of jade dust falling off.

The bead was small, making the runes look dense and intricate—to an untrained eye, just a decorative pattern. Soon, the good luck bead was finished.

What had been a plain piece of jade now showed a subtle change. The runes gave it a faint halo, hidden inside. Though most wouldn’t notice, it improved its quality, making it look better. Compared to a paper good luck talisman, this bead’s effect would last longer, though its luck strength stayed the same.

Satisfied that jade talismans worked, Jiang Xiaobai decided to try a stronger one: an enhanced luck talisman.

Chapter 132: Heavenly Punishment

As the name implied, an enhanced luck talisman doubled the effect of a good luck talisman. With good materials, its strength could be nearly twice that. Over time, its wearer might become a “person of great fortune”—what some called a “koi physique,” blessed with luck.

This time, Jiang Xiaobai picked a better bead, one with decent clarity costing nearly ten thousand yuan. But first, she drew a spirit-gathering talisman for herself.

Talisman plaques were harder to make than paper talismans and used more spiritual energy. With her current reserves, she might run out midway. The spirit-gathering talisman, a one-time item, would restore her energy slowly over a few hours—though only one could be used daily, or her body couldn’t handle it.

Since her rebirth, she hadn’t needed one. But today, with time and her skills warming up, she went for it. After activating the talisman, she took her knife and started carving the enhanced luck runes onto the bead.

The strokes went smoothly, a soft light growing—until, near the end, she felt a chaotic surge in the bead’s spiritual energy. Her face changed, and she instinctively threw it to the floor.

Bang!

A moment before it hit, the bead exploded in midair, the sound sharp as it dug a small hole in the floor. At the same time, she felt a brief heat from the pendant on her neck. Opening it, she saw her safety talisman had turned to ash.

The safety talisman… ruined?

Jiang Xiaobai froze. How could this happen?

“Xiaobai, what’s wrong?”

Ming Zhu, woken from a nap by the noise, ran to her door, calling out in a fluster.

“Oh, nothing. I just dropped something,” Jiang Xiaobai replied, her voice shaky as she made an excuse.

Relieved, Ming Zhu told her to be careful and went back.

Alone, Jiang Xiaobai sat quietly, staring at the hole and the bead’s scattered ashes. After a long pause, it hit her, and she muttered, “A talisman exploding isn’t just about a talisman master’s skill slipping and losing control of the energy. There’s another reason…”

Heavenly punishment.

Some talismans broke the world’s natural balance, and their effects were unpredictable. Talisman masters could use spiritual energy to change lives, but heaven and earth limited them. This unseen force didn’t show itself directly—it struck as a warning at key moments. The more defiant the talisman, the harsher the penalty.

Heavenly punishment was a basic lesson for every new talisman master. Her teachers’ words came back.

“Talisman masters, pill masters, artifact masters, even beast masters—all can alter the world. We can create, push our skills, and improve life’s ease within heaven’s limits.

“But that power risks heavy consequences. Some creations shatter balance, giving considerable gains to a few while stealing others’ fates—or worse, causing harm.

“Heaven forbids it. When such things appear, heavenly punishment comes. It might be mild—a destroyed item as a warning—or severe, taking a life as payment.”

Jiang Xiaobai looked at the floor, her face paling as it sank in. “Was this why I pass away making the spirit fortune talisman in my last life? I get it now…”

Even masters could miss simple truths when their view grew too grand. In her past life, she’d chased the spirit fortune talisman—a legendary talisman lost to time, a dream for top masters. Most people had spent lifetimes seeking its secret without success, but she’d cracked it. After endless tries, she’d perfected and memorized the rune pattern, needing only the talisman liquid to finish.

Gathering the materials had been brutal, yet just as victory neared, an explosion erased her work—and her life—before she felt the pain. She’d worn a top-tier protective talisman plaque that should’ve saved her from disaster. Yet she’d pass away instantly, with no time to react.

She believed it was a minor error—unstable liquid and excessive energy. Now she saw that the liquid was perfect. That was the problem.

Heaven wouldn’t allow the spirit fortune talisman. Its power to reshape fate broke the natural order, creating figures of vast destiny who took others’ fortunes. So, punishment had struck.

Her lashes quivered as she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. When she opened them, her gaze was clear again.

She’d been reckless. The spirit fortune talisman vanished from history because its strength caused chaos the Heavenly Dao couldn’t tolerate. The enhanced luck talisman she’d just tried was also forbidden here by that logic.

She hadn’t thought it through. On Yaoyue, enhanced luck talismans were familiar, and their effects were mild. Here, they were an anomaly. A wearer could sail through life untouchable—a gain that crushed others’ chances.

Take Li Biying, her good luck talisman, which helped her save Director Ning’s mother, landing her an audition for The First Empress. Good for her, yes—but what about He Qian, the original pick?

The world had its unfairness, but when it went too far, the Heavenly Dao stepped in.

Then she realized that her talismans here wore out fast—good luck, safety, all of them. She’d blamed thin spiritual energy for weakening their power. Now she wondered, was this the Heavenly Dao’s quiet limit, too?

Chapter 133: Chao Nan

The realization chilled Jiang Xiaobai, a cold sweat breaking out.

As a talisman maker, she was linked to her creations by karma. Even if a talisman didn’t trigger punishment right away, that debt piled up, ready to hit her later. Others might reap unearned luck from her work, but she’d ultimately pay with her life.

Luckily, this punishment came early, waking her up to the danger.

She exhaled heavily, wiping her brow. She knew what to do now.

Sadly, this meant giving up not just enhanced luck talismans but many harmful ones, too—like attack talismans for revenge. From now on, she’d stick to small talismans for minor help. Without stronger ones, she’d have fewer ways to handle trouble.

Wait—no attack talismans? She still had her sharp tongue to curse with!

But… could that backfire too?

The thought passed quickly, and she got back to work. She took the yellow jade and started carving a protective talisman—a mix of calamity-dispelling and safety effects. It ensured peace and smoothness, blocking small disasters to ease one’s way.

Unlike the good luck talisman, which stole others’ chances, the protective talisman guarded what one already had. Talismans that protected themselves instead of taking or hurting were virtuous, free of backlash. They might even bring her blessings.

Its calamity-dispelling effect was weaker than that of a dedicated talisman, and its life-saving power didn’t match that of a safety talisman. But for daily use, it was enough—effective against all but major calamities. Combining both made it complex and valuable, a good gift for Li Biying.

After carving, she smoothed the jade’s edges into a rounded shape. Its uneven form gave it a unique appeal. Drained of spiritual energy, she stopped there, putting away the other beads and plaques.

Her parents and brother already had spirit-nurturing talismans she’d given them, good enough for now. But she was unguarded, with her safety talisman gone and her good luck talisman given to Bo Xing. She’d need to make new ones.

Since jade beads worked, she considered upgrading Bo Xing’s calamity-dispelling talisman to a bead for more prolonged effects. That’d wait—her energy was gone, and she couldn’t start again until tomorrow.

She packed the yellow jade into Li Biying’s box, telling Ming Zhu to mail it to the set later. This protective talisman bead would keep Li Biying safe, though it wouldn’t boost her career—that was up to her skill. Jiang Xiaobai didn’t explain its power. Sometimes, believing in luck could lift confidence and nudge fate a little.

Looking at the hole of the floor, she frowned. Replacing it was one thing, but how could she explain it to Ming Zhu?

She went to Tangming with Dong Ran and Ming Zhu the following day.

“Kun, I’ll leave Xiaobai with you and Chao Nan,” Dong Ran said, shaking Mo Kun’s hand and nodding at Chao Nan nearby.

Yes, Jiang Xiaobai’s partner was Chao Nan, an artist under Mo Kun’s management.

At twenty-six, Chao Nan was a rising star with eight years in the industry. Tall and handsome, his real strength was his talent—over half his songs were self-written and composed. He shone in pop but excelled in classical-style music, too. His voice was magnetic yet low and soft, and it hooked listeners, earning fan nicknames like “instant surrender” and “ear pregnancy.”

The old Jiang Xiaobai wouldn’t have dreamed of duets or MV roles with him—talking to him would’ve been a stretch, given their gap in status. Chao Nan was a key figure for Tangming; his fame was near the top tier, far above her level.

But now, with her rising fame and a “heroine” image from recent events, she’d built a positive reputation. When Dong Ran suggested it, Mo Kun asked Chao Nan, who agreed. Both being Tangming artists, it was also a favor.

“No trouble at all,” Mo Kun said with a smile, his tone friendly. “Come on, Xiaobai, sing a few lines to test your voice.”

Jiang Xiaobai knew Mo Kun and Dong Ran were old friends. She’d once heard him urge Dong Ran to drop her for a new talent. She didn’t resent him—his words and actions were those of a friend.

“Alright.”

She cleared her throat and sang a few lines from a popular song, one in the classical style to fit the MV’s duet, Beyond the Illusions, which Dong Ran had briefed her on—a track steeped in ancient tones.

Chao Nan watched her silently.

Having been with Tangming for eight years, he was seasoned despite his age. Soon after she joined, he’d first seen Jiang Xiaobai, passing her in the building. Back then, her beauty stood out, but her arrogance—like a peacock showing off—left a bad taste. Her haughty atmosphere annoyed him. With his experience, he’d figured she wouldn’t last.

He’d been right. Two years later, she’d hovered outside the third tier, fading from his mind. Yet now, through a variety show, she’d resurfaced, changed. The sharp edge was gone, replaced by a calmer presence.

Success wasn’t luck. Without change, she wouldn’t be here now.

His thoughts raced, but her singing pulled his attention. He listened closely, his brow creasing slightly.

After a bit, she stopped and looked at him.

“Your breath is uneven and lacks feeling, but your voice possesses a unique tone and a faint coolness,” he said after a pause.

Mo Kun relaxed at that. Chao Nan rarely did vocal collabs—his songs suited his style, and he was picky about partners, agreeing only if they fit. His response showed he accepted Jiang Xiaobai, at least roughly.

He glanced at Dong Ran with a reassuring look, Don’t worry, it’s fine. 

Dong Ran let out a breath, smiling.