Chapter 92: Film Emperor (12)

“All the tests have been done. For now, there’s nothing wrong—her eyes are perfectly fine.”

“One doctor said that many children’s behaviors are incomprehensible to adults. They have their own world. What Qian is doing doesn’t really count as abnormal. It might just be a kind of game for her. If you’re truly worried, maybe take her to a child psychologist.”

After returning from the checkup with the child, Feng Yu gave Tong Jianxu the results.

But Tong Jianxu didn’t feel relieved.

He had an unusually sharp sensitivity to other people’s emotions—perhaps because he was raised by his grandparents, always afraid they’d be angry or abandon his physically deformed self. He had grown up carefully reading every expression and tone.

When it came to people close to him, to his “family,” Tong Jianxu couldn’t help but analyze their emotions.

And children were different from adults—their emotions were more direct. Joy and displeasure were so clearly drawn, with no ability to hide them at all.

Qian had suddenly grown unhappy and started swatting at the air. That behavior seriously worried him.

“Qian, what are you hitting?” Tong Jianxu asked again.

But the child just looked at him, hiding the little racket behind her back, unwilling to speak.

“Alright then, Daddy will help you hit it.” Tong Jianxu took her little paddle and calmly waved it around in the air.

Qian watched as the paddle passed again and again beside the glowing blue orb, always missing. It was right there, but Daddy kept missing. She immediately grew anxious.

“Not there,” she said in her soft, clear voice, pointing to the top of her head. “You missed—it’s here.”

Tong Jianxu couldn’t see anything, but obediently waved the paddle over her head.

Qian immediately lit up with joy. “You got it!”

In reality, the system couldn’t be touched by anything in this world. Its only connection to this reality was through the host. Even if someone swung at it, it would only brush through a projection. But seeing it dodge and flicker, the child was delighted anyway.

You got it? There was no sensation of hitting anything.

Tong Jianxu kept smiling and played along, not revealing anything.

“And now? Did we hit it?”

“No, it flew over here,” the little girl said.

After a few rounds of this “swatting the air” game, Tong Jianxu managed to coax quite a bit of information out of her.

It did seem like there was something invisible to them but visible to Qian.

Her eyes kept tracking something floating in the air. As someone who had studied acting, Tong Jianxu knew how difficult it was to pretend to see something that wasn’t there—especially for a three-year-old. It was simply impossible unless she was really seeing it.

From what he could gather, whatever she was seeing wasn’t bigger than the paddle, could fly, flash, and always hovered around her. Sometimes it might even upset her, hence the swatting.

Coupled with the child’s mysterious appearance and the lack of any background, Tong Jianxu’s thoughts inevitably wandered into the realm of the unscientific.

Having been raised by elders, his grandmother had strong faith in deities. She would pray at every temple they passed and even kept a Guanyin statue at home, often burning incense and praying that he would become “normal” and be healed of his strange illness.

Although Tong Jianxu didn’t fully believe in the supernatural, his childhood exposure had left him with a lingering reverence.

Now, he was starting to worry—was there something unclean around the child?

“Are there any temples or Taoist shrines known to be effective?” he asked his assistant.

He decided that next time he had a break, he’d take the child to pray. Whatever the truth was, it would give him some peace of mind.

Unaware of what the film emperor dad was thinking, to Qian, he was still her smiling, toy-buying, clingy dad who always had her on his lap during breaks. And if she didn’t sit with him, he’d lie dramatically on the lounge chair moaning about his head hurting, his body aching—

Like he was about to die, scaring the little girl half to death.

Qian sat in her dad’s lap playing a game. The tablet was huge, and her arms were short, so Tong Daddy held the tablet with one hand, letting her use both hands to tap the screen.

She loved that game—played it every day. Sometimes she even played too long. Tong Jianxu had worried before that her eye problems might be due to too much screen time.

But if he tried to limit her, she definitely wouldn’t agree.

Watching her play, Tong Jianxu suddenly reached out.

“These wheat crops are ready. Daddy will help you harvest them.”

Qian was still feeding ducks. When she saw the wheat harvested, she immediately made an unhappy noise and glared up at the interfering dad.

Tong Jianxu put on a wounded expression. “Daddy just wanted to help.”

Qian shouted, “No! No!”

This wasn’t the first time the film emperor had done this.

Last time, while she was asleep, he’d gone into her game and fed her ducks, harvested and sold the crops, bought clothes and furniture for the in-game girl, and used up all the rice she’d saved on the gacha pulls—only to draw a bunch of basic ducklings.

Basically, he did everything in the game for her. When Qian woke up and logged in, she found everything done and was furious, stomping around in anger.

The second time it happened, she was nearly in tears—but her dad beat her to it.

She hadn’t even gotten her tears ready when she saw her daddy’s eyes fill up and tears fall. She was stunned.

Qian hated seeing others cry, especially her dad.

So she had no choice but to pout pitifully, hugging his head and begging him not to cry, trying to reason with him: “Don’t play my game.”

“I want to play it myself.”

Assistant Tian Miao watching from the side: “…”

This film emperor really was something else. Being able to act was one thing—

But using that talent to act for a child?!

Watching the Film Emperor sneak in another round of that game while the kid wasn’t paying attention, lazily swiping through the screen with his long fingers, Tian Miao couldn’t help but suggest, “Boss, if you like playing Feed the Little Yellow Duck, why don’t I just download it on your phone?”

Can you stop playing the kid’s game already?!

Tong Jianxu casually refused, “No need.”

Tian Miao: “……” Boss, you really just like the whole push-and-pull of pissing her off and making up, huh?

When the kid came back for her tablet to play the game again, Tian Miao thought she’d throw another tantrum—but surprisingly, this time, though her cheeks puffed up in frustration, she didn’t throw a fit.

Instead, she hugged the tablet, paced around while scouting the area, then picked a good spot and hid it.

She even whispered to the only person present—Tian Miao—“Don’t tell Daddy.”

Seeing the cute little gesture of the girl putting a finger to her lips and going shhh, Tian Miao nodded in agreement.

Next time Tong Jianxu came back and didn’t find the tablet, he asked, puzzled, “Where’s Qian’s game tablet?”

Tian Miao feigned ignorance. “Huh? I don’t know, haven’t seen it.”

The Film Emperor swept his gaze across her face, scanned the whole lounge area, and then went straight to a few cabinets, opening the bottom two rows.

No luck.

After thinking a bit, he headed for the wardrobe, and this time, dug the tablet out of a pile of clothes.

He even put it back after playing.

Of course, Qian noticed someone had tampered with her game again.

Seeing her little eyebrows shoot up, Tian Miao immediately said, “I didn’t tell him! He found it himself.”

Qian hugged her tablet and tiptoed out. In a blink, she vanished—Tian Miao had no idea where she went to hide it this time.

So when Tong Jianxu returned again to rest, of course, he couldn’t find the tablet.

Dressed in his costume—wide sleeves, long hair falling loose—he looked confused, unable to believe he couldn’t find something a kid had hidden.

Tian Miao: Good grief, are you two really playing a mental chess match now?

After searching for a few days, Tong Jianxu gave up. It was just teasing the kid anyway.

But he was genuinely curious—where had Qian hidden it? He couldn’t find it anywhere.

Until one day, he sat next to the director to review a scene they’d just filmed. The director shifted slightly, and unintentionally revealed a tablet tucked behind the chair back.

Of course, he recognized it instantly, and his face said: “……”

Noticing his gaze, the director awkwardly tried to cover it up again and coughed a couple of times.

Tong Jianxu took a closer look—and finally saw the moment Qian had snuck over while he was filming.

She was small and unobtrusive. The director, acting like some undercover agent, handed her the tablet discreetly. She sat on a little stool behind him, played her game, and quietly slipped the tablet back behind him afterward.

Tong Jianxu smiled: She knew to hide it with the director? What a clever little baby.

After that, he didn’t deliberately play her game anymore.

After all, his goal of limiting her screen time had already been achieved.

What he didn’t know was when exactly the whole crew got into the game too.

Every day during breaks, he’d see people feeding ducks on their phones. Occasionally, you’d even hear quacking noises coming from the director’s phone.

Qian, having hidden her own game tablet and reduced her game time, ended up bored—and wandered off set to play elsewhere.

The kids Tong Jianxu had introduced her to from other crews had unfortunately already wrapped up filming, and there were no other child actors around lately.

Tian Miao grabbed her bag and followed her. The two of them went to explore a nearby pedestrian street.

There were lots of tourists and many stalls selling little trinkets—basically, all kinds of small stones, bracelets, and cups, the same stuff you’d see at every tourist spot. Pretty much all from Yiwu.

There were snacks too—familiar street food from all over China like pancakes, big grilled sausages, grilled tofu, and wheat gluten skewers.

Since the area was near a palace-style film set, many tourists had dressed in Hanfu for the vibe. There were also extras from various productions walking around—some in ancient garb, some in Republican-era military uniforms.

Basically, everyone was wearing something.

Amid the chaos of clashing fashion styles, one man in black casual wear, a cap pulled low over his head, stood out.

He was tall and handsome, with a distinct air about him—and honestly, looked kind of scary.

He stood on the sidewalk, looking at a street sign. People around him instinctively gave him space. Some whispered to each other, wondering if he was a celeb from a nearby shoot.

Zai Ye stared expressionlessly at the sign until two young girls came up to him and asked, “Excuse us, are you an actor?”

“No,” Zai Ye replied, tugged down his cap, and walked off.

His legs were long, and in two or three strides, he’d already left them in the dust.

Yesterday, he had reviewed the report Zhang’s assistant had sent him—there wasn’t much info on the kid. Everyone said she seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

That explanation made something stir in Zai Ye’s heart.

He trusted his intuition—or rather, he wanted to trust this inexplicable hunch.

He’d heard that the Film Emperor, Tong Jianxu, was shooting here with a kid.

So today, he flew straight to this newly built film city.

Because he wanted to see that child again.