Chapter 23: The Film Emperor Dad Who Was Sacrificed in the Entertainment Industry

Shen Yijing didn’t seem affected by all the buzz surrounding him. In fact, he leisurely posted pictures of his little chick online.

About half an hour later, he deleted that post. Just as fans were wondering why, he came out to clarify:

Shen Yijing: The director said no early leaks of the character’s styling allowed. He even docked my lunchbox today. 😭

The production’s official account played along and reposted it, seizing the opportunity for another wave of publicity.

Drama’s Official Account: I can vouch, the director really said that! But I’ll personally buy Teacher Shen his meal!

And just like that, the previous incident was quietly swept under the rug. Although the post was deleted, many fans had already saved screenshots.

As Shen Yijing had said, fans began editing a styled look for the little chick. They added blush to its cheeks, curled lashes to its beady eyes, and gave it a sparkly “big-eye” filter.

When Jiujiu wasn’t needed on set, he’d sit watching cartoons, with an assistant keeping him company.

The assistant, who got along well with Shen Yijing and knew how much he cared for the chick, held out their phone to Jiujiu.

“Look! Netizens gave you a makeover. Do you think it looks good?”

Jiujiu peeked over with mild suspicion. But when he saw the overly dramatic matchmaker-style edit, he was so angry he flapped his wings and stomped his little feet.

“Chirp chirp chirp! Chirp chirp!”

Jiujiu’s furious little outburst made the assistants burst into laughter. And when he heard them laughing, he got even madder. Did they really think that looked good?!

That night, as they returned to rest, Shen Yijing could still hear Jiujiu muttering grievances.

“Chirp chirp chirp! Daddy, look at me—how could I be that ugly? Jiujiu is naturally beautiful and doesn’t need makeup to look good.”

The smug little chick strutted over and sat on his dad’s knee, waiting expectantly to be praised.

“Alright, you’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful.”

In the script, the tyrant character had violent tendencies, so Su Ru, playing the female lead, often had to endure physical scenes. As a newcomer without a suitable stunt double, she had to take them herself.

Her makeup was already smeared halfway, but the director still wasn’t satisfied. He called crew members to touch up her face and brought the script over to Shen Yijing.

“You need to hit harder here. A real slap, you got it?”

They spent the entire morning filming that single slapping scene. If the actor hadn’t been Shen Yijing—someone the director had worked with many times—he would’ve lost his temper and scolded them already.

“Director, you said it yourself. Don’t turn around later and accuse me of bullying a rookie.”

“Bullying what? If she can act, fine. If not, get lost.”

Hearing that, Su Ru clenched her fists at her sides and bit her lip, unwilling to back down—only to have the makeup artist tap her shoulder.

“Careful, I just redid your lipstick.”

The director took a sip from his makeshift teacup—an old glass jar from some canned fruit—and spoke earnestly:

“You know that Teacher Tong who just won the international Film Emperor award? He played a role that had him crawl into someone’s ***. If someone that high-profile can do it, what’re you afraid of?”

He understood Shen Yijing’s caution. Just refusing to explain a scene to a rookie once had already sparked controversy. It made sense to be careful.

Actors needed a good reputation. Directors didn’t. He had no such pressure.

As long as the final product was good enough, even if actors cried on set about being mistreated, the audience would just praise his professionalism.

“With those words, Director, I feel much better.”

Hearing that, the director had the distinct feeling that Shen Yijing was basically saying, “Good, someone else will take the blame for this.”

If fake hits looked real enough, the director didn’t insist on actual contact. Shen Yijing always nailed the emotion. His shaking arms, the tension in his veins—it all looked real, even though he never actually hit her.

It was Su Ru who couldn’t hold up. Her reactions were stiff, totally unconvincing—more like kids playing pretend than acting.

On the first take, Su Ru was actually stunned by the slap and just stood there crying.

“What are you even doing? Can you act or not? The whole crew’s wasting time on you! If not, get lost—I’ll recast.”

The director slammed the script down. This was the scene where the tyrant catches the heroine stealing secrets and hits her in rage.

He had already explained it in the morning: after getting hit, the character should show nervous guilt—not freeze like a scared duckling.

If she didn’t so perfectly match his image of the female lead, he never would’ve given such a big role to a rookie.

While Su Ru went to fix her makeup again, Shen Yijing brought Jiujiu over to the director’s side to keep him company.

He had a little bell in hand, jingling it for fun. In the script, the tyrant liked teasing his chick, and in real life, the curious little Jiujiu couldn’t resist shiny, pretty objects.

He kept bouncing, trying to catch it. His crisp little chirps even drew the director’s attention.

“What kind of nonsense is this? That chick’s acting is better than hers.”

Jiujiu froze mid-bounce, turned to look at the bearded director, and silently reminded himself not to get mad. These foolish mortals didn’t recognize his noble identity as a phoenix.

“You named him Jiujiu?”

“Yep, Jiujiu.”

Shen Yijing nodded. The name wasn’t even his idea—this little chick had insisted on it himself, even spending an hour emphasizing it.

He was called Jiujiu, but Shen Yijing could also call him “Sweetie” or “Little Cub.” However, those two nicknames were top secret—only for them as father and son.

“Pretty cute name. Sounds like his chirps.”

Once Su Ru finished her makeup, she returned. The director patted Shen Yijing on the shoulder, urging him to keep up his momentum.

No matter how many takes they’d done, Shen Yijing’s performance had always been solid. The director just worried he’d get tired.

As Shen Yijing stood up, Jiujiu chirped, pressed his wings to his beak, and blew his dad a kiss.

This time, Su Ru adjusted her state and nailed the take. Afterwards, she sat down and cried.

Some extras came to comfort her, but Shen Yijing didn’t spare a glance. His entire focus was on his chick waving at him.

He walked over quickly, and Jiujiu climbed right up his clothes, perched on his shoulder, and gave his dad a soft chirp.

The director didn’t like actors who broke down emotionally on set. If you couldn’t handle this line of work, then don’t eat this meal. But since it was lunchtime, he let it slide.

Still, if the same thing happened during filming again, he’d definitely replace a few of the overly sensitive cast.

Lying on his deck chair with a sip of tea, the director made a silent vow: no more rookie leads, even if investors threw money at him.

Back when Shen Yijing had fallen off a horse during a riding scene and spent over half a month in the hospital, he never acted like this.

While the rest of the crew comforted Su Ru, Shen Yijing simply took his little chick and asked a staff member:

“What’s for lunch?”

“Teacher Shen, your assistant already has it ready in the break room.”

From his perch on Shen Yijing’s shoulder, Jiujiu let out an indignant chirp. Dad had an assistant to prepare food—but what about him? He was an actor too! Was one braised pork too much to ask?

The staff looked over and smiled, pulling out a fruit box for Shen Yijing.

Through the clear lid, Jiujiu could see there was no meat. With a sigh, he gestured for his dad to leave.

Since Shen Yijing was only the villain, his character wrapped early. At the wrap party, Su Ru even offered him a toast and thanked him for his guidance.

Though things hadn’t been smooth between them before, they appeared quite harmonious now.

Shen Yijing smiled and clinked glasses. Jiujiu tugged his collar, clearly signaling for Dad to stay away from the female lead.

In this world, the female lead was bad on the surface, and the male lead was rotten to the core. In summary: neither of them were good news.

Shen Yijing reached out to gently rub his little one’s head in reassurance. It was just a toast—he had held the glass himself the whole time, so there was nothing to worry about. No need to make a scene over it.

After the shoot wrapped, Shen Yijing was called back to reshoot a few scenes and record voice-overs. By the time everything was done, it was already the twelfth lunar month.

In past years, he’d always spent the New Year working on set, too busy to think much about anything else.

But this year, there happened to be no work during the holiday. Seeing people in his work groups chatting about their New Year plans, he felt an uncharacteristic pang of homesickness.

Ever since he was a child, he’d known that his parents had hoped he would grow up to become a teacher, just like them.

After a few years of hard work, it would be a stable job with a decent income—not to mention, very respectable.

Noticing that his dad was feeling down, Jiujiu cracked open a walnut he’d been working on for two days and dropped the kernel into his father’s palm. Then he rubbed his head gently against Shen Yijing’s thumb.

“Chirp chirp chirp, Daddy, Jiujiu wants to drink rice wine.”

Shen Yijing looked at the walnut kernel in his palm, then at the eager little chick cuddling up to him. He tapped Jiujiu’s head lightly.

“You’re just a kid—what do you want with wine?”

He’d seen Jiujiu carrying that walnut around the past couple of days—even slept with it. He’d assumed it was just a toy. Who would’ve thought the chick had simply been trying to eat it?

“It’s rice wine, not real wine. Even cubs can drink it.”

Jiujiu flapped his little wings in the air to mime the shape of a cup. That wine was sweet and tasty—plus, it wouldn’t make him go drunk-crazy and pluck all his feathers off to give to people who treated his dad well.