Old man, get ready for a shower of gold coins!

Director Lu had gone off to dine with officials from the scenic area and local legislators, so it was Ai Shoujin, almost an old father himself, who came to meet Li Jie.

Upon arrival, the first order of business was a hearty meal of clay-pot chicken and braised lamb. Along the way, Ai Shoujin introduced Li Jie—who had almost become his eldest son—to Ding Wei, the actor playing the role of Erlang Shen.

“Brother, let me introduce you. This is Ding Wei. You can call him Brother Ding or Brother Wei, whichever suits you.”

“Hello, Brother Wei.”

Li Jie stood up and nodded to Ding Wei.

“No, no, no! I can handle others calling me Brother Wei, but... kid, with your physique, hearing you call me that just feels wrong…”

A burst of laughter erupted from Ai Shoujin. Seated beside him was a dignified, elegant older woman—his beloved, Qin Yuandai, originally from Guanzhong.

This explained why Ai Shoujin, a native of Yuzhang, referred to Li Jie as “elder brother”—it was actually a term for the eldest son in the family.

“This child, you’ve grown taller again, haven’t you?”

“I lost weight during military training, so I look taller.”

Li Jie smiled broadly as he carved lamb for Qin Yuandai, then filled her bowl to the brim.

“That’s enough, that’s enough—I won’t finish it.”

“If you can’t, I’ll eat it.”

“You kid…”

Qin Yuandai shot Li Jie a glance, then suddenly asked, “I saw on the news—you really jumped from the third floor?”

“No, not exactly—I landed on the second floor first, then jumped down.”

Qin Yuandai nearly choked on her lamb.

The atmosphere was pleasant. Ding Wei had expected it to be awkward, but after chatting for a while, he found Li Jie, aside from his questionable acting skills, to be likable in every way.

But playing a dog, what acting does one really need?

It’s just that the dog’s physique was a bit much.

Ding Wei had once followed the idol route, living off the fleeting fame, but as he aged, he began to hone his craft to keep his place in the industry.

His agency landed him a role: director Lu’s first big-screen venture, “The Fairy Ape.” The title alone sounded like a doomed flop.

Yet whether a film makes money has little to do with its quality, and for a former “popular youth,” exposure was everything.

A bad movie wasn’t the end of the world—what mattered was that people didn’t ignore it.

Director Lu’s debut would surely attract resources.

Most importantly, Director Lu was famous for his speed!

His record: two twenty-one-episode TV dramas shot in one month, directing two projects in a single day, mornings and afternoons, working overtime until he was gaunt and exhausted. For investors, as long as the money flowed, satisfaction was guaranteed.

So, they were very pleased—very impressed—very fond of Director Lu’s speed!

To investors, Lu Xiaoguan wasn’t just a director—he was the crown prince of sales.

Whether “The Fairy Ape” would be as fast on the big screen remained to be seen, but the investors trusted him.

He’d never made a blockbuster or earned huge profits, yet the steady accumulation of smaller gains was considerable.

Many investors wanted to squeeze their own people into the project. Li Jie’s inclusion had already left countless others behind.

But there was something unique about him—never before had there been a humanoid “Howling Heavenly Dog,” and it was only thanks to Ai Shoujin’s influence that he was added at all.

Ding Wei knew this, so he was courteous to Li Jie but also took the opportunity to voice his concerns to Ai Shoujin: “Director Ai, with this kid’s presence, if he stands beside me, people will think Erlang Shen’s status depends entirely on the White Dog God.”

“Ah, why worry about that? It’s just a commercial film, meant to rake in money, don’t overthink it. Xiao Lu wants to prove himself in commercial cinema, and he knows how to handle controversy. Your role is a point of contention, too.”

Ai Shoujin explained, not because he was close to Ding Wei, but because Ding Wei’s agent had once been his subordinate—a bond in itself.

“The script was finalized long ago. I recommended you for Erlang Shen a day before anyone else. Later, Xiao Lu reviewed Li Jie’s profile and discussed it—he thought it was perfect to create a controversy for marketing. Before release, there’ll be teasers; your scenes with Li Jie will lean towards humor. As long as it’s trending, there’ll be an online movie related to Erlang Shen, and you’ll be the lead.”

“Jing already told me about this.”

“Good, as long as you know. Our circle can’t compete with the resources of big cities like Beijing or Huating. We save where we can, earn when possible, and as for art... we’ll talk about it later.”

Ai Shoujin, an “old artist” without much talent, deeply disliked the notion of “artistic merit.” His status was built on age, experience, and abilities outside his job.

It had nothing whatsoever to do with his father-in-law having been a Guanzhong district legislator!

Besides ability, he had nothing!

“Don’t listen to this old man ramble. If you want to produce quality work, you need ambition.”

Qin Yuandai knew her husband’s hang-ups and feared Li Jie might take his words to heart, so she quickly offered advice. But on second thought, Li Jie had so much room for improvement, perhaps hearing the old man’s suggestions wouldn’t hurt.

Li Jie, for his part, was perfectly content. He was only playing a dog—earning eighty thousand was already a windfall.

If there was marketing or something, maybe the investors would give him a bonus.

Splendid!

With clay-pot chicken and braised lamb in his belly, life was good.

Full of hope.

He accompanied Ai Shoujin for a little rice wine—a mild, sweet brew, nothing like strong spirits.

“Brother, when are you hosting the banquet for our kinship?”

Li Jie was immediately embarrassed.

This was a long story—ten years in the making.

A decade-long promise.

When Li Jie was ten, he’d agreed with Ai Shoujin that at eighteen, he would formally acknowledge Ai Shoujin and Qin Yuandai as godparents.

Later, as his own “talent” waned, Ai Shoujin and Qin Yuandai stopped mentioning it, and even the twelve mothers at the welfare home became more of a memory.

Now, with Ai Shoujin bringing it up again, the situation was different.

The retired couple hadn’t given up on Li Jie, despite his continued lack of “talent.”

“I’ll talk to Aunt Shu and the others.”

“You’re eighteen now; you should decide for yourself. Here’s the deal—today, right now, call me Dad, and I’ll give you a ten-thousand-yuan red envelope. From now on, every holiday, you’ll get New Year money. If you ever have children, we’ll help you raise them. As many as you want.”

“Do children get New Year money?”

“Of course! How could a grandfather skip that?”

“Dad, you said it!”

Li Jie stood, took the ten-thousand-yuan red envelope from Ai Shoujin’s table, and quickly pocketed it.

Silently, he mused: Old man, just wait—when I find twelve wives, each with three kids, that’s thirty-six children. Come New Year, prepare for a shower of gold coins!