I Became the Koi Actor After Entering the Book

**Chapter 69: The Four Young Male Stars**

Translator: Namizaki

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Today marked the finale of <Invisible Crime>, a rare phenomenon-level drama. The final episode had the publicity department and other television stations eager to purchase secondary broadcast rights holding their breath in anticipation.

Tonight’s trending searches were practically guaranteed to be dominated by the show.

However, the main cast, including Chi Zhongqiao, paid little attention to this. Yan Qingbo had been discharged from the hospital after giving birth to a snow-white baby girl, nicknamed Niannian. The child was already over a month old, and Yan Qingbo had invited a few close friends over to celebrate.

Chi Zhongqiao received an invitation.

Since Xiao¹the ‘xiao’ here means ‘little’ Niannian’s hundred-day celebration would be a small affair—just a meal with both families—Yan Qingbo decided to host a gathering for her close friends at home while she was still resting during her postpartum confinement.

Yan Qingbo invited only seven guests: Three from the drama crew and four others. Chi Zhongqiao recognized two of them: pop diva Meng Ge and Movie Queen Bu Yi, both married with children and Yan Qingbo’s longtime best friends.

The eight guests presented their gifts for the baby and chatted quietly in the living room, their laughter soft and warm.

Chi Zhongqiao, the youngest of the eight, hadn’t even turned twenty-five yet. His youthful appearance immediately stirred the maternal instincts of the mothers present.

After enduring a round of cheek-pinching and hand-squeezing from the group, Chi Zhongqiao finally escaped the clutches of the three mothers—yes, even Yan Qingbo, newly promoted to motherhood, had joined in.

Seated on the carpet with his long legs spread apart, Chi Zhongqiao carefully opened the velvet jewelry box, revealing the longevity lock inside.

Before coming, Chi Zhongqiao had chosen a longevity lock and a full set of silver jewelry for the baby. The lock was custom-made, gold-inlaid jade, and though he hadn’t yet put it on Xiao Niannian, just looking at it, he knew it would suit her perfectly.

Brother Qiao’s taste remained impeccable when he wasn’t distracted by flashing lights and billboards.

“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” Yan Qingbo said softly.

“Let our Xiao Niannian share in Brother Qiao’s good fortune.” Another mother added.

Yan Qingbo gently fastened the longevity lock around her daughter’s neck. The jewelry itself carried the most sincere and beautiful wishes, and coming from Chi Zhongqiao, a living Koi, she hoped this small lock would convey some intangible yet infinitely tender expectation.

Yan Qingbo didn’t voice the words aloud, but silently prayed in her heart, “I hope you grow up to be a good child—not necessarily outstanding, but always grateful.”

This child’s birth had been the focus of countless people’s care. Ever since Yan Qingbo discovered her pregnancy, half the crew’s attention had been fixed on her. She completed the remaining scenes under the entire team’s protective watch, and even during the drama’s promotion, they shielded her from excessive strain.

Chi Zhongqiao sat beside the crib. He wasn’t sure if infants could see clearly at this age, but Xiao Niannian kept reaching out to him. Just watching her made his heart melt.

Yan Qingbo shook a rattle in her hand. “Tonight’s the finale of <Invisible Crime>. Zhongqiao, you have another drama coming out this year, right?”

Ge Fangyu, who was peeling an orange, chimed in, “He has <April in the Human World> coming out soon. I think it’s just a few days away.”

Fu Jingshen asked curiously, “I remember this one was directed by Nie Rong, right? Her scripts are always top-notch. Why haven’t we heard much buzz about it?”

Fans usually know what projects their idols are working on, even without the artists explicitly announcing it. Die-hard fans will independently stake out these productions, meaning that even before official promotions begin, a dedicated fanbase is already eagerly anticipating the release.

With just a few days left until the premiere of <April in the Human World>, the official promotional campaign was ramping up. The male and female leads had already begun making promotional appearances, but the supporting cast remained conspicuously quiet.

This was especially true for Chi Zhongqiao. Though he played the third male lead, his current star power rivaled that of the male lead, Li Jinghong. Logically, this should have been a major selling point for the drama. Why would <April in the Human World> let such an opportunity slip through their fingers?

As for Chi Zhongqiao himself, he had merely retweeted a few trailers and posted a single Weibo update before going silent. This was a stark contrast to his usual enthusiastic participation in promotional activities.

Surrounded by concerned colleagues, Chi Zhongqiao calmly teased Xiao Niannian, “Director Fu, doesn’t your conscience bother you? Whose promotions have I been tirelessly working on lately?”

The script revisions for <April in the Human World> had completely crossed Chi Zhongqiao’s bottom line.

Why does an actor accept a role in a drama?

Two reasons: Financial compensation and genuine interest in the character and script.

Drastically reducing and altering a character’s role was, at best, a breach of trust, and at worst, a violation of contract. If <April in the Human World> hadn’t been backed by Starbright Entertainment, the entertainment industry’s leading company, Du Yusheng would never have let it slide.

Fu Jingshen retorted, “I’m responsible for filming the drama, not promotion. Besides, isn’t Ge Fangyu running around like a headless chicken too?”

Ge Fangyu, indeed panting like a headless chicken, completely ignored Fu Jingshen’s jab and asked earnestly, “Why don’t a few of us share your posts to help promote it?”

Yan Qingbo chimed in, “Yeah, I’ll ask Wu Fu to cut a recommendation video for you later.”

The Wu Fu she mentioned was a major entertainment influencer with millions of followers. He primarily reviewed films and dramas, occasionally covering celebrity gossip. Known for his high emotional intelligence and interpersonal skills, he enjoyed an excellent reputation both within and outside the industry.

Currently, Wu Fu sat on a single sofa, wearing gold-rimmed glasses that made him look like a fresh-faced college graduate, though he was actually over thirty. Teasing Xiao Niannian from across the room, he chuckled, “Sure, I’ll put together a special feature for Brother Qiao and hype up <April in the Human World> while I’m at it.”

Chi Zhongqiao wasn’t particularly familiar with Wu Fu; the influencer’s willingness to help was entirely due to Yan Qingbo’s influence.

Facing the concerned gazes of Ge Fangyu and the others, Chi Zhongqiao felt a warmth in his heart. This concern was purely out of friendship, untainted by any ulterior motives. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to be honest: “Actually, it was my decision not to actively promote the show.”

Fu Jingshen looked surprised. “Why?”

Chi Zhongqiao shrugged casually. “Due to external reasons, the script underwent significant revisions during filming. Both the character itself and the overall story are vastly different from the script I was originally given. Therefore, out of personal principle, I won’t actively promote it.”

The role he had initially been drawn to was complex and three-dimensional, but the final version required him to play a shallow, one-dimensional character. As an actor, Chi Zhongqiao couldn’t possibly be happy with such a misrepresentation. However, his way of expressing his dissatisfaction was usually subtle—a subtle but firm refusal to cooperate.

Du Yusheng, the Director, was equally furious about the script revisions. Chi Zhongqiao pretended not to know he was supposed to promote the show, and Du Yusheng pretended not to know he should be urging Chi Zhongqiao to promote it.

As for the production team’s publicity efforts, they were already feeling guilty. The thought that Chi Zhongqiao might still possess evidence of their script alterations kept them from causing any further trouble.

Fu Jingshen’s expression immediately darkened, and the other actors present fell silent. For actors and directors, drastically altering the script during filming was a major taboo. Actors like Chi Zhongqiao, who relied on their talent, found such changes even more objectionable. Blacklisting a director over such matters was considered perfectly reasonable.

Ge Fangyu sighed, “There’s just too much drama in this industry.”

Wu Fu, however, chuckled, “I think the real drama’s on their end now. They’ve lost big this time. Oh, by the way, <Invisible Crime> is airing its finale tonight. Since the three leads and the Director are all here, could you four help me record something for a video I’m making?”

Asking them to record a video clearly meant creating a promotional clip for <Invisible Crime>, and the group readily agreed.

Time flew by, and by 9:30 PM, Xiao Niannian was already asleep. Yan Qingbo saw the group to the door, and before they left, they took a group photo.

This photo soon appeared on Yan Qingbo’s social media feed.

Yan Qingbo posted a nine-grid collage, blurring out the faces of the two non-industry members. Wu Fu, despite being a major influencer, preferred to keep his face hidden, so his image was heavily pixelated.

Shortly after Yan Qingbo posted the update, the comments section quickly surpassed a hundred.

First came the shrieks over Yan Qingbo’s breathtaking beauty and congratulations on the birth of her daughter. Gradually, the conversation shifted to other topics. The update mentioned inviting a few “close friends” to her home, and it was no secret that Meng Ge and Bu Yi were Yan Qingbo’s best friends, their close bond widely acknowledged. Ge Fangyu and Director Fu were also understandable guests, given their previous collaborations, especially Director Fu, who had worked with Teacher Yan multiple times before she entered the film industry.

But Chi Zhongqiao…

Chi Zhongqiao was actually invited?

The hashtag #ChiZhongqiaoInvitedToFilmEmpress’sPrivateParty quickly trended, its popularity soaring. Yet none of the key figures involved responded, as if it were the most ordinary occurrence.

It wasn’t until 9:45 PM, when the hashtags #InvisibleCrimeFinale and #InvisibleCrimeLeadActorsShowdown simultaneously surged to the top of the trending list, that Chi Zhongqiao’s trending topic was finally pushed down.

In the final episode of <Invisible Crime>, Shang Tang’s character complexity reached new heights. He willingly submitted to justice, but when the female lead confronted him, asking if his conscience troubled him, Shang Tang shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Madam, but I feel no remorse,” Shang Tang said, seated on the sofa, a dozen guns pointed at him, yet he maintained his impeccable composure. “I simply feel sorry that, though I live in society, I’m only half human.”

He repeated, “I feel truly sorry.”

Shang Tang extended his hand, still courteous. “Please.”

The final shot showed Shang Tang’s retreating figure leaving the villa, accompanied by a monologue—though it was actually a letter he had written to Shang Lin.

This letter moved countless viewers to tears. Shang Tang’s deep voice echoed quietly in the darkness, slow and gentle, like a bedtime story, yet carrying a profound, suppressed sorrow.

[ “…Humans are distinguished from animals by their capacity for thought and morality. I regret that as your Father, I only mastered the former, unable to comprehend compassion or pity… My dearest Daughter, you need not forgive me, but please don’t burden yourself with my sins.

I love you.” ]

Such a complex character, yet Shang Tang himself had summarized his essence in just a few words.

As the end credits rolled, the audience felt a profound sense of loss. Such a vividly portrayed character had met a fitting end, leaving viewers both relieved and deeply regretful. They couldn’t help but wonder: What if Shang Tang had stopped in time? Could there have been a different outcome?

The drama’s final episode also left viewers with a lingering question: Did Shang Tang truly love the female lead?

Opinions were sharply divided, with half arguing for love and the other half against it. Yet one thing was undeniable: This ambiguity was fueling Chi Zhongqiao’s rising popularity.

Du Yusheng seized the opportunity. He and several other managers tacitly amplified the trending topic #InvisibleCrimeLeadsShareTheStage, pushing its virality to explosive levels. The hashtag turned deep red, followed by the word “Bào“²(爆~Explosive).

Chi Zhongqiao only noticed the trending topic after returning home and retweeting the official <Invisible Crime> finale announcement. It had already secured the top spot on the charts, with an astonishing number of comments.

Du Yusheng was determined to leverage <Invisible Crime> to solidify Chi Zhongqiao’s position as a top-tier star.

This wasn’t just about one person’s popularity; it was about the combined buzz surrounding the five main characters of <Invisible Crime>. Among the five lead actors, Chi Zhongqiao stood out for his youth. Yet he held his own against seasoned veterans, blending seamlessly among TV Kings, TV Queens, and Movie Queens without seeming out of place.

In such a mixed pot, comparisons and rivalries were inevitable. However, thanks to aggressive comment moderation and reporting, inflammatory comments were swiftly purged.

Chi Zhongqiao’s fans had learned their lesson from past incidents, realizing their actions could tarnish their idol’s reputation. They now rallied together, dominating the top comments with fervent praise and rainbow-colored flattery.

But their restraint didn’t stop others from stirring trouble.

Someone dragged out comparisons between several rising young actors from recent years. Chi Zhongqiao had risen to fame the fastest and boasted the strongest body of work. Many casual observers already considered him one of the industry’s top actors, while instigators posted malicious threads speculating which of the Four Young Male Stars Chi Zhongqiao would displace in this year’s rankings.

On a massively popular forum, a stickied, red-highlighted thread remained pinned at the top, its title blunt: “Chi Zhongqiao Doesn’t Deserve to Be One of the Four Young Male Stars—His Experience and Work Are Insufficient.”

The main post contained a single sentence:

“He’s been in the industry for less than two years, with only one leading role in a film and the rest supporting roles. Does that count as experience?”

Zaki~ English is not my first language, but I’ll try to get the translations as close as possible to the Author’s work. If you see any grammatical errors or mistakes in the translation, please feel free to drop them in the comments section so I can correct them immediately. Thank you and Happy Reading 🙂

• 1the ‘xiao’ here means ‘little’
• 2(爆~Explosive)