Late at night, in Ji Huaizhou’s studio.
Qin Zhou scrolled through his phone, his brows knitting tighter and tighter. He had just finished a full day of work and was preparing to take one last look at today’s trending searches before leaving—this was a professional habit as the Film Emperor’s secretary.
And then he saw that hashtag:
#Zhou Mumu Grabs a Snake Barehanded# — Explosive
He tapped into it. It was a short edited video.
In the footage, “Zhou Mumu” was crouching by a stream. Suddenly, her gaze sharpened, and her body lunged forward like a cheetah. Her right hand shot into the grass like lightning—when she pulled it back, she was already gripping a gray-brown venomous snake by its vital spot, the snake still writhing in her hand.
Fast, precise, ruthless.
The comments flooded the screen:
“Holy shit! She grabbed a snake with her bare hands??”
“That’s Zhou Mumu?? Isn’t she supposed to be a delicate little flower?”
“Scripted, right? The production team arranged it?”
“Doesn’t look fake… that’s a real venomous snake, a krait!”
“How did she dare to do that? Even I, a grown man, feel weak in the knees watching this…”
Qin Zhou stared at the screen, his mind in chaos.
Impossible.
This was absolutely impossible.
Just yesterday afternoon, he had gone to Second People’s Hospital and personally seen Zhou Mumu—the real Zhou Mumu—lying in a hospital bed. Her left leg and arm were still wrapped in thick casts, and surgery for the steel pins in her right ankle was scheduled for next week. Although her emotions had stabilized somewhat, her face was pale, and her voice was faint and weak. She looked as fragile as porcelain that could shatter at a touch.
He had brought a fruit basket. Zhou Mumu had asked her manager Yang Li to convey her thanks and had also offered a solemn apology:
“The car accident was entirely my responsibility. I crossed through traffic without looking and caused Mr. Ji a great deal of trouble. I’m very sorry. And thank you, Mr. Ji, for saving my life. But I have nothing to repay you with right now, so I can only express my gratitude verbally. Once I recover, I will definitely apologize to you in person.”
Her tone had been sincere, carrying the weakness and guilt of someone recovering from serious illness.
That Zhou Mumu—how could she possibly appear a day later in the Yunnan rainforest, grabbing a venomous snake with her bare hands?
Unless…
A bold speculation flashed through Qin Zhou’s mind.
Unless this “Zhou Mumu” wasn’t Zhou Mumu at all.
He recalled the background investigation—Zhou Mumu had a twin sister, Zhou Chaochao, a graduate of a military academy and an active-duty soldier. Her specific unit was highly classified. They had been unable to contact her before. Yang Li had once comforted Zhou Mumu by saying her sister was likely on a long-term mission.
If the sister had taken her place on the show…
Everything would make sense.
Qin Zhou’s heart began to race. Holding his phone, he quickly walked toward Ji Huaizhou’s office.
The door was ajar. Ji Huaizhou was leaning against the sofa with his eyes closed, resting. He had just finished a cross-border video conference, and faint fatigue lingered on his face.
“Mr. Ji.” Qin Zhou lowered his voice, unable to suppress his excitement. “I’ve discovered something… very interesting.”
Ji Huaizhou opened his eyes. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze was clear. “Speak.”
Qin Zhou handed over his phone and played the video.
Ji Huaizhou took it, his eyes settling on the screen.
The video was only fifteen seconds long, looping repeatedly. The girl in the footage wore a faded camouflage uniform, her hair tied in a low ponytail. The lines of her profile were sharp and clean. When she caught the snake, there was no hesitation or fear in her movements. Her eyes were focused, as if she were completing a training task.
Those were not the eyes Zhou Mumu should have.
Ji Huaizhou had seen the real Zhou Mumu—on a hospital bed, her gaze shattered, despairing, lifeless. Even after she stabilized, she still carried a softness soaked in pain and grievance.
But the person in the video had eyes like a blade tempered in fire—calm, sharp, carrying the absolute control that belonged to a soldier.
“She’s not Zhou Mumu,” Ji Huaizhou said calmly, stating the conclusion.
Qin Zhou nodded. “I think so too. The real Zhou Mumu was still in the hospital yesterday. Her injuries can’t be faked. So it can only be—”
“Her twin sister,” Ji Huaizhou finished, his gaze never leaving the screen.
He zoomed in on the video, carefully observing every detail: the technique she used to catch the snake was standard, professional; her grip on its vital point was precise in both force and angle.
After standing up, she didn’t immediately throw the snake away. Instead, she carefully checked its species and condition, then walked deep into the forest, away from the campsite, to release it—this showed that she not only knew how to catch snakes, but also understood them, and cared about ecological balance.
More importantly, throughout the entire process, her expression never changed.
No fear. No pride. No trace of performance.
As if… this were merely part of her daily training.
“Military background, professionally trained, extremely strong psychological resilience,” Ji Huaizhou analyzed softly. “And she chose to release it instead of killing it, which shows she understands the basic principles of wilderness survival—don’t disrupt the ecosystem unnecessarily, and avoid attracting other predators.”
Qin Zhou was stunned. “Mr. Ji, you even know this?”
Ji Huaizhou glanced at him. “The movie Jungle Law I filmed last year—I spent three months in a special forces training camp.”
Only then did Qin Zhou remember. For that film, Ji Huaizhou had lived in the military to prepare for his role as a retired special forces soldier, learning a full set of survival skills. All the action scenes had been performed by him personally, without a stunt double.
“So…” Qin Zhou asked cautiously, “what level do you think this Zhou Chaochao is?”
Ji Huaizhou didn’t answer immediately.
He replayed the video, watching even more carefully.
When the girl stood up, her back was straight like a spear; when she walked, her stride length was nearly identical each step. After releasing the snake, she stood at the edge of the forest and observed for more than ten seconds. That posture—feet slightly apart, center of gravity lowered, right hand naturally hanging by her side, left hand hovering near her waist—was a standard alert stance.
Ordinary soldiers wouldn’t maintain such a posture so naturally.
Unless… she had long been in an environment that required constant vigilance.
“At least special operations,” Ji Huaizhou finally concluded. “And a highly elite one.”
Qin Zhou sucked in a sharp breath.
An active-duty special forces soldier, disguised as a minor celebrity in the entertainment industry, participating in a wilderness survival show?
This plot… was almost surreal.
“Why would she do this?” Qin Zhou wondered. “To avenge her sister? But this is too risky. What if she’s recognized…”
“Maybe she has a reason she must do it,” Ji Huaizhou said, setting the phone down and leaning back against the sofa, his long fingers lightly tapping the armrest. “Or… she’s not afraid of being recognized at all.”
Qin Zhou was taken aback. “Not afraid? Why?”
Ji Huaizhou didn’t explain. Instead, he asked, “Has the production team replied about the guest appearance invitation for Seven Days in the Wild?”
“They have. They said it can be arranged, scheduled for the afternoon of the third day,” Qin Zhou replied. “You’re really going? This kind of variety show…”
“I’m going,” Ji Huaizhou interrupted, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Confirm the schedule and arrange my work.”
Though puzzled, Qin Zhou nodded. “Yes.”
He was about to leave when Ji Huaizhou stopped him again.
“Also, check if Xingyao Entertainment has made any unusual moves recently, especially regarding Zhou Mumu.”
Qin Zhou’s heart tightened. “You suspect…”
“A special forces sister replacing her severely injured younger sister on a show—Xingyao Entertainment couldn’t possibly be unaware.”
Ji Huaizhou adjusted his glasses, his gaze calm and deep. “But they not only didn’t stop it—they cooperated. What does that imply?”
Qin Zhou thought for a moment, his expression changing slightly. “It means… they have leverage in Zhou Chaochao’s hands?”
“Or,” Ji Huaizhou added, “their foolish executives think this is just a ‘rebranding’ strategy for Zhou Mumu and didn’t even realize she was replaced.”
Qin Zhou felt the latter was more likely. People in the entertainment industry couldn’t tell the difference between a real soldier and an ordinary person. They probably just thought Zhou Mumu’s “persona had changed,” some kind of contrast marketing.
“I understand. I’ll investigate right away.” Qin Zhou hurried out of the office.
After the door closed, Ji Huaizhou picked up his phone again and opened the live broadcast page of Seven Days in the Wild.
It was 9 p.m., and the broadcast was still ongoing. Ten split screens showed the conditions of different campsites: some were cooking, some chatting, some already preparing to rest.
He found Zhou Chaochao’s screen.
In the frame, the campfire was still burning. Zheng Kai had already gone into the tent to rest. Zhou Chaochao sat alone by the fire, holding a stick and drawing something on the ground.
The camera zoomed in. Ji Huaizhou saw clearly—she was drawing a topographic map.
Using the stick, she sketched contour lines in the dirt, marking water sources, campsites, and potential danger zones. The technique was professional, not something learned on the spot.
The comments were still arguing:
“What’s she pretending to draw?”
“I think she actually knows what she’s doing…”
“Script! Definitely scripted!”
“Haven’t you noticed? She barely spoke all day, but everything she did was professional…”
Ji Huaizhou turned off the comments and focused on the girl on the screen.
The firelight flickered across her face, casting shifting shadows. Her profile was clean and sharp, with no unnecessary expression. Occasionally, she glanced into the dark forest, her eyes alert like a nocturnal leopard.
This “Zhou Mumu”…
was truly interesting.
Ji Huaizhou thought of the real Zhou Mumu in the hospital, of the phone that had only two contacts, of the manager saying “she’s a good child.”
If Zhou Mumu had truly been wronged, then this sister who replaced her on the show was likely not just here to “clear her name.”
She was here… to settle accounts.
A faint smile curved Ji Huaizhou’s lips.
He suddenly looked forward to the third day—looked forward to seeing this “Zhou Mumu” in person, to finding out what she really intended to do.
His phone vibrated. It was a message from Qin Zhou:
“Found something. Zhou Chaochao’s unit is highly classified, but it’s confirmed to be a special operations brigade. Also, Xingyao Entertainment… Wang Qiang urgently handled several financial accounts this afternoon, like he’s covering things up. And Lin Weiwei’s team is contacting paid posters to smear Zhou Mumu during the show.”
Ji Huaizhou replied:
“Understood. Keep watching.”
He put down his phone and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside was the bustling nightscape—traffic flowing endlessly, neon lights flashing. The city was always glamorous, always noisy, always filled with new stories unfolding.
And at this very moment, in a primitive forest thousands of miles away, a special forces sister was fighting a silent war for her younger sister.
Ji Huaizhou suddenly felt that this drama was more exciting than any script.
He turned back to his desk, opened his computer, and began searching for recordings of the first two days of Seven Days in the Wild.
He wanted to take a good look at just how many skills this “Zhou Mumu” was hiding.
At the same time, in the Yunnan rainforest.
Zhou Chaochao finished drawing the final stroke of the map and smoothed it out with her foot.
She looked up toward the Red Team’s campsite—their campfire was still lit, and Lin Weiwei and Zhao Lei were still talking, their laughter faintly drifting over.
All day, Lin Weiwei had been deliberately approaching Zheng Kai, subtly implying that “Zhou Mumu was hard to get along with.” Although Zheng Kai hadn’t explicitly taken a stance, his attitude had clearly wavered.
Zhou Chaochao didn’t care.
She had never expected to cooperate with Zheng Kai. In fact, acting alone was more convenient.
What she needed was only the identity of “Zhou Mumu,” and this broadcast.
The camera was a tribunal.
And she was the executor.
Zhou Chaochao took out a small notebook from her backpack—it was something she had brought from the military. The cover bore no markings, and inside, information was recorded in code.
She flipped to one page. Several names were written on it:
Lin Weiwei (Mastermind)Wang Qiang (Executor)Assistant Director Liu (Video Editing)Journalist Zhang (Press Releases)…
Behind each name were notes on the type of evidence and its location.
These were all things the military had investigated while she was unconscious. The USB drive given to her by the Political Commissar contained not only Wang Qiang’s dirt, but also information on these people.
Zhou Chaochao stared at the name “Lin Weiwei,” her eyes turning cold.
In her dreams, Mumu had been driven to desperation by this woman.
In her dreams, this woman had built her public image on Mumu’s suffering, basking in applause and flowers.
In her dreams, when Mumu leapt from a high building, this woman had been on stage accepting the “Most Influential Actress of the Year” award.
Zhou Chaochao closed the notebook and put it back into her backpack.
No rush.
This was only the first day.
She had plenty of time to make these people… pay, one by one.