At six in the evening, the temporary command tent of the production team was heavy with tension, thick enough to squeeze water from the air.
Chief Director Li Jingye, in his fifties, had a square face, thick eyebrows, and over twenty years of experience. Known for his meticulousness and seriousness, he had earned the nickname “Iron-Faced Director” in the outdoor reality show circle. Yet at this moment, his usually composed demeanor cracked: his temples throbbed violently as he glared at the tablet screen, eyes practically shooting fire.
On the screen, the hashtag #WildernessSevenDaysWildBoarIncident# had surged to second place on trending searches, accompanied by the glaring word “Explosion” in bold. The discussion volume had exceeded eighty million in real time.
Even more glaring were the follow-up hashtags: #ProductionTeamSafetyNegligence# and #ThoroughInvestigationWildernessSevenDays#, with public opinion overwhelmingly condemning the production team.
“Director Li, the Forestry Bureau is on the line…” an assistant carefully entered, holding a satellite phone.
Li Jingye waved his hand, voice hoarse: “Tell them we are conducting an emergency investigation. We will give a formal response tomorrow morning.”
After the assistant left, Li Jingye lifted his head, his gaze cutting through the tent like a knife, finally fixing on Assistant Director Zhang Cheng. Zhang Cheng, in his early thirties, normally slick and worldly, now looked pale, sweat beading across his forehead, eyes darting evasively.
“Zhang Cheng,” Li Jingye’s voice was low but every word carried suppressed fury, “explain to me—how did that wild boar with the ear tag ‘Yunling Breeding Farm 0387’ manage to appear in the Hunting Zone our production team had cordoned off? And why did it ‘just happen’ to appear in the Thorn Bush Area drawn by Zhou Mumu?”
Zhang Cheng swallowed, voice dry: “Director Li… this… it must have been a mistake in some link… maybe the Breeding Farm didn’t manage it well, and the boar escaped into our restricted area…”
“‘Escaped’?” Li Jingye scoffed, anger rising in his tone, “From a breeding farm thirty kilometers away from the reserve, and it ‘escaped’ into an area our team cleared three days in advance, with three layers of cordon and twenty-four-hour patrols? And it ‘just so happened’ to appear less than half an hour after Zhou Mumu entered?”
He stood, his one-meter-eight frame exuding immense pressure, forcing Zhang Cheng to instinctively step back.
“Zhang Cheng, I’ve been in this circle for twenty-three years,” Li Jingye said, each word deliberate, “what small tricks haven’t I seen? Favoritism, malicious editing, scripted plots, hype… as long as no one dies and it doesn’t fundamentally affect the program, I sometimes turn a blind eye. After all, in this industry, water too clear yields no fish.”
He shifted his tone sharply, raising his voice: “But! Doing something that could get someone killed on my program?! Who gave you the guts?! Do you really think the audience are fools? That the regulatory authorities are just decoration?!”
The rest of the staff fell silent, heads down, wishing to vanish into the floor.
Zhang Cheng’s shirt collar was soaked in cold sweat; he struggled to speak: “Director Li, I… I really don’t know what happened, I…”
“You don’t know?” Li Jingye interrupted, pulling a recorder from his pocket and pressing play.
Clear dialogue echoed in the tent:
“Director Zhang, where should it go?”
“North area, the innermost Thorn Bush Area. Remember to handle the ear tag, leave no trace.”
“Director Zhang, that’s a two-hundred-pound semi-wild boar, extremely aggressive. What if it actually hurts someone…”
“Put it where I said! Stop with the nonsense! If anything happens, someone else covers it! Don’t want the money?”
The recording ended.
Zhang Cheng went completely pale, lips trembling, unable to utter a word.
Li Jingye turned off the recorder, eyes icy as a Siberian winter: “This was secretly recorded by Xiao Liu from the logistics team this morning. He worried someone might die and leave him responsible, so he kept a safeguard. Zhang Cheng, and you still want to tell me you didn’t know?”
“Director Li, I…” Zhang Cheng’s legs went weak, almost collapsing.
“I don’t care who you took money from privately, or what deals you made,” Li Jingye said, sitting back, rubbing his forehead in exhaustion, his voice full of disappointment. “But you cannot cause trouble on my program.
Now, the whole internet is watching. Twelve sponsors are calling to ask about the situation, the Forestry Bureau, the Tourism Bureau, and the broadcasting department are all monitoring. By midnight tonight, you must give me a reasonable explanation that can satisfy everyone, calm the audience, and pull the show back from the edge of disaster.”
He paused, emphasizing each word like a nail driven into Zhang Cheng’s heart: “And Zhou Mumu—no one in this production team is allowed to touch a hair on her head from now on. Anyone who dares pull tricks, I’ll be the first to make them leave this industry!”
Zhang Cheng looked up sharply: “But Director Li, Xingyao over there—”
“Xingyao what Xingyao!” Li Jingye snapped, slamming his palm on the table, rattling the cups, “Zhang Cheng! Haven’t you realized?! This Zhou Mumu—no matter who she really is—has now become the program’s biggest traffic magnet! The most compelling part of the show!”
He pointed to the split-screen on the tablet showing Zhou Mumu—sitting calmly by the campfire, sharpening a knife, her face illuminated by flickering firelight, exuding an almost unbelievable calm.
“Look at her skills today—is that an artist’s skills? Even martial arts coaches aren’t that good!” Li Jingye’s tone grew complex, “catching poisonous snakes barehanded, calm! Facing wild boars, even calmer! The whole internet is cursing the production team, and she’s still calm! Zhang Cheng, you’ve been in this industry over a decade—have you ever seen such an artist? A twenty-three-year-old girl have this level of psychological quality?!”
Zhang Cheng remained silent, fingers clenching tightly under the table.
“This Zhou Mumu is no ordinary artist,” Li Jingye said, lowering his voice, leaning forward,
“I checked with a few old friends this afternoon. She’s professionally trained, seven years into her career with almost no negative reviews. Though she only plays minor roles, her acting is solid.
Her family situation? She’s an orphan, but she has an eight-year-serving military sister, do you know that? A person like this either has a backer we can’t touch, or she herself is the backer.”
He stared at Zhang Cheng, word by word, like a final warning: “I don’t care what promises Xingyao made to you, or what leverage you hold. I warn you, do not touch Zhou Mumu again. If you die, don’t drag the whole production team down with you! Don’t start a fire that burns yourself, the show, and everyone to ashes!”
Finishing, Li Jingye picked up his coat and strode out of the tent. At the entrance, he stopped, leaving without looking back:
“By midnight, I want a PR plan that will calm public opinion. Otherwise, Assistant Director, pack up and leave tomorrow!”
The tent flap fell with a swish; footsteps receded heavily.
The tent was deathly silent.
Staff members exchanged glances, none daring to speak, and quietly slipped out, leaving Zhang Cheng alone.
He slumped in the folding chair, hands covering his face, shoulders shaking violently—not from fear, but despair.
Li Jingye was right. How could he not see that Zhou Mumu was extraordinary? From her professional navigation for water sources on the first day, her precise tent setup, her calm eyes when catching snakes barehanded, to the near-cold composure in dealing with the wild boar today—this was no minor artist’s behavior.
This was clearly… the state of someone who had faced life-and-death trials.
But…
Trembling, Zhang Cheng took his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up—wallpaper: his ten-year-old daughter Niuniu, sitting on a hospital bed, trying to smile at the camera. A nasogastric tube in place, her body thin as bones.
Opening the encrypted album, he saw countless medical records: Spinal Muscular Atrophy (SMA), a rare disease requiring astronomical-cost special medicine to sustain life. One injection of Nusinersen sodium: seven hundred thousand yuan. Six injections a year.
Three months ago, Xingyao Entertainment’s talent director Wang Qiang approached him with a thick envelope.
“Director Zhang, a small token,” Wang Qiang smiled warmly. “I heard your daughter needs this special medicine? I have connections in the U.S., can help arrange the latest gene therapy, effective in one injection, lifelong.”
Zhang Cheng was immediately wary: “Boss Wang, what do you mean?”
“No meaning, just making friends with Director Zhang.” Wang Qiang pushed the envelope. “On the program, ‘look after’ Weiwei a bit, and ‘take care’ of Zhou Mumu. Small matters.”
Zhang Cheng refused. He didn’t need the money, and he didn’t want to harm anyone.
The next day, the hospital called: the half-year-long queue for the special medicine assistance, finally secured, was rejected for “noncompliance with the latest approval standards.”
Wang Qiang called: “Director Zhang, decided yet? I can ‘accelerate’ the approval process for the medicine.”
Zhang Cheng, holding recordings of his daughter crying in pain all night, sat in the hospital corridor until dawn.
The next day, he called Wang Qiang, hoarse voice: “I agree.”
He thought it would only involve harmless small actions—giving Lin Weiwei a few extra close-ups in editing, giving her easier tasks, maybe letting Zhou Mumu embarrass herself in the show, receiving a few audience criticisms of “showing off” or “pretentious.”
He didn’t expect Wang Qiang wanted Zhou Mumu dead.
He didn’t expect Zhou Mumu could not be controlled like a pawn.
“Daddy…”
His phone vibrated: a voice message from his wife. He played it—his daughter’s weak voice: “Daddy, when will you come home? Niuniu is hurting today… the nurse said the new medicine is almost here, is it true?”
Listening to his daughter, Zhang Cheng’s tears fell.
He wiped his face, took a deep breath, eyes resolute and merciless. He picked up another backup phone and dialed Wang Qiang.
After over ten rings, Wang Qiang answered lazily, background filled with noisy karaoke singing and women’s laughter.
“Director Zhang, what’s the matter so late?” Wang Qiang slurred, impatient.
“Boss Wang, the plan failed,” Zhang Cheng ground out through clenched teeth, “the wild boar incident was discovered, the whole internet is cursing. Director Li is furious, wants my explanation by midnight, or I’m out!”
Silence on the other end, music stopped, then Wang Qiang’s voice, now clearer: “Failed? Was Zhou Mumu injured?”
“No!” Zhang Cheng hissed, nearly shouting, “She manually incapacitated the wild boar! Dragging it back to the campsite! The whole internet praises her, curses the production team for negligence!”
“What?!” Wang Qiang shouted, “Manually incapacitated a wild boar? Zhang Cheng, are you joking?!”
“Do I have reason to joke?!” Zhang Cheng lost control, “The live broadcast is all over the internet! Three trending searches! Boss Wang, your move was too extreme! Someone could have died! What do we do now?!”
Long silence. Zhang Cheng thought the line had dropped.
Then Wang Qiang’s cold voice came: “Why panic? It’s an accident. Breeding Farm mismanaged, the boar escaped into the filming area. Simple.”
“Simple?!” Zhang Cheng trembled with anger. “Zhou Mumu even photographed the ear tag! Everyone knows it’s a Breeding Farm boar! Who will believe this?”
“Then find a scapegoat,” Wang Qiang said lightly. “A Breeding Farm temp misloaded a pig meant for slaughter, accidentally sent it to the reserve. The production team is a victim, actively pursuing accountability.”
Zhang Cheng almost shouted: “Boss Wang! It’s a two-hundred-pound living wild boar! Not a prop box! How can it be ‘mis-sent’? The audience aren’t fools!”
“What do you suggest then?” Wang Qiang’s voice turned cold. “Director Zhang, don’t forget your daughter’s medicine. I’ve arranged it in the U.S., arriving next month. Do you want your daughter to continue in pain until muscle wasting, respiratory failure, or to stand like a normal child?”
Zhang Cheng’s throat tightened, unable to speak.
“Or,” Wang Qiang added slowly, “you can say a Zhou Mumu hater bribed a temp to release the boar to scare her out of the show. Makes more sense, doesn’t it?”
Zhang Cheng froze.
Hater?
Bribing a temp?
That… could work. Extreme fan behavior was not unheard of in entertainment, similar cases existed.
“But…” Zhang Cheng hesitated, “then a temp takes the fall, evidence of a fan conspiracy must be faked…”
“Do it,” Wang Qiang snapped impatiently. “Two options: follow my plan, temp takes the fall, fan bribery story; your daughter’s medicine arrives next month. Or tell Li Jingye the truth—see whether you or I go down first.”
He paused, voice dripping threat: “By the way, I have multiple copies of the surveillance footage showing you taking that fifty thousand cash. I also have shares in the private hospital your daughter is in. Director Zhang, smart men know what to choose.”
Call ended.
The tent echoed with empty silence.
Zhang Cheng held his phone, hands trembling so much he could barely grip it. Head down, shoulders heaving, tears dropped onto his pants.
After a long time, he raised his head, the last trace of struggle gone, leaving only numb ruthlessness.
He pressed the walkie-talkie: “Logistics team, get Xiao Liu to my tent. Immediately.”
Five minutes later, Xiao Liu nervously entered the tent. The young man, barely in his twenties, was a temporary on-site assistant—diligent, honest, but poor, with ill parents in the countryside relying on his wages.
“Director Zhang, you called?” Xiao Liu asked cautiously.
Zhang Cheng had composed himself, even forcing a small smile: “Xiao Liu, sit.”
Trembling, Xiao Liu perched on the folding chair with half his weight.
“The recording this morning… you did the right thing,” Zhang Cheng said earnestly, “the production team needs responsible employees like you, who dare to expose problems. Director Li praised you.”
Xiao Liu blinked, surprised by the start, slightly relieved: “It’s nothing, Director Zhang, I was just worried about accidents…”
“But, Xiao Liu,” Zhang Cheng shifted, leaning forward, lowering his voice, “some things can’t be judged by appearances. Do you know your recording almost destroyed this show, ruined everyone’s livelihood?”
Xiao Liu paled: “Director Zhang, I—”
“Don’t panic.” Zhang Cheng waved, pulling a thick envelope from the drawer, pushing it toward Xiao Liu: “Fifty thousand yuan. Take it.”
Xiao Liu stared, eyes wide—his monthly wage was six thousand. This was more than half a year’s pay.
“Director Zhang, this…?”
“This is compensation, and an opportunity,” Zhang Cheng said, eyes both enticing and commanding. “Xiao Liu, let me be clear. The wild boar incident needs someone to take responsibility. Say it was your work error—you took money from Zhou Mumu haters, secretly brought in the Breeding Farm boar, trying to scare her out of the show.”
Xiao Liu jumped up, face pale: “Director Zhang! I didn’t do that! This is slander! I—”
“Sit,” Zhang Cheng’s voice turned cold, “listen to me first.”
Xiao Liu froze, legs trembling.
“First, this fifty thousand is a deposit. After it’s done, another hundred thousand. One hundred fifty thousand total—enough to build a new house for your parents. Second, you won’t actually go to jail. Just a work error, maybe a few days detention, a fine. The production team will hire the best lawyer, and publicly it will be said as ‘temporary worker’s personal act,’ unrelated to the team.”
He paused…