At ten o’clock the next morning, the official Weibo account of the show released a three-thousand-word statement titled “Investigation and Apology Regarding the ‘Seven Days in the Wild’ Wild Boar Incident.”
The statement detailed the “incident”: a temporary assistant named Liu (who had already been dismissed) harbored personal grievances against guest Zhou Mumu, secretly accepted money from unidentified individuals, and exploited his position to smuggle a wild boar from a breeding farm into the filming area, intending to create panic.
The show immediately launched an internal investigation after the incident. The involved personnel had been handed over to the police, and the production promised full cooperation with subsequent proceedings.
The statement concluded with a solemn apology to Zhou Mumu, a promise to strengthen safety measures, and the announcement of a new position, “Guest Safety Supervisor,” to be elected by viewers to participate in oversight during future filming.
The announcement caused a public uproar.
“Temporary worker takes the fall? Old trick.”“But still, Zhou Mumu is amazing.”“At least the show seems sincere; they didn’t shirk responsibility.”“What was that temp thinking? Are Zhou Mumu’s fans really that rich?”“I feel there’s more to it…”“Waiting for the twist.”
Despite lingering skepticism, most viewers accepted the explanation. After all, “extreme fan behavior” was not uncommon in the entertainment industry, and the production’s decisive handling won some goodwill.
Most importantly—Zhou Mumu herself had yet to make a statement.
All eyes were on her.
At two in the afternoon, Li Jingye avoided all cameras and arranged to meet Zhou Chaochao at a secluded clearing outside the campsite.
Here, far from the filming area, only birdsong and the wind could be heard.
“Teacher Zhou, please sit.” Li Jingye gestured to a fallen log and took a seat at the other end.
Zhou Chaochao sat opposite him, back straight, hands resting naturally on her knees, a textbook military posture. She said nothing, simply watching him calmly.
Li Jingye inhaled deeply and spoke plainly: “Teacher Zhou, first, on behalf of the show, I sincerely apologize again. This wild boar incident was a major failure of our production and seriously endangered your personal safety. As the chief director, I take full responsibility.”
He bowed deeply, his movements precise, his sincerity evident.
Zhou Chaochao remained standing. Only after he rose did she speak calmly: “Director Li, there’s no need for that. What’s done is done; words won’t change anything.”
“Yes, they won’t,” Li Jingye said with a bitter smile. “But I have to speak. What I’m about to say may make you think I’m even more hypocritical.”
He took another deep breath and met her gaze: “Most of what was written in that statement is false. Liu, the temp, did take the fall, but he didn’t receive money from fans. The real people trying to harm you were from Xingyao Entertainment. They bribed our assistant director, Zhang Cheng.”
Zhou Chaochao’s eyes flickered slightly but she did not interrupt.
“Zhang Cheng has a daughter with a rare disease requiring an extremely expensive treatment. Xingyao’s Wang Qiang used this to pressure him into acting against you on the show,” Li Jingye said gravely. “I knew this but couldn’t stop it. By the time I realized, the boar had already been released. That is my failure, and I admit it.”
He paused, his voice dropping lower: “But I didn’t come here today to shirk responsibility, nor to beg for your forgiveness. I came to discuss a… deal.”
“A deal?” Zhou Chaochao raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Li Jingye nodded, his eyes steady. “Teacher Zhou—or should I call you Ms. Zhou Chaochao?”
The air stiffened instantly.
Zhou Chaochao’s gaze sharpened, her body tensing—a soldier’s instinctive alertness.
Li Jingye felt the invisible pressure but did not retreat. Instead, he stepped forward slightly and lowered his voice: “Don’t be tense. I mean no harm. I just… want to confirm a few things.”
He paused, then continued: “I’ve researched Zhou Mumu. She signed with Xingyao in her sophomore year and has been in the entertainment industry for seven years. She has no experience in ‘mountain life’ or ‘wilderness training.’ But your sister—Zhou Chaochao—you are a military academy graduate, an active-duty soldier. If counted from enrollment, your service length is exactly eight years.”
“The day Zhou Mumu had her accident, your unit hospital happened to have a soldier with the same name regain consciousness. Too much of a coincidence,” Li Jingye said, meeting her eyes with certainty. “Also, my eyes have been in the entertainment circle for twenty-three years. I can tell the difference between performed calmness and innate composure. Your demeanor, your gaze, your way of acting—this is not something a performer should possess.”
He concluded: “You are a soldier—or at least, you were. Am I correct, Ms. Zhou?”
Silence.
A long, tense minute passed.
The wind rustled through the trees, distant guests laughed and chatted, making the clearing eerily quiet.
Finally, Zhou Chaochao spoke, her voice calm: “Director Li, you’ve investigated thoroughly.”
No admission, no denial.
But her words alone were an acknowledgment.
Li Jingye exhaled, knowing he had guessed correctly.
“I can also guess why you came on this show,” he continued earnestly. “Your sister was framed, blackened across the web, seriously injured, and the company forced her to appear. As her sister, you couldn’t stand it, so you came instead. You want to confront those who harmed her on camera. Am I right?”
Zhou Chaochao looked at him, eyes deep: “So? What do you want to say, Director Li?”
“I want to say—” Li Jingye enunciated each word carefully, “I can help you.”
Zhou Chaochao narrowed her eyes slightly.
“Not charity, not sympathy, but collaboration,” Li Jingye clarified. “The wild boar incident has pushed our show to the edge. If we can’t resolve this properly, the show will fail, and so will my twenty-plus-year reputation. You, however, need this stage, these shots, public attention.”
He stepped forward, voice lowered: “I can guarantee that from today onward, no one in the production will act against you. All footage will be recorded fairly. All segments will be conducted fairly. Whatever you wish to do or say—so long as it’s legal and doesn’t endanger others—the production will cooperate.”
Zhou Chaochao paused, then asked, “What are the conditions?”
“Two conditions,” Li Jingye held up two fingers. “First, during today’s premiere, you need to state that you ‘accept the show’s apology,’ say a few positive words, and calm public opinion. Not to lie, but to give the show a breathing space.”
“Second,” he lowered one finger, “you must achieve your goals within the show in a legal and compliant manner. I can provide assistance—arranging private moments with Lin Weiwei, or granting longer speaking time when appropriate. But I need your promise: no violence, no illegal actions.”
He looked at Zhou Chaochao, his gaze sincere and complex: “Ms. Zhou, I know your means and your background. But this is the entertainment industry, in the public eye. Doing something extreme benefits no one. Your sister will continue in this industry—you wouldn’t want her to live forever in the shadow of ‘sister takes extreme revenge,’ right?”
Zhou Chaochao said nothing.
She considered it.
Li Jingye’s reasoning made sense.
She could indeed deploy extreme methods to remove Lin Weiwei and the others silently. But what about Mumu? She still needed to act and live in this industry.
And… the Political Commissar’s instructions were also to “solve problems within the rules.”
“Director Li,” she finally said, “how do I know you’re not setting another trap?”
“Because I have no reason to,” Li Jingye smiled wryly. “Ms. Zhou, you may not know, but the wild boar incident has drawn attention from above. The National Radio and Television Administration, the Ministry of Culture and Tourism, even… the military, are all watching. If I dared act against you again, my career—and possibly my safety—would be at risk.”
He paused, adding: “I, Li Jingye, have been in this industry for twenty-three years and have never harmed an artist. That is my bottom line. Zhang Cheng’s affair was my oversight, I admit. But from now on, I personally supervise this show. You may trust me or not, but at least give me a chance to prove it.”
Another long silence.
Zhou Chaochao studied Li Jingye—a man in his fifties, tired, resigned, yet honest and open.
She recalled the message from the Political Commissar last night: “Chief Director Li Jingye, reputation acceptable, no bad record. Contact at discretion.”
“Alright,” Zhou Chaochao finally nodded. “I agree. But on a few conditions.”
“Please state them.”
“First, I want the production to disclose all hidden camera live feeds, including those that were incidentally left on. Not now, but whenever I require it.”
“Agreed,” Li Jingye nodded, “though technically it requires preparation; give me a day.”
“Second, if Lin Weiwei or Xingyao personnel attempt any underhanded moves, I want immediate notification with evidence preserved.”
“No problem.”
“Third,” Zhou Chaochao fixed her gaze on him, “I want your guarantee that the premiere broadcast signal will not be cut under any circumstance. Even if the sky falls, it must air until the last second.”
Li Jingye froze, then understood.
She intended to make a major move on camera.
A move witnessed by all viewers.
“…Alright,” he solemnly promised, “I guarantee, based on my twenty-three-year career, that barring technical faults or force majeure, the premiere will not be interrupted.”
“Deal.” Zhou Chaochao extended her hand.
Li Jingye shook it. Her hand was strong, dry, with thick calluses—marks of years holding weapons and tools.
“Also,” Zhou Chaochao added, “I want my identity kept secret from the show.”
“Of course,” Li Jingye nodded. “To me, you are Zhou Mumu. What the audience guesses is their business.”
The two reached an unspoken understanding.
“Tonight’s premiere, I will follow your instructions,” Zhou Chaochao turned to leave, paused after a few steps, and looked back: “Director Li, thank you.”
Li Jingye froze.
Zhou Chaochao’s eyes held a complex emotion: “Thank you… for still believing there are reasonable people in this industry.”
She turned and walked away, her posture as upright as a pine.
Li Jingye stood, watching her disappear, and after a long while, sighed softly.
“It’s not that I’m reasonable,” he murmured, “it’s that people like her… make you have to be reasonable.”
At seven that evening, the premiere resumed.
Zhang Yan hosted a special segment: “Incident Explanation and Reflection.”
When the camera focused on Zhou Chaochao, she sat calmly by the fire. Zhang Yan handed her the microphone: “Teacher Zhou, regarding today’s incident, would you like to say anything?”
All cameras fixed on her.
The live audience for the premiere exceeded thirty million, everyone waiting for her reaction.
Zhou Chaochao took the microphone, paused for a few seconds, then spoke slowly:
“First, I thank the production for quickly investigating after the incident and providing a resolution. Although the process was dangerous, no one was harmed in the end, which is fortunate in misfortune.”
Her voice was steady, her wording precise: “As for the temporary assistant, I understand everyone has their difficulties, but solving problems this way was wrong. I hope he can find the right path in the future.”
She paused, looking into the camera seriously: “As for the production, I accept your apology. But I also hope this is the first and last time. The safety of all guests must always come first.”
Finally, she said something that surprised everyone:
“‘Seven Days in the Wild’ is a great show. It shows us the smallness of humans in nature and the resilience of humans in adversity. I hope the show continues and does even better. Because… real challenges, real humanity, are worth recording and witnessing.”
As her words ended, the comment stream exploded:
“Zhou Mumu is amazing!”“She’s even speaking for the show…”“Seriously, I’m crying!”“So composed and dignified!”“Fan for life!”“Production, focus on making the show properly; no more disasters.”
In the backstage control room, Li Jingye watched the screen and exhaled deeply.
He picked up the walkie-talkie: “Inform the technical team to open live feeds for hidden cameras 3, 7, and 12 as planned. Also…”
He paused, voice low and firm: “From now on, all footage of Zhou Mumu will be personally reviewed by me. Anyone dares touch a frame, they’re out.”
“Yes!”
Outside the tent, the night deepened.
Zhou Chaochao returned to her spot by the fire, picking up her sharpening stone.
The metallic scraping echoed in the night—steady, resolute.
She knew the first act of this performance was complete.
Next came the second act.
And the protagonist of the second act would no longer be the victim.
It would be…
The hunter.