The director called him downstairs, holding six cards in his hand.
These six cards detailed the “supplies” they would need to use today, but they weren’t handed out one per person; instead, they had to rely on a draw to determine who would receive what.
Chu Minghe asked, “What do I need to do?”
The director just smiled as he looked at him. “Remember the scoreboard I brought before recording started?”
That small points scoreboard Chu Minghe remembered it, but since it hadn’t shown up again afterward, they had all practically forgotten about its existence.
The director stated, “You have the highest points.”
“How many points do I have?” The director was full of mischievous tricks, making it impossible for Chu Minghe not to be cautious.
“Three points.”
That was indeed within a reasonable range; it didn’t look like an intentional attempt to make things difficult for him.
Seeing that he didn’t raise any objections, the director first introduced their schedule for the day, which was quite straightforward.
“There’s a mountain nearby. It’s not high if we set out at eight, we can reach it by nine.”
“Can we reach the summit?” That certainly meant it wasn’t very high.
Yet he had still simplified things too much. After a brief pause, the director explained, “We can reach the foot of the mountain; climbing up will take about half a morning.”
…
That also fell within a reasonable range. Half a morning was equivalent to starting the climb from nighttime until dawn just to watch the sunrise, though the morning time slot the director picked for their mountain climb felt a bit peculiar.
Sensing his thoughts, the director explained, “There’s a chance to see the sunrise and a chance to see the sunset. We can’t let you lose out while recording the show.”
Indeed, they wouldn’t lose out just like how the ferret on the very first night had been lured right over by them.
The director continued, “You have the highest points, so you hold the distribution rights with back-end operating authority over the supply cards.”
“…”
Chu Minghe glanced at the cameraman brother following right behind the director; even the cameraman broke into a smile.
Was this truly not a rigged setup or a prank? Handing over such an offensive-heavy privilege to him just because his points were high it had to be said that the director really knew how to produce a show.
Keeping his rationality intact without even bothering to ask how those points had been calculated, he took the cards and asked only one question: “Arbitrary distribution?”
“Arbitrary distribution.”
“Are there only these six cards?”
A wicked, mischievous smile spread across the director’s face as he answered, “Pending.”
…
When Zhao Xingjian came downstairs, he happened to see Chu Minghe talking with the director about something. The moment he appeared, the director clamped his mouth shut.
Sensing something fishy, Zhao Xingjian descended the stairs just as the others were stepping out of their rooms, making it impossible to ask further questions. He simply walked over and stood beside Chu Minghe for a moment, noticing that he was still wearing his thin pajamas and telling him to go upstairs and change.
Once everyone finished breakfast, the director brought out his little card deck and began announcing the itinerary and plan for the entire day.
Shifting closer, Zhao Xingjian asked Chu Minghe, “What was that about earlier?”
Zhao Xingjian rarely took the initiative like this, and recently he had been doing it with increasing frequency. Chu Minghe suddenly felt this was a good sign.
Glancing over at the director, he whispered, “There are supplies for the mountain climb, and I get to distribute them however I want.”
“What do you want?”
Standing so close, Chu Minghe’s eyes shone brightly. Staring intently, Zhao Xingjian moved his lips and countered, “What options are there?”
“High-spec lunch, sun-protection set, direct cable car ride, sports shoes, military cotton-padded coat, and a camera.”
They were all mountain-climbing essentials. Zhao Xingjian was genuinely making a careful selection, and once he made up his mind, he replied, “The sun-protection set.”
“Impractical.”
That was the most impractical supply of all. The camera could be used for recording, while the rest met lower-level needs and served as their most basic current demands; he couldn’t understand why Zhao Xingjian had chosen such a set.
Yet when he asked a second time, Zhao Xingjian still refused to change his mind. With no other choice, he allocated that set to Zhao Xingjian, pondering over the rest: leaving the camera to Zhang Qing, the direct cable car ride to Zhang Congsheng, the high-spec lunch to Lin Dingshi, a pair of sports shoes to Zheng Yuan, while keeping a military cotton-padded coat for himself.
Before setting off, Chu Minghe even brought along the money they had earned from selling pomegranates just in case.
Fortunately, the production team acted decently this time, preparing a van for them and avoiding any dirty tricks along the way.
As one by one they crammed into the van, Chu Minghe climbed in last, pulled the door shut, turned around, and plopped right down onto Zhao Xingjian’s lap.
Soft.
Startled like a hedgehog whose quills had suddenly flared, Chu Minghe sprang straight back up, scaring the other passengers in the back seat so badly their eyes widened.
Waiting until Zhao Xingjian shifted over to the other side, he slowly sat back down and offered a soft apology: “I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Zhao Xingjian glanced at him without speaking, though he didn’t furrow his brows either.
He was already capable of using Zhao Xingjian’s facial expressions to gauge the level of irritation his own actions might have provoked in him.
The outcome this time was excellent: Zhao Xingjian merely gave him a look, which served as a tacit acceptance of his apology.
Yet Zhao Xingjian hadn’t registered a single word he had said; his brain was currently wired exclusively to his own thigh, concentrating on sensory input so intensely that he could even mentally replay and infinitely loop that tactile memory.
Completely oblivious, Chu Minghe simply tried to distance himself slightly from Zhao Xingjian, afraid of crowding President Zhao, who was used to riding in luxury vehicles all by himself.
Once the van cleared the paved cement road in front of the small villa, the path switched to an unpaved dirt road. Because of the recent rain, it was somewhat muddy, making the ride bumpy and unsteady with every single meter.
Sitting close to the car door, Chu Minghe swayed heavily with the vehicle’s jolts, his shoulders repeatedly crashing against the door with loud thuds. Pulled back from his reverie, Zhao Xingjian thought about speaking several times, but Chu Minghe kept pretending to look out the window.
With others present and cameras rolling, Zhao Xingjian leaned in closer, closed the distance, and asked, “Are you tired?”
Startled, Chu Minghe watched Zhao Xingjian lean slowly back before patting his own lap. “If you’re sleepy, rest your head on my lap. Stop banging against the door and forcing yourself through it.”
Gazing at Zhao Xingjian’s thigh, Chu Minghe thought to himself: As if I’d dare use this as a pillow. Yet he understood what Zhao Xingjian meant, raised his head, and refused, “Not tired.”
His tone carried a hint of tension. Just as he was contemplating shifting positions, a head suddenly wedged itself right between the two of them.
Reaching over the backs of their seats, Lin Dingshi peered at Chu Minghe with concern. “Did Minghe-ge not sleep well last night?”
Author’s Note:
The author is crying, I’ll just leave this short chapter here, alright?