Wang Zixin put on a shocked expression and glanced at her manager down in the audience.
This kind of question was the shippers’ dream come true, and the live chat exploded instantly with messages from her fans.
After a moment, Wang Zixin gave an awkward smile, licked her lips, and withdrew her gaze with perfect poise. “Wow, Teacher Yu and I were already good friends to begin with. It’s all just normal work stuff, and I never thought about keeping up the hype or doing fan service or anything. Sometimes I just reply on impulse—no planning like ‘interact today, interact tomorrow’ or whatever. Everyone, please don’t overthink it.”
Her response was pitch-perfect.
To the solo fans, it sounded like a clean break: “normal work” and “don’t overthink it” rang out loud and clear.
To the shippers, it was subtle lovey-dovey bait: “good friends,” “reply on impulse,” “no deliberate interactions”—straight from the source, like she was handing out candy herself. The ultimate industry trailblazer.
Either way, both the solo fans and the shippers were thrilled, heading home satisfied.
Next question.
Yao Shuang turned to Qin Zhao. “Ahem, Qin Zhao, netizens want to know: did Lin Li know you were coming on the show as a guest? Did she know you said on camera, ‘This one’s really my type’ behind her back?”
Qin Zhao covered his eyes with his right hand, pretending to beg for mercy.
Lin Li was Qin Zhao’s long-rumored girlfriend. The two had never confirmed or denied anything to the media, and dragging a decade-old scandal into the spotlight like this definitely made waves.
But Qin Zhao replied, “Lin Li and I are just colleagues. We’ve never dated. That’s my official statement today.”
The netizens slunk away disappointed, their enthusiasm deflated.
Yao Shuang nodded and quickly addressed her own question.
“Alright, the netizens have one for me too, and I can answer it in one sentence. I’ll go first, then Brother Qian—’Yao Shuang trends for overbooking shoots and pulling diva moves, getting dropped by investors multiple times. Rumor has it a big shot’s keeping you. True?’ Ha, you guys really go there. Fake. I’m the capital myself.”
Yao Shuang’s answer sparked a divided live chat:
Some posted 【Sis is so badass!!!】 and 【Love you, wifey!】;
Others zeroed in on the key points: 【She didn’t deny the overbooking or diva stuff!】
【She’s cashed in on all those flops. Of course she’s ‘capital’ now.】
The debate raged hot and heavy, but Yao Shuang ignored it all, bulldozing ahead. She cleared her throat and asked Qian Xingzhi:
“Qian Xingzhi, someone’s asking you this: that whole ‘I don’t love the world, and the world better not come near me’ vibe—is it real or fake? How many relationships have you had so far? Outside of acting, how many people have you held hands with, kissed, slept with? Pretty direct, huh? Come on, answer. No one’s getting off easy.”
Qian Xingzhi’s question was a mouthful, packed with question marks.
Especially for someone like him—a powerhouse actor who’d never aired his private life in any interview over a decade-plus career. This was his first time fielding personal questions.
He was at the top of his game yet incredibly low-key, with zero commercial gigs in the last three years and barely any public appearances. Even his wildest fans couldn’t complain, and casual viewers had no reason to hate.
Now, hit with such a pointed personal jab, all the squabbles about the other three stars ground to a halt—or rather, got buried under a fresh wave of spam.
The comment section was copy-paste central:
【Shove the mic in Qian Xingzhi’s mouth! I’m a classy melon-muncher, and I demand all the answers!】
【Shove the mic in Qian Xingzhi’s mouth! I’m a classy melon-muncher, and I demand all the answers!】
…
In the observation room.
Qian Xingzhi sat sprawled confidently in his seat, his strikingly handsome face lit perfectly by the camera.
Yet over these three hours in the center seat, he’d barely spoken—fewer than thirty words total. Now, cornered by this question, he had to answer whether he wanted to or not. After all, Qian Xingzhi was renowned for his professionalism. With the contract signed, there was no backing out.
And indeed, he honored it.
He glanced at the question, his well-shaped lips parting slightly, and delivered a concise reply: “One. One. One. One.”
Qian Xingzhi rattled off four “ones,” matching perfectly:
“How many people have you dated,”
“held hands with,”
“kissed,”
“slept with.”
The already scorching livestream flatlined the second he spoke.
Screens froze solid, the public chat filled only with endless question marks—no room for anything else. Weibo crashed outright, shoving all the afternoon’s hot topics aside as
One# shot to the top,
Qian Xingzhi hits four ones in a row—you playing cards or what?# rocketed up,
Qian Xingzhi dated one# exploded,
Is it the same person he held hands with, kissed, and slept with?# dominated.
The four topics slaughtered the charts.
The buzz was unprecedented.
Meanwhile, in the livestream, Qian Xingzhi crossed his long legs elegantly after answering and turned back to the tiny screen in the corner, gazing at Shen Li’s serene, aloof sleeping face.
Qian Xingzhi was utterly confident—
When the observation room’s “exes voting” channel opened, he’d be the first guest heading into the cabin.
About thirty minutes later.
The program group’s director scrambled to patch the obliterated servers and reconnect the stream.
This time, to keep things stable and avoid overheating from the celeb room frenzy, they held off on the star observers. Instead, they switched to the woods feed, showcasing the six hunters in action. Close-ups rolled in, highlighting each civilian guest’s traits.
But these six were in rough shape.
One and all, they were filthy and disheveled. After over an hour, their backpacks and baskets were still bone-empty.
No exaggeration.
In one hour and thirteen minutes of hustling, their total haul: one rabbit (0.3 kg) and one wild chicken (0.6 kg). Not even a full kilo combined!
Twilight crept in, and no one’s mood was great.
Yang Zhiqi and Jiang Nan teamed up. Used to calling the shots as bosses, they naturally took charge.
Over the hour, they’d haggled repeatedly with the staff.
Yang Zhiqi griped, “Your retractable panels are busted! You draw an animal on there, and that’s supposed to count? We hit the panel, and you say set it right? We barely aim for a second or two, and it snaps back? No real animal reacts that fast!”
Jiang Nan added, “I’ve done professional shooting training, so I know what I’m talking about. Your gunsights are way off—they’re tampered with. I can tell you that from an expert angle.”
Once the production team insisted their game elements had been tested and certified by pros with no issues whatsoever, the pair’s grudge against the crew only grew.
The follow cams steered clear of them, focusing on the women to avoid picking up any curses.
Among the women, fitness buff Li Weiwei held up okay physically, but Ke Jiujiu and Kris were struggling.
“My gosh! This gun’s freaking heavy. This game’s heckin’ tough.” Kris laid on the folksy charm with perfect inflection, trying to lighten the mood.
But Ke Jiujiu’s voice pierced high and shrill: “I can’t take it anymore! If I’d known it’d be like this, I should’ve given the spot to Sister Zhao! Waaah, my back’s breaking!”
Li Weiwei stepped up and grabbed her gun to help. “You okay? Want me to carry it?”
Ke Jiujiu sniffled gratefully. “Waaah, no need. You’re beat too. I’ll push through.”
“Give it here.”
Lin Xu, who’d stuck to the women’s heels rather than trail the two middle-aged guys, couldn’t pretend not to hear. He stepped up like a man should, taking Ke Jiujiu’s gun and slinging it over his other shoulder. Frowning at the hassle, he muttered, “Don’t come out next time if it’s like this. Everyone else has to babysit you.”
Ke Jiujiu beamed her pretty face, all sweet and grateful. “Thanks, bro! I knew you’d be the best to me~”
Li Weiwei rolled her eyes despite herself, checked her watch, and asked the crew, “How much longer till the woods close?”
The follow director replied, “Forty-five minutes.”
Li Weiwei nodded, scratched her mosquito-bitten legs—covered in welts—and said to Kris and Lin Xu, “This isn’t working. At this rate, none of us eats tonight. Should I head back?”
Kris blinked, her big expressive eyes full of confusion and exhaustion. “Head back?”
Ke Jiujiu, unburdened now, piped up loudly, “Huh? Sis, you must be wiped out. Heading back now means dinner, right?”
Li Weiwei shot her a look, annoyed. “First off, don’t ‘sis’ me every other word. You’re young now, but you’ll hit thirty-something someday too. Second, if you hadn’t snagged Shen Li’s application, he might’ve had a shot at this.”
Ke Jiujiu hadn’t expected that. She’d just tossed out “sis” casually—like she did with female coworkers or friends back home, and no one ever called her on it. But here, on camera, Li Weiwei was laying down the law with her “first” and “second,” drawing a line in the sand.
Ke Jiujiu’s nose stung, tears welling up.
She held them back with visible grievance, chin jutting out as she fired back: “First, it was just a slip—no malice. I won’t say it again if you don’t like it. Second, even if I took Shen Li’s form, I didn’t mean to block him. He filled it out super late, like he didn’t care. If he really wanted in, he’d have been first—he’s the one who bailed. And even if he’d made it, so what? A disabled guy’s not gonna outdo us, right?”
“—Ke Jiujiu, that’s enough!”
Lin Xu cut her off sharply, his tone stern.
Kris stared, dumbfounded, listening to it all. At that point, she tugged Ke Jiujiu’s sleeve, signaling the cameras were still rolling—don’t escalate.
Ke Jiujiu promptly collapsed onto Kris’s shoulder, sobbing “waaah.”
Li Weiwei, who’d watched the whole thing coolly, said nothing. She shouldered her own gun and turned to leave.
Kris called after her, concerned. “Hey! Weiwei! Where you going?”
Li Weiwei didn’t even glance back. “We’ve still got forty minutes. I’ll head back and hand my gun over to the shooting champion we left in the cabin.”
Kris hadn’t checked the time back then, and she had no clue who this shooting champion was that Li Weiwei meant. She shot a puzzled look at Lin Xu. “Shooting champion? … Yun Zhi?”
Lin Xu shook his head. “Shen Li.”
