Chapter 28: The Mind

“Yu Tu,” she said, her voice soft and sweet over the phone, “I’ve had the ring on all day—just clenched in my fist, face inward. And no one noticed… not even once.”

“Yu Tu,” she continued, giggling, “Ling Jie just video-called me today and said I look *radiant*. She asked if I’d been eating a ginseng fruit or something!”

“Tell her you ate Tang僧’s flesh,” he shot back. “Seriously, it’s true!”

“Yu Tu,” she sighed, “tomorrow’s scene has me playing the pipa. So I hung the ring from my necklace—now I can wear it every day without anyone seeing it in frame. Am I clever or what?”

“Yu Tu…”

Half an hour of that—her voice looping his name like a melody, warm and endless—he almost wanted to hop back on a plane and fly straight to Hengdian.

Only sheer sanity kept him grounded. As a normal human being, he’d already pushed the limits of what was physically possible.

But Ling Jie? She was Ling Jie. By the third day after the incident, she was already on-site, rushing in with purpose.

No schedule for the afternoon—tonight was night shoot.

“Jingjing,” she said, sipping the tea Xiao Zhu had poured, her posture sharp, cool, effortlessly commanding. “There’s something you’re not telling me, right?”

“Huh?” Jingjing blinked, eyes suddenly sparkling like stars. “Ling Jie—you *noticed*?!”

Oh, dear. Did this woman really misunderstand the power of a good agent?

“How did you catch me?” Jingjing leaned forward, eager. “Let me check—where did I mess up?”

“Every single thing,” Ling Jie replied flatly, pulling up a series of photos and clips Xiao Zhu had been sending daily. “Look at this—clenching your fist nonstop. That’s not your habit. It looks unnatural. And don’t think I’m the only one who sees it—your old fans *definitely* do.”

“And this ring? Looks like a plain band, sure—but zoom in. You think we can’t see through it?”

“And here? You actually dared to go on camera like this?”

“But I *discussed* it with the director!” Jingjing insisted. “The dynasty vibe of ‘a pair of silver rings’ is spot-on. He even said my idea was solid—Xiao Zhaojun was full of hope back then!”

She tried to defend herself: “Ling Jie, I swear, it didn’t affect my work at all…”

Defeated, she turned on Xiao Zhu. “And you! How could you be so slow? Just watching them flaunt it like that?”

“All these messes I have to clean up later…”

Xiao Zhu just stared at her, silently impressed.

Her acting skills were getting *better*.

After the scolding, Ling Jie and Xiao Zhu huddled together, peering closely as Jingjing slowly pulled the ring out from under her collar. The diamond caught the light, glinting against her skin, tracing the curve of her chest. Ling Jie paused—then snapped her fingers.

“Next time for that high-end ad campaign—use this angle. Perfect.”

The ring still warm from her body, glowing softly, rich and radiant.

Xiao Zhu’s jaw dropped. “Jingjing… that’s the *starlight* style you said you loved.”

Then he turned, stunned: “Sixty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine… Ling Jie…?”

Ling Jie froze. “Wait… was this… bought by *Teacher Yu*?”

“Honestly,” she muttered, “this is beyond imagination.”

Jingjing fought hard to keep her grin from breaking. “Yeah. That one.”

“He got the highest relocation allowance from Shanghai Aerospace—700,000 RMB,” she added casually.

Xiao Zhu’s eyes nearly popped out. “So… meaning…?”

She nodded again, smooth as silk. “Yep. He had exactly one yuan left after buying it. I even sent him a red packet—topped up his meal card, paid for coffee, the usual stuff…”

Ling Jie felt dizzy. “This Teacher Yu… he’s unbelievable.”

Jingjing waved a hand dismissively. “You just don’t get how scientists think.”

“Yu Tu said most top-tier STEM fields are similar—what they value most is accuracy, reliability. 99%? That’s ‘two nines.’ 99.9%? ‘Three nines.’ In aerospace, many systems need ‘five nines.’”

“Which means every single component must exceed ‘five nines’—it’s not just one part. It takes *hundreds* of specialized efforts, all hitting that mark.”

Xiao Zhu whipped out his phone, tapped the calculator. “So… Teacher Yu gave you ‘six nines’?”

“…”

Jingjing flopped back into her cushion, smug and triumphant. “Yu Tu said, ‘Science doesn’t do 100%.’ Every extra nine? The effort, time, money—it’s not ten times more. It’s exponential.”

“Fine. Point is—there’s no going higher.”

“This isn’t dog food. This is… science. Science… and unfortunately, it just reset to zero.”

The office fell quiet.

Then Dà Mèng walked in, clapped him on the shoulder. “Tonight’s on me. Whatever you want—pick the place.”

As the only woman on the team, Xiao Yin had final say. “Hot pot. Spicy. I need to burn off some heat.”

“You’re using poison to fight poison,” someone warned. “Just remember—no complaining when you break out.”

Last time, you wouldn’t shut up about it.

Dà Mèng cut in coldly.

It was early winter, but the steam from the hot pot filled the room like a sauna. Everyone warmed up, recharged—back to their usual resilient, indestructible selves.

Tomorrow? Back to zero. They’d done it a thousand times before.

On the drive back to Shanghai, Ling Jie thought of the first time she met Jingjing—years ago, a glimpse of a girl on a university campus, striking in her simplicity.

Step by step, that girl had walked through the chaos of fame with clarity and grace. Even she, jaded by the industry, found herself believing again—maybe there *were* people who held firm.

Even when capital chased quick profit, someone still stood by principle.

Clear-headed, she typed out a long message to both Jingjing and Xiao Zhu:

“First, continue subtly integrating into the work, distancing from real life—1-2-3…

Second, actively build a transition path—1-2-3…

Third, cultivate a high-end circle—ads, endorsements, etc.—1-2-3…

Fourth, keep romance low-key (Miss Qiao, self-discipline required), including monitoring trending topics…”

Miss Qiao replied instantly: “Ling Jie, you’re my *worm*—no, wait, my soulmate. My mentor. My best friend.”

With the Han Palace scenes wrapped, Zhaojun began her journey westward—into the frontier.

The next stop for the crew? The desert.

Jingjing exhaled deeply. Sure, she’d be sharing the same Gobi Desert as Yu Tu’s lab. Mentally, it helped—some sense of connection.

But it didn’t fix her terrible sense of direction.

Likewise, love and career couldn’t cure a celebrity’s deep-seated fear of dehydration—yes, *the* dreaded “dry-skin syndrome.”