Isn't this just garbage

No matter how many things were happening outside,

when Cao Cheng returned home, there was only one thing on his mind—tea.

If he felt slightly more tired, he’d go fishing.

His mindset had gradually shifted, sometimes without him even realizing it.

Perhaps it was the influence of The Carefree Chronicles of the Crouching Dragon.

Carefree—that was the essence.

Freedom.

When the body was at ease, the soul followed suit.

Many things didn’t need his attention, nor did he even need to intervene.

Take, for example, the battle for equity in Wanke Real Estate…

In the past, Young Master Cao would have jumped in to take a slice of the pie, aiming for a hefty profit—after all, we’re talking billions here.

Even if the real estate market slumped in the following years, just the dividends from his stake would have netted him billions.

But now…

Cao Cheng couldn’t be bothered to get involved.

He didn’t even waste a thought on such fleeting wealth.

Wouldn’t it be better to use that time to rest and cultivate his skills?

If one lived long enough, material wealth like gold and silver would eventually seem trivial.

Of course,

this mindset was only possible because Young Master Cao was already swimming in money. After several rounds of financial battles, he had consolidated his corporate strategy and financial resources across multiple dimensions.

Even if he did nothing now, the profits from his companies and partnerships alone would amount to astronomical figures every quarter.

The same went for Third Sister’s investments—her companies practically raked in money effortlessly every month, quarter, and year.

Compared to that, what Cao Cheng truly desired was still emotional value.

This was far more important than money.

It was his foundation.

His legacy.

Because, worst-case scenario, if the global market collapsed and every company fell, leaving Young Master Cao bankrupt and penniless…

As long as he had emotional value, he could rise again swiftly and reclaim his peak status.

That was the power and assurance it provided.

……

"Mmm~~ So comfortable."

Cao Cheng reclined on the lounge chair, savoring the autumn breeze and the gentle massage from delicate hands, his entire body relaxed as his energy circulated naturally.

It wasn’t just the physical ease that brought relief.

The internal cultivation flowing effortlessly within him added to the profound comfort.

"Young Master, does it feel good?"

"Not bad, but… are you a little distracted?" Cao Cheng cracked one eye open slightly, glancing at Lin Zhi, who stood beside him in a qipao.

After wrapping up filming, Lin Zhi and the others had returned with him.

Perhaps influenced by Fat Fairy’s antics, Cao Cheng had broken his usual restraint and ended up indulging with her.

But…

As always, once it happened, it happened. No promises were made.

Lin Zhi, ever sharp, didn’t push her luck or ask what her status was.

She remained exactly as she had been before, as if confident that Young Master Cao wouldn’t mistreat her.

Hearing his remark, Lin Zhi nodded. "I’ll be leaving soon to film this season of Great Detective. It’ll be a while before I see you again, Young Master. I’ll miss you."

Ugh—

That fake sweet tone.

She’s really letting loose, huh?

If not for the others nearby, Cao Cheng would’ve turned into a full-on little devil right then.

Wang Yue, standing nearby, shuddered and rubbed her arms, shooting Lin Zhi a disgusted look. What had this sister eaten to sound so cloying?

No wonder she was the favorite—all the best resources went to her.

Even the most captivating role in The Chronicles of Liang and Xie, the female strategist, went to Lin Zhi.

Meanwhile, Wang Yue? Nothing.

Sure, they had all been cast, but only as supporting roles—barely a step above extras—mostly for the experience.

Then there were the variety shows.

Great Detective was insanely popular… That show alone could sustain Lin Zhi for life.

Envy.

Wang Yue attempted her own saccharine tone. "Young Master~~~~~"

Her attempt at being cutesy fell flat.

It just sounded gross.

Cao Cheng sat up and pinched Wang Yue’s round cheek.

"Ow, ow, ow! Let go, let go…" Wang Yue yelped, slapping his hand away.

Rubbing her sore cheek, she shot him a resentful look.

Same act, different treatment.

Why did she get punished?

……

A few days later,

Lin Zhi left.

Wang Yue and the others soon followed, heading off to their respective film sets.

The remaining eight members of the Twelve Golden Hairpins gradually returned.

Over the past year or two, they had learned many new skills.

Previously, most were trained in folk or contemporary dance.

Now? They could sing, dance, rap, and even play basketball—after all, those two and a half years of practice hadn’t been for nothing.

Cao Cheng had them perform, and he was reasonably satisfied.

It was time for the Twelve Golden Hairpins to shine.

Whether they could truly make it big depended on these eight.

If they blew up…

Wang Yue, An Ya, Jiang Mengqi, and the others would all ride the wave of their success.

They had already appeared in numerous dramas—not as leads, but they’d built a rapport with audiences.

Once these eight took off, and Cao Cheng officially launched the Twelve Golden Hairpins, viewers would realize they’d seen them before.

That was the magic of familiarity—a crucial ingredient for stardom.

……

But when it came to fame,

Fat Fairy was the one destined to explode, thanks to Cao Cheng’s meticulous planning.

The hype from The Chronicles of Liang and Xie was already massive.

But the real storm was yet to come.

Thanks to Young Master Cao’s groundwork, what had been a quiet controversy suddenly reignited.

"SARFT Issues Statement: Curbing Excessive Celebrity Pay!"

"Shocking! Sky-High Actor Salaries Draw Official Criticism"

"State Media Slams Overpaid Stars: 'Talent Doesn’t Match the Paycheck!'"

"Authorities Crack Down on Exorbitant Celebrity Fees! Exposing Top Stars’ Earnings!"

"..."

The headlines alone sounded dire.

In reality, this was just criticism—not yet an official crackdown.

In bureaucratic terms, it was "testing the waters."

Gauging the entertainment industry’s reaction.

But…

Regardless, the wind was blowing, and regulation was inevitable.

Cao Cheng remembered that the real clampdown wouldn’t start for a few more years.

But that didn’t stop him from using this moment to take shots at his rivals.

And, "coincidentally," the people he’d been targeting all had questionable paychecks.

What kind of talent justified an 80-million-yuan paycheck?

Or even 100 million?

No wonder the authorities were furious.

Were they made of diamonds?

If their acting was stellar, fine—but Fat Fairy’s fee for The Chronicles of Liang and Xie hadn’t even hit 10 million.

And what was her status?

Meanwhile, these so-called stars relied on face swaps, deadpan expressions, and even numbered lines like "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…"

The chaos in the industry wasn’t surprising.

With coal tycoons flooding the market, dumb money was everywhere.

……

Comparisons were brutal.

After a heads-up from the authorities—specifically, a nod to Cao Cheng—Miracle Media began a strategic dance.

They benchmarked their artists’ salaries against industry peers.

On paper, it seemed fair.

But everyone knew the real game was played elsewhere.

But the General Administration was ruthless—after making comparisons, they still publicized the results.

Take a certain Bing, for example. She’s been raking in serious money these past few years, earning hundreds of millions annually.

She’s consistently topped the list of the wealthiest female celebrities.

That alone wouldn’t be worth mentioning—never mind who’s backing her, at least she has some acting skills.

But those with no talent whatsoever?

Some of them are so obscure that audiences don’t even realize they’ve acted in anything, yet they’re still making tens of millions.

This instantly ignited public outrage.

Especially when people saw Fat Fairy ranked so low.

This year, she had a few long-standing endorsements and one drama.

Her earnings barely reached the eight-figure range—the gap was staggering.

And just as the "Virtue vs. Vice List" trend was gaining traction,

fans couldn’t help but wonder: "Fat Fairy is this popular, yet she only earns this much in a year? How do the others even compare?"

...

Everything was under Cao Cheng’s control.

After all, he’d known for a while that the authorities were cracking down on exorbitant celebrity paychecks. That’s why, when he targeted certain individuals, he deliberately chose problematic female artists.

Sure, this move pissed off a lot of people, but he couldn’t care less.

Without the system, Young Master Cao might have refused the General Administration’s request to use Miracle Media’s artists to drag others down—why make unnecessary enemies?

But with the Emotional System in play, even without the authorities’ involvement, Cao Cheng would’ve found a way to use his own agency’s salary disclosures to expose those undeserving actresses.

Every strike hit its mark.

Amid this overwhelming wave of public opinion, Miracle Media stood like an unyielding beacon, illuminating the filth of the entertainment industry.

The reflected prestige enveloped all their artists, as if gilding them in gold.

Miracle Media had always enjoyed a decent reputation.

Especially among casual observers.

Most comments were along the lines of: "Oh, this is the billionaire’s company? No wonder it’s impressive."

"The girls are all stunning, and the male stars are genuinely talented. A billionaire’s company must be clean—no shady business, right?"

"Their productions are top-notch too, whether it’s films, TV dramas, or variety shows. The boss clearly has an eye for quality."

"The artists are all well-mannered—never heard of anyone throwing their weight around."

"..."

And so on.

It was partly due to preconceived notions.

Over the years, Miracle Media’s public image had reached near-perfect status.

But now, after this incident, the tone of public discourse shifted rapidly.

For example: "This is what a company that actually cares about its craft looks like. These are artists who genuinely work hard to bring joy to their fans."

"You get what you earn. Take Fat Fairy’s paycheck—sure, it’s high, but she’s worth every penny. I don’t feel the slightest bit of resentment."

"Exactly! If anything, she’s underpaid. After splitting with the agency, paying her team, and taxes, how much does she even take home?"

"Those pulling in tens of millions per project can’t even act half as well as Fat Fairy, let alone match her fame."

"I used to think Fat Fairy wasn’t that skilled, but compared to this generation of starlets? She demolishes them."

"Seriously, it’s not even a competition."

"You Gen-Xers had it good. The veteran actresses back then were all legit—real talent. Now? What even is this crop of ‘stars’?"

"..."

Fans went from criticizing paychecks to slamming acting skills, then from acting skills to lamenting the decline of the industry.

The more they compared, the more they realized how much substance the older generation had.

Each one was unique—handsome men, beautiful women, many of them multi-talented. Who among them didn’t have real skills?

Now? The biggest talent seems to be posing for the camera.

Occasionally, a mediocre dance routine on a variety show sends fans into hysterics.

That’s it?

What a joke.