The Whole Empire Raises Me - Chapter 12

 Chapter 12

The special training for Wen Xingze had begun. Almost every day, he spent more than eight hours face-to-face with Chi Yan.

[Any: Look at this lemon. It’s so big and round! (╥﹏╥)]  (Note: Lemons are sour, so this commenter's implying here that they're jealous of Chi Yan )

[Douglas: Chi Yan has gathered quite a bit of information. We’re having a meeting today. @all Cabinet members] 

[Personified Lemon: “Ugh, I want to have dinner with His Majesty, buckle his seatbelt in the car, chat with him, and even attend classes with him… Ahhh!!!] 

[Summer Ignorance: Who wouldn’t want that?]

Wen Xingze’s inherent potential for acting was already high, and with the learning mode and Chi Yan’s guidance, he absorbed knowledge at an astonishing rate.

Behind the screen, the parents weren’t exactly experts in acting, so they couldn’t contribute much in that regard. However, the Cub Raising Program kept players busy. Despite the challenging tower levels, the game’s overall design provided strong entertainment value.

The game offered a mix of intense, fast-paced challenges (like variety show missions) and more relaxed, everyday tasks.

For instance, parents could surprise their cub by preparing unexpected gifts, drinks, snacks, or even exchange short-term luck reversal cards to let the cub try their luck with lottery tickets.

Although these game features seemed unrelated to the entertainment industry, parents found them addictive.

But the gameplay was just the icing on the cake. Honestly, even if Wen Xingze was on the screen all day, no one would get bored.

Nurturing and pampering the Cub was life’s true purpose!

Time flew, and the seven-day intensive training was coming to an end.

Today, parents collaborated to complete a collective mission, successfully exchanging a sleep aid card for the cub. With this card, the cub would have pleasant dreams during their nap, completely refreshing their energy.

In the game scene:

Wen Xingze, engrossed in reading a script, had dozed off. The script still covered half his face, revealing only his upper features.

Afternoon light danced on the boy’s eyelashes like butterfly wings. Thanks to the sleep aid card, he slept soundly, a faint blush marking his cheek where the script had pressed against it — a charming drowsiness.

…The cub’s otherworldly beauty never failed to make parents’ hearts skip a beat.

[Blazing Fire: !!!]

[Baby's Breath xy_: Ahhh!] 

[Move to the Civil Affairs Bureau: Ahhh! Motherly love online deterioration! What color marriage certificate does my baby like?]

As the experience time for the learning mode card neared its end, and the mission approached completion, the system popped up a notification:

Congratulations, parents! The mainline mission has been successfully completed! You’ve earned a filter1, a lottery ticket1, and a chance for a side mission.

The acting skill tree has leveled up!

________________________

 

At half-past five in the afternoon.

Tomorrow, Wen Xingze would fly to Province Z to join the filming group. This was the final class. Chi Yan was strict about timing — never ending early or running late.

Chi Yan’s class plan was well-structured, combining theory and practice. Approximately every one to two days, they’d have a scene rehearsal. This was what Wen Xingze looked forward to the most.

Acting opposite Chi Yan!

Although Wen Xingze was excited, his previous experiences rehearsing with Chi Yan could be summed up in two words: humbling defeat.

The gap in acting skills between him and Chi Yan was more than a mere chasm — it felt like miles of ocean.

Chi Yan didn’t go easy on him during rehearsals. Wen Xingze was led by the nose until the scene ended, only then realizing they’d been acting.

Completely suppressed.

But surprisingly, this ignited Wen Xingze’s competitive spirit — yes, he hadn’t even realized he had one until now. For the past few days, aside from class hours, he’d been devouring books, watching movies, and reading scripts at home. He even muttered lines in his sleep.

Today marked the final scene rehearsal, and Wen Xingze handed the script for Encounter with the Dragon to Chi Yan.

Chi Yan adjusted his glasses, read for less than two minutes, and circled a passage with his pen:

“In this segment, I’ll play the Immortal Lord.”

“Alright…”

Although Wen Xingze had thoroughly studied the Encounter with the Dragon script, acting opposite Chi Yan was still a first. The passage Chi Yan circled happened to be the one Wen Xingze felt least confident about.

No wonder you’re the homeroom teacher.

As the last surviving descendant of the dragon clan, Heng Zhi carried deep-seated grudges and aimed to plunge the world into chaos. This scene involved a confrontation between him and the Immortal Lord, who stood as the biggest obstacle to Heng Zhi’s revenge.

Yet their relationship wasn’t merely that of enemies. When Heng Zhi was a young boy stranded in the mortal realm, it was the Immortal Lord who saved him from pursuers, and they relied on each other for years.

Heng Zhi’s final memories before death still centered on their parting. On a snowy night, the Immortal Lord held a lantern and gifted him a plum blossom, celebrating his bright future untainted by storms.

The scene Chi Yan chose depicted their reunion years later, now on opposing sides. Heng Zhi ostensibly came to celebrate the Immortal Lord’s birthday, but in reality, he intended to kill him.

Chi Yan removed his glasses. Wen Xingze knew it would take him only a couple of seconds to get into character, and suddenly, the pressure was immense. The first line belonged to Heng Zhi, so Wen Xingze bowed and greeted:

“Your servant pays respects to the Immortal Lord.”

Chi Yan gazed at him for a moment and calmly replied, “Heng Zhi, it’s been a long time.”

In just a few breaths, Chi Yan’s aura had completely transformed. It was a power that surpassed all living beings, almost suffocating. He had the authority to disregard everything, yet strangely… there was pity.

A divine pity for mortals.

The Immortal Lord’s gaze upon Heng Zhi even held a hint of tenderness. He knew Heng Zhi had come to kill him.

Wen Xingze had no doubt that if Chi Yan, as the Immortal Lord, showed even a trace of murderous intent, he, as Heng Zhi, would immediately kneel and be unable to act.

The Immortal Lord knew all and could do anything.

He simply chose not to.

Wen Xingze lowered himself deeply, his youthful voice weighted and even trembling: “I thank the Immortal Lord for the plum blossom bestowed upon me years ago.”

Chi Yan rested his chin on his hand, lazily focused on Wen Xingze, a plum blossom lying nearby.

Suddenly, a faint smile curved his lips.

“You’re not here for pleasantries,” Chi Yan said. “No need for excessive formalities. Come.”

________________________

“Your basic skills have passed,” Chi Yan commented after the scene. His expression returned to its usual stoicism. “The dialogue was a bit tense. Work on making your body language more natural.

“Understood.” Wen Xingze suspected Chi Yan had studied face-changing in Sichuan opera.

But thank goodness.

During the rehearsal, he’d momentarily forgotten they were acting, but he managed to keep up with Chi Yan’s rhythm better than at the start. And Chi Yan was truly… incredibly handsome when acting!

The clock pointed to six o’clock, officially ending the class.

“Teacher Chi, I really admire you—” Wen Xingze began.

Chi Yan’s grip on the pen faltered, and he almost tore the paper.

“—for your acting,” Wen Xingze continued. “Could you sign an autograph for me? I’ve been a fan for nearly ten years.”

Wen Xingze had mentioned this request at the beginning of class, but the enigmatic demon teacher, Chi Yan, had started without answering any questions.

Chi Yan fell silent and handed the script back to Wen Xingze.

Wen Xingze examined it closely and noticed Chi Yan’s annotations in the sections where he had struggled. Chi Yan’s handwriting was impeccable, and the signature “Chi Yan” flowed gracefully — truly pleasing to the eye.

There was a small note on the side: “For Wen Xingze.”

Wen Xingze studied it for a moment, covering his eyes. “Thank you. Now I can die without regrets.”

Chi Yan remained quiet. No need for that.

After a brief pause, he said, “Auditions for ‘One Day’ start next month. I plan to move toward directing in the future, and if there are scripts I like, I’ll direct them.”

“Thank you for liking me.” Chi Yan’s final words.

Wen Xingze finally realized — Chi Yan had just answered the questions he’d posed before class. What a humane educator!

He bowed sincerely to Chi Yan. “Thank you for these seven days.”

Although he couldn’t currently repay Chi Yan, he’d remember this favor for a lifetime and find a way to reciprocate someday.

“Sure,” Chi Yan said. “I’ll give you a ride.”

As Wen Xingze followed Chi Yan out, they entered the elevator. Chi Yan was never one for excessive conversation, and after these days together, Wen Xingze had grown accustomed to the quiet atmosphere.

________________________

Once inside the car.

Chi Yan hesitated for a while before asking, “Interested in acting in ‘One Day’?”

“…Of course,” Wen Xingze replied earnestly. “Even though my skills aren’t sufficient.”

Who in the industry wouldn’t want to act in a film directed by Chi Yan?

Chi Yan’s brow furrowed slightly.

With one hand on the steering wheel, he didn’t look at Wen Xingze as he said, " ‘One Day’ deals with same-sex themes and includes intimate scenes."

“Yes, I’m aware,” Wen Xingze said. In this day and age, portraying same-sex themes shouldn’t be an issue, especially when it’s different from real life.

Chi Yan fell silent.

The Maybach glided out of the underground garage.

For some reason today, Wen Xingze struggled to fasten his seatbelt. He wrestled with the passenger-side belt, and Chi Yan eventually parked the car by the roadside.

The summer evening unfolded slowly.

Twilight enveloped them, and the setting sun cast a warm, golden hue. The car’s air conditioning wasn’t too high, and the interior felt pleasantly cozy. Wen Xingze still hadn’t managed to secure his seatbelt when he heard Chi Yan say:

“Do you know what time it is?”

Wen Xingze racked his brain. Although he knew it was likely the wrong answer, he replied, “Dinner time?” Was Chi Yan hinting that he should treat him to dinner?

“…,” Chi Yan glanced at him.

Wen Xingze’s seatbelt struggles had become frustrating. He tried to sit up and locate the slot for the belt. It was during this motion that his phone slipped suddenly to the side.

The phone slid toward Chi Yan.

Wen Xingze’s outstretched hand unexpectedly collided with Chi Yan’s. Chi Yan’s fingers were slender, and his palm warm. Wen Xingze hesitated for a moment, then instinctively held Chi Yan’s hand.

Chi Yan unfastened his seatbelt and leaned toward Wen Xingze. One hand gently covered the back of Wen Xingze’s neck, while the other instinctively held Wen Xingze’s hand, securing his seatbelt.

“Witching hour,” Chi Yan said nonchalantly. (Note: 逢魔時刻  [Féngmó shíkè] = the time of evil, the time of disaster. In China, it's at dusk.)

A faint red inverted cross on Wen Xingze’s neck, which had just appeared, gradually dissipated under Chi Yan’s palm until it vanished completely.

Chi Yan carried a scent reminiscent of early spring snow, like the snow thawing after a deep winter freeze — cool yet warming.

Wen Xingze blinked in confusion.

Then he asked, “?”

Wait, what does “witching hour” mean?

Did the atmosphere suddenly turn eerie? If he remembered correctly, this was just an ordinary entertainment novel set in the entertainment industry, right?

But Chi Yan didn’t offer an explanation.

He settled back into his seat, tapped his index finger on the steering wheel, and pressed the accelerator.

Still puzzled, Wen Xingze opened Baidu to search for the meaning of “witching hour.” The results were a mix of games and comics. Despite spending these days together, Wen Xingze still couldn’t fully decipher Chi Yan’s intentions.

If only there were a university course on “Understanding Chi Yan.” Unfortunately, that didn’t exist.

“Don’t accept everything,” Chi Yan said expressionlessly, eyes fixed ahead, voice low. “Daring to accept the inverted cross. Even if someone you dislike gives you a ring, you'll even accept it.”

His tone carried a subtle hint of melancholy.

Wen Xingze snapped back to reality. He looked up. “What did you give me?”

Chi Yan’s lips twitched slightly.

From then on, no matter what Wen Xingze said, Chi Yan remained silent.

________________________

At the same time. Muse Empire, the Blood Clan’s home planet.

Endless night shrouded the planet, a crimson crescent moon hung high in the sky, and crows perched on withered branches. Except for the sporadic flapping of crows, the world remained eerily silent.

If an outsider stumbled upon this scene, they would undoubtedly be astonished.

Coffins.

Wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, each coffin bore an inverted cross. They were scattered across the landscape — laid flat, suspended, found in desolate mountains, towns, and even abandoned ancient castles.

At this moment, the Blood Clan was in their hibernation period.

They entered a death-like slumber, lasting anywhere from several decades to a mere seven or eight months. Today marked only four months since they had entered this state.

Once in the hidden period, not even doomsday could awaken them — unless…

The Emperor summons them.

They had left a mark on the Emperor, one of the gifts bestowed by the Blood Clan. Even in slumber, they could sense the Emperor’s location, emotions, and will.

The dark red inverted cross.

A gentle yet obsessive curse from the Blood Clan, branded into the soul.

And now, that mark had been erased.

“…”

On this dormant planet, thousands of silent coffins suddenly trembled.

“Tap, tap—”

In the eternal night, several pairs of crimson eyes snapped open.

________________________

Author’s Note: 

It seems the college entrance exams are approaching. Good luck to all the students! Keep sending those 66 red envelopes! By the way, why do you all enjoy tormenting Chichi? He’s so misunderstood! orz

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