“There’s a show wanting to come film at our unit next month. The leaders are discussing it.”

Lin Luxiao looked a little skeptical. He glanced sideways at the instructor — but from across the room, one of the senior officers tapped the table and called out: “Luxiao, the directors and I have gone back and forth on this and we still think it should go to you. What do you say?”

Lin Luxiao turned his head. “Responsible for what?”

“That show from Beixun Satellite TV. The production team has already been contacted by the instructor. It runs for half a month. They move in mid-next month. You’ll serve as the chief executive instructor for the program — responsible for arranging the trainees’ drills and exercises. Six performers will be participating: three women, three men. We’ve already communicated with the production team that, in order to realistically reflect our military discipline and fire-safety education, they’re to be treated like ordinary new recruits — train them when they need training, discipline them when they need it. If anyone violates regulations, you can file a report with your superiors and expel them from the unit.”

This wasn’t an easy matter to decide. Lin Luxiao had never liked this kind of promotional format. He always felt that once things went on television, they were too easily exaggerated — even if the way they lived was genuinely like that, it would gain a quality of performance when it reached viewers’ ears. He was the type who couldn’t even be bothered to take part in routine fire safety promotional videos, and now he was being handed a full satellite TV production and the role of chief instructor, and found out last. Obviously the senior officers had read him well enough: load six people into his unit, and it was a done deal — push the duck into the water?

“If I expel all of them, can filming end early?”

The political instructor stared at him in shock. Under the table, he kicked him and said through gritted teeth: “What are you saying, you little brat?”

“Do whatever you like to me. If you’ve got the nerve, go ahead and send them all home — at most we cancel this stop and have the unit put out a fire safety promotional feature at the year’s end to account for it. But I have two requirements.” The senior officer smiled with calm understanding and held up two fingers. “First: the training can be as rigorous as it needs to be, but ensure their safety. Second: show the special tactical unit’s military bearing.”

Lin Luxiao was quiet a moment. “Understood.”

After that, the year’s work plan was covered briefly. As the meeting ended, the political instructor moved to arrange for the cafeteria to put on extra food; a senior officer stopped him: “No need for that. We don’t do things differently here. Whatever you all normally eat, we’ll have the same.”

The political instructor looked to Lin Luxiao, silently asking him to make the call.

Lin Luxiao adjusted his hair and settled his cap. “We’ll do as the senior officer says.”

The unit had around fifty men — about twenty more than a typical grassroots unit. The cafeteria was on the second floor. At this hour the soldiers were still in training. After inspection, the political instructor led the senior officers upstairs to eat. Lin Luxiao smoked two cigarettes by the cafeteria door before going in to get his food.

He had just sat down with his bowl when a senior officer pointed chopsticks at him and settled into easy conversation: “How’s the reading going?”

Lin Luxiao cradled his bowl, picked up a piece of meat and put it in his mouth, chewed twice, and said: “About halfway.”

Truthfully he’d had no time at all. He’d been out-of-town training new recruits and had only just walked through the unit’s gate — and now someone had handed him a show on top of it.

The political instructor covered for him: “He’s quite diligent, actually. On the way back from Nanshan training I could see a few books with him in the car. Once our Lin Squad puts his mind to something, no one else gets a look in.”

Lin Luxiao glanced at him, tugged the corner of his mouth, and went back to shoveling food. He’d always eaten quickly — three or four bites and half a bowl was gone.

The senior officer nodded approvingly. “Before the city meeting a while back, I ran into your father. I told him about this, and he’s very supportive. You haven’t been home in a long time, have you? When you can, go back and visit — the old man’s age is catching up with him and his body gives him some trouble. You and your father are both the type who don’t communicate enough. When you get into the main brigade, you’ll need to change that habit.”

Lin Luxiao set down his bowl and quietly acknowledged this.

Meng Guohong was the director of the brigade’s discipline department, an old comrade of Lin Qingyuan’s, someone who had watched Lin Luxiao grow up. He knew the Lin family’s affairs better than most, and understood this young man’s disposition.

“Bring back the focus you had when you sat the college entrance exams. This isn’t as simple as you think. The number of spots this year is limited, competition is fierce — plenty of people are clambering over each other to get in. You’ll need real drive.”

Lin Luxiao held that steady gaze on him and said nothing.

The political instructor said: “Our Lin Squad’s got nothing else going for him — just that drive.”

Meng Guohong: “I remember when you were small you used to read quickly — every time I brought you those military theory books, you’d have them finished in a few days and come knocking at my door for new ones. How has it taken you this long to get through just one book?”

Boys loved military stuff when they were young — guns, tanks. Lin Luxiao had been particularly keen on military theory. Every time Meng Guohong visited, he’d bring along a few books. Lin Luxiao read fast and had a good memory. At first Meng Guohong assumed he was just flipping through and would lose interest and put them aside. But the next few times they met, the boy could speak to them in detail, outlining points with real conviction — rather impressive for his age. It had only deepened Meng Guohong’s fondness for him.

Meng Guohong tapped the table. “Apply yourself. The exam is next month.”

Lin Luxiao had already finished eating. He set down his empty bowl, sat back in his chair with his arms crossed, and worked a toothpick between his teeth, turning it over once or twice.

“Understood.”

Lately, Nan Chu had been receiving a constant flood of private messages. Her Weibo followers and reposts were growing by the day. Her original following had been barely over a hundred thousand — half of which Shen Guanzong had paid for — and now it had shot up to several hundred thousand.

That day, Han Beiyao summoned Shen Guanzong into his office.

The second-generation heir sat back in the leather chair with his legs crossed: “What’s going on with her Weibo followers? Did she buy them herself?”

Shen Guanzong: “She wouldn’t. She barely uses Weibo. That’s not her style.”

“Then why the sudden surge?”

Shen Guanzong had analyzed it with the team already. “None of it is good. They’re all there to insult her.”

Han Beiyao: “…”

“That gossip account dug up the business with Ran Dongyang and Yan Dai. Some of the followers are convinced she caused their breakup — they’re following to keep tabs on her so they can trash her in the comments. Another group is Jiang Ge’s fan-wives, following purely to attack her. And the last group is… men who apparently think she’s some sort of third-rate model and showed up to harass her.”

Han Beiyao stared. “Are these people disturbed?”

“All I can say is — thank goodness it’s Nan Chu. Bulletproof, couldn’t care less. If this were Yan Dai with her glass heart, she’d have jumped off a roof by now.”

Han Beiyao fell into thought. “How’s her shoot for the show going?”

Shen Guanzong was quiet for a moment, then let out a slow sigh. “I finally understand why Jiang Ge specifically wanted her.”

Han Beiyao: “Hm?”

“Did you know from the start what kind of show it was?”

Han Beiyao said nothing.

Shen Guanzong had worked with Han Beiyao long enough to know exactly what his silences meant.

“I’d thought you at least had some fondness for her.”

“Even setting that aside — she’s under my banner.” Han Beiyao gave a sardonic smile. “Do you really think I’m that terrible? That I’d push her into a fire pit?”

Shen Guanzong went quiet.

Han Beiyao, in a rare gesture, exhaled slowly. “Put plainly, Jiang Ge’s show just wants celebrities to make fools of themselves and endure some hardship — give audiences a laugh, make them think stars are just like regular people. Everyone else does it. Why shouldn’t she? And honestly, that stubborn edge of hers needs grinding down a little.”

In plain terms: he’d gotten annoyed at being mouthed off to and wanted to knock her down a notch.

Shen Guanzong thought privately: no wonder he couldn’t get any first-tier celebrities on board and ended up with a handful of nobodies in the sixth or seventh rank. No wonder the show would never blow up.

The first two stops, honestly, weren’t that brutal — just a taste of the grind in ground crew and firefighting work. The third stop, the jungle survival, was the real point of the whole thing: drop six celebrities into a treacherous wilderness and see who lasts longest. The ordeals that awaited were easy enough to imagine.

Han Beiyao was uneasy about it too, never fully settled on whether what he’d done was right or wrong. But in this world he lived in, an easy, comfortable life was difficult to come by. Nan Chu understood that better than him. Thinking it that way, he felt a little better. He waved Shen Guanzong out — and as his gaze lifted, there it was on the desk: a letter of resignation.

On the day the firefighting station began filming, Yan Dai showed up on time.

The group of six arrived with their luggage at the gate of the Northern Xun City Fire Department’s Special Tactical Unit. The imposing stone monument bore the carved characters for “No. 1 Fire Brigade Special Tactical Unit” and was flanked by two sentries standing guard. Nan Chu stood looking at those sentries, lost in thought. Yan Dai came over. “Hey. I think this is even more terrifying than the airport. What if we just slip away together?”

Nan Chu swept her a glance, then turned back, answering a question that had nothing to do with what was asked: “Do you know how many firefighters die in the line of duty each year?”

Yan Dai stopped.

“This is the place that exists to protect us with their lives. Don’t you want to see it?” Nan Chu tilted her head up, reading the small seal-script characters carved into the stone wall of the entrance.

Forged in Gold, Tempered in Resolve, Loyal in Spirit, Hammered into Soul.

Nan Chu lifted her face. The sun was behind her. Her eyes were very bright. “I very much want to see.”

What is it that forges you into walls of copper and iron, unbreakable and unyielding — yet full of such deep feeling.

Political Instructor Yang Zhenggang came out of the unit gate with one of the firefighters.

“Fall in.”

The six of them shuffled and straggled into a sort of line. Yang Zhenggang frowned. This was a disaster. If the unit’s chief saw this, it would be a dressing-down for sure.

So he set out the ground rules upfront: “I am the political instructor of the Northern Xun City No. 1 Fire Brigade Special Tactical Unit — your deputy instructor for this training. Behind me is your new recruit squad leader. Since you’re all here, forget you’re celebrities. In this place there are no men or women, no performers or ordinary civilians. You’re all soldiers. Anyone who violates discipline will be expelled from the unit immediately.”

“Understood?”

“Yes!” The response came scattered, five or six voices.

Yang Zhenggang: “Go inside and drop your luggage. Five minutes. Assemble in the drill field.”

The sun was vicious. The outdoor temperature reached forty degrees Celsius. The Northern Xun summer was genuinely blazing. After standing in the drill field for about ten minutes, the group was already suffering — the heat hit them in the face, thick with the sharp smell of synthetic rubber.

Yan Dai asked: “Yang instructor, what are we doing right now?”

Yang Zhenggang stood ramrod straight, sweating heavily, and glanced at her. “Waiting for the chief instructor.”

Yan Dai pressed: “Why isn’t the chief instructor here yet?”

Yang Zhenggang: “The chief instructor is in a meeting. He’ll be down shortly. Stop with so much idle chatter.”

“…”

Yan Dai was completely silenced.

Before the words had even finished settling, a tall figure in military uniform appeared beyond the iron mesh fence. The shadow of his cap brim fell across half his face.

As he came closer, Lin Luxiao broke into a brief trot, and his voice, calm but carrying authority, rang out: “Fall in.”

For some reason, the moment the chief instructor appeared, the whole group seemed to settle and come to attention. Even the act of forming ranks was noticeably quicker than it had been at the gate.

Lin Luxiao’s gaze moved across the faces of the group one by one. When it passed Nan Chu, it didn’t linger even for a second — swept right past, as though meeting her for the very first time.

Very well.

He stood perfectly straight, gave a sharp, precise salute, and said: “I am the captain of the Northern Xun City No. 1 Fire Brigade Special Tactical Unit and the chief executive instructor for your training this period: Lin Luxiao.”

Impeccable.