Wang Zhuo nearly threw his back out from the shock of the news. What in the world was going on? Wang Zhengdao had gotten a starlet pregnant—old branches sprouting new buds, an old tree blooming new flowers—he was going to be a father again?

“Are you absolutely sure you didn’t misidentify the person?” He asked Feilong, trying to mask his bewildered amusement.

“No mistake, how could I be wrong? I know your dad’s car!” Feilong’s eyes sparkled as he spoke with supreme gossip appeal, “Even though he was sporting a fake license plate, how many red Lotus sports coupes are there in Jiangzhou? I recognized it instantly.”

Wang Zhuo rubbed his head, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Feilong had laid out the whole sequence of events clearly: he was resting in the hallway outside the gynecology department while his date waited, when the woman went in for a check-up alone. Later, when the doctor ushered her out, she gave specific instructions about prenatal care and handed her a pamphlet on eugenics. After the doctor left, the woman, slightly overcome with excitement, lightly punched the air and even exclaimed, “Yes!”

“Boss, I have a feeling that woman is after your family fortune,” Feilong analyzed. “If she bears your father a son, won’t that kid be your half-brother? He’d practically be born holding a diamond key.”

“Let me process this first,” Wang Zhuo waved his hand, a wry smile on his face. “I’m old enough to be a father myself, and hearing that I might suddenly have a younger brother or sister is certainly jarring.”

“What’s so jarring about it? Your dad isn't even fifty yet, and with his current circumstances, having a few more kids is perfectly normal,” Feilong laughed dismissively. “At worst, we just emigrate and stop burdening the motherland with population growth.”

Wang Zhuo had to admit, Feilong had a point. Wang Zhengdao was vigorous and strong; if he truly had such intentions, it was his right to pursue them. This sacred right of lineage was the most fundamental right granted by nature to humanity. If it wasn’t legal here, then as Feilong suggested, one could simply find a way to make it legal, and emigration was a fine route.

He suddenly recalled another question: “How old is that woman?”

“Definitely not as old as you,” Feilong chuckled mischievously. “I’d guess she’s just past twenty.”

Smack. Wang Zhuo slapped his forehead, feeling his entire worldview tilting off its axis!

“Well, I’ll be going then. I won’t meddle in your family affairs; I just relayed what I saw,” Feilong stood up with a sly grin and sauntered toward the door. “Hey, if your dad throws a banquet for this, you better let me know so I can send a gift.”

“Go screw yourself,” Wang Zhuo responded with a rude gesture. “Get lost!”

Feilong departed. Ever since achieving his "One Thousand Slashes" goal, the man had stopped chasing the "Ten Thousand Slashes" record, opting instead for a leisurely, artistic life. He spent his days taking photographs, painting, and sporadically dating several girlfriends, claiming he was in the process of “selecting the best one.”

Since using the weight-loss medicine Wang Zhuo provided, Feilong’s weight had come under some control. However, he hadn't been diligent with the pills, nor did he harbor the deep-seated loathing for his own fat that many overweight people did. He had only managed to slim down his once doughy face—where his features were squeezed together—through localized treatment, making him appear more robust now, rather than the shapeless bulk he once was.

Once, in their high school QQ group chat, someone offhandedly mentioned that he bore a slight resemblance to a Japanese celebrity named Imai Yuta, nicknamed “Mao Zhu” (Hairy Pig). Everyone looked him up online, and wow, he really did look like the leading male actor from a certain famous Japanese adult film series! Feilong did indeed share a resemblance.

In reality, Feilong was taller than Mao Zhu and much fairer-skinned, but his nascent “celebrity face” immediately garnered attention from his classmates. Despite his repeated frantic protests in the chat group, insisting he used Wang Zhuo’s hair removal products and was absolutely not Mao Zhu, the nickname stuck fast.

Thus, the current Jin Chengyou (Feilong) transformed into Mao Zhu Jin Chengyou.

Helpless, Feilong had to accept the reality: life was like this; if you couldn't resist, just enjoy it. His mental fortitude was incredibly resilient; as he gradually adapted to the new identity, he actually became somewhat self-satisfied, even boasting that he planned to emulate the Japanese Mao Zhu and film his own Beijing Heat series, outdoing his “five-hundred-year-old relative,” Mao Zhu brother.

No one expected that the dream of "China’s Mao Zhu," Jin Chengyou, would eventually come true—though he wouldn’t be filming Beijing Heat, but rather African Heat. In fact, the temperatures in Beijing and Tokyo were clearly less scorching than in Africa, and his African Heat series later became immensely popular, its fame and influence far surpassing those of the Japanese Mao Zhu films.

But those details are for another time. Right now, Wang Zhuo was grappling with a headache because his father, Wang Zhengdao, was likely acquiring a stepmother who might be younger than he was!

This sort of thing usually only happened in news headlines or anecdotal gossip; Wang Zhuo had never imagined it descending upon his own life. But considering the situation now, the conditions were certainly ripe. If Wang Zhengdao wished it, all he needed to do was raise a hand, and thousands of queuing women would likely materialize!

Women vying to become the stepmother of China's richest man, Director Wang—to put it in the Jiangzhou dialect, “there were more than plenty to choose from!”

Damn it! Wang Zhuo couldn't help but feel the urge to curse his mother; what the hell kind of drama was this!

“No, I need to call Wang Zhengdao immediately!”

He forgot about his crystal shrimp dumplings, quickly rose, grabbed his phone from the desk.

When the call connected, he could hear that Wang Zhengdao’s surroundings were quiet, suggesting he wasn't in a public venue. Wang Zhuo paused, then asked calmly, “Where are you?”

“Having dinner with some friends. What’s up?” Wang Zhengdao replied cheerfully, then spoke in a slightly lower voice to the side, “My son’s calling, Wang Zhuo.”

The volume was low enough for both parties to hear. From his affectionate tone, Wang Zhuo could tell that the woman from that morning—perhaps she should be called a girl—was likely with him.

“Find somewhere private; I need to talk to you about something.”

On the other end of the line, Wang Zhengdao didn’t think much of Wang Zhuo’s request. He smiled at his companion, “Go watch some TV for a bit, we need to discuss something.”

Wang Zhengdao, under fifty, had returned from prison a few years prior with hair as white as frost. After years of pampered, luxurious living, his hair was now sleek, dark, and lustrous. The deep furrows that once etched his skin, bearing the vicissitudes of a mature man, had softened considerably, lending him an air that was both sophisticated and grand—a true man of style.

He was tall, dashing, possessing both charisma and grace. Even without a distinguished son like Wang Zhuo, his inherent charm was enough to captivate many women; he could live quite comfortably as a kept man with no career. Now, however, he was China’s hottest, most sought-after gold-medal screenwriter, and with his son’s backing, he was even making inroads into Hollywood. These stellar credentials made him irresistible to beautiful, talented women both inside and outside the industry.

The girl he had instructed to leave was around twenty years old. She was a vision of slender elegance at five-foot-seven, with striking, clear almond eyes, porcelain-smooth skin, and a delicate, pointed jawline—beautiful yet possessing a hint of playful mischief.

Such a girl would be considered a standout beauty even walking across the campus of the Beijing Film Academy. In fact, she was a freshman in the acting department who had only enrolled the previous year. Introduced to Wang Zhengdao through an acquaintance, they grew close over time and eventually became involved.

A short while ago, on a day that wasn't particularly safe according to the calendar, Old Wang relaxed his guard for a moment, enjoying the benefits of ‘Tilting the Vessel’ from the Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon’s ‘Seven Damages and Eight Benefits’—and the result was a conception.

Making stocks until you own shares, chasing girls until you get a wife—these were two of the great modern embarrassments. Wang Zhengdao hadn't enjoyed his bachelor life nearly enough to want to settle down as a husband. While the girl was certainly exceptional, she wasn't the one to make him trade his sprawling garden for a single flower.

Yet, that little life, whose gender was yet unknown, stirred something in him. Men reach stability at thirty and clarity at forty; he was approaching fifty, the age of knowing fate. Fate had suddenly presented him with an unborn child, and he felt that he wanted it—that he should have it!

Who would have thought, during his agonizing, day-by-day existence in prison, when he felt like a walking corpse, that he would ever see the day of ‘an old clam bearing pearls’? He was now living a carefree, happy life, surrounded by beautiful women, robust and successful in his career, with a lovely girl who could be his daughter standing by. If he simply nodded his approval, she would raise his offspring without regret!

Having a promising son was truly wonderful… Old Wang often mused inwardly. Now he suddenly had a new life goal: since the circumstances permitted, why not nurture another promising descendant?

The girl was obedient, quietly going to the living room to watch television, and she made sure to close the door behind her.

Wang Zhengdao brought the phone back to his ear, smiling broadly at his son. “Alright, now it’s just me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

Across the distance of the radio waves, Wang Zhuo paused for a moment, then asked out of the blue, “What’s her name?”

“Who?” Wang Zhengdao started, sensing something amiss.

Wang Zhuo said with a half-smile, “The woman you went to the hospital with this morning, the one whose prenatal check-up was all clear.”

“Hiss—” Wang Zhengdao sucked in a sharp breath, then let out a bitter laugh. He had been worrying about how to break the news to his son, and the boy had found out anyway?

“How did you find out about this?” he asked with a wry smile. “I thought only the two of us knew?”

“That’s not important right now,” Wang Zhuo chuckled softly. “Answer my question first.”

What son talks to his father like that! Wang Zhengdao grumbled internally, but in terms of family hierarchy, Wang Zhuo had long since usurped the parental role, so he couldn't muster any real force.

“Her name is Gu Meixue, she’s twenty-one,” Wang Zhengdao guessed his son’s next question and decided to volunteer the information all at once.

Wang Zhuo hummed an acknowledgment and calmly stated, “Then let’s meet. You set the time and place.”

“Meet? Why?” Wang Zhengdao was startled, thinking, Surely this brat isn’t going to object to Meixue’s pregnancy? That wouldn't be any fun!

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