Chapter 1: Oh, Harry Potter

The so-called “cultivation-type” idols are mostly trained from ordinary people. Their singing and acting skills are immature at first and gradually improve over time, and fans are invited to participate in and witness their growth. After the explosive rise of TF-boys, many companies imitated the Times Fengjun model. Add to that the wild popularity of shows like “Idol Producer” and “Produce Camp,” and suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of the action.

As the wind turned, everyone rushed to get on board—even those who’d never been in the business before wanted a taste of the profits. Shen Yan’s company was just one of those. The boss was a man in his fifties from Taiwan, whose previous job had been selling shoes. When his shoe factory went bankrupt, he pivoted to the idol business, starting a new company and signing up a group of young, hopeful trainees, all dreaming of becoming the next Cai Xukun or Yang Chaoyue.

Shen Yan wasn’t bad—mainly, he was good-looking. He and three peers gave up their studies to become trainees. After three years of relentless practice, they finally debuted as a cultivation-type idol group. They bought their way onto a few trending topics, and gained some initial attention. The four-person team was called Dream-boys.

Then, scandals broke out about the other three: smoking, drinking, fighting, even early romances. They collapsed the moment they debuted! The company initially wanted to lay low and let Shen Yan join a talent show to recoup their three-year investment. But in the wake of endless industry scandals, a single official document swept through like a hurricane: all idol cultivation web variety shows were to be halted immediately.

The boss picked up his bucket and fled.

Those left behind, of course, were swept up in the fallout. Shen Yan was, in a way, lucky—at least there were no contracts holding him liable. He’d heard that many girl group trainees switched to modeling, flying all over the country for work.

Shen Yan wanted desperately to stay in the industry. Unfortunately, without the company’s monthly 2,500 yuan subsidy, he could barely afford to eat. He couldn’t even pay for the travel expenses to take the art school entrance exam.

As for his family… it was miserable. His father was a gambler, and his mother had long since divorced and left. After the divorce, custody went to his father. Still a minor, Shen Yan was like a puppet on strings, unable to control his own fate—a gambling father, an absent mother, and a broken self.

After leaving the company, he dropped out of school and started delivering food and parcels to support himself. In modern society, if you’re willing to work hard, it’s unlikely you can’t at least survive. But surviving and living well are two very different things. At the end of the day, it was just selling his labor.

Five years passed like this. Sometimes, memories of his idol dreams would surface—especially when he saw so-called idols on screen: unattractive, dull, no real talent. And yet, they made it to the spotlight. He raged at the injustice of it all. “If I were up there, I could do it too!” But soon, he wouldn’t be complaining anymore, because he died.

He’d taken on a delivery job, tasked with delivering a painting, the “Fuxi Diagram,” in the rain, which required a signature upon handover. At an intersection, a truck running a red light ran him over.

One blink, and when he opened his eyes again, time and space had shifted—he was no longer on a rainy street, but in a small, cluttered room. About thirty square meters, the bedroom and living room combined, the kitchen by the entrance, the bathroom partitioned off. The whole room was laid out at a glance: a bed, a wardrobe, a table, and three plastic stools. In the corner stood a full-length mirror.

Shen Yan scratched his head and looked at his reflection. Early twenties, about 1.8 meters tall, a bit thin, but with thick hair. His face was still handsome.

He took a moment to digest the memories—goodness, this guy was also named Shen Yan, and his circumstances were similar: a father addicted to alcohol, a mother obsessed with vanity. They’d divorced when Shen Yan was in third grade, and neither wanted him. The difference this time was that Shen Yan had gone to live with his grandparents. Life was poor, but survivable—a standard Harry Potter starting point. Unfortunately, there was no Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for him—just his grandparents.

The year before last, after graduating high school with lackluster grades, he followed his second uncle to Beijing. His uncle worked in art direction, and Shen Yan followed him onto film sets. “Art direction” in the crew is one of the key creative roles—mainly responsible for translating the script’s artistic demands into reality, working under the guidance of the director and cinematographer. If you don’t get it, just think of him as the right-hand man of the cinematographer!

Of course, Shen Yan’s job wasn’t so complicated—he was just a general helper on set, working for a meal. But thanks to his looks, he landed quite a few roles—starting as an extra, then getting bit parts, and eventually supporting roles. Acting pays far better than crew work!

His uncle had once worked at the Xiangjiang Film Studio, under director Zhang Li, a highly skilled filmmaker. Last year, during the filming of “The Road to Heaven is Hard,” Shen Yan even managed to land a role.

People have ambition, after all. Most of all, seeing himself on screen satisfied his vanity. Shen Yan thought he’d made it, and left his uncle to strike out on his own in Beijing. Of course, there was also some resentment towards his uncle mixed in.

Life on set is rough; tempers run high, and outbursts are common. Then… half a year passed without finding steady work. You could say he was stubborn—he refused to call his uncle, apologize, and ask for help. No, he insisted on making a name for himself. Not the smartest move!

Why starve yourself over pride?

By the way, this guy’s dying wish was, “Win a Best Actor award, make a pile of money, and prove myself.”

Shen Yan had read plenty of novels, where the protagonist crosses over and inherits the original owner’s dreams. It’s nonsense. A person’s character is set; you can’t just read someone else’s memories and have your personality and emotions change.

He had no ambitions to win a Best Actor award. But making money in the industry? That idea he could get behind. After all, everyone mocks the so-called “208,” but everyone wants to become one.

For now, he needed to get in touch with his uncle—damn, he only had about five hundred yuan to his name. Dirt poor. If he didn’t find work soon, he’d be flat broke.

Just as he was thinking this, something felt off—a flood of strange knowledge appeared in his mind. This was absolutely not his memory, nor the body’s—it came from Fuxi. The painting he had delivered.

That “Fuxi Diagram.”

Fuxi, the eighth son among the dragon’s nine sons, is fond of literature and is often depicted coiled atop and around stone tablets. The dragons flanking the tablets are his likeness; he possesses vast knowledge and wisdom and is revered as the god of intellectual fortune.

Shen Yan had received a legacy of Fuxi’s bloodline.

Where did it come from? He recalled the delivery task—yes, in that car accident, he’d died, the items in the vehicle destroyed. The consciousness attached to the painting had nowhere to go, so during his transmigration, it simply hid itself in his mind.

No wonder Fuxi is called the God of Wisdom—Shen Yan felt his intelligence grow by at least thirty percent!