Yue Han had no representative works and had acted in only one idol drama.
That idol drama had been catastrophically terrible. When facing the female lead, he turned loving tenderness into the look one gave the murderer of one’s father, and romantic intimacy into the glare of a creditor hunting down a debtor.
Netizens had edited the footage into countless short videos that spread widely online and became “classic works” used to mock Yue Han.
That acting was “pretty good”?
Besides his acting, the internet’s evaluations of Yue Han’s personality were equally colorful. Since none of them had interacted with him personally, they had naturally been influenced by public opinion.
Only after spending time around him today did they realize how vicious those online claims were.
What a gentle, friendly, helpful child he was!
[Reputation Recovery Progress: 8%]
The electronic voice sounded again. Yue Han’s hand, which was poking at the firewood, paused.
Before, he had thought it was a hallucination. But after it appeared again and again, he had no choice but to take it seriously.
While eating hot pot, everyone began making awkward conversation and dragging Yue Han into different topics. Though some were genuinely difficult to respond to, Yue Han still did his best to smile and answer.
He finished dinner quickly and returned to the tent. He had gone into the water today, and the abrasions on his back were burning. He needed to apply medicine.
When Yue Han announced he was leaving, Li Yihan looked at his slender back with distress. “Brother Yue Han isn’t angry with me, is he? I made him fall, and then…”
“I don’t think he’s angry.” Lin Xinran picked up a piece of pork belly. “I think he’s sleepy.”
After eating and resting, soreness and swelling rose from deep in the bones, bringing an overwhelming wave of exhaustion.
Inside the tent, Yue Han opened his small backpack, briefly disinfected the wounds on his back and applied ointment, then prepared to change into pajamas and rest.
[Reputation Recovery Progress: 10%]
That voice again.
Yue Han looked around and confirmed there were no electronic devices. It was not a prank, nor was it his imagination.
“Were you the one who helped me during the screen test?”
[Yes.]
“Thank you.”
“I need to complete the series of items on your ‘Last-Wish List’ to receive rewards. Is that right?”
[In theory, yes.]
Remembering that exhilarating performance during the screen test, even after so much time had passed, his blood still couldn’t help boiling.
He loved acting. He was intoxicated by the feeling of experiencing different characters.
But he could not express himself normally in front of a camera.
That was the greatest obstacle blocking his path forward.
[When Reputation Recovery Progress reaches 20%, Camera Simulation will unlock.]
Yue Han was very interested in this simulation. What he lacked most was the opportunity to perform as “himself” in front of cameras.
He kept working as an extra precisely for training. But he had discovered that as long as other people did not know he was Yue Han, he could act however he wished.
The moment he portrayed a role as “Yue Han,” he became unnaturally rigid.
To overcome that, he would need repeated training. Yet he couldn’t even get work offers, so he had no opportunity.
[Reward for reaching 10% Reputation Recovery Progress: One trial use of Camera Simulation.] Yue Han closed his eyes. His ears filled with chaotic noise.
When he opened them, staff members were walking back and forth, filming equipment surrounding him.
He stood directly in front of the camera.
The director looked at him from behind the monitor. “Scene Eighteen of Night. Any problem?”
He had read the script of Night over and over many times, even after losing the role.
Scene Eighteen was one he had repeatedly practiced in the mirror.
Yue Han said, “No problem.”
The lights came on. The people who had been moving around froze in place, their gazes locking directly onto him.
Panic spread through his meridians and into every part of his body. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling as he stared blankly at the lens.
At some point, the camera changed shape in his eyes. It became a vicious beast opening a giant eye, watching him like prey.
All the character’s emotions and every acting technique vanished from his mind. He even forgot the surname of the role he was playing.
The director asked, “Are you afraid?”
Yue Han could not even part his lips.
The director said, “You’re not afraid of the camera. You’re not afraid of people looking at you.”
Then what was he afraid of?
He truly wasn’t afraid of cameras, but he was afraid of acting while many people watched him.
He felt like a thief, and his performance was stolen loot—something shameful, something that should never see the light of day, something that had no right to exist in this world.
“What you’re afraid of is yourself.”
Yue Han woke with a violent start, gasping for breath. It felt as if he had been submerged in an ice cellar, every breath carrying incomparable dull pain.
“You’re awake? Are you all right?”
“Where’s the cold medicine the crew prepared?”
“It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, Brother Yue Han wouldn’t have gotten sick.”
Yue Han had not yet come back to himself. He lifted his head blankly and realized he was no longer inside the tent, but in a plain white-walled room.
“Still not awake? You have a fever.” Lin Xinran pointed at the digital thermometer in her hand: 38.5 degrees Celsius. She said, “Great genius Lu Huiqing wrapped you in a quilt and ran all the way to his room with you, shouting the whole time. You scared all of us half to death.”
Yue Han softly thanked him. “Thank you.”
Lu Huiqing’s face was covered in color, red clouds spreading everywhere as his gaze dodged around.