I Heard I’m a Scummy Alpha? [Transmigration] - Chapter 108

Wen Fu sat down on the sofa, and the housekeeper immediately brought over a cup of tea.

Qi Fanghuai stood stiffly nearby, not daring to move. “Professor Wen, we were too impulsive today.”

Wen Fu took his time, brewing himself a cup of tea. He lifted it, blew gently across the surface, and took a slow sip before saying calmly, “Yes, you were.”

His tone was colder than Qi Fanghuai had ever heard. Fear tightened around Qi’s heart as his face turned ashen. “Professor. Wen, please, can you help me? If the business community bands together to boycott me, I’ll be finished. My company—my company needs me.”

Wen Fu replied indifferently, “You only hold five percent of the shares. Anyone could run that company.”

“Go. Clean up the mess you made yourself. And don’t expect me to help you again.”

Qi Fanghuai’s knees buckled; he nearly collapsed onto the floor.

The thought of being abandoned by Wen Fu was unbearable. His mind raced for a way out—then suddenly, his eyes lit up as if he had grasped a lifeline. “Professor Wen,” he blurted, “my sister—my sister is very beautiful. If you like, I can send her to you.”

He vividly recalled that time he’d gone shopping with Qi Fangyue and He Ran, when they’d run into Wen Fu by chance. Wen’s eyes had lingered on his sister, a fleeting glint of something dark flashing in them, and he’d even complimented her several times during their brief exchange.

Qi hadn’t thought much of it then. But now, in hindsight, he realized that glint wasn’t admiration—it was the predatory desire of an Alpha toward an Omega.

Wen Fu paused mid-motion, the teacup turning between his fingers coming to a halt. He finally looked at Qi Fanghuai. “Oh? Your sister is an adult, not an object to be passed around. Fanghuai, after all this time with me, you still don’t know how to speak properly.”

Qi Fanghuai noted that Wen Fu hadn’t outright refused, and his heart leapt with hope. A nervous, obsequious smile spread across his face. Whatever conscience he had flickered briefly, then died away. “Professor Wen, my wording was poor. What I meant is—my sister has long admired you. She’s always wanted the chance to meet you, to get to know you better.”

Wen Fu gave a satisfied nod, then named a hotel and room number. “The day after tomorrow, I’ll be free. Bring her to me then.”

“Yes, of course, Professor Wen! Then about my situation.” Qi Fanghuai ventured cautiously.

“I’ll see what I can do to remove your name from the blacklist. As for the others, that’s beyond my reach.”

That was enough for Qi. The others were merely temporary partners; their downfall meant nothing to him. He exhaled heavily in relief.

When Qi Yunwei and Yan Zui returned home, Yan Zui hadn’t yet asked, but Qi Yunwei spoke first. “You must be wondering why I treated Wen Fu so indifferently.”

Yan Zui nodded. “In my memory, he’s always been a kind, easygoing elder. I used to see him often at home before college. Did you dream of something again?”

Qi Yunwei nodded. “Yes, but the dream was hazy. I only know that Wen Fu will hurt you somehow—but I don’t know what he’ll do.”

Yan Zui frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine him doing that either. But since he’s close to Qi Fanghuai, maybe I really didn’t see through his facade before.”

Qi Yunwei leaned closer, studying her face. “You’re not even doubting me anymore?”

In the past, whenever she mentioned her dreams, Yan Zui would at least show some skepticism.

Yan Zui lifted her dark lashes, her porcelain-pale skin glowing under the warm light. “You wouldn’t lie to me,” she said with quiet certainty.

Meanwhile, the entertainment industry was in turmoil. Popular star Qiao Haiyue suddenly terminated her contract with Yan Corporation’s entertainment subsidiary, paying an eight-million-yuan penalty out of pocket. She then established her own studio, signing a few young newcomers to take into new projects.

Eight million wasn’t much for Qiao Haiyue, but the situation was strange—her former company was led by Yan Zui, her close friend. They had always given her top-tier resources. There was no reason for her to leave.

But ever since Yan Zui’s resignation, Qiao Haiyue’s treatment had plummeted. The company even forced her to bring new artists to every program she attended—turning her into a stepping stone for others.

After consulting with her aunt and Peng Xueyu, Qiao Haiyue decided to terminate her contract.

The company, angered by her defection, retaliated by withdrawing all her assistants and staff, leaving her with no one. Fortunately, her manager—her aunt—resigned as well and followed her.

Together, they quickly founded Haiyue Studio.

Fans, who had long been dissatisfied with the company’s treatment of her, cheered her on. They were thrilled, confident that her independent career would soon soar.

Qiao Haiyue carefully chose her comeback project—a film by a world-renowned director, with a script written by the celebrated screenwriter Shi Zhongluan, whose every work had become a hit.

On the first day of filming, Qiao Haiyue was already dreaming of her global breakout after the movie’s release next year.

But reality was far harsher. The director and Shi Zhongluan began arguing on the very first day—clashing over creative direction, neither willing to back down. Her aunt tried to comfort her, saying, “It’s just creative friction. The more intense it is, the better the final result will be.”

Unfortunately, that optimism didn’t last. By the tenth day, the director and the screenwriter had completely fallen out. The director even threatened to have Shi Zhongluan blacklisted in the industry.

The director’s network was vast; Shi Zhongluan, a reclusive writer, stood no chance against him.

By the eleventh day, the director had already brought in a new writing team to revise the script to his liking, leaving Shi Zhongluan out in the cold.

Through her aunt’s connections, Qiao Haiyue learned that no one in the industry dared to work with Shi Zhongluan anymore.

Furious and unwilling to accept defeat, Shi Zhongluan began showing up at the set every day, demanding an explanation.

Qiao Haiyue messaged Yan Zui on WeChat, complaining:

Qiao Haiyue: If I’d known, I never would’ve taken this film! The new script is a complete mess—no logic, no structure! The director even cut all my highlight scenes and gave them to his nephew, the male lead! I’ve never seen such shameless people in my life!

Yan Zui: I’ll visit the set tomorrow.

Qiao Haiyue: Really? Great!

Later that night, as Qi Yunwei came out of the shower, Yan Zui said, “I’m visiting the Spring Like Song crew tomorrow. Do you have time to come along?”

Qi Yunwei smiled. “What a coincidence. I’m going there too—to recruit someone for the company.”

“Who?” Yan Zui asked curiously.

“The screenwriter, Shi Zhongluan. Our next game’s story depends on him.”

Yan Zui had heard of Shi Zhongluan—she’d seen several of his works.

“You dreamed about him too?” she asked.

There had been no mention of this scandal online; she only knew because Qiao Haiyue had told her.

Qi Yunwei nodded. “Not just dreamed—I saw him suffering. In my dream, Shi Zhongluan gets blacklisted, his reputation ruined. A fallen genius, reduced to nothing.”

“Then let that director blacklist him,” Yan Zui said firmly. “We’ll bring him into our team to write game narratives. The film industry can’t touch us.”

The next day, Qi Yunwei and Yan Zui went to visit the Spring Like Song crew together.

Both kept a low profile, wearing masks to avoid drawing attention.

But what they’d forgotten was that both of them were tall and striking—graceful in a way that set them apart. Even with masks on, anyone could tell at a glance that they weren’t ordinary people.

The moment the two stepped out of the car, the fan-site photographers waiting outside the set didn’t hesitate—they raised their cameras and started snapping away, determined to figure out which big-name stars had just arrived.

Inside, Qiao Haiyue was in the middle of filming. Her aunt came out to greet Yan Zui and lead her in.

Perhaps she had already heard something from Qiao Haiyue, because when she saw Qi Yunwei, the agent didn’t look the least bit surprised.

Qi Yunwei greeted politely, “Hello, I’m looking for screenwriter Shi Zhongluan. Sister Qiao, do you know where I might find him?”

“He’s probably by the wall outside. The director won’t let him into the set, and since he’s got a skin condition and can’t be in the sun, he just stays in the shade by the wall every day. No one can talk him into leaving.”

While the agent led Yan Zui inside the set, Qi Yunwei headed out to find Shi Zhongluan.

When she reached the spot the agent mentioned, she found him crouched on the ground, idly scratching lines into the dirt with a twig.

He was unkempt, with a scruffy beard that looked like it hadn’t been trimmed for days. The moment he heard footsteps, he lifted his head warily.

Seeing an unfamiliar face, Shi Zhongluan frowned and dropped his gaze again.

“Hello, Mr. Shi,” Qi Yunwei said kindly. “I’d like to talk to you about a potential collaboration, if you have the time.”

Shi Zhongluan tossed aside the twig and stood up, eyeing her as if she’d lost her mind. “You dare talk business with me? Aren’t you afraid that anything I write will get you blacklisted before it’s even released?”

Qi Yunwei chuckled lightly. “Mr. Shi, I’m from the gaming industry. It has nothing to do with film or television. Director He doesn’t have the authority to ‘ban’ me across industries.”

At that, Shi Zhongluan’s interest visibly faded. “I’ve never worked on a game before, so I don’t think that’s a fit. You should find someone else.” To him, a small game project wouldn’t need more than a couple of writers anyway—it couldn’t possibly save his struggling studio.

“Mr. Shi, you might’ve heard of our company, Yunmengze. If you haven’t seen the promotional trailer for Immortal Unseen, I can show it to you right now—then you can decide.”

Shi Zhongluan froze mid-motion, straightening up again. “Immortal Unseen?” he repeated, eyes narrowing in disbelief. He had seen it.

Though it was “just a game,” Immortal Unseen was the first of its kind—a full-dive holographic experience with an expansive world and an astonishingly rich narrative. Even the side quests were captivating. Several screenwriters in his own circle had praised it publicly.

“Yes,” Qi Yunwei said. “Our company is planning a new project—this time a modern-day setting—and we urgently need skilled writers. I’ve long admired your work and wanted to invite your studio to collaborate. I was only hesitant because I wasn’t sure you’d agree. When I happened to hear about your situation with Director He, I thought I’d take a chance and come personally.”

“You’ve got good timing,” Shi Zhongluan said, breaking into a grin as he extended his hand. “Come on, let’s go sign the contract.”

If it had been any other game, he would’ve turned her down flat.

The only reason he’d been lingering outside the set for days, refusing to leave, was because he wanted to confront Director He face-to-face—to make him retract the order that blacklisted him.

But now, there was no need.

Qi Yunwei smiled. “We might not be able to leave just yet. My wife is still inside the set. Would you like to wait out here, or come in with me?”

Shi Zhongluan’s eyes lit up. “I can go in?”

“With a little disguise, it should be fine.”

After a moment’s thought, he waved it off. “Forget it. What would I even do in there—tell He Xingyi I’ve found new work? That’d be pointless.”

Qi Yunwei offered to let him wait in her car instead, but Shi Zhongluan declined. “I’m fine right here. There’s a nice breeze.” It was only May—neither too hot nor too cold, with the sun pleasantly mild.

So Qi Yunwei left him there and went inside to find Yan Zui.

By the time she entered, Qiao Haiyue had just finished a scene. She came over with a long face, and even when she saw Qi Yunwei and Yan Zui, she couldn’t manage a smile.

“What’s wrong?” Yan Zui asked. “The take didn’t go well?”

“It was awful,” Qiao Haiyue muttered. “I filmed for hours, but all they used was my back! Every shot was focused on the male lead. It’s infuriating!”

“I swear, my luck’s been rotten. After Wavecrest Legend, I only did one drama and that one barely made a ripple. I thought this movie would be my breakthrough—but look at it! I’m doomed.”

Qiao Haiyue was at a critical point in her career. Since Legend of Boling, she hadn’t managed to replicate that success, and this film had been meant as her big transformation. The disappointment was crushing.

During the short break, she kept lamenting her misfortune—how she had no connections, no backing. After a few minutes, Qi Yunwei understood perfectly what she was hinting at.

She wanted Yan Zui to invest in the film and help her turn things around.

But, why should she?

Qi Yunwei had no intention of playing the generous savior.

As Yan Zui watched Qiao Haiyue return to set, she turned back and noticed the cool detachment in Qi Yunwei’s expression, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Qiao Haiyue might have seemed to have changed for the better—but only because she had finally realized she had no chance with Yan Zui. Everything she did now, even helping promote Jinzhao Youjiu, was just a strategic gesture of goodwill.

Qi Yunwei was certain: if the day ever came when Qiao Haiyue’s status surpassed Yan Zui’s, her darker ambitions would resurface.

So she had laid a trap for her.

In the original novel, the female lead of this film had been someone else. But after Qi Yunwei invested in the project, she specifically appointed Qiao Haiyue for the role.

The moment Qiao saw the prestigious lineup of director and screenwriter, she agreed without hesitation.

Today, Qi Yunwei had come not only to recruit Shi Zhongluan—but also to inspect the results of the pit she’d so carefully dug.