A Star Who Can Do Everything Except Filming (18): 

Chu Feng’s serious explanation successfully made Si Qi achieve the ultimate social-death moment.

Si Qi, both angry and embarrassed, pushed his beloved off the stage and forcibly demanded the reporters to skip this topic. His anxious, almost childish tantrum made everyone burst into laughter.

This also proved just how close their relationship really was. No one took Fang Huai’s words seriously anymore, instead cheerfully watching the two of them show affection.

Of course, while things on Si Qi’s side settled down, misfortune fell on Fang Huai.

Many people felt their concern for Si Qi had been exploited by Fang Huai’s scheming. Furious, they came to curse him, saying he was still trying to sow discord even now, attempting to break up Si Qi and General Chu.

Fang Huai could not defend himself. He wanted to use his past text exchanges with Si Qi as evidence, but the timestamps only confirmed his own infidelity. Doing so would only backfire, proving how unfaithful and despicable he was. In the end, he could only shut his mouth, scolded by the entire world.

Eventually, everything the original main character had suffered in the original timeline now fell onto Fang Huai instead. Scheming against Chu Feng, clinging to the powerful, harboring malicious thoughts—all became synonymous with his name.

His family background was exposed; everyone knew he was Chu Feng’s younger brother. Yet instead of gaining any advantage, he became “famous” for all the wrong reasons. Whether job-hunting or living a normal life, he faced overwhelming obstacles.

The love and bright future he once had were gone. Before, he could at least rely on the money his father siphoned from the Chu family to live comfortably. Now, because his father offended Si Qi, the strictly wife-controlled Chu Feng cut off their living expenses entirely.

Especially since Chu Feng worried Fang Huai still had “wicked thoughts” and would continue harassing Si Qi, he sent people to reclaim all the money he had given Fang Bozhong over the years. Whatever couldn’t be returned was compensated with property, luxury goods, even the mistress’s branded handbags as collateral. In the end, the family of three was left scrambling for survival, too busy making ends meet to cause trouble for Chu Feng and Si Qi.

Thus, the family of three “happily reunited” under one roof, living in constant chaos and squabbles over every little thing.

Their bank cards were emptied, and with nothing left to pawn, Fang Huai’s mother told Fang Bozhong to go get a job.

But Fang Bozhong said he hadn’t worked since before Chu Feng was born. Now, at over fifty, how could he possibly start working?

What’s more, his face was plastered all over the internet, and wherever he went, people looked down on him. No one would hire him. The only one in the household who could realistically work was Fang Huai’s mother, so she had to provide for both father and son, or else the three of them would starve together.

At first, she was unwilling, but seeing there was no money for food and life could no longer go on, she gritted her teeth and went out to find a job. She had never expected that after being a mistress her whole life, living like a wealthy lady, she would now, in her forties, be forced to work and support her family, living like the very commoners she once despised. The bitterness was indescribable.

Every time she came home, she cried endlessly about the hard work, the boss scolding her, the coworkers despising her. She would collapse on the sofa in tears, refusing to suffer further humiliation, which only frustrated the father and son. They coaxed her gently, trying to persuade her to continue, pushing her nearly to a breakdown.

Her life was miserable, but the father and son’s wasn’t much easier. With nothing to do at home, Fang Bozhong began meddling in Fang Huai’s affairs. He said since Zheng Shi had entered a mental hospital, the marriage was probably over, so Fang Huai should quickly find a new girlfriend to continue the Fang family line.

But Fang Huai, traumatized by Zheng Shi, had developed an almost phobia of women. Even going to the bathroom felt like torture. He knew deep down how impossible continuing the family line was for him, so he kept delaying, making excuses that no one liked him anyway since everyone hated him now.

Seeing this, Fang Bozhong grew anxious. Their argument escalated until, in a fit of rage, he pointed at Fang Huai’s nose and yelled that after raising him so painstakingly, Fang Huai couldn’t even give him a grandson, making him no better than trash.

No child could hear such words and not be devastated. Fang Huai exploded on the spot, hurling back all the resentment he had bottled up for years, leaving Fang Bozhong stunned.

When Fang Bozhong recovered from the shock, he began cursing nonstop—insulting Zheng Shi as a whore, cursing Fang Huai as useless, raging at Chu Feng and Si Qi, cursing everything.

After venting, he still refused to give up. He scoured the internet for all kinds of obscene videos to show Fang Huai, trying to “cure” him, embarrassing him beyond belief.

The father and son struggled against each other for quite some time until Fang Bozhong finally accepted that his son was truly “ruined.” So he dragged his mistress to continue their “efforts,” leaving Fang Huai’s mother—already exhausted from working—to collapse under the burden. She resisted bitterly but was forced into it, crying miserably each time. Ironically, the lifelong mistress had now reached the opposite extreme: not only did she have to support her former “patron,” but she was also forced into the most degrading tasks of all.

For the sake of continuing the family line, Fang Bozhong spared no effort. After months of day-and-night exertion, his mistress still wasn’t pregnant. Panicking, he dragged her to the hospital for tests, suspecting she was too old to conceive, in which case he’d just find someone else.

Hearing this, Fang Huai’s mother’s face went pale, and she immediately told Fang Huai.

As for Fang Huai, upon hearing it, his feelings could be imagined—at least now he could vaguely understand how Chu Feng must have felt all these years.

Meanwhile, Fang Bozhong underwent a full medical checkup. The results showed his sperm were all dead, and he had completely lost the ability to reproduce.

Fang Bozhong didn’t believe it. He said he was only in his fifties; it shouldn’t have come to this. Even in his seventies or eighties, modern science could still make a man father a child. As a self-proclaimed professional stud, he knew this field all too well.

The doctor also found the case unusual and, after multiple tests at Fang Bozhong’s insistence, finally gave the conclusion: “You’ve been drugged. Your sperm are completely dead.”

Fang Bozhong’s face turned pale. Furious, he roared, “Drugged?! Who drugged me? Who?!”

The doctor didn’t want to meddle in his filthy family matters and casually said, “Most likely someone close to you.” Instantly, Fang Huai’s figure flashed in Fang Bozhong’s mind.

It was only natural. After all, he had told Fang Huai before: once Chu Feng died, everything of Chu Feng’s would belong to them. And since he only had Fang Huai as his son, once he passed away, Fang Huai would inherit everything.

But what if Fang Huai feared that after he gained the Chu family’s wealth, Fang Bozhong had more children? Wouldn’t Fang Huai then have to split the inheritance with siblings?

So, Fang Huai might as well go all the way and drug him into permanent sterilization…

Realizing this, Fang Bozhong let out a stifled roar—Fang Huai truly had a vicious heart!

He stormed home in rage, clashing with Fang Huai, who was furious about his father’s shameless open affair. In the cramped house, father and son came to blows, landing both of them in the hospital.

This exhausted Fang Huai’s mother to no end. She had to care for both men, pay their medical bills, and even beg her boss for leave, only to be harshly scolded for being incompetent.

Within just a few months, Fang Huai’s mother aged over ten years. The delicate, pampered lady she once was could no longer be seen—her hands and feet were rough, her spirit utterly broken.

After the father and son fought fiercely, Fang Bozhong realized he could no longer rely on himself—he had to pin his hopes on Fang Huai. So he doubled down on forcing Fang Huai, trying every method to make him “get better.”

To Fang Huai, this was no different from having salt constantly rubbed into an open wound. It hurt so much he broke into cold sweats, but the real torment was the endless psychological pressure.

Fang Bozhong dragged him to see a doctor. The doctor said it was a psychological issue, and Fang Huai needed to work it out himself.

Fang Bozhong argued, “That’s exactly why we came to see you—because he can’t work it out! Don’t you have some special medicine? Something like that little blue pill to stimulate him?”

The doctor was speechless and simply suggested the father and son submit a petition on the website Si Qi had launched. Si Qi was composing all kinds of songs to help patients suffering from mental illness worldwide. With luck, perhaps Fang Huai and his father might get their turn.

The moment Fang Bozhong heard Si Qi’s name, his desire for descendants outweighed even his hatred for him. He told Fang Huai, “Weren’t you Si Qi’s ex-boyfriend? Didn’t you say he loved you to the bone? Go apologize to him, ask him to write you a song. He’s sharp-tongued but soft-hearted—he’ll definitely agree!”

Fang Huai’s face flushed red. He already felt too ashamed to even see a doctor, let alone confess to Si Qi that he was “not functioning,” that he had psychological trauma from being castrated by the fiancée he’d cheated to obtain. If Si Qi heard that, he’d probably laugh himself to death—help him? Not a chance!

Fang Huai refused outright. Fang Bozhong grew furious and tried to beat him, pushing and pulling, but Fang Huai, stubborn as a mule, wouldn’t budge. In the end, Fang Bozhong swallowed his pride and went to see Si Qi himself.

He shamelessly forced his way through Chu Feng’s connections and finally stood before Si Qi. But when he made his embarrassing plea, Si Qi laughed so loudly it felt like the ceiling would collapse. Even when the guards escorted Fang Bozhong out, Si Qi’s hearty laughter echoed far, far away.

Face dark as iron, Fang Bozhong returned home and cursed Si Qi in front of his mistress and son. Hearing this bad news, Fang Huai nearly fainted from rage, and father and son plunged into yet another cycle of mutual torment.

When Si Qi later heard about the family’s situation from Xiu Xiu, he laughed so hard for an entire week that his body twitched. People around him asked what good fortune had made him so happy. Si Qi just smiled mysteriously without explaining, then whispered to Chu Feng, “Something others beg for but can’t get—you enjoy it every night. Don’t you think you’re especially lucky?”

Chu Feng replied with a puzzled “?”—and under Si Qi’s teasing, his face flushed red.

By now, Si Qi had become the world’s darling. Everyone adored him.

He continued his original calling: providing constant spiritual support to all who loved him, making their lives better. But instead of acting—a craft he was never skilled at—he now did it through music and painting.

Painting was a new method he devised after realizing very few people could merge spiritual energy into music. Both music and art naturally convey the creator’s emotions, perfectly complementing spiritual energy. By infusing certain emotions into a painting, the resulting work could achieve the desired therapeutic effect.

Countless psychiatric experts rushed from all over the world. With government arrangements, they studied at Si Qi’s side. He was a diligent teacher, and soon, many mastered the method of using spiritual energy for treatment. They returned home to spread this knowledge further.

Some were doctors, some artists, others from entirely different fields. Each applied Si Qi’s works in their own way.

Very quickly, people discovered: listening to Si Qi’s music before bed brought sweet dreams; having his paintings on a desk improved focus in study; hearing his music before battle boosted combat effectiveness; even dairy cows produced more milk when listening to his performances.

Si Qi’s name became inseparably woven into everyone’s daily life. Even hundreds and thousands of years later, he still lived in people’s hearts.

…

After finishing that world, Si Qi deliberately returned to the Tower of Worlds, flying up to the branches of the World Tree.

A golden butterfly rested there, gently fluttering its wings. Si Qi lifted his finger, and the butterfly obediently landed on it.

Countless memories flowed into his mind through the butterfly. Lowering his gaze, Si Qi poured his own memories of several worlds into it, then released it again.

The butterfly fluttered away, heading toward the distant starry seas.

Xiu Xiu asked curiously, “Master, what are you doing?”

Si Qi replied, “Receiving memories passed from the other me.”

Because the two Si Qis lived in different domains of the main gods, their memories couldn’t stay perfectly synchronized. They had to “update” from time to time to prevent personality differences caused by different experiences.

Xiu Xiu’s curiosity deepened. “So you also experienced small worlds on that side? What were they like? Xiu Xiu wants to know!”

Si Qi flew toward the Tower of Worlds, smiling as he said, “That world… I’ve been repairing a small world on the verge of collapse. In that world, the barrier was too weak, and countless intelligent beings from other dimensions entered by accident. I became one of those transmigrators, while Chu Feng became a quick-transmigration agent…”

As he spoke, Si Qi shared the memories with Xiu Xiu.

The moment returned to when Main God Si Qi first sent his consciousness into a small world.

When he regained awareness, he found himself standing in a remote alley.

The ground was wet and muddy from rain, narrow ads were pasted on cement walls, and smooth cylindrical power poles stood beside him, with thick black cables stretching into the distance.

Si Qi had never been in such a place. Everything before him was strange and unfamiliar. Stranger still, he had a vague awareness: he was not the original owner of this body—he had come here for some reason, and the body’s original owner had been a cultivator capable of controlling wind and rain.

Sweeping the surroundings with his divine sense, Si Qi tried to quickly assess his situation. When he saw a young man in the neighboring alley, memories crashed into his mind like an avalanche, making him frown.

In those memories, the original owner had approached the young man to learn about the world.

After a brief panic, the young man quickly accepted that he had encountered an “immortal” and eagerly explained everything about this world. For instance, there were no cultivators here, but technology rivaled immortal arts; and this world was a brutal one where only power could be relied upon.

The original owner knew how mortals feared cultivators, and he could tell the young man spoke sincerely without deceit. Soon, he accepted his “ascension into another world” and understood its unjust social system: like mortal dynasties in the cultivation world, the gap between officials and commoners was immense. The elite exploited ordinary people mercilessly, while the common folk lived like ants—yet accepted it meekly, as if they were tamed livestock.

The young man even provided novels, films, and animations as “historical records,” vividly proving that whenever the authorities encountered extraordinary beings, they used cruel, irrational methods to control them—imprisonment, dissection, torture.

Seeing the images of high-tech weapons and suffering “others,” the original owner immediately realized the grave danger he was in.

With the young man’s help, he changed his conspicuous otherworldly attire and hid among the masses, treating all humans as potential enemies.

The young man, the only one who knew his identity and hadn’t reported him, naturally became his bridge to the outside world, continuing to explain things to him.

Over time, they encountered many other transmigrators. The young man suggested that to avoid being isolated and hunted by the government, the original owner should gather them under his banner.

Not wanting to fight alone against the authorities, he accepted the idea and secretly formed a Transmigrators’ Alliance.

Once the alliance grew strong enough, they openly challenged the government, demanding high status instead of living in constant hiding.

The young man stepped forward and claimed responsibility for several recent incidents.

These “incidents” were really just misunderstandings caused by the panic and cultural clashes of new transmigrators:

For example, an angel was angered by mortals and used holy fire to “purify” the wicked; a general mistook modern foreigners with dyed hair as illusionists and slew them; zombies appeared in cities and spread chaos, leading to the fall of several towns.

The government reacted exactly as the young man had described. Upon discovering these unusual individuals, they immediately dispatched heavily armed troops to capture or kill them.

When the alliance demanded “power” and concessions, the government flatly refused, calling them invaders and terrorists, declaring that the people of Hua Nation would never bow to evil forces harming its citizens.

This uncompromising stance enraged the original owner. In his memory, whenever mortals faced cultivators, even emperors had to bow down, surrendering everything.

Don’t even mention killing a few mortals— even if an entire country were destroyed, those people would still have to endure it.

Feeling insulted, the original owner led his followers in battle against the imperial court. Both sides fought until their eyes were red, and countless commoners were caught in the crossfire, suffering heavy casualties.

In the end, the original owner was killed by dozens of weapons falling from the sky. Before his death, his faction had already plunged the nation into blood and chaos. People could only struggle to survive under endless disasters—zombies, undead, unknown robots, insectoid invaders.

Thinking of this, Si Qi shook his head slightly.

His “gaze” swept across the young man’s face. Si Qi didn’t bother with him, but turned and walked toward the exit of the alley.

Beyond the alley lay a bustling street filled with passersby.

Many hurried pedestrians, upon seeing such a refined young man suddenly appear, cast curious glances at him. Occasionally, when their eyes met Si Qi’s, some would reveal an awkward, shy smile as if embarrassed to be caught staring.

Si Qi looked back at them, wary that they might report him to the authorities because of his unusual appearance. Yet unlike the original owner, he did not show disdain. His spiritual sense overlooked the prosperous land beneath his feet.

As he observed, the tension in Si Qi’s heart gradually eased.

Many things didn’t need others to explain—one could discern much from small details.

For example, the smooth and even road beneath his feet was completely different from the muddy paths of mortal society in the cultivation world. It showed that officials here truly considered the common people, willing to spend money and effort to build proper roads so that ordinary folk could live in comfort.

On the street, people walked freely and with ease, without the nervousness of hunger, poverty, or fear. This proved they lived in a land where they felt safe and content, not numb from oppression nor in despair about the future. Spiritually and materially, they had no worries.

Moreover, from the “memories,” whenever a transmigrator appeared and harmed civilians, the officials called police or soldiers would always rush to the scene immediately, evacuating ordinary people.

Though they were “officials,” they repeatedly stood in front of the “citizens,” using their own flesh and blood to block attacks, never once retreating even in the face of death.

And this was still called “an unbridgeable gap between classes, where commoners are brainwashed into docile livestock”?

At least in the cultivation world Si Qi remembered, no one would willingly die to protect mere livestock.

When Si Qi had examined the memories earlier, he had vaguely felt something was off. Now, he fully understood what it was.

That young man truly dared not lie before a cultivator. Every word he spoke was heartfelt.

But who could say that the world he imagined in his mind was the truest reflection of reality?

The Great Dao has ten thousand paths. Even cultivators follow different “daos,” each with a unique understanding of the laws of the world. So why wouldn’t mortals have countless personalities and perspectives of their own?

Though the young man did not lie, every word he said was subjective, subtly influencing the original owner.

But Si Qi was not the original owner. He would not look at the world through another’s eyes. He trusted only himself, his own judgment.

And even if his choices turned out to be wrong in the end, he would never regret it—because this was his Dao.

After weighing things for a moment, he divined his fortune with his fingers. Seeing the result as “auspicious,” Si Qi felt reassured. He then approached a curious young man nearby and said, “Hello, may I borrow your phone to call the police?”

The young man looked puzzled, his eyes lingering especially on Si Qi’s long hair that didn’t look like a wig at all. He asked, “Why? Did you run into some kind of trouble?”

Si Qi: “…Trouble?”

“If you’re in trouble, find the police!” The young man recited the familiar saying known to everyone in the country. Noticing Si Qi’s calm tone and lack of urgency, he didn’t press further and asked instead, “You didn’t bring a phone?”

Si Qi nodded. With his refined, unworldly appearance, he looked harmless.

The young man figured someone like this couldn’t be the type to snatch a phone. Without hesitation, he unlocked his own and handed it over, joking, “This is the first time I’ve seen someone wear Hanfu so beautifully. If I weren’t past my chuuni stage, I might almost think you really transmigrated here!”

Hearing that, Si Qi answered seriously, “How could there be transmigrators in this world? You’ve overthought it, little brother.”

The young man laughed. “Of course, I know it’s impossible!”

Even so, standing nearby and watching the long-haired man with elegant bearing hold his phone, the young man couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

The man’s refined way of speaking aside, just his aura and demeanor truly seemed like those of someone from ancient times.

No, no, what nonsense am I thinking? I’m already in my twenties, way past that chuuni phase.

He kept correcting his wandering thoughts, telling himself not to overthink.

Meanwhile, in a nearby alley, the young man who had been lying at home reading novels—still stuck in his chuuni years—suddenly cried out in agony, clutching his head and curling into a ball, as if something were falling onto him from above.

After a long while, breathing raggedly, he looked around in panic, only to realize he was no longer in that luxurious skyscraper penthouse but back in his shabby little home. Staring in stunned disbelief, he instinctively checked the time and date on his phone—then leapt up from his bed!

“I… I really am the chosen one! I’ve been reborn!!!”

His face flushed red, overwhelmed with excitement.

“What time is it now? When will the Alliance Leader arrive?” He paced anxiously, muttering, “This time I must warn him ahead of time—the government will use hot weapons. We’ll make quiet gains first, then strike suddenly… yes, hide in the shadows while the zombie horde and undead army slaughter most of Huaguo’s population! Let the military collapse completely! Then…”

Muttering feverishly, unable to wait any longer, he clutched his phone and rushed out the door, eager for that immortal to once again descend into his home and find him before his ambitions could be realized.

But while his heart blazed with passion, dreaming of his leader’s return to help him stir the winds and rains and become the new world’s god… his Alliance Leader was already being driven away in a police car, sirens blaring.