IBKAWB Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: European Emperor**

Re-translated by: Namizaki

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{Zaki’s Note on Title: The explanation for “European Emperor” is quite a bit long so I’ll just put it down at the bottom of the page.}

Meanwhile, the bizarre hashtag #ChiZhongqiaoLiveCalligraphyRedBeanMilk, propelled by massive online traffic, surged into the top twenty trending topics.

Beneath Xiao Yun Window’s trending video, Bit Sweet’s Official account posted a comment: [ “Even handsome guys love Red Bean Milk! Ladies, confess your feelings to your crush with a cup of Bit Sweet Red Bean Milk!” ]

The top-rated comment took a unique angle, digging up multiple behind-the-scenes clips of Chi Zhongqiao drinking Red Bean Milk and finally asking: [ “My Qiao, how much do you “really” love Red Bean Milk?” ]

Beneath the comment, a legion of die-hard red bean milk fans vowed eternal loyalty to the beverage. Thanks to the collective efforts of foodies across China, the Red Bean Milk topic trended alongside Chi Zhongqiao, fueled by the nation’s innate pursuit of deliciousness.

In China, even if celebrity gossip ever failed to trend, “food” would undoubtedly remain the hottest topic.

Therefore, Bit Sweet wasn’t after Chi Zhongqiao’s fame, but rather the surging popularity of Red Bean Milk. After all, a company of their caliber typically hires at least A-list celebrities for endorsements. Given Chi Zhongqiao’s current status, they wouldn’t even consider him.

As Chi Zhongqiao and Zhong Yin huddled together watching a video, Zhuang Fu hovered nearby, droning on, “I’ve already secured the Bit Sweet endorsement for you. Don’t underestimate this new beverage campaign—Bit Sweet is a major company, and the Red Bean Milk endorsement will undoubtedly be the best you’ll get in the short term, bar none…”

Though the words were directed at Chi Zhongqiao, Zhong Yin’s head began to throb from the incessant nagging. He glanced at Chi Zhongqiao and saw Brother Qiao smiling warmly and nodding at Zhuang Fu.

How could Chi Zhongqiao possibly underestimate the Bit Sweet endorsement? He cherished every worthwhile opportunity, whether it was a commercial or an endorsement. Besides, advertising food was a privilege.

After all, who doesn’t love to eat?

“The commercial shoot is the day after tomorrow. You’ll be the only celebrity involved. It’s your first time filming a commercial, but I won’t be able to accompany you—I need to take Yunmo to the audition for <Invisible Crime>…”

Zhuang Fu hesitated, then lowered his voice. “If Yunmo gets the part, please look after him on set.”

Currently, only Shang Tang has been cast for <Invisible Crime>. The male and female leads remain unconfirmed, but according to insider information from Director Fu, the female lead is likely to be Yan Qingbo.

Yes, Yan Qingbo, who hadn’t filmed a drama in years, had a high probability of starring in <Invisible Crime>. If she were cast as the female lead, the male lead would undoubtedly be an actor of equal caliber and skill—likely one of the established powerhouses vying for the Best Actor title.

Fu Jingshen would never cast a mere pretty face; “traffic-driven young idols” were out of the question. This meant Chi Zhongqiao would likely be the only “fresh-faced idol” on set.

Chi Zhongqiao pondered for a moment, then selected a potential role from the script: “He wants to audition for Xu Chao?” Xu Chao was a minor but deeply sympathetic tragic character. If Zhou Yunmo could nail this role and deliver a compelling performance, even if he couldn’t follow the “traffic-driven” path, he could steadily build a reputation as a low-key, skilled actor.

With a bit of luck, a small breakthrough wouldn’t be impossible.

Zhuang Fu was astonished—how could he guess that? With so many characters in the script, and Xu Chao not even being the most prominent, Chi Zhongqiao must have read the script countless times to remember this role so clearly.

Chi Zhongqiao smiled at Zhuang Fu. “As fellow disciples, helping each other is only natural.”

Zhuang Fu sighed. He wasn’t worried about Chi Zhongqiao neglecting Zhou Yunmo; the Little Prince’s word was as good as gold, and he would undoubtedly keep his promise.

His concern lay with Zhou Yunmo’s potential resentment. After all, Zhou Yunmo had been in the industry for three years, yet he still lagged far behind Chi Zhongqiao, who had debuted less than a year ago, in terms of both resources and fame. Anyone in Zhou Yunmo’s position would struggle to maintain composure.

Chi Zhongqiao’s luck was truly extraordinary. His debut project had become a massive hit, followed by a role in a prestigious drama like <Invisible Crime>. He even landed a high-profile endorsement through a variety show, a feat beyond the wildest dreams of someone at his level.

Everything had gone too smoothly. Few obstacles had crossed his path, and even those that did, seemed to dissolve inexplicably. The earlier attempt by Xu Xingzhou to smear Chi Zhongqiao had backfired, instead solidifying his image as a talented and dedicated actor.

From Zhuang Fu’s outsider perspective, Chi Zhongqiao’s debut year had been a flawless streak of good fortune, like a magpie spirit blessed with divine luck.

Or, to use the modern term: A Koi Fish.

**********

The commercial shoot for Bit Sweet was scheduled for the morning. If everything went smoothly, they could wrap up by noon.

“Brother Qiao, close your eyes,” the makeup artist said, gently lifting Chi Zhongqiao’s face with one hand. She held that face as if it were made of glass, barely daring to apply any pressure.

She had painted thousands of faces, both male and female, but when Chi Zhongqiao tilted his head back, his jawline taut and his exquisitely refined features laid bare before him, the makeup artist’s heart still skipped a beat.

Chi Zhongqiao obediently closed his eyes, his dense lashes fluttering downward like delicate wings.

Holy mother of god, he’s breathtakingly beautiful, the makeup artist thought. How can a person be this stunning?!

The makeup artist had initially planned to apply a heavy base, but facing such a flawless canvas, she couldn’t bring himself to use the brush with such force. Instead, she suggested, “Your skin is perfect, so I’ll keep the foundation light. It’ll look more natural on camera.”

Some celebrities deliberately opt for thick foundation, striving to appear more like mannequins on screen.

Chi Zhongqiao’s makeup skills were still at a beginner’s level. He could barely manage to apply foundation smoothly, so he always deferred to the makeup artist’s judgment. Unless the look was truly hideous, he rarely offered any opinions on his makeup.

“No problem, just do what you think is best,” he said.

The makeup artist beamed as she switched to a different foundation. “Brother Qiao is so easygoing,” she remarked. “He’s a rising star who blew up overnight and is still riding high, yet he doesn’t have a trace of arrogance.”

Chi Zhongqiao closed his eyes, a slight upward curve tugging at his lips. “You’re the professional here,” he said. “Of course I’ll trust your expertise.”

The compliment made the makeup artist’s heart flutter with joy.

After the makeup was finished, Chi Zhongqiao thanked the artist and headed to the filming location.

Zhong Yin followed behind him, carrying his coat. Apart from Zhong Yin, he was alone.

The makeup artist sighed inwardly, “He’s so down-to-earth.”

The Red Bean Milk commercial was a short, narrative-driven ad. Chi Zhongqiao stood beside the Director, holding two thin pages of script, listening as she explained the commercial’s approach.

Director Dai Ru couldn’t help but scrutinize Chi Zhongqiao from head to toe when she first saw him. Pleased with his appearance, her expression softened.

She beckoned him closer. “The plot is simple: it centers around the “European Emperor” archetype. Since this is an advertisement, your expressions and body language can be slightly exaggerated…”

Dai Ru had researched this rising young star beforehand. She’d heard his acting skills were impressive, but he lacked commercial experience and might not understand the nuances of ad shoots.

Advertising and television acting differ. She hoped this likable young man would shed his idol image and focus on delivering a strong performance.

Chi Zhongqiao nodded. As a competent actor, he was confident in his control over facial expressions.

“Understood. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The commercial was straightforward. Chi Zhongqiao played the “European Emperor” who wins prizes repeatedly after buying a bottle of Red Bean Milk, ultimately clearing out the entire supermarket’s stock.

This was a typical exaggerated style for commercials, posing no real challenge.

To fully capitalize on the Red Bean Milk craze, Bit Sweet’s Official Team decided to offer a bottle cap lottery as a launch promotion for their new product.

After explaining the scene to Chi Zhongqiao, Dai Ru asked if he was ready. Receiving an affirmative nod, she signaled the crew to start filming.

“Remember to really let loose!” Dai Ru emphasized, her tone still anxious.

Chi Zhongqiao clutched his small script, nodding with a cheerful smile. He hadn’t styled his hair or dyed it, wearing only a light layer of makeup. His soft expression made him look like a fluffy, cream-filled bun.

Dai Ru’s mood brightened considerably. She had already given Chi Zhongqiao the same instructions four or five times, yet he showed no sign of impatience. With such a cooperative attitude, she couldn’t maintain her stern demeanor.

The commercial began filming:

European Emperor Chi Zhongqiao walked into a small supermarket, grabbed a bottle of Red Bean Milk from the shelf, paid at the counter, and twisted the cap.

The shopkeeper behind the counter craned his neck, eyes wide as he stared at the bottle. Chi Zhongqiao’s face remained icy as he twisted—”crack”—the cap wouldn’t budge.

Damn it.

Chi Zhongqiao’s expression didn’t change, but he couldn’t let the problem show. He lowered his gaze, deliberately adopting a serious expression, and used the opportunity to apply more force, finally twisting the cap open.

No one noticed anything amiss, not even the actor standing right in front of him.

Dai Ru watched Chi Zhongqiao’s performance, her slightly furrowed brow gradually relaxing. He clearly knew how to leverage his good looks; his expressions weren’t exaggerated, yet they conveyed every emotion clearly and infected the viewers, making them unconsciously follow his mood.

When Chi Zhongqiao discovered the words “Try Again” written on the underside of the bottle cap, he raised an eyebrow slightly, adopting an expression that was both mildly surprised and utterly natural—perfectly fitting his “European Emperor” persona.

By the end of the take, Dai Ru had to admit one thing: Among all the actors she’d worked with, Chi Zhongqiao’s ability to control his expressions ranked among the very best.

After reviewing the footage, Dai Ru found Chi Zhongqiao’s performance flawless. Even if she wanted to nitpick, she’d only be whispered about as “bullying the newcomer.”

Besides, Dai Ru now found Chi Zhongqiao quite agreeable. Not for any particular reason—she was simply highly satisfied with his professional competence. He didn’t act up, and he did exactly as he was told. This was the kind of actor who made a Director’s job easy. Dai Ru thought to herself: If only tomorrow’s shoot could feature an actor as skilled as Chi Zhongqiao.

Unfortunately, tomorrow’s star was a major celebrity with a notoriously powerful backing and a reputation for being difficult to work with.

A faint melancholy washed over Dai Ru’s heart.

“Alright, no problem, this take passed.” Dai Ru said. “We’re done for the day, everyone. Let’s wrap up.”

As her words fell, the crew, who had been frozen in place, collectively exhaled in relief. They happily began packing up their equipment, eager to head home.

One take was all it took!

The actor playing the supermarket owner also breathed a sigh of relief. He wanted to strike up a conversation with Chi Zhongqiao, but just as he stepped forward and opened his mouth, Chi Zhongqiao’s assistant swiftly rushed to his side, handing him a buzzing phone.

Chi Zhongqiao offered an apologetic smile, and the actor awkwardly returned it, gesturing for Chi Zhongqiao to take the call first.

“Hello, Yuzhou?” Chi Zhongqiao answered.

A deep voice came through the thin phone: “Brother Qiao, are you done filming?”

Chi Zhongqiao chuckled. “Just finished. You really time your calls perfectly—more punctual than an alarm clock.”

A soft laugh echoed from the other end. “An alarm clock could never wake Brother Qiao.”

The ear pressed against the phone instantly felt numb. Chi Zhongqiao cleared his throat and held the device slightly away.

Lu Yuzhou had shed all traces of youthful awkwardness in his appearance, demeanor, and voice. His voice, in particular, was low, steady, and deliberate, each word resonating deeply in Chi Zhongqiao’s ear.

Lu Yuzhou asked, “I reckon Brother Qiao’s finished filming. He’s probably downstairs by now.”

Chi Zhongqiao pinched his earlobe twice. “Why are you so clingy?”

Lu Yuzhou, sitting in the back seat of the car, stared at his slender fingers. After a moment’s thought, he said, “Is Brother Qiao annoyed with me? I’ll leave right now, then.”

“No, no, no! I’m done filming. I’ll come down right away.”

Clutching his coat, Chi Zhongqiao apologized profusely to the actor waiting nearby. “I’m so sorry, my Brother’s been nagging me.”

Seeing no chance to join the conversation, the actor forced a dry smile. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

A staff member who had been waiting anxiously rushed forward. “Brother Qiao, wait!” She had been hovering nearby for ages, too shy to approach, but with Chi Zhongqiao about to leave, she finally mustered the courage to block his path.

Chi Zhongqiao paused, turning to speak to Lu Yuzhou, who was still on the phone. “Wait a minute, okay? A staff has something to ask. I’ll be right down. Stay inside and don’t catch a cold.”

The staff member, her face flushed with urgency, held out a phone and a deck of cards. “It’s… it’s just a behind-the-scenes thing. Could you just draw a card from here?”

“Oh, okay,” Chi Zhongqiao said. “Are you ready to film now?”

The staff member quickly switched to filming mode, aiming the camera at Chi Zhongqiao while extending the deck of cards toward him with her other hand.

“A draw lots?”

Ten slips of card lay before Chi Zhongqiao.

The staff member, barely reaching Chi Zhongqiao’s shoulder, had to stretch her right arm high to keep the text on the cards hidden from his view, attempting to align them with his line of sight.

This was merely for show; for the sake of the video’s appeal, she still needed Chi Zhongqiao to draw the winning card.

As the staff member opened her mouth to give Chi Zhongqiao a hint, he glanced up at the camera with a smile, casually picked a card, flipped it over, and grinned.

The staff member: ???

How did he get it right on the first try?

Chi Zhongqiao turned the card to face the camera. “You guys are going to keep your word, right? You’re really going to give me a whole case?”

The card in his hand clearly read: “Another Case.”

He had casually drawn the grand prize from among ten cards!

The staff member gaped. Holy mother of God, this guy’s a true European Emperor!¹The origins of “欧皇” (European Emperor) and “非酋” (African Chieftain) can be traced back to around 2005–2006, when World of Warcraft was extremely popular in China. At that time, Chinese internet users began saying they had “手黑” (literally “black hands”) when they obtained poor-quality gear in the game. Since the color black in Chinese often carries negative connotations, “手黑” came to mean having terrible luck when performing an action with one’s hands. However, since “手黑” was too closely tied to manual actions, it didn’t cover situations where bad luck wasn’t directly related to hands—such as being repeatedly targeted by monsters in a dungeon. Thus, people started saying they had “脸黑” (“black face”), where “face” in Chinese implicitly represents a person’s overall fortune, making “脸黑” a more general term for bad luck.

Around 2014, many Chinese players flocked to gacha-style anime games like Kantai Collection (舰队Collection). When they drew low-tier cards, they jokingly called themselves “非洲人” (“Africans”)—solely because African skin is dark, not due to any association with poverty. Conversely, since good luck was called “脸白” (“white face”), and Europeans have lighter skin, those with great luck were dubbed “欧洲人” (“Europeans”). Over time, Chinese internet culture shortened the three-character terms “欧洲人” and “非洲人” into the two-character abbreviations “欧皇” (“European Emperor”) and “非酋” (“African Chieftain”), which respectively represent the absolute extremes of good and bad luck.

The roots of these terms lie purely in the traditional Chinese symbolism of black (bad) and white (good), rather than any racial discrimination. The terms were never intended to carry racial implications but simply evolved from gaming slang to describe luck in a humorous, exaggerated way. (courtesy of Mellyjay89 on Reddit post)

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  The origins of “欧皇” (European Emperor) and “非酋” (African Chieftain) can be traced back to around 2005–2006, when World of Warcraft was extremely popular in China. At that time, Chinese internet users began saying they had “手黑” (literally “black hands”) when they obtained poor-quality gear in the game. Since the color black in Chinese often carries negative connotations, “手黑” came to mean having terrible luck when performing an action with one’s hands. However, since “手黑” was too closely tied to manual actions, it didn’t cover situations where bad luck wasn’t directly related to hands—such as being repeatedly targeted by monsters in a dungeon. Thus, people started saying they had “脸黑” (“black face”), where “face” in Chinese implicitly represents a person’s overall fortune, making “脸黑” a more general term for bad luck.
  
  Around 2014, many Chinese players flocked to gacha-style anime games like Kantai Collection (舰队Collection). When they drew low-tier cards, they jokingly called themselves “非洲人” (“Africans”)—solely because African skin is dark, not due to any association with poverty. Conversely, since good luck was called “脸白” (“white face”), and Europeans have lighter skin, those with great luck were dubbed “欧洲人” (“Europeans”). Over time, Chinese internet culture shortened the three-character terms “欧洲人” and “非洲人” into the two-character abbreviations “欧皇” (“European Emperor”) and “非酋” (“African Chieftain”), which respectively represent the absolute extremes of good and bad luck.
  
  The roots of these terms lie purely in the traditional Chinese symbolism of black (bad) and white (good), rather than any racial discrimination. The terms were never intended to carry racial implications but simply evolved from gaming slang to describe luck in a humorous, exaggerated way. (courtesy of Mellyjay89 on Reddit post)