Chapter 201

Special Edition 201: The Dragon King’s Man (Part Two)

I swear the feathers were rippling fireworks.

Sunlight leaked through the glass roof, and the blues and greens on that peacock’s train flickered into molten gold. I forgot to breathe; the journalists almost dropped their cameras before scrambling to focus.

“Hold on—he’s opening!” I hissed, elbowing Chen Wei.

Two meters of impossible color fanned out, swallowing my whole field of view. Another cocky male joined the show, and cameras clicked like cicadas in summer. Honestly? Even I had never seen our birds this dramatic.

Chen Wei exhaled a shaky laugh. “Real life wins. Every time.”

Her partner nodded so hard his cap slid sideways. “Screens can’t bottle that glow.”

The little songbirds decided we were furniture and perched on our palms the second we spread our fingers. Xiao Su giggled when a pudgy finch tucked its head against her cheek like a shy kid seeking a hug. Xu Chenggong—stone‑faced on a normal day—melted when a green parrot claimed his shoulder and nudged for attention. The contrast was delicious: tough guy, clingy bird. The online‑media folks smelled viral magic and kept rolling.

“Director Duan, hop in frame,” Chen Wei called.

Showtime. I whistled; the aviary chorus burst into flight, then circled back in perfect largest‑to‑tiniest order. Watching them file through the door like a shrinking rainbow always makes me grin like an idiot—and it worked. The crew’s eyes sparkled.

Next stop: the lions. My keepers chickened out, so I walked in alone. Our male brushed his mane against my calf, rumbling like an overgrown house‑cat. Chen Wei, eyes wide, asked if visitors would get that close. “Birds only,” I said. “Somebody has to keep their limbs.”

The subtext landed; she liked the footage anyway.

By three o’clock we’d toured every enclosure, shot keeper interviews, and demolished my home‑cooked lunch (spicy eggplant never fails). Chen Wei promised the TV segment would air at eight p.m. two nights from now. The digital reporters traded socials with me and dashed off to edit.

I thanked the neighborhood officials for the hookup—marketing on a ramen budget hurts—and sent my exhausted trio of keepers home early.

Back in the office, my spine threatened mutiny. Lu Ya lounged in human form beside the aquarium, eyes glittering. The fish huddled in a jittery knot. I cleared my throat. “Colleagues, remember? No snacking on coworkers.”

A glare. I retreated to my phone.

Ping. The Lingxiao Hope Project flashed a new task:

Visitor Goal: hit at least two thousand guests in the first week after grand opening.
Reward: thirty days of premium feed and a shiny visitor‑service center.

Two thousand sounds small until you remember weekdays are tumbleweed city. Media buzz might pull weekend crowds, but will folks drive this far just for feathers and fur? Add in half‑finished exhibits, only three staffers, and—yeah—panic tastes sour.

I need bodies through the gate and bodies on payroll. In seven days.

Just then Shao Wuxing, that solemn Taoist from Linshui Monastery, asked for a private word. The street‑office liaison waved goodbye (traitor!) and left me alone with him.

“There’s a powerful demon lurking here,” Shao intoned. “Help us, or Donghai’s lives hang in the balance. We can prove—”

I rolled my eyes so hard they squeaked. “Feudal superstition? I’ll film you and post it. Linshui scams innocent citizens—ever heard of the 610 Office?”

His jaw tightened; mine did too. Honestly, one demon roommate is enough drama for a lifetime.

First things first: visitors and staff. Seven days. No pressure, right?

Still, I ran a zoo on love once; I’ll do it again. Otherwise, what’s the point of shimmering feathers and lions with cat‑eyes?

Anyway, time to hustle.