Chapter 46

Does This Count as Making a Debut?

The new forty-acre expansion of Lingyou was finally complete.

Fresh exhibition halls gleamed under the sun. Purple bamboo swayed in the breeze like elegant dancers. At the center of it all, an artificial lake sparkled like a mirror, complete with a tiny island made just for nesting waterfowl.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist adding new residents.

Ten pairs of swans—half white, half black—and five pairs of mandarin ducks. The black swans were cheaper at around 3,000 yuan each. The white ones? Double. Because of course, white equals premium in bird-world economics. The mandarin ducks were relatively affordable, just 800 a piece.

I didn’t buy chicks. Too hard to manage. And besides, with an open-air lake like this, I was paranoid they’d flap those pretty wings and peace out the moment I blinked.

So here we were: me and my team of overqualified-on-paper, underqualified-in-everything-else staff, staring at the water like it owed us answers.

“Should we call the Forestry Bureau?” Xiao Su asked carefully.

“Or maybe the city zoo?” Liu Bin added.

Xu Chenggong scratched his head. “Wouldn’t that out us as frauds? We all got our jobs through… connections.”

I gave them the look. “You say that like it’s a secret.”

Honestly, half of us wouldn’t be here if not for friendly phone calls and favors. Exhibit A: me. Besties with the Forestry Bureau director and also babysitter to his dog.

Anyway.

After a minute of pretending to think hard, I brightened. “I’ve got it. I’ll get Cui Cui.”

Everyone blinked.

“Let her communicate with them. They’re all birds. They’ll understand each other.”

Silence.

Did they think I’d lost my mind? Probably. But whatever, I was committed now.

I ran to the aviary, scooped up Cui Cui, and rushed back like I was carrying the Holy Grail. “Okay! Release the birds!”

Cui Cui stretched her neck and chirped once, very seriously.

Swans and ducks emerged from their crates. The ducks paddled straight into the water, calm as monks. The swans? Took a few running steps, flapped… and flew. I held my breath.

But they didn’t leave.

They circled and landed gently on the central island like they’d always lived here.

The staff stared. “…Wait, did Cui Cui actually convince them?”

“Maybe it’s just the good environment,” someone muttered.

Fair. The Cape air was crisp, the water clean, the grass green. Compared to the concrete jungle of the city zoo, this was bird paradise.

I shaded my eyes, still holding Cui Cui, and nodded like a proud father. “Not bad. Let’s add a few more animals and prep for opening.”

Over the next week, a menagerie would arrive: lynxes, red-crowned cranes, pheasants, hedgehogs, flying squirrels, and—after way too many emails—a Tibetan fox.

Let me tell you, that fox was a pain to track down. Arctic and red foxes are more photogenic, so nobody wants the flat-faced meme beast that is a Tibetan fox. But I wanted it. So I got it. Even if its perpetual “are-you-kidding-me” expression haunts my dreams.

As animals poured in, I also brought on ten new hires.

And watched my bank account cry.

I sighed. “We might not even have enough breakroom space for lunch anymore.”

Huang Qi, ever the realist, waved it off. “You don’t need to build new offices right away. Just convert some unused exhibit halls.”

Like I’d been struck by divine lightning, I clapped my forehead. “Why am I so dumb?!”

We had empty halls. No rule says they have to be used for animals.

Problem (mostly) solved.

While I was juggling construction and incoming creatures, Huang Qi had updates too. “The ad edits are done. Once approved, let’s do a live stream to promote the new animals. Ride the wave while the ad’s still hot.”

“Who’ll do the live stream?” I asked, wary.

“Xiao Su,” she said instantly. “She runs the official accounts and loves the internet more than life.”

True.

I gave the green light and sent Xiao Su a heads-up.

Two days later, the preview ad landed in my inbox.

I opened the file.

…

Blue sky. Rolling mountains. Camera pans down.

A plump American Shorthair cat waddles out of the forest like it’s on a quest. It sniffs out a bag of chicken-flavored cat food. Eyes gleam. It pounces.

It drags the bag with great effort—adorably pathetic—and somehow climbs the zoo wall… only to fall, gracefully, into an enclosure.

A fox watches.

The Arctic fox unlocks its door. Yes, literally unlocks. Pounces. The cat yelps, rolls, scrambles. They tug on the bag like it’s a romantic drama.

The cat flees—straight into the monkey enclosure.

Six monkeys. One cat. Chaos.

It escapes again… only to wander into a python pit. Then a lion’s lair. Then face-to-face with a black bear.

It plays dead.

And just when the coast seems clear—

Boom.

A shadow falls.

Lu Ya enters.

The lighting. The music. The edit. Chef’s kiss. He looked like a villain boss in a wuxia film, complete with echoing footsteps and glowing eyes.

The cat cowers.

A claw rises…

Then—

The music cuts.

A human (me) walks in, scoops up Lu Ya like a misbehaving chicken, and strolls away casually.

The cat blinks, sniffs its food, and finally—finally—starts eating.

…

Somewhere in Donghai, a woman named Wang Weiwei was about to watch a movie when this ad played.

She never made it to the movie.

Screaming. Laughing. Rewinding. Sharing.

She recognized the zoo, the cat, the lion. “Le Le!!” she cried, watching the lion copy the cat’s every movement like a giant ginger mirror.

Under the comments:

“I came for the movie, stayed for the ad.”

“Why is this cat food ad better than most dramas?”

“I want to eat cat food now. Is that weird?”

“IS THAT THE DEMON KING AT THE END?!”

“Director Duan picked up Lu Ya like a hen and walked away. Legendary.”

The behind-the-scenes video dropped later that day. Grainy phone footage. Choppy edits. But enough to show how it all worked.

People were stunned.

“The cat was so bad at acting lmao.”

“That fox?? An Oscar-worthy performance. She snapped into character like a pro!”

“I thought it was CGI… but they really did it?!”

“The bear listened to Duan Jiazhe like a golden retriever. What kind of trainer is he?!”

I scrolled through the comments with a grin, occasionally bursting into laughter.

I had to hold back a chuckle at one line: “We must never let Lu Ya know people are calling him a hen now.”

Then Xu Jinghui texted me a storm of exclamation points: “THIS AD IS A HIT!! The agency loved it. The numbers are insane.”

Even the behind-the-scenes clip was performing ridiculously well. People were obsessed.

“Your zoo could debut as an idol group,” she joked. “You don’t need keepers—you need agents.”

I grinned. “Introduce us to a production team next?”

We laughed. Chatted. Wrapped up.

That afternoon, I gave Xiao Su the go-ahead to drop the teaser and schedule the live stream.

It was official.

Lingyou had made its debut.

And honestly?

It was fabulous.