Zhang Tian: "…………"
Telling Lu Yicheng to run fast was the last act of mercy from this generation of fans.
Beneath the flood of 【Congratulations on discovering this treasure】 comments, there were also all sorts of bullet-screen messages—
【Sis is so cool, I love her—who needs a boyfriend when you have a sister like this】
【Weirdly perfect match】
【Do you only owe Lu Yicheng an apology? I think we owe Lu Shuangchen one too. I’ll apologize first! Lu Shuangchen, I’m sorry!】
【Lu Shuangchen, I’m sorry!】
【The most tragic father-son duo in high society, no competition】
【Wait, this is Yu Wanqiu… and who?】
Many people recognized Yu Wanqiu but didn’t know Jiang Lan. *Mother-in-Law Is Coming II* had only aired two episodes so far, and while the reception was decent, many still hadn’t seen it.
The show’s audience primarily consisted of the guests’ fans, and its trending status was due to the popularity of its cast.
Yu Wanqiu was an award-winning actress, and Shen Xingyao was a rising star. The problem was, while Yu Wanqiu and Shen Xingyao were hot topics, the other guests—Zhang Lin and Chen Shuyun—barely stood out in the show. With each episode running just over twenty minutes, many viewers simply skipped their segments.
*Mother-in-Law Is Coming* Season 2 hadn’t truly broken into mainstream popularity.
Zhang Tian hoped to ride this wave and make the show even more viral.
【Jiang Lan—Yu Wanqiu’s future daughter-in-law. More, please! Who knew it could be like this?】
【This is *so* damn thrilling. I can’t wipe this smirk off my face.】
【This is basically dancing on Lu Yicheng’s head.】
【Suddenly, a whole new world has opened up for me.】
【The only person who can steal a wife from Lu Yicheng is Yu Wanqiu herself.】
【I’m sorry.】
【Sorry, but I’m shipping them first.】
Watching it again revealed even more highlights—like how Lu Yicheng’s supposed "night out" was actually orchestrated by Yu Wanqiu, or how she deliberately asked at dinner, "Who cooks better, me or Lu Yicheng?"—pushing step by step. By now, Zhang Tian’s mind had completely erased the image of Lu Yicheng dressed in a bear costume.
After watching this video, Zhang Tian felt like half a shipper himself.
The dynamic between these two was undeniably captivating. It wasn’t exactly "sweet"—compared to Du Wanzhou spoiling Shen Xingyao with shopping sprees, theirs was a different kind of pull.
As many of Yu Wanqiu’s fans (known as "Autumn Breeze") put it, the Yu Wanqiu in this show had *stepped down from her pedestal*.
Meanwhile, Jiang Lan was *climbing up to meet her*.
Du Wanzhou’s affection for Shen Xingyao was one-sided—buying bags, clothes, anything. But Yu Wanqiu and Jiang Lan? They spoiled *each other*. Strip away the "future mother-in-law and daughter-in-law" label, and they resembled close friends.
At first, Zhang Tian had assumed, like many netizens, that Jiang Lan would go out of her way to please Yu Wanqiu—maybe even claim to be her fan.
But apart from the premiere dinner, Jiang Lan had never once brought up Yu Wanqiu’s career. Even though it would’ve been the perfect chance to break into the entertainment industry…
Zhang Tian couldn’t guarantee Jiang Lan and Lu Yicheng would *definitely* marry, but he *could* say with certainty that Jiang Lan and Yu Wanqiu would stay in touch.
After all, who else would drag Yu Wanqiu into gaming?
Zhang Tian had seen Yu Wanqiu play solo before.
And no, it wasn’t as simple as "she’s rich, she can hire a pro gamer to carry her." Just look at the three tool-like teammates from *Zhengrong*—even professional players stuck by Jiang Lan’s side.
Exiting the video, Zhang Tian noticed the view count had already hit 1.5 million—a jump of 200,000 in just three minutes.
He checked the fan community next—membership had grown to over 300,000.
The group’s name? *A Bowl of Lanzhou Noodles with Yu Wanqiu*—shortened to *Lanzhou Noodles*. Some had pushed for *Spring Orchid, Autumn Chrysanthemum*, but the admins vetoed it for being too cheesy.
Zhang Tian even spotted a few familiar usernames—loyalists from the *Irreplaceable* fan group, still faithfully checking in as of last night.
He wondered what Yu Wanqiu would think of this video.
Yu Wanqiu rarely browsed social media, and Jiang Lan was usually too busy gaming to scroll—except for the occasional meme. For now, neither knew fans had shipped them in… *quite* the unconventional pairing.
Xia Jing was aware of the trending topic, but since it was fan-driven, there was no need to intervene.
Still, she gave Yu Wanqiu a call.
Yu Wanqiu didn’t seem bothered. "Fans can like whatever they want. Just make sure no one’s being harassed. I’ve got an interview to film—talk later."
Around 4 p.m., the production team called all four guest pairs to the first-floor studio for interviews.
The guests had done solo interviews on their first day. Jiang Lan remembered being asked if she was confident about winning Yu Wanqiu over.
Her answer? *"You can’t force fate."*
She had no idea what Yu Wanqiu had been asked back then. Glancing over, she caught Yu Wanqiu’s raised eyebrow.
"What are you looking at me for? You know how interviews work—just answer honestly."
This time, it was a duo interview. The first pair called in was Chen Shuyun and Aunt Zhao.
Aunt Zhao had been struggling lately. Ever since Li Jia and Du Wanzhou mentioned at Shen Xingyao’s birthday party how "it’s a shame Chen Shuyun quit her job," she hadn’t been able to sleep, tossing until 1 or 2 a.m.
She was finally understanding what it meant to live without earning a paycheck.
**Mother-in-Law Is Coming II** prides itself on authenticity and being unscripted. For instance, most of the ingredients in the fourth-floor fridge were specially delivered by the Lu family, and even the daily items used by Shen Xingyao and Zhang Lin are often luxury brands. The production team avoids elevating the non-celebrity participants to a lifestyle beyond their means.
Essentially, the food and supplies are mostly brought by the guests themselves.
Before Chen Shuyun resigned, her high salary allowed their family to enjoy a living standard above average. They only ate free-range eggs, and fruits and milk were always premium brands—Aunt Zhao never lacked for anything.
But now that Chen Shuyun has quit her job, they must budget carefully. With a child about to enter their final year of high school, followed by college tuition and future home purchases, relying solely on her husband’s salary is far from enough.
Education expenses, daily living costs, and medical savings—all on a salary of just over 10,000 yuan in a city as expensive as B—leave them financially stretched.
Yet Aunt Zhao feels too embarrassed to bring it up. She was the one who urged Chen Shuyun to resign and take care of their grandson. Now, facing the consequences, her pride won’t let her admit it.
The production team played a clip from their earlier solo interviews, where Aunt Zhao was asked, *“What do you think of your daughter-in-law?”*
Her response then: *“Shuyun is excellent in every way, except she’s too devoted to her job—treating her career as if it’s more important than life itself…”*
Chen Shuyun, meanwhile, was asked a more conventional question: *“How do you think you’ve performed as both a daughter-in-law and a mother?”*
After a brief pause, she answered, *“My mother-in-law handles everything at home—groceries, cooking, picking up and dropping off Little Xuan from school. I’m often busy with work, though his father does cook sometimes. As a mother, I admit I’ve fallen short in giving my child enough attention. But as a daughter-in-law, I don’t think there’s much to criticize.”*
Chen Shuyun crossed her arms. Aunt Zhao was her mother-in-law, not her own mother. She already made enough concessions—letting her live comfortably, treating her to the best, and even giving her red envelopes during holidays. She never even argued with her.
After watching the footage, an off-camera assistant asked, *“Same questions again—Aunt Zhao, would you like to go first?”*
Aunt Zhao’s expression turned uneasy. *“Shuyun is… very good to me. But her job is exhausting. Earning money isn’t easy.”*
Chen Shuyun pressed her lips together. *So now she realizes how hard I work? Wasn’t she always boasting about how capable her son is?* Still, she replied politely, *“Mom, taking care of Little Xuan must be tiring for you too.”*
She meant it. After giving birth, she returned to work during a critical career phase, leaving Little Xuan entirely in Aunt Zhao’s care—from kindergarten through high school. Sure, they could’ve hired a nanny, but nothing compares to a grandmother’s devotion.
Chen Shuyun appreciated that, which was why she avoided conflicts.
Aunt Zhao’s dedication to her grandson was undeniable—she gave 200%.
But was Chen Shuyun not exhausted too? Every deal she closed came from relentless effort—endless meetings, client dinners, sometimes skipping meals entirely.
Aunt Zhao didn’t know what else to say. She wasn’t well-educated, just felt her daughter-in-law was always away, neglecting the family. With Little Xuan about to take his college entrance exams, shouldn’t she spend more time with him?
Besides, wasn’t Little Xuan’s father also earning?
Only now did Aunt Zhao realize—Chen Shuyun had been outearning her son by a huge margin. The show’s payment of two million yuan was substantial, but once spent, it’s gone. Chen Shuyun’s professional network? Handed over to others. Regret came too late.
She’d ruined it all herself.
When asked about future plans, Chen Shuyun said, *“I’ll study some recipes. Once the show wraps up, I’ll focus on supporting my son through his exams.”*
Aunt Zhao looked up hesitantly. *“Shuyun, I…”*
Chen Shuyun tilted her head. *“What is it?”*
Aunt Zhao shrank back. *“…Never mind.”*
They emerged after about ten minutes. The next guests were Zhang Lin and Li Jia.
In terms of beauty, Zhang Lin was every bit Yu Wanqiu’s equal—gentle features, a delicate demeanor. At four months pregnant and 36 years old, she still looked like she was in her twenties.
Most actresses her age were fiercely competing for roles and fame, but Zhang Lin had been out of the industry for over seven years.
In her earlier solo interview, she was asked: *“Are you satisfied with your current life? Describe your mother-in-law in three words. What are your future plans?”*
Zhang Lin had clenched her fists slightly. *“Not very satisfied. My mother-in-law is… domineering, decisive, and unyielding. I plan to return to acting.”*
Li Jia was asked the same three questions, with “daughter-in-law” replacing “mother-in-law” in the second.
Her response: *“I’m quite content with my life. My son and daughter-in-law are filial—I’d say I’ve won at life. Zhang Lin is obedient, sensible, and well-mannered. My plans? To enjoy my golden years doting on my grandchild.”*
Watching the replay, Zhang Lin felt nothing. After years of marriage, living under the same roof as Li Jia in their luxurious villa, she’d long accepted the “rules” imposed on her. At first, she told herself—since she’d quit acting and had no income, doing more housework was a way to earn her place, to avoid shame.
But it seemed Li Jia had never truly respected her from the start, and in this household, Zhang Lin had never been able to hold her head high.
She was like a dodder clinging to the Xu Family. Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder—if she hadn’t left the entertainment industry back then, would things be completely different now? But at the time, her husband had insisted acting was too exhausting, and since the family didn’t need her income, she might as well focus on raising their child.
Zhang Lin agreed. Now their child was seven, and when she wanted to make a comeback, she found herself pregnant again.
Li Jia raised an eyebrow at the video clip but said nothing.
The assistant spoke up, "Teacher Zhang Lin, these are the same questions as before."
Zhang Lin replied, "My answers haven’t changed."
Li Jia interjected, "If you go back to acting now, you’ll have to start from scratch. At your age, do you really want to play minor supporting roles?"
Zhang Lin’s voice was soft and delicate, almost fragile. "...Yes, I love acting. Even supporting roles are fine."
Li Jia scoffed, "Do you have any idea what being an extra is like? Crawling around in the dirt—what will people think of the Xu Family if you—"
Zhang Tian quickly signaled the assistant to move on to other questions. Once the interview ended, he waved them out, muttering that all of this—especially Li Jia’s comments—needed to be edited out. Li Jia was practically a masterclass in psychological manipulation. What was wrong with playing supporting roles? Did she have to be a housewife forever?
The next group was Shen Xingyao and Du Wanzhou. After their interview, it was finally Jiang Lan and Yu Wanqiu’s turn.
The assistant started playing the footage from their previous solo interviews. The three questions were: "Did you ever imagine your mother-in-law would be Yu Wanqiu?" "Do you have confidence in winning over your future mother-in-law?" and "What changes do you hope to see in your relationship after the show ends?"
The first question was rephrased: "Now that you know your mother-in-law is Yu Wanqiu, what are your thoughts?"
Yu Wanqiu turned to look at Jiang Lan—she wanted to know the answer too. How did Jiang Lan see her?
But Jiang Lan seemed hesitant. Yu Wanqiu encouraged her, "Just say whatever comes to mind."
Jiang Lan thought to herself, *What thoughts could I possibly have? Yu Wanqiu’s an award-winning actress—we’re from completely different worlds. And she might not even end up as my mother-in-law.*
Out loud, she said, "It feels like we’re not from the same world."
The studio atmosphere froze for a split second, but Yu Wanqiu shattered it with a single remark: "We’re both Chinese. How are we not from the same world?"
"Teacher Yu, that’s twisting the meaning," Jiang Lan sighed. "The Yu Wanqiu I knew before was this powerful, stunning, and untouchable presence. Now you’re so down-to-earth—hanging out at street food stalls, staying up late... I never expected that."
Yu Wanqiu didn’t respond this time. The director moved on to the second question: "So, do you think you can win Teacher Yu over?"
Jiang Lan smiled. "Whether I *can* depends on my skills. Whether I *do* depends on whether Teacher Yu gives me the chance."
Yu Wanqiu pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. "Next question."
Jiang Lan’s answer remained the same: she just wanted to be friends.
Yu Wanqiu was asked the same set of questions, and her answers were identical to before.
The interview lasted only ten minutes, but to Jiang Lan, it felt like half an hour.
As they left the studio, Yu Wanqiu said, "Just be honest in interviews. Next time, they might not replay the old footage for reference. If you say something inconsistent, the internet will remember."
Jiang Lan waved a hand. "Got it, got it. It’s almost six—Teacher Yu, what’s for dinner?"
Yu Wanqiu: "Go wash the vegetables. We’re having salad."
Meat for lunch meant greens for dinner—balance was key. Jiang Lan resigned herself to washing vegetables, though she couldn’t help grumbling. *Just yesterday at lunch, we had pickled fish and braised pork!* Today’s lunch had been leftovers.
Lu Yicheng had sent her a photo of his work meal, but every time Jiang Lan tried to ask about the past, he’d either be "going to eat" or "heading to work"—or already doing one of the two.
Finally, she sent a message: [*Fine, don’t tell me.*]
[*[Immortal’s Pig]: Mhm.*]
*Mhm?!*
[*Are we still calling tonight?*]
Might as well cancel the call too—save her the trouble of asking.
[*[Immortal’s Pig]: Yes.*]
Lu Yicheng was infuriating. But Jiang Lan could always grill him over the call later.
After dinner, they rested for half an hour before piano practice, followed by an hour of yoga.
At 9:30 p.m., Yu Wanqiu emerged with her phone. She never *said* she wanted to game, but if Jiang Lan invited her, she’d agree without hesitation—even though it was usually past her bedtime.
After reaching Diamond rank, the skill level of their teammates had noticeably improved. Yu Wanqiu had finally grasped the game’s mechanics instead of blindly following Jiang Lan.
During the loading screen, Yu Wanqiu noticed something new—a pink heart icon beneath their team’s marksman and support heroes, accompanied by a small "4." None of the other players had it.
"Jiang Lan, what’s this?" Yu Wanqiu tapped her screen curiously.
This round, Jiang Lan was playing jungle while Yu Wanqiu took mid-lane. The marksman was a Marco Polo, paired with a support, Yao—and beneath their heroes was a *couple tag.*
Jiang Lan said, "Lover tags—these two are a couple. In Honor of Kings, you can establish relationships like lovers, besties, or bros. Playing together boosts intimacy, but honestly, aside from painting a target on your back, it's pretty useless."
If a match had a couple, they’d easily get targeted.
Yu Wanqiu asked, "What’s our intimacy level?"
They duo-queued often but had never gifted each other flowers, so it was probably a few hundred. "Around three or four hundred."
Yu Wanqiu: "Then let’s set one up after this match."
She didn’t know how to do it, but Jiang Lan definitely did.
Jiang Lan replied, "We can, but once you hit Glory, this account won’t be used anymore."
"Do it anyway." Yu Wanqiu was playing Xiao Qiao this round, a new hero she’d been practicing, and she was doing well.
Plus, with her Swan Dream skin and Jiang Lan’s ganks, she was practically guaranteed the Gold Medal for Mage every game.
Aside from browsing Taobao, Yu Wanqiu had developed another hobby: buying skins. Every hero she owned had all available skins purchased, though some were sadly no longer obtainable.
Jiang Lan also spent money on the game, but sparingly—her alt account only had a six-yuan top-up. Yu Wanqiu, on the other hand, dropped thousands at once.
Money really was nice.
The enemy team surrendered at six minutes. After the match, Jiang Lan sent Yu Wanqiu a relationship request. "Yu-laoshi, check your messages and accept it."
"You and Lu Yicheng had this too, right? What level?" Yu Wanqiu asked.
On her main account, they were Lover-level 22. Jiang Lan answered truthfully: "22."
Yu Wanqiu hummed. "How do you level it up faster?"
"You can draw flowers with diamonds, events give intimacy-boosting items, daily gold gifts help, and duo-queuing adds points too." There was an even quicker method—spending real money—but Jiang Lan didn’t mention it.
Intimacy Roses cost two yuan each for +5 points, while Passion Roses were five yuan for +10.
Real cash for pixels? What a waste. Only someone with money to burn would do that.
Yu Wanqiu nodded. "Then let’s add your other account too. We’ll hit Glory soon anyway."
She quite liked these little features, even if they were as useless as Jiang Lan said. They just looked nice.
They played until eleven. Yu Wanqiu climbed from Diamond V (2 stars) to Diamond IV (1 star). "Time for bed. Get up early tomorrow—no staying up late. A day or two is fine, but long-term? Dark circles and wrinkles will show."
Jiang Lan promised, "I won’t stay up!"
She quit the game and immediately opened WeChat. There were two messages from Lu Yicheng, sent around eleven: "Off work now. Video call?"
And one missed video call.
Jiang Lan called back.
The screen lit up. Lu Yicheng was walking home, orange streetlights casting a glow around him. The sound of cicadas chirped through the speaker.
He glanced at the camera. "Done gaming?"
Jiang Lan: "How’d you know I was playing?"
Lu Yicheng: "I just knew."
The words felt familiar. "Since when do you get to be smug like this?"
"If you can... why can’t I?" He was walking slower tonight, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Jiang Lan: "You just can’t. You never explain anything, acting all mysterious like you know everything."
Lu Yicheng: "Mhm. I’m doing it on purpose."
"I ask you directly, and you dodge. You’re the one who lied first." She’d been asking all day, but he kept avoiding it.
Lu Yicheng: "Then I’ll apologize. Sorry."
Jiang Lan: "Not forgiven. Unless you tell me how we actually met."
Lu Yicheng nodded. "Fine. You know you majored in art, right?"
Jiang Lan nodded.
Lu Yicheng continued, "You’d just returned from intensive training—it was winter break of sophomore year. Your English and Chinese grades were decent, but math and science? Barely scraped 200 combined."
"You asked Teacher Zheng for tutoring."
Though the school banned private lessons, Jiang Lan’s mother was a high school English teacher. Colleagues taught math and science, so Jiang Lan got free "supplementary guidance." But Teacher Zheng was coaching the Olympiad class that winter.
Lu Yicheng was in that class.
Jiang Lan studied next door. After Teacher Zheng finished lecturing her, she’d work on practice tests. Everyone in the Olympiad class knew her.
Fresh from out-of-town training, while others had ear-length bobs, she wore a high ponytail.
Plus, some Olympiad students were her classmates. They’d drop by after class to explain problems.
Every day, Jiang Lan waited outside the Olympiad room. Once, as Lu Yicheng stepped out, someone called his name from behind.
Jiang Lan mused, "Lu Yicheng? That name sounds familiar..."
He paused. Girls had confessed to him before, but his icy demeanor eventually scared them off.
He didn’t expect someone to use such an old-school pickup line.
Her classmate emerged, grinning. "Of course it’s familiar. He’s the school heartthrob."
Jiang Lan leaned in, captivated. "And then?"
Lu Yicheng: "After that... winter break ended."
After the winter break, Jiang Lan moved into the school dormitory and cut her hair. Every day after class, she would go to Teacher Zheng’s office, where Lu Yicheng sometimes stayed to finish his papers.
During the mock exams, Jiang Lan only scored a little over sixty in math—and that was after a whole month of hard work.
As the saying goes, everything else might deceive you, but math won’t. If you don’t get math, you just don’t get it.
And physics was just as unforgiving. Honestly, there were too many brutally honest subjects.
Teacher Zheng said she couldn’t leave until she finished the paper. He had to supervise evening study hall and would come back later to explain the answers.
Jiang Lan had done all the problems she could, but the rest were beyond her. With just the two of them in the office, she whispered, “Hey, Lu Yicheng, can I ask you a few questions?”
Lu Yicheng wasn’t the type to go out of his way to help others, but for some reason, he agreed that time.
Jiang Lan pointed at the paper. “Aside from these, these, and these… I actually need help with all of them.”
Her paper was neatly filled, with scratch work scribbled beside each problem—whatever steps she could manage.
But the second question was already wrong.
Lu Yicheng couldn’t understand how such a simple paper could turn out like this.
Jiang Lan pressed, “And then what happened?”
Lu Yicheng stepped into the apartment elevator. “You asked how we first met. I told you everything. I didn’t lie.”
“But what about after that? Did you explain the problems to me? And… when did you start liking me…?”
Lu Yicheng walked into the apartment. “All you ever ask about is that. You never ask if I’m tired from work.”
Jiang Lan obliged immediately. “Are you tired from work?”
Lu Yicheng shook his head. “No.”
...
“If you’re not tired, why make me ask?” Jiang Lan realized most of their conversations with Lu Yicheng were pointless—utterly devoid of substance.
Lu Yicheng countered, “Even if I’m not tired, you can’t skip caring about me. Do I really have to spell it out?”
Jiang Lan pouted. “I just didn’t know! Lu Yicheng, tell me more, please?”
No matter how much she wheedled, Lu Yicheng refused to budge. Those memories were youthful secrets—when he started liking Jiang Lan, when she first caught his attention—even he wasn’t entirely sure. He only knew that, at some point, he’d swallowed a lot of jealousy without realizing it.
Lu Yicheng tugged at his collar. “It’s almost midnight. I need to shower. Still want to hear more?”
He’d pulled this trick before. Jiang Lan didn’t believe he’d actually strip. “Yes.”
