If he had to ask Vice President Yoon for an extra one or two million won, the man would probably skin him alive.
As for using his own money—stop right there. What kind of hellish joke was that? Spending personal funds for company business? "Are you okay? Are you okay? Did you eat too many Liulimei plums?"
"Invite Teacher Chu Zhi for a video call. You'll stand next to me and translate," Myung Nam-jik ordered.
The translator immediately relayed the request. On the other end, Niu Jiangxue seemed to consult with the artist before responding half a minute later with approval. The video call was set up.
Holy shit, this guy is handsome. This mainland celebrity had something special—was he a visual kei rock singer?
The translator's nerves eased as he took in the golden curls and leather jacket look. His thoughts raced, momentarily forgetting his usual anxiety.
"Teacher Chu Zhi, your appearance truly has a genius's aura," Myung Nam-jik said, his face instantly morphing into a practiced smile. "You have hundreds of thousands of fans in Seoul alone, and our show has high ratings there. We'd be honored if you could spare a few minutes to greet them over the phone."
When one path failed, Myung switched to the fan card.
Truth be told, even though Chu Zhi performed for both domestic and foreign audiences, his disdain for Japan and Korea ran deep. His efforts there were minimal—even the Emperor of Acting had personal biases.
"I'm very grateful for the support of Korean fans, but my schedule is packed. I'm currently filming a drama," Chu Zhi said. "It's only because Mr. Myung Nam-jik reached out that I took time off set to take this call."
"Only because of me"? Why does that sound like I should be flattered? Myung shook off the absurd thought. Did this guy really think he could fool someone who'd been in the industry for over a decade with such empty words?
"Please, Teacher Chu, we really need your help," Myung pleaded, stepping back and suddenly dropping to his knees in a full bow on camera.
Unlike Japan's dogeza, Korea's kneeling bow wasn't always humiliating—it could also signify determination. Presidents bowed to voters during elections to show dedication; idols bowed to fans in gratitude.
But even so, for a TV PD to kneel before a foreign celebrity? That was lowering his head a lot. (Hollywood stars were the exception.)
Chu Zhi reevaluated this Korean. Kneeling so decisively? Not an ordinary man. No wonder he'd climbed so high—this guy had skills.
Well then. Forcing a PD to kneel was far more satisfying than squeezing a measly million won out of him. Triggering his passive skill, Chu Zhi immediately responded, "PD Myung, you're too kind. Given our relationship, I should agree without hesitation."
"But as a celebrity with some fame in China, my schedule is extremely tight. I truly apologize, PD Myung." His tone perfectly conveyed inner torment.
Ssi-bal! "Our relationship"? If we're so close, why won't you just say yes and let me get up?! Myung hadn't kneeled this much since his early days. His legs were starting to ache.
"PD Myung, please stand. I…" Chu Zhi trailed off, feigning hesitation.
"Please. The show airs this Thursday. We need your call," Myung pressed, swallowing his humiliation. He'd kneeled because he knew—without money, Chu Zhi would never agree.
And this program? An MV showcase needed the original artist to feel complete. Yet the procurement team hadn't even secured a promotional clause in the contract. Useless idiots.
"Fine. Send me the timing and script. But I really can't spare more than three minutes," Chu Zhi reluctantly conceded.
"Thank you, Teacher Chu!" Myung said through gritted teeth.
"Then I'll leave it at that. The set's waiting for me," Chu Zhi said before hanging up.
The translator itched to ask what drama Chu Zhi was filming—that visual kei rock look alone had him hooked. But with his boss on his knees, now wasn't the time.
Kneeling to beg… The translator shuddered. Had he just witnessed something he shouldn't have?
Panicking, his survival instincts kicked in. "PD Myung, your dedication to the network is truly inspiring. A role model for us all."
He even added quietly, "Dealing with a subpar star like Chu Zhi must be exhausting. Why would President Yoon make such an unwise decision?"
"Enough! President Yoon has his vision. He sees the bigger picture for our network. We mustn't question him," Myung said, standing and dusting off his slacks. The translator's words had soothed his ego.
"That Chinese star is really something else." Myung adjusted his suit. "Elegance never goes out of style."
MBC had plenty of experience producing variety shows. They scrambled to book guests—current idol group members, A-list actors. Korean stars charged peanuts for local appearances, with even top celebs earning just a few hundred thousand RMB per gig.
But in China? Even the least visible member of a K-pop group, like Jang Tae-hwan, could command five or six million per appearance—China's celebrity pay ceiling.
If anyone knew how to inflate prices, it was Chinese variety shows. They'd pushed visiting Korean stars' fees higher than the top six Chinese A-listers. Sure, Korean stars had better skills, but eight million RMB per episode for Jo Kwon? That was three million above the domestic cap. Ridiculous.
With only a two-hour time difference, the live broadcast was a tight squeeze.
Same-day recordings still counted as "live," so Understanding Chinese Stars: Special Edition—filmed at 4 PM and aired at 6:20 PM—could technically claim to be live. No one would argue.
Live shows tested a producer's mettle. Korea didn't have "variety directors"—PDs handled both directing and producing. Myung had been running ragged for two days, bitter that his efforts would only make a Chinese star more famous.
But he couldn't half-ass it. His next project needed network backing. President Yoon hadn't said it outright, but the message was clear: Do well on this spin-off, and then we'll talk.
One day passed.
Then two—
Recording began. The big screen played the MVs:
"What I Miss": Chu Zhi played an ordinary programmer who falls in love, only to break up bitterly. In the end, he visits their old café, touches a faded photo of them, and leaves with a smile.
"Against the Light": A city-weary chef escapes to the desert, running freely across the sands.
"Suddenly Missing You": A delivery rider receives a letter from his ex-girlfriend.
None had dialogue or co-stars—just Chu Zhi's face carrying entire narratives.
Backstage, Myung micromanaged:
"Sunmi, your reactions are too exaggerated."
"Hyebin, praise more. Don't just sit there mute—use different words."
"Camera team, focus on the guests."
His relentless direction only highlighted Chu Zhi's visuals further. When "Like Smoke" played, the guests' stunned reactions needed no prompting.
Two hours later—the show aired.