Chapter 103: The Aftermath of the Stellar Awards

For Lu Xu, the day he won the Stellar Award was no different from usual. Aside from having a new trophy in his cabinet, the sunshine outside remained bright, and the scenery stayed unchanged.

When he opened the window, a gust of cold wind blew in, instantly waking him up.

The Stellar Award trophy stood quietly in the glass cabinet. His name and the year of the award were engraved on the base of the trophy.

At this year’s Stellar Awards, When I Was 18 won the grand prizes for Best Long-Form Drama Series and Best Actor. The Best Director award went to Voice of the Dead. When the winners were announced, the media unanimously declared Lu Xu the biggest winner of this year’s Stellar Awards.

Among the top 20 trending searches, nearly half were related to Lu Xu. Some posts recapped his nominations and award history, while others highlighted the peak moments of his acting career. His time with Verse became a classic case study, revisited and analyzed repeatedly by netizens.

Gu Sinian and a few others reposted the Weibo announcement of Lu Xu’s award win. Even Verse’s official Weibo account, dormant for years, came back online to congratulate their former member, “Lu Xu,” on winning the Best Actor Stellar Award.

[Tsk, tsk, tsk. So they finally remembered the password!]

[This is a once-in-a-lifetime event!!]

[They used to at least post [musical note][tears]. Why didn’t they add [musical note][celebration] this time? It’s so dry and reluctant—it’s obvious they weren’t thrilled.]

[It feels like Verse’s story serves as a warning to currently active boy groups. Sure, fight if you want to, but don’t go too far. Back when Xie Qingyang, Meng Qin, and Gu Sinian were basking in glory, did they ever imagine that one day Lu Xu would make such a comeback?]

Lu Xu naturally ignored the reposts from Xie Qingyang and the others. However, netizens’ reaction to the trending topic “The Three Members of Verse Supporting Lu Xu” was equally indifferent—after all, the status of the three in the entertainment industry had long ceased to match that of Lu Xu. To most, this performance was nothing more than Xie Qingyang and the others trying to gain attention by riding the wave of Lu Xu’s fame.

[…Back then, they were the shining stars of my youth. How did they end up like this? Couldn’t they have left me with at least some fond memories?]

[If they could just focus on acting and producing good shows instead of clinging to fame and dismissing everything less popular, I might still have some respect for them.]

[+1, +1.]

[If these three were willing to take their careers seriously, they wouldn’t have ended up in this situation. Back in Verse, Lu Xu was their scapegoat and punching bag. Now, they don’t have that anymore.]

[Their greatest contribution to Lu Xu’s career was kicking him out of Verse.]

Verse used to be the cash cow of Lin Ge Entertainment. But now, with Xie Qingyang and the others losing relevance, all their endorsements had vanished, dragging Lin Ge Entertainment into decline. Adding to the troubles, the company’s reckless venture into the film and television industry resulted in heavy financial losses, leaving it in an even more precarious state.

After Verse disbanded, Xie Qingyang and the others operated independently, each establishing their own studios. But given their current commercial value and resources, none of them truly needed a dedicated team.

As the saying goes, “What is divided must come together, and what comes together must divide.” Though once thought to be heading down their own paths to success, the three were eventually reassembled into a single group under Lin Ge Entertainment.

Thankfully, in recent years, boy band survival shows had remained popular. Since Verse had once been wildly successful, the three could still make appearances as guest mentors on such shows.

However, during their peak as members of Verse, they could have easily secured roles as lead hosts or initiators on these shows.

“Those three? Forget it. If it were Lu Xu, our production team might actually consider it.”

The producer’s blunt comment left no room for face-saving, and Xie Qingyang and the other two naturally heard it.

But they had no choice but to endure it—times had changed.

Although being a guest mentor seemed like an impressive role, allowing the contestants to respectfully address them as “teacher,” that respect only lasted in front of the cameras. Behind the scenes, the show’s chaotic and convoluted schedule, paired with contestants of varying abilities, often left them struggling. When faced with trainees from major companies with strong fanbases, their identity as former members of Verse carried little weight.

Others had a future ahead of them; the three had long lost theirs.

As their situation grew increasingly dire, Gu Sinian even set his sights on low-budget web dramas he wouldn’t have considered in the past, hoping to stumble upon his own version of My Baby Prince.

However, My Baby Prince was a rare stroke of luck. Not only Gu Sinian but even Chenxi Films itself had been trying to replicate the success of My Baby Prince—a goal they had yet to achieve.

When Xu Wen mentioned the new offer, Lu Xu suspected he had misheard. “The initiator for a survival show? Me?”

????

The suggestion hit him with the same absurdity as the idea of an elephant flying in the sky.

“Yes, you.” Xu Wen immediately noticed Lu Xu’s expression and could tell he was about to refuse. Silently, Xu Wen extended one hand and spread his fingers. “The production team is offering this much.”

This was exactly why, even knowing Lu Xu would likely say no, the higher-ups still pushed Xu Wen to try persuading him.

The offer from the production team was exorbitant—an amount difficult for anyone to turn down.

In recent years, major variety shows had become increasingly willing to spend lavishly to attract big names, leading even the most high-profile stars, who had once scoffed at variety shows, to lower their standards for the sake of money.

Compared to acting, variety shows were an easier and faster way to make money.

They were also an excellent platform for building a persona. Many stars had managed to revive their careers through variety shows.

Among younger actors, Lu Xu was one of the few who rarely participated in variety shows. While he occasionally appeared for an episode or two, he had never taken part in an entire season.

Lu Xu felt he didn’t have much of a knack for variety shows.

Xu Wen remarked, “…Actually, there’s been a steady stream of offers from talk show productions wanting you on their shows.”

Lu Xu responded dryly, “…They’ve got excellent taste.”

Despite the tempting paycheck, Lu Xu sincerely declined the offer to appear on the survival show. While the amount offered was eye-popping, Lu Xu was already earning top-tier salaries among male actors and didn’t lack money.

To outsiders, it seemed reasonable for him to relax a bit after winning the Stellar Award. But for Lu Xu, acting wasn’t tiring. On the contrary, it was the seemingly lighthearted variety shows that put pressure on him.

Acting was where he felt at ease. He could effortlessly control the emotions of his characters, immersing himself in the worlds created by scripts. Variety shows, however, were an entirely different beast. He wasn’t a charismatic idol with natural stage presence. As a male group survival show initiator, what could he offer?

Encourage contestants by saying they didn’t need to work hard?

The mere thought of such a scene felt like a disaster. Lu Xu couldn’t muster the shamelessness required for it.

He simply wanted to do what he excelled at and avoid what he wasn’t good at—nothing more.

Some people spoke of “challenges,” but Lu Xu believed that if the production team was spending tens of millions to bring him in, or if fans were eagerly anticipating his appearance, it wasn’t just to hear him deliver a few empty lines about working hard.

If he accepted the money, he had to deliver value.

The buzz surrounding the Stellar Award took a full week to settle. For days, Weibo was lively with discussion, and netizens flooded major video platforms with fan-edited compilations of Lu Xu’s most iconic roles.

From Crown Prince Qin Zhao gazing at the sky through the confines of the palace walls, to Huang Luning sharing sweet potatoes with his father.

One of the videos was titled This Life.

[At last, he had a father who loved him in a simple, ordinary way.]

[Through the character of Huang Luning, Lu Xu also found his own sense of completeness.]

Actors bring charm to their roles, and these videos didn’t need to be professionally edited. The netizens didn’t have to go fishing for a specific expression—it was clear that Lu Xu’s most memorable performances were simply too many to count. As a result, even though the videos posted on various websites were rough around the edges, the emotional depth was palpable, making viewers keep coming back for more.

[This is from Supreme, which scene is this? I don’t remember noticing it before.]

[Yu Yi, the character I’ll never get over, Yu Yi!!!]

[Ugh, he’s made me cry so many times again. So when is Lu Xu filming a new drama?]

[No new drama for now, but his new movie Deception is scheduled for release. Anyone want to watch it with me?]

[Let’s go, let’s go!]

After Deception wrapped, Gao Xingchuan had mentioned to Lu Xu that the movie was expected to release around the time of the Stellar Awards. Coincidentally, Lu Xu won the Best Actor award, making Deception a film starring the winners of both this and last year’s Best Actor titles at the Stellar Awards.

In reality, Gao Xingchuan had jokingly said they were trying to ride the Stellar Awards’ wave of hype, but the actual release window for Deception would fall during the Lunar New Year holiday.

Lu Xu couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly projects, whether dramas or films, could come together. It felt like there was no such thing as a backlog—when something was ready, it was ready.

Gao Xingchuan’s explanation was simple: “There’s a lot of usable material. It’s easy to edit.”

The director’s main constraint was the lack of interference.

Though Deception was a project driven by Yue Hui, Yue Hui had no intention of meddling with the creative process, preferring to focus diligently on his role as an actor. Lu Xu, too, maintained a perfect rapport with all his fellow cast members from start to finish.

The actors’ performances were so impressive that they brought the script to life, sparking inspiration in Gao Xingchuan during editing. He didn’t even consider box office results while cutting the film—given the quality of Deception, there was no way it wouldn’t be well-received.

He wasn’t trying to boast, but Deception really was flawless in every way.

The director’s favoritism was practically eight meters thick.

Both Yue Hui and Lu Xu had committed to standing by the production, come what may. Even if Deception ended up flopping, the financial loss would still be smaller compared to other films scheduled for release during the Spring Festival.

The production cost of Deception was 74 million yuan, excluding the salaries of Yue Hui and Lu Xu. Slightly more was spent on visual effects.

However, since the movie was slated for a Spring Festival release, the promotional budget was bound to be high, and securing sufficient screenings would be challenging.

Previously, The Swordsman had flopped spectacularly. Directors without connections spoke of it with gritted teeth—everyone in the industry knew how difficult it was to secure enough screenings. If even a random amateur-directed film were given those slots, it wouldn’t have tanked as badly as The Swordsman.

Some films were of decent quality but fell short of expectations due to limited screenings, failing to achieve their projected box office revenue.

While box office success ultimately depended on the quality of the film, factors such as release timing, screening availability, marketing efforts, and even the reputations of the director and actors played a significant role in determining the final outcome.

As the Spring Festival season approached, the movie market became a battleground.

The Spring Festival season was widely recognized as the most competitive period of the year within the industry. Most films that grossed over 5 billion yuan were released during this period—on par with the summer season.

However, while the summer season lasted two months, the Spring Festival season spanned only a single week. This meant that within this short window, a movie had to exhaust every possible strategy to capture the audience’s attention.

During this time, Deception didn’t have a particularly strong presence. Although the two leads, Yue Hui and Lu Xu, were well-known, the season was packed with large-scale productions. Several films had budgets exceeding 100 million or even 500 million yuan.

Compared to Deception, those films had more to gain from competing in the Spring Festival market.

[The Train Home, When I Was a Child, Eternal Night, Deception… There are over a dozen new releases this Spring Festival!]

[Won’t the theaters be completely packed?]

[I’ve always felt Deception shouldn’t be released during the Spring Festival. The production team is really bold.]

[Maybe they’re trying to ride on Lu Xu’s recent Stellar Award buzz? That’s probably the only marketing angle Deception has.]

Naturally, Lu Xu worked diligently to promote Deception, as it was the first film he starred in. However, the industry maintained a cautious attitude toward the movie.

A transition from TV actor to film actor didn’t always guarantee success. While Lu Xu had thrived in the television industry, in the film world, he was still a complete newcomer.

An actor’s accomplishments were ultimately built on ticket sales, one film at a time.

Moreover, the Spring Festival had always been a fiercely contested battleground, with box office numbers measured in billions. In the face of immense profits, no film would yield ground.

[…Lu Xu’s fans mocked Zhang Che like crazy before, and now it’s Lu Xu’s turn to face the market test. What if Deception ends up earning less at the box office than The Swordsman?]

[Just waiting for Deception to flop. Flop, flop, flop, flop.]

[To be honest, isn’t the Deception crew a bit overconfident? This movie obviously isn’t suited for the Spring Festival season. Who would want to watch something full of deceit and ghostly themes during the holidays?]

When it came to marketing, Deception couldn’t match the financial investment of other productions. The most highly anticipated film of the Spring Festival season, Eternal Night, had cast two Best Actor award winners to go head-to-head in gripping performances. Its marketing budget was being spent like water. Even before the Stellar Awards, Lu Xu had seen ads for Eternal Night, and as the release date approached, their marketing efforts became even more aggressive.

“That movie’s budget is 500 million,” Xu Wen said, gesturing with his hand. “Promotion during the Spring Festival season costs twice as much as usual. They can’t afford not to recoup their box office.”

If the box office didn’t cover the costs, the core team behind the movie would lose their minds.

Previously, when The Swordsman flopped, Zhang Zhizhen desperately tried to shift the blame onto Zhang Che, but no one dared to hire him for another movie after that. No matter how much he preached about artistic ideals and personal integrity, the investors had lost real money.

Zhang Zhizhen ranted for a long time afterward, blaming audiences for their lack of taste and claiming his honesty had offended too many people. He even threw shade at other successful box-office hits, calling them trash films.

For the Deception crew, while they cared about the box office, their goal was simple: to break even.

In the team’s expectations, breaking even didn’t seem too difficult—after all, they had Lu Xu.

Lu Xu: “…Please, don’t.”

Admittedly, in terms of mainstream popularity, Lu Xu was currently better known than Yue Hui.

However, since Lu Xu had never carried a box-office hit before, no one knew what his ceiling might be.

“Let’s make breaking even our ultimate goal!”

Gao Xingchuan even renamed the Deception crew chat group to “The Break-Even Group.”

Scheduling-wise, the director was doing his best to secure slots, and Feiyang Entertainment had also pushed for Lu Xu. However, given the fierce competition of the Spring Festival season, no one in the Deception crew held out much hope.

As a newcomer to the film industry, Lu Xu had mentally prepared himself for the possibility of disappointing box office results. Although he personally liked the script of Deception, that didn’t mean audiences would feel the same. While the film’s promotion leaned heavily on his recent win as Best Actor at the Stellar Awards, at least it hadn’t outright marketed Deception as Lu Xu’s movie.

—Feiyang Entertainment had learned from Zhang Che’s cautionary tale.

Lu Xu initially thought that as long as he diligently promoted the movie, refrained from celebrating prematurely, and didn’t set high expectations—like Deception breaking 1 billion yuan at the box office—he could get through the Spring Festival season smoothly.

But reality proved him wrong.

Before Deception even released a trailer, a marketing account published an elaborate article titled, Why I Don’t Think Lu Xu Deserved the Stellar Award.

The Stellar Awards ceremony had taken place more than ten days earlier. If the article had been published before or even right after the event, it might have seemed like a genuine critique. But the timing—just as the dust had settled and Deception was about to be released—was suspiciously deliberate.

The article began by detailing why Lu Xu’s win was inappropriate, citing his age, the strengths of the other nominees, and the Stellar Award’s long-standing traditions.

[The Stellar Awards needs reform. It must break the stereotype of being an ‘award for veterans.’ Under such circumstances, it needed a young actor to shake things up.

[Lu Xu’s win wasn’t because his acting was exceptionally brilliant, to the point of surpassing the other nominees. It was simply because he happened to be in the right place at the right time, fulfilling the Stellar Award’s current needs.]

To support this argument, the article even included screenshots of the other nominees’ expressions on the night of Lu Xu’s win.

[Xia Zhenrong, who was nominated twice but failed to win both times, couldn’t help rolling his eyes despite his typically good composure. Most celebrities are excellent at managing their expressions, but unless pushed to the limit, they generally maintain their poise.

[This is Wang Ji, a veteran actor who rarely appears in films these days. He was nominated, only to be used as a stepping stone for Lu Xu by the Stellar Awards committee.

[Yuan Lai had excellent self-control—if you ignore his sarcastic smile.

[Finally, we have Li Tianhou. As everyone knows, Teacher Li is a straightforward and genuine person. He seldom hides his feelings. During the entire awards ceremony, Teacher Li didn’t show Lu Xu even a hint of kindness. Doesn’t that speak volumes?

[At the very least, it’s clear that the other nominees are dissatisfied with Lu Xu’s Best Actor win.]

The article was well-written, supported by images as evidence, and immediately attracted attention upon publication.

In the entertainment industry, it was common for marketing accounts to post lengthy critiques of celebrities. For stars climbing to the top, being criticized or “blackened” was almost inevitable.

Initially, the article didn’t gain much traction. But then—Li Tianhou liked the post.

This action implied that the article’s claim, the other nominees were dissatisfied, had been tacitly acknowledged by one of the nominees himself.

[Teacher Li is so genuine!]

[I also think Teacher Li deserved the award more. Why did it go to Lu Xu? Considering Lu Xu’s experience, it’s truly ridiculous that he won over Teacher Li.]

[…This is really his personal like, huh.]

[Wow, I had no idea. I thought the nominees all got along pretty well. Am I dumb?]

[Didn’t realize it either +1. Feels like I’m witnessing the birth of the ‘Stellar-school.’]

[I’ve never mastered anything in textbooks, but the intricacies of V-studies, Chen-studies, and now Stellar-studies, I’m delving into with all my effort!]

After Li Tianhou’s like, the article quickly spread like wildfire, even climbing to the top spots on trending searches.

Naturally, all eyes turned to Lu Xu.

Unfortunately, Lu Xu’s social media remained silent. Netizens speculated he was too busy promoting Deception to notice the uproar online.

Thankfully, Lu Xu hadn’t gone missing—he simply hadn’t been online. A reporter stationed near his home happened to catch him returning from an outing.

Unaware of the situation, Lu Xu listened calmly as the reporter explained the online drama in detail. His response was composed: “It’s true, I’m very fortunate to have won the award.”

“But if someone has spent their entire life acting, has far more experience than I do, and still failed to earn enough votes from the judges, then the problem clearly isn’t with me.”

He wore an expression that screamed, ‘I’m not naming names.’

<< _ >>

Related Posts

Leave a Reply