Famous! Ch.216

Chapter 216: The Kind You’ll Regret Missing Out On

The only thing Lu Xu felt curious about was—just how much money had Liu Rennong actually made?

If he had made it onto financial news, it meant that the amount of money Liu Rennong had been scammed out of must have been astronomical. According to the reports, it was a ten-digit sum in U.S. dollars, but he wasn’t the only victim.

If Liu Rennong’s losses accounted for even one-tenth of the total, Lu Xu couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was to make money.

At least, it had been easy for Liu Rennong.

Although Lu Xu and Liu Rennong hadn’t interacted much, he was quite familiar with the man’s way of doing things. With such a huge sum involved… in a way, saying this had cost Liu Rennong his life wouldn’t have been an exaggeration.

But Lu Xu also felt that this outcome seemed like fate at work. Liu Rennong had done plenty of shady things—it wasn’t reasonable for him to go through everything unscathed and still walk away untouched.

It was said that Liu Rennong had invested heavily in the past, spreading his assets far and wide. When he withdrew from the industry, he had pulled out a sum at the last minute. The money that got scammed was nearly all of his liquid assets. As for how this whole situation would end and how Liu Rennong would spend his later years, Lu Xu could only wish him luck.

Lu Xu occasionally marveled at how quickly the entertainment industry cycled through its stars. Liu Rennong had once been so influential, but it had only been a year since he left the industry, and yet all traces of him had vanished completely—as if he had never existed.

The only thing that gave Lu Xu some relief was that, at least now, no one could say he had jinxed Liu Rennong.

The movie had been filmed overseas, the money had been scammed overseas—surely no one would say he had followed Liu Rennong abroad just to jinx him.

He had originally thought that leaving the industry would be Liu Rennong’s final chapter. But as it turned out, truly remarkable people could shine anywhere. What Liu Rennong had achieved was something that ordinary people could never even dream of.

“It’s just greed, nothing more,” Xu Wen concluded. “He still couldn’t let go of the entertainment industry and wasn’t willing to give it up so easily.”

“This outcome isn’t too bad. At the very least, Shen Wenjie would be quite satisfied with it.”

Lu Xu nodded. “I never said I was unhappy with it either.”

This ending suited Liu Rennong perfectly.

—

When Lu Xu said he was taking a long vacation, he truly meant it. He didn’t travel anywhere—he simply slept in every day and lived a completely laid-back life.

Year-end celebrations and stage performances were happening in abundance, yet Lu Xu hardly made any appearances. In the past, he had been both a popular idol and a capable actor, balancing fame and skill equally. But now, even though his popularity remained sky-high, he was widely recognized as an actor who didn’t rely on trending hype.

Aside from occasionally attending a few film-related events, he spent the rest of his time doing nothing in particular.

Winters in C City were damp and cold. Though the wind wasn’t strong, just standing on the street for two minutes was enough to make a person instinctively shiver. Lu Xu would sometimes ride his bike to the stadium, sometimes take a stroll by the river, or wander through local parks and museums. With fewer tourists in the cold season, he found these outings far more relaxing.

Recently, fans had been running into Lu Xu quite often. Every now and then, someone would post a video of him online, which would then lead to several more similar recommendations appearing in people’s feeds.

That was how Mu Qian managed to catch him.

“Got some free time lately?” Mu Qian cut straight to the point, skipping any pleasantries. “Interested in doing a cameo?”

“Sure. What role?”

Lu Xu’s immediate agreement caught Mu Qian off guard.

Lu Xu hadn’t acted in a TV drama for years, nor did he usually attend any drama-related events. Mu Qian had spoken so boldly because he assumed that if Lu Xu declined, he could just as boldly pretend the conversation never happened—saving them both from any awkwardness.

After all, Lu Xu was now a major figure in the film industry. It was perfectly understandable if he didn’t want to lower himself to act in a television drama.

Mu Qian had dealt with plenty of film actors who “descended” to television before.

But Lu Xu was different. He was currently at the peak of his career. He might not have made any moves recently, but the moment he decided to take on a new film project, the entire entertainment industry would be watching.

Several minutes passed before Mu Qian finally introduced the role he had in mind for Lu Xu.

His new drama was a sister series to When I Was 18, and the role he wanted Lu Xu to cameo as was similar to Huang Luning.

If audiences were willing, they could consider it a continuation of Huang Luning’s warm and fulfilling life.

Technically, the role could go to anyone, but after much consideration, Mu Qian still felt that Lu Xu was the best fit.

“I’m free whenever. When do I join the set?”

It had been a long time since they last worked together, and in that time, Lu Xu’s status had risen yet another level. Mu Qian had assumed that Lu Xu wouldn’t be interested in doing TV dramas anymore, but to his surprise, he agreed without hesitation.

Mu Qian sent over the dates and the script.

Lu Xu had nothing else to do, so taking on a cameo role was no problem. With just one glance, he could tell that the script was Jin Mu’s work. Although it was a sister series to When I Was 18, it didn’t have much direct connection to the original story.

All in all, it was still a heartwarming script.

In the end, Mu Qian had managed to track Lu Xu down thanks to all those fan “coincidences.”

The role was small, so Lu Xu finished filming in just two days and went right back to being “accidentally” spotted by fans.

After Lu Xu’s cameo in Mu Qian’s new film, invitations for guest appearances started pouring in. At that point, it was up to Xu Wen to turn them down.

Lu Xu could afford to be idle, but his manager remained as busy as ever.

Of course, Xu Wen loved his job—he feared having nothing to do even more than Lu Xu did.

He had no plans to take on new artists. Now a senior executive at Feiyang Entertainment, he no longer handled day-to-day business affairs. His sole responsibility was managing Lu Xu.

And he was perfectly content with that—because to him, Lu Xu was his career.

Lu Xu planned to take a six-month break, during which all matters related to his brand endorsements, investment returns, and incoming offers were handled by Xu Wen.

Every so often, his manager would call just to emphasize how many production teams were trying to invite him.

“If you were busy filming a new project, it wouldn’t be so bad. But right now, I think everyone knows you’re free…” Lu Xu had already proven himself in big-budget commercial films and could handle indie productions just as well. Whether it was the righteous and passionate Bai Qianshan or an unhinged psychopath, he could embody any role with ease. His successful performances were too numerous to count, leaving him unrestricted by any particular character type.

Naturally, this meant the scripts flooding in covered every genre imaginable—including some with content so extreme that even his manager was left speechless.

Xu Wen had politely declined one particularly bold invitation, using the excuse that Lu Xu wasn’t quite ready to expose himself in such a way.

But the production team was nothing if not persistent. They reassured him that even if Lu Xu himself was on the smaller side, the camera work would make him look very big.

Xu Wen: “…”

Big? Get the hell off this planet!

If proof was really necessary, Xu Wen could just arrange for Lu Xu to shoot an underwear commercial.

Despite having been in the industry for years, Lu Xu often failed to understand the creative visions of certain so-called artists.

Not that he needed to understand them.

When Lu Xu first rose to fame, Xu Wen had secretly been delighted by how popular his artist was. But lately, as the number of bizarre scripts piled up—each one claiming to be art that “only Lu Xu could bring to life”—he sometimes found himself sympathizing with him instead.

From a manager’s perspective, Lu Xu had already proven himself to be quite willing to push boundaries.

Fortunately, he was soon saved.

His only unreleased project was finally finished and ready for its theatrical debut.

Director Mu Lang had named the film Clay Man

Lu Xu thought it was an odd title—it didn’t seem to have much connection to the script. Mu Lang explained that he had originally considered titles like Two-Faced or Double Life but ultimately found them too on-the-nose. “If the audience can guess the plot just from the title, doesn’t that make it a bit boring?”

Besides, Two-Faced sounded more like a political drama.

Lu Xu agreed with the decision.

The moment the film’s release date was announced, it immediately drew an unusual amount of attention—far more than what would be expected for a movie with such a modest budget.

The production cost of Clay Man was only a few tens of millions, and that was mainly due to Lu Xu’s lead actor salary.

The setting was incredibly minimalistic, and while the flashback scenes took up a fair portion of the runtime, they were only meant to deepen the character development of the protagonist, Ma Yanwen. Director Mu Lang was an expert at cutting costs, and Lu Xu had even taken a pay cut. If their names had been removed from the credits, the film would have looked like nothing more than an ordinary, low-budget indie project.

But there was no helping it—Lu Xu’s last three films had grossed over 12 billion worldwide. Even if he starred in an absolute disaster, the film could still draw in a significant audience during its initial release.

Mu Lang didn’t consider Clay Man a pure arthouse film. At most, the movie played a clever trick, but it didn’t deliberately mislead viewers or attempt to confuse them with convoluted storytelling.

Mu Lang was a director with artistic ambitions, but he didn’t pursue art for art’s sake. He wanted his audience to resonate with his vision.

…

In reality, when Clay Man was marketed as a low-budget film, other productions in the same release window couldn’t help but express a collective “Oh, come on, stop pretending.”

[Box office performance isn’t about budget. I remember that Deception and Feather of Youth also had relatively low production costs, but what really matters is how the audience responds.]

[Anyone who has worked in film knows that being too humble isn’t a good thing. No matter when a film is released, it will always face competition. We never overestimate any movie, but we also don’t underestimate any of them.]

[Out of all the films in this lineup, I’m most interested in Clay Man.]

Production teams across the board were treating Clay Man with cautious respect. Even though its budget was undeniably low, the combined weight of Mu Lang and Lu Xu’s names made it impossible to dismiss.

The film might be called Clay Man, but that didn’t mean Lu Xu was spineless.

Mu Lang + Lu Xu had the kind of lineup that practically screamed awards contender, but… the last awards contender, Reverse City, had grossed nearly 2 billion. The one before that, Fearless Life, had raked in nearly 4 billion.

Lu Xu had become the industry’s ultimate example of having it all.

Clay Man was scheduled for an early May release, a period with relatively few box office giants. Instead, the lineup was packed with youth dramas, romance films, and family-oriented movies. The film’s promotional tagline was:

“A friendship you will never forget for the rest of your life.”

The moment this tagline was revealed, fans immediately took notice.

Not only had Clay Man not released a trailer, but there was also no sign of a teaser or even a proper promotional campaign. Fans weren’t sure if this was a case of extreme confidence or if Director Mu Lang had simply been too busy and forgotten about it.

[Now that I think about it, Lu Xu has never really starred in a film centered on friendship, has he?]

[What about Feather of Youth? The main storyline was Yin Pei’s badminton career, but the friendship arc was pretty significant too. Other than that, I don’t think there’s much.]

[Excuse me? Observing the Stars deserves a mention! Zhang Bannu and Wei Qingfang had an undying friendship!]

[Are we sure ‘undying’ is the right word to use here?]

[I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!]

From what fans could recall, any film Lu Xu had starred in that included a friendship arc—even if it was purely about brotherhood—had always had something worth shipping.

Drawn in by the promise of an unforgettable friendship, eager fans rushed to the theaters.

Less than two hours later:

“???”

“A lifelong, unforgettable ‘friendship’???”

The official Weibo comment section exploded.

It was about friendship—technically. But the kind of “friendship” depicted in the movie was completely different from what fans had imagined!

Fans who hadn’t watched the movie yet saw the flood of comments screaming about “friendship” in the official discussion threads and couldn’t hold back their curiosity any longer.

[Is Clay Man any good?] someone finally asked.

[It’s amazing! The opening scene has a bond*ge play. You’ll be hooked from the very first moment.]

[Yep, the captivity right at the start is intense. I promise you won’t regret watching it. And of course, there’s that lifelong unforgettable friendship—absolutely stunning.]

[A must-watch. The kind that you’ll regret missing out on.]

Fans, completely dazed and br*inwashed by words like bond*ge, captivity, and play, quietly bought their tickets.

And then—

“????”

“!!!!”

<< _ >>