Chapter 120: Jing Yin – Xie Xizhao
The popularity of the group variety show had lasted for quite a long time.
TP’s comeback had been scheduled for the following spring, and the variety show had been meant to fill this gap. However, no matter how much they tried to maintain the momentum, the fans knew deep down that the group had reached a crucial turning point. The frequency of their comebacks would never return to what it once was.
This large-scale variety show had felt like an important signal.
Unlike permanent groups, limited-time groups always had an inevitable moment when everything would come to an end. By now, more than half of their time had passed, and the members’ individual career plans had already been put on the agenda. Otherwise, the forums wouldn’t have been filled with daily arguments.
For the past couple of days, though, the fights had subsided.
Zou Yi’s words—”It would be great if we could always do what we love, happily”—had been directed at Xie Xizhao, but they had also felt like they were meant for all the members.
It had felt like an unspoken message, and the fans had understood.
They had understood everything.
And yet, despite knowing everything, each member had still participated in all the group activities without fail, sincerely wishing each other well in their letters. Solo fans had been vocal in their complaints, but most rational fans had recognized that this was probably the closest-knit group ever to come out of a talent show.
Because of this, TP’s fan community had experienced its most peaceful period since their debut.
But…
The calm had lasted only two days before another storm hit.
As soon as the variety show’s recording wrapped up, the TP members had started following their individual schedules.
That had been normal.
In fact, ever since the end of their second year, TP had begun allowing individual career opportunities.
Aside from their scheduled comebacks, as well as certain magazine shoots, public appearances, and brand endorsements, the members had often attended events separately rather than as a full group. However, this time, that tendency had been particularly pronounced.
Yun Pan and Zou Yi had their own self-produced variety show, a slow-tempo music program backed by Shenghong. Each episode featured various industry guests.
Fu Wenze had been shooting for a magazine.
Apart from Xie Xizhao, he had been the TP member with the most fashion resources. His ability to deliver strong editorial shots had made him a favorite in the fashion industry. This magazine feature had even gained some outside attention, and the sales had been impressive, leaving his solo fans overjoyed.
Ai Qingyuan, who had a similar style to Fu Wenze but was far more unpredictable, had recently been participating in a competitive variety show. Unlike the early days of Super Rookie, this program had been designed specifically for debuting artists to compete against each other. The show had been planned for twelve episodes, and it had just passed the halfway mark.
As for Xie Xizhao…
His fans had held back for several days before they finally lost patience and flooded Shenghong’s official Weibo:
[Come on, seriously? If the resources are being cycled among everyone, isn’t it our turn already? Where is our Xizhao???]
Yes.
After the group variety show had ended…
Xie Xizhao had vanished.
He had disappeared completely, and no one knew what he was doing.
—
On the outskirts of the city, in a bamboo forest.
It was early winter, and a heavy snowfall had just passed.
The withered bamboo swayed in the cold wind, seemingly on the verge of breaking.
Equally battered by the freezing temperatures were the crew members of Seeking Immortality, who had been working since early morning.
Yang Hu, from the props team, had just arrived at the filming location carrying the necessary props. The camera equipment had only just been set up. Sniffling from the cold, he handed the props to the designated staff before finally escaping into a temporary shelter, where he poured himself a thermos of hot water.
The scalding water went down his throat, finally dispelling some of the bone-chilling cold.
Yang Hu let out a heavy sigh. The coworker who had helped him carry the props stood beside him. They kept their distance from the main set, and one of them lit a cigarette. As they gazed at the filming site not far away, they both couldn’t help but sigh.
“This freezing weather,” his coworker muttered. “It’s really tough.”
“Filming, huh?” Yang Hu took a drag from his cigarette. “That’s just how the entertainment industry is. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining or windy—every piece of equipment, every filming location costs money. The longer it drags on, the more money it burns. So of course, they’re rushing to get it done.”
He paused for a moment. “This drama will probably have seventy or eighty episodes. The progress over the past few days has already been pretty fast.”
At this point, they both fell silent.
Their gazes, almost instinctively, landed on one particular person on set.
It was a young man, probably in his early twenties. His face was fully made up, his long hair flowing down, giving him an ethereal, otherworldly appearance.
Of course, that kind of look wasn’t unusual in a xianxia drama.
What stood out was that he was wearing nothing but a thin, white robe—far lighter than what the two of them had on, bundled up in sweaters and down jackets.
It was obvious that he was cold. Between takes, he wrapped himself in a thick coat, pacing around the set like a child trying to keep warm. His playful movements made the surrounding staff laugh. A crew member walked over to hand him a cup of hot water, and he accepted it with a polite thank-you.
After finishing the drink, a bit of color returned to his face. He instinctively moved to a nearby shelter, waiting for the next scene.
But no amount of hot water or thick coats would help when the cameras started rolling—because once filming began, both would have to be discarded.
Before long, Yang Hu and his coworker watched, wincing, as the crew came over to remove the young man’s down jacket, leaving him in nothing but his flimsy costume. Almost instantly, his face turned pale from the cold.
His entire expression scrunched up—he was clearly someone who couldn’t handle the cold well.
Normally, filming in conditions like this was rough for any actor. No one could blame them for struggling. And seeing that kind of expression, Yang Hu and his coworker had instinctively prepared themselves for delays in today’s shoot.
But at this moment, neither of them had that thought.
His coworker sighed, his tone laced with sympathy. “Teacher Xiao Xie is working again today, huh? How many days has it been now?”
Yang Hu took a drag from his cigarette. “Yep.”
“But he should still go to work.” His coworker added wickedly. “If he’s on set, we get to go home earlier.”
As they spoke, the young man had already shivered his way to his mark.
Up until this moment, his expression remained scrunched and tense.
But the second the director called for action, his entire demeanor shifted.
His expression turned calm and aloof. His gaze toward the camera carried a subtle, effortless arrogance. Combined with his ethereal makeup, he looked like a true celestial being who had descended into the mortal world.
The wind howled.
A brittle branch snapped underfoot. Yang Hu and his coworker exchanged glances, each seeing the same thought reflected in the other’s eyes.
…Holy shit.
Yang Hu exhaled, took a deep drag from his cigarette, then pulled his down jacket a little tighter against the biting cold.
*
Xie Xizhao had arrived at the Seeking Immortality set early one morning.
At that time, he had just finished recording the group variety show and had only been in A City for two days.
His fans were making a huge fuss online, but no one knew that, after accounting for travel time, Xie Xizhao hadn’t had a single day off. He had been running on an endless cycle of work, barely stopping to rest.
When Yang Hu first laid eyes on Xie Xizhao, only one thought crossed his mind:
Beautiful.
After years of working odd jobs in film crews, Yang Hu had seen plenty of actors and idols—most of them good-looking. After seeing so many, he had become picky.
Very few could truly amaze him.
But this person, without a doubt, had an exceptionally beautiful face.
Because of the tight schedule, Xie Xizhao hadn’t put on any makeup. He had arrived at the set in a plain white down jacket, jeans, and canvas sneakers—so unassuming that he seemed nothing like the top-tier celebrity with millions of fans that the rumors described.
And yet, Yang Hu still found himself frozen in place, as if his feet had been glued to the ground. It took him several seconds to snap out of it.
There was something incredibly pure about his presence.
His features were delicate and refined, his complexion fresh and clean.
Perhaps it was the glow of fame—his soft, unassuming looks, combined with an effortless sense of presence, had blended into a beauty so striking it was almost breathtaking. Yang Hu was willing to bet he wasn’t the only one who had been stunned.
At the very least, his coworker beside him had also been staring, equally dazed.
—Of course.
No matter how stunning he was, he was still a man.
Yang Hu had a completely normal orientation, and no matter how good-looking another man was, it would only ever stay in the realm of appreciation.
But after the initial shock, Yang Hu’s second thought was:
Shit.
He had seen too many young idols.
Male, female—it didn’t matter. Most weren’t as stunning as the one in front of him, but they all shared the same fatal flaw.
They were delicate.
Not just delicate—terrible actors.
They were idols, after all.
Singing and dancing were their real jobs.
Yang Hu never understood why they all flocked to the acting industry, but if he could, he would tell them: If you don’t have the skills for it, don’t take the job.
From his experience, whenever a drama cast an idol, one of two things happened.
Either their role was so minor they barely existed…
Or they tortured the entire crew.
Pulling all-nighters was the least of it—when the director was constantly losing his temper, who could stand it?
The moment that thought crossed his mind, his earlier amazement vanished completely.
His temples throbbed. If he didn’t desperately need the money, he would’ve quit on the spot.
He braced himself for the worst.
But what he hadn’t expected—what no one on the production team had expected—was that this so-called “flower vase,” this idol with an impressive career in entertainment but almost no acting experience, would completely shock them.
Xie Xizhao’s first scene was an indoor one.
It was a highly emotional scene.
Because the filming location had a rental deadline, and because Xie Xizhao had arrived right after finishing the variety show, he barely had time to settle in before being thrown straight into the fire.
Director Lu Yong didn’t give him any time to adjust—he shoved him straight into the breakup scene between Jing Yin and the male lead.
In this scene, Yun Jue, the protagonist, discovered that the so-called Infant Corpse Case had been orchestrated by his senior brother—the very person he had trusted with all his heart. The revelation shattered him.
His world collapsed in an instant.
In the secret chamber where they had once shared countless heartfelt conversations, Yun Jue confronted Jing Yin.
They started talking.
Then the conversation collapsed.
And after that—
They fought.
Jing Yin, relying on the dark arts he had mastered, gravely injured Yun Jue and escaped from Floating Cloud Sect.
It was an incredibly demanding scene—filled with intense emotions and brutal action sequences.
At the time—
No one had any expectations for Xie Xizhao.
But then—
He nailed it in one take.
From the script reading to the actual filming, from the first shot to the last, the entire scene took barely two hours.
To this day, Yang Hu could still recall that moment.
The sound of Jing Yin’s heart-wrenching fury echoing through the room—
The sight of Xie Xizhao performing every fight move himself, without using a stunt double—
Everyone on set had gone completely still.
When the scene wrapped, Dou Fei got chewed out by Director Lu Yong.
He had made a rookie mistake during his final solo shot, which meant they had to redo it.
Meanwhile, Xie Xizhao had made a name for himself in just one scene.
From that day forward, the entire crew had a new name for him—
“Teacher Xiao Zhao!”
A voice called out from the entrance.
Xie Xizhao poked his head out from inside the tent.
“Sister, I’m here!”
The girl in a black down jacket grinned as she handed him a cup.
“Here, ginger tea.”
“The director had it made for everyone,” she said with a smile. “One cup per person.”
Xie Xizhao quickly took it and thanked her.
“Thanks, sister.”
The girl left, still smiling.
Xie Xizhao took a sip of the ginger tea, the sharp, spicy warmth spreading through his mouth and then slowly seeping into his limbs, chasing away the cold.
He held the cup in his hands, spaced out for a moment—then pulled out his phone and refreshed Weibo.
The latest selfie he posted was still flooded with fans wailing dramatically in the comments:
[Baby, where did you go?! T^T Mom can’t see you at all!!]
Xie Xizhao: “……”
He completely understood their frustration, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Ever since Seeking Immortality started filming, the sheer scale of production had kept the schedule packed tight.
Since the moment he landed, he hadn’t had a single day off—his scenes were scheduled from morning till night.
And, yeah—he had zero exposure elsewhere. Shenghong hadn’t given him any. Not only that, but even the group’s official resources had been reallocated to smaller sub-unit promotions. To make it happen, they had even set aside their usual grudge and temporarily allied with Wenyao.
So, technically, his fans weren’t wrong to be angry.
Shenghong was deliberately withholding resources from him.
Meanwhile, Yaoxin had offered some opportunities, but Xie Xizhao had thought it over carefully—and turned them down himself.
The thing was, when he joined the Seeking Immortality cast, the production had made special arrangements for him.
The group’s variety show filming required a mandatory half-month commitment.
Then, with year-end awards season approaching, TP would need to make rounds across all the major TV stations to campaign for wins—meaning he’d have zero time for filming during that period.
And since Seeking Immortality had a long shooting schedule, but his scenes were scattered, Director Lu Yong had made a rare exception just for him—
He reorganized the entire shooting sequence so that Xie Xizhao’s parts could be condensed into half a month.
Even Dou Fei’s scenes had been rearranged—either moved forward or postponed—to accommodate this.
For a newcomer, that was an insane amount of favor.
With that in mind, running around taking random promo gigs? Not even worth considering.
If his schedule caused unexpected delays, it wouldn’t just inconvenience himself—it would waste everyone’s time.
With Seeking Immortality being filmed under strict closed-set conditions, Yaoxin had been cautious about promoting Xie Xizhao’s involvement.
Since this was his first drama, they didn’t dare to push too hard or leak too much information—one misstep, and they might disrupt the official promotional timeline of the production.
And that?
That was not a mistake a newbie supporting actor could afford to make.
With all these factors stacking up, Xie Xizhao had been forcibly erased from the public eye.
Even he found it frustrating.
Thankfully, this awkward limbo was finally coming to an end.
Three days later—just as Shenghong’s official account was on the verge of total collapse under the weight of fan complaints—
Every. Single. Person’s. Feed.
Exploded.
A wave of marketing accounts flooded the timeline in perfect synchronization.
[Breaking News:
🔥Highly Anticipated IP Adaptation🔥
Big-budget, male-lead-driven web novel Seeking Immortality confirms final casting!
The official cast list is as follows—]
And then—beneath the undeniably expected few names—
Everyone saw one particular line of text.
Jing Yin – Xie Xizhao.
