Chapter 123: Snow Covered Mountains
As Xie Xizhao finished speaking, Dou Fei’s eyes widened in surprise.
He had always been gentle and refined, so such an exaggerated expression was a rare sight on his face. Xie Xizhao, unable to resist, poked him. He knew deep down that someone as traditionally trained as Dou Fei would probably never accept his unconventional way of thinking.
It didn’t matter. He thought.
When he returned to his world from the system, it was never about earning anyone’s approval in the first place.
He said, “Let’s go back. We’re running out of time.”
Only then did Dou Fei snap out of his daze.
He followed behind Xie Xizhao, but the shock in his heart lingered for a long time.
On the other side, Lu Yong was also deep in thought as he turned to his assistant and asked, “Ziyin, what do you think he meant by that?”
Zhai Ziyin cautiously replied, “Perhaps… he didn’t want to trouble you?”
Lu Yong let out a quiet snort.
He had eaten more salt than Zhai Ziyin had walked roads. Though Xie Xizhao’s words and demeanor were modest and well-mannered, from the way he had conducted himself during the audition—calm and unwavering—it was clear that this young man was not the type to be taken advantage of.
His lack of concern wasn’t because he was easy to push around but because he simply didn’t care. That, however, did not mean he was someone who would easily compromise or yield.
He had his own beliefs and held firm to them.
This was a young man with a strong sense of self.
Such a trait in a junior, if not handled carefully, could easily come across as arrogance. Yet, Lu Yong felt no discomfort, nor did he feel disrespected.
On the contrary, he found it rather interesting.
After resting for a moment, he stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Call Old Hong.” He sighed and muttered to himself, “That stubborn old man. He made a mess of things himself, and now he’s making me lose face in front of a kid. Unbelievable.”
So damn frustrating.
—
No one knew what Lu Yong and Hong Wu talked about over the phone.
In the end, the shoot that day was delayed by half an hour. When Lu Yong arrived, he looked visibly exhausted. His assistant, Zhai Ziyin, had already left with Fang Qingqing to retrieve the audition records for the day.
That afternoon, the trending topics remained at an all-time high.
By nightfall, when the online frenzy had settled a bit, the situation was slightly better than during the day. Xie Xizhao’s popularity was undeniable—his fans alone were loud enough to create a massive wave of support. However, many neutral onlookers had adopted a wait-and-see attitude.
Meanwhile, the comment section under Hong Wu’s latest Weibo post had turned into a haven for anti-fans.
[Director Hong is so bold! He won’t tolerate the garbage trends ruining our entertainment industry.]
[Listen, Xie Xizhao’s fans, don’t even try to manipulate the comments here. Yeah, we get it, there are a lot of you. Sure, Xie Xizhao is good at writing songs, but acting and songwriting are as different as humans and dogs. Why can’t he just stay in his comfort zone? Does he have to mess up TV dramas too?]
[…Honestly, I’m really disappointed. I’ve always admired Director Lu, and I genuinely liked Xie Xizhao. I thought he could be a role model among idols. Why is he going with the flow now? He’s obviously so talented and thoughtful.]
[Well, let’s be real—it’s about making money. Shenghong obviously isn’t pushing him anymore, and with that face of his, he just switched industries to survive.]
[Seriously, who keeps hyping up Xie Xizhao? His looks are just average, and his songs aren’t that great either. Can we stop using such heavy filters? Some of these comments are obviously from his fans pretending to be neutral.]
On the surface, they were dripping with sarcasm, but in reality, they were eagerly waiting for Hong Wu to say something more.
That way, their so-called shock and disappointment could fully transform into justified resentment.
But…
Nothing.
After the unfollowing incident, Hong Wu never logged back in.
A group of people grew increasingly anxious, scratching their heads in frustration. It wasn’t until the afternoon that a notification from his special-follow list finally lit up.
Everyone: !?!
Then, they watched in real-time as Hong Wu came online for a few minutes—only to log off again.
And yet… nothing happened. No new posts, no new likes.
The anti-fans were dumbfounded.
They scrolled through his profile again and again, confirming that the usually outspoken and righteous director really hadn’t posted anything. But actually… no, he had done something.
In the comment section, one particular reply shot to the top:
[??? Did Director Hong just follow Director Lu back?! I swear his following count just went up by one, and it looks like it’s Lu Yong!]
Everyone checked. And sure enough, that was exactly the case.
However, this was far from over.
Very soon, people realized that this follow back was only the beginning.
—
By the time Xie Xizhao wrapped up his afternoon scenes, the online discourse had already shifted again.
Faster than summer weather.
Hong Wu had remained completely silent, but his simple act of refollowing Lu Yong was a crucial signal. Almost instantly, Xie Xizhao’s fans felt reinvigorated, and many started speculating, ‘Was this all just a misunderstanding? Did they talk things through?’
Seeing their carefully crafted narrative crumble, the anti-fans refused to back down.
[Oh wow, did they pay him off? Must be nice being a top star—he even got Director Hong to shut up.]
[Who exactly is backing Xie Xizhao? I’m seriously curious now. Lu Yong never needed popularity, but he’s using him now? And Hong Wu is suddenly quiet too? That’s some serious industry connections.]
These comments sprouted up like mushrooms after the rain.
But the people making them didn’t get to be arrogant for long.
Because soon after, the Seeking Immortality production team released an official statement.
The statement briefly addressed the recent controversy, summarizing Hong Wu’s unfollowing as a mere misunderstanding between old friends—one that had now been resolved. At the end of the statement, they urged netizens to act responsibly and refrain from excessive speculation or spreading rumors. The wording was firm but composed.
Of course, this was just standard PR talk.
What really caught everyone’s attention was the audition record attached to the statement.
Right there in black and white, Xie Xizhao’s name was listed, along with the exact time he had entered and exited his audition that day.
Even before the statement was released, some online sources had already leaked that Xie Xizhao had indeed attended the audition. There were photos as proof, along with an insider’s work badge serving as additional evidence.
Once all of this came to light, his fans finally breathed a sigh of relief.
“There are still some people,” Fang Qingqing said, “who refuse to accept it. They’re insisting that an audition doesn’t mean anything and are still trying to paint you as someone with powerful connections. There’s no reasoning with them. They’ll probably flood your comments and DMs with nonsense. You should avoid Weibo for the next couple of days.”
No matter how much the narrative shifted, it was impossible to restore things to how they were before.
Fang Qingqing felt a deep pang of sympathy, but she knew better than to show it in front of Xie Xizhao.
Xie Xizhao, however, remained upbeat. “It’s fine.”
With that, he casually snapped a selfie.
At this point, his posts no longer required approval—he could upload them instantly.
As soon as the post went live, the comments soared past ten thousand within minutes. He glanced at them and grinned at Fang Qingqing.
“They’re all saying I look good.”
Fang Qingqing looked at his bright, innocent expression and let out a long sigh.
“Alright,” she said. “What do you want for dinner? I’ll go get it for you. No boxed meals tonight—we’re getting something nice.”
—
And just like that, the unfollowing incident finally settled down after two days.
For the next couple of weeks, Xie Xizhao focused entirely on filming. Fortunately, the most challenging scenes had already been completed in the early stages, so the remaining shoots progressed swiftly. On the day he wrapped, the crew gathered for a celebratory meal.
At the table, Dou Fei, slightly tipsy from the drinks, clung to him with reluctance.
“When the time comes…” he said, “when promo season starts, you have to be there, Xizhao.”
“Of course.” Xie Xizhao smiled. “I’ve even reserved your ticket for the year-end gala—VIP seating for close friends. Happy now?”
Dou Fei was beyond satisfied and grinned foolishly. “Hehehe.”
From the side, Lu Yong suddenly leaned in. “What VIP seating?”
Xie Xizhao: “…”
Dou Fei: “…”
“I want one too,” Lu Yong declared matter-of-factly.
Xie Xizhao briefly imagined Director Lu sitting stiffly among a group of brightly dressed fangirls, awkwardly waving a support banner while watching him and his teammates perform on stage. His mouth twitched.
…Terrifying.
But terrifying or not, he still saved him a ticket.
That year, The Phoenix once again swept nearly every award, leaving only the Best New Artist category untouched.
Amid a vast sea of lights and deafening cheers, they wrapped up the year with an abundance of accolades. During the final gala, TP members bowed in gratitude toward the audience, carrying their fans’ blessings as they stepped into another spring.
And before spring fully arrived, Xie Xizhao’s fans were the first to receive their long-awaited news.
Seeking Immortality was officially scheduled to premiere at the end of February.
Perfectly timed—just two weeks before TP’s comeback.
And at that moment, the controversies that had almost faded into oblivion surged back into the spotlight, once again making Xie Xizhao the center of heated discussion.
Actually, even before Seeking Immortality had an official premiere date, Xie Xizhao had already gone through a wave of discussion online.
For the past few months, he had maintained steady exposure. As soon as filming wrapped, he started making media appearances. While the frequency wasn’t particularly high, the quality of these appearances was unexpectedly excellent.
First, he took on a guest MC role for a new survival show, appearing for about two episodes. His presence successfully lured away a significant portion of the show’s first-love-type fans.
A new wave of wide-eyed, inexperienced fans suddenly realized that there existed an idol at his peak—one who had no debut uncertainties and no apparent weaknesses in any aspect. Their loyalty wavered without resistance, and with every episode he appeared in, his fanbase grew.
Then came two variety shows.
In fact, almost every major variety program currently airing had extended invitations to Xie Xizhao. Unlike the film and TV industry, the variety scene wasn’t as highbrow—whoever had the most traffic naturally became the most sought-after guest.
But Xie Xizhao only accepted two music-related shows.
One was a relatively unknown new program, but he liked the format. The other was a highly popular, semi-competitive show.
Both received overwhelmingly positive feedback.
On the first show, he performed one of his own original songs and also covered a trending hit. By that night, both performances had surpassed a million views on video platforms. On the second show, he placed second—not quite the champion, but the winner was a senior artist he deeply admired and respected, so the loss didn’t feel like a loss at all.
Moreover, this senior openly expressed their appreciation for Xie Xizhao during the show.
Not only that, but behind the scenes, they even extended an invitation—asking Xie Xizhao to feature on their upcoming song.
Once the track was released, it quickly garnered widespread acclaim.
In short, even though he wasn’t appearing every day, every time he did show up, it was a high-impact moment. And combined with his consistent engagement with fans, his overall fan activity remained exceptionally high.
Fans happily followed his variety appearances, but public opinion had much more to say.
Some praised his dedication. Some called him exceptionally talented. But quite a few expressed regret.
[Sigh, such a great idol—why did he have to dip his toes into acting? He’s already earned enough to last a lifetime, hasn’t he?]
[Xie Xizhao’s only controversy so far is that supporting role in Seeking Immortality… Even as a bystander, watching him get dragged through the mud was painful. He’s honestly one of the few genuinely talented and decent celebrities in the industry.]
[Say no more. He landed the role fair and square through an audition, yet people still mock him for riding the wave of his popularity. Which top idol still has to audition for a supporting role? He got screwed over, seriously.]
The more Xie Xizhao showed his professionalism and skill, the more people fixated on his decision to act.
—And in fan culture, this was actually a very risky situation.
Fang Qingqing wasn’t sure if someone was deliberately stirring up discussion or if the public was genuinely feeling sorry for him. But regardless of the intent, these comments were subtly placing Xie Xizhao on a pedestal.
Because in this scenario, his fans were all holding their breath.
They couldn’t refute the public’s doubts or regrets—because the drama hadn’t aired yet. And precisely because it hadn’t aired, they could only sit back and watch the discourse unfold, unconsciously pinning all their hopes on an unseen performance.
‘The fact that Xie Xizhao is just a supporting character—he can’t carry the show?’
The haters wouldn’t care.
If the drama flopped, Xie Xizhao would be the first target of ridicule. He was already a top-tier idol—whether he was the lead or not, he was expected to have an impact. If he didn’t, it would mean he had lost relevance, that his star power was fading.
‘The fact that Xie Xizhao is just a rookie actor?’
Some career-focused fans wouldn’t care either.
The long buildup of doubt and anxiety weighed heavily on the fans. They would never explicitly demand anything from Xie Xizhao, but objectively speaking, if his performance didn’t completely crush all skepticism and ridicule, he would face those criticisms doubly in return.
That was something his career-focused fans could not accept.
Especially because, up until now, Xie Xizhao had always been on an upward trajectory.
Fang Qingqing was nervous. Yaoxin was nervous.
On the day the drama premiered, nearly 80% of Yaoxin’s employees set aside their tasks and gathered in front of a projector screen.
—
At 8 PM, the conference room was brightly lit.
With Qi Yin at the helm, flanked by the marketing team on one side and the PR team on the other, everyone wore a serious expression.
Fang Qingqing, in charge of playing the episode, had sweaty palms. Under Qi Yin’s intense gaze, she pressed the play button. At that moment, the ethereal title Seeking Immortality appeared on the screen.
Qi Yin murmured, “It’s been years since I last watched a drama… This feeling is really nostalgic.”
Fang Qingqing: “…”
Listening to the heroic opening theme, she found herself feeling the same way.
For the first five minutes, the conference room was dead silent. But as the plot unfolded, Qi Yin was the first to crack.
“Damn, what kind of fool is this male lead?”
At the start of the drama, the protagonist, Yun Jue, was transported to another world.
Five minutes in, he managed to trip over his own sword.
It was a solid, full-body fall, and with Dou Fei’s performance making it look painfully real, even the sternest and most serious PR members couldn’t hold back their laughter.
“Director Lu’s style,” Ming Li chuckled from the side. “Still as consistent as ever.”
Grand in its sweeping narrative, yet filled with humor in its details.
This was the hallmark of Lu Yong’s directing style.
Even though everyone present was most concerned about Xie Xizhao, they still let out a breath of relief.
At the very least, the drama’s quality was solid, and the lead actors’ performances held up.
This show wouldn’t flop.
Everyone continued watching.
After suddenly being transported to another world, Yun Jue struggled to adapt. He was mocked and b*llied—always smiling on the surface but secretly exploring the world, moving cautiously as if treading on thin ice.
At first, the group was still laughing, but as the plot progressed, they found themselves drawn in, gradually becoming emotionally invested.
Of course, that wasn’t their main focus for tonight.
The further the progress bar moved, the more nervous they became.
They had already been informed that Jing Yin would make an appearance in the first episode. However, no one—not even Fang Qingqing, who had followed the production closely—knew exactly when. The scenes had been filmed out of order.
The conference room fell silent, leaving only the sound of dialogue and background effects from the screen.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
At the 25-minute mark, the plot reached a scene where Yun Jue was being b*llied by his senior sect brothers.
Qi Yin couldn’t hold back. “Damn, this is just too frustrating.”
Everyone else silently agreed.
They watched as the protagonist, staggering under the weight of his water buckets, climbed the mountain. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his palms were red from the pressure of the carrying pole. Behind him, taunting voices rang out:
“Look at that fool! He can’t even fly with his sword—hahaha!”
“Idiot! I have no idea why the sect leader accepted him as a disciple.”
The mockery grew louder, and Yun Jue’s expression became more and more strained.
Then—suddenly—the air went still.
A hand rested lightly on the carrying pole.
It was a hand so beautiful, it looked like a piece of art.
Slender and well-defined, the hand was smooth and untainted, its pale skin revealing faint veins as it tensed slightly. Almost instantly, Yun Jue felt the crushing weight on his shoulders lighten by half.
He watched in stunned silence as the person beside him effortlessly lifted the carrying pole from his shoulders and tossed it aside as if it were nothing. Just as he was about to express his gratitude, a billowing sleeve of white fabric swept across his face.
The next second, the voices of the b*llies filled the air—not in mockery this time, but in desperate pleas for mercy.
A voice rang out:
“B*llying a fellow disciple. Speaking irreverently of the elder. Twenty strikes.”
Flat and emotionless, cold and indifferent.
And yet, beneath that distant tone, there was a deep, husky resonance—one that was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Inside the screen and outside of it, for the first time, everyone’s reactions aligned perfectly.
In a daze, they lifted their heads, their eyes reflecting the vast snow-covered mountains, the brilliant sun hanging high above—
And beneath that breathtaking scenery—
A face, distant and unearthly, utterly extraordinary.
