Chapter 133: Exploded
On the day of the broadcast, Xie Xizhao had a brand event.
After the usual speech and photoshoot, he had just gotten into the car when his name was already trending.
He had secured another top luxury endorsement. By now, Xie Xizhao was practically the most valuable celebrity in the domestic entertainment industry. Beneath the trending topic, aside from a flood of envious comments, someone joked, [Just one of Xie Xizhao’s earrings could fund a small-scale drama crew.]
That comment, posted under a nine-picture promotional post, quickly gained the highest number of likes.
The most-liked reply under it read:
[He actually did.]
The rest of the replies were all neatly aligned with the same phrase: [What kind of hellish joke is this?]
That Weibo post rapidly climbed to the trending list.
The original poster was one of Xie Xizhao’s biggest fan site admins. She was stunned for a second before immediately rallying fellow fans in the supertopic to boost engagement.
In her personal Weibo, she resentfully tagged Xie Xizhao:
[Brother, have you seen this grand spectacle? Don’t you have anything to say? Stop flirting with sis-in-law and pay attention to us for a second!]
Xie Xizhao did respond.
After skimming through the trending square, he exited without a word and casually shared the newly announced premiere post of Tao Yan’s Summer.
Within a minute, the comments had exploded past ten thousand.
The top-liked comment read: [Brother and sister-in-law 99!]
Two minutes later, the original poster deleted the comment and replaced it with a clumsy attempt at covering up: [Wishing big brother’s new drama a successful premiere [heart].] Her profile picture was a fresh, serene lotus flower, exuding the weariness of someone who had seen through the ways of the world.
Xie Xizhao couldn’t hold back—his lips curled up slightly.
This world simply didn’t make sense.
Just like how, half a year ago, Xuan Yang never thought he would be able to cast his idol as the male lead in his new drama, no one had expected Xie Xizhao’s second drama to come with such a mind-blowing production team.
At first, when the premiere date was announced, everyone was still in a daze. Under Xie Xizhao’s repost, his long-silent fans erupted into a chorus of shrieking groundhogs.
That calm before the storm lasted for about ten minutes.
Then, as marketing accounts—drawn by the scent of trending topics—began posting details about the production team, the general public was left in shock.
[Twenty million?? Am I seeing this right? Xie Xizhao invested twenty million into this crappy production?]
[Wait, is Xie Xizhao out of his mind? He could land any project he wants, and he chose a film by an unknown director? Is he tired of being famous?]
[Guys, I sincerely recommend looking up this director’s Baidu page and his past works. Seriously, they are wild. I now think this is the most explosive news of the year—way bigger than any celebrity scandal.]
Even his fans were dumbfounded.
They scoured through the marketing posts and Xuan Yang’s Baidu profile, desperately trying to find some redeeming quality in this production team.
And then they realized—Xie Xizhao was the biggest highlight of the entire project.
And then…
The internet completely lost it.
That period became the most difficult time since Xie Xizhao’s debut.
He already had plenty of rivals, and with no major capital backing him, his only real support was his relatively decent agency. But even Yaoxin, with all its increasingly polished PR strategies, couldn’t change the fact that this production team was, objectively, a mess.
And so, the usual cycle began—paid trolls, smear campaigns, and malicious comparisons.
Every trick in the book was used.
Yet, compared to external attacks, the turmoil within the fandom itself was far more devastating.
Xie Xizhao’s fans, regardless of their individual leanings, were almost all career-focused supporters.
This type of fan base was fiercely combative against outsiders but also the least likely to blindly coddle their idol.
Had Xie Xizhao not maintained an impeccable track record over the years, always hardworking and free of scandals—plus the fact that the drama hadn’t aired yet, leaving a sliver of hope—his studio’s official Weibo page would have already been flooded with outrage.
Even so, the top-liked comment under the premiere announcement had changed to:
[Baby, do you even know what you’re doing?]
A blunt and unforgiving remark, despite its restrained wording.
Fang Qingqing nearly had a heart attack on Xie Xizhao’s behalf when she first saw it. But then she thought back to when she had first learned about his decision to take on this project—her own breakdown wasn’t any less intense than the fans’. So, in the end, she understood. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and prepared to console Xie Xizhao.
Then she realized—he didn’t need any comforting.
Despite the overwhelming wave of public opinion, he neither avoided it nor seemed the least bit anxious.
He carried on with his schedules as usual, continued sharing promotional posts, and even liked posts from his industry partners. As always, he ignored the chaos unfolding in his Weibo comments.
As for his fans?
The night after the premiere date was announced, he started a livestream.
That livestream would later be hailed as a textbook example of celebrity crisis management.
On screen, the young man, dressed in a beige casual shirt, looked both refined and harmless. For thirty minutes, he patiently and methodically answered every question he could, his responses clear, composed, and gentle.
And it was precisely this unwavering calm—the same demeanor he had always maintained—that ultimately reassured all of his fans.
—
Of course.
Calming things down didn’t mean the issue was over.
To the outside world, Xie Xizhao’s decision was simply too baffling. His fans, now pacified enough not to abandon ship and unwilling to lash out directly at him, had to find somewhere else to vent their frustration.
And that’s how the whole “brother and sister-in-law” thing started.
Xie Xizhao had invested twenty million into the production. And, according to an unofficial tally, he had mentioned “Director Xuan Yang is a very talented director” a total of five times during the livestream.
In his fans’ words: “He’s obsessed.”
Promoting the drama? Obsessed.
Mentioning Xuan Yang in interviews? Obsessed.
Even after filming wrapped, when the entire cast and crew picked a day to gather for a meal? Extra obsessed.
Wait, an idol from his talent show days was also there?
Three, two, one—serve.
By now, the mockery and schadenfreude had mostly died down. The gossip-hungry spectators had moved on to the next scandal. And yet, “brother and sister-in-law 99” continued to float beneath every related post on Xie Xizhao’s Weibo.
—
While the internet was in chaos, Xie Xizhao remained calm from beginning to end.
He knew very well that Yaoxin had played a part in keeping this meme alive.
One way to redirect public attention was to turn a controversial issue into entertainment. Fans obsessing over a chaotic, unserious ship was far better than them spamming his Weibo with demands for an explanation. Not to mention, it was also subtly boosting the drama’s publicity.
But hype had its limits.
People were still joking about it because, at the end of the day, they still had expectations for him.
If the first episode didn’t meet those expectations, then no amount of real-life shipping with Xuan Yang would save him.
—
Thinking of this, he took a deep breath.
As the car cruised down the road, the driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror and asked, “Mr. Xie, we’re approaching the intersection. Are you heading back to your dorm or the company?”
Xie Xizhao had originally planned to return to his dorm, but at that moment, he changed his mind.
“Take me to my parents’ house,” he said.
Before long, the car pulled up in front of the house.
Wu Mi and Xie Jiancheng were both surprised by his unexpected visit, but they quickly set an extra bowl of rice at the table.
After dinner, he retreated to his old room, finally reclaiming a sense of ease that only home could provide. Settling into the chair, he opened his laptop and clicked on the newly released episodes.
—
Tao Yan’s Summer was an eight-episode short drama, and in the end, the production team opted for an online streaming release. New episodes dropped every Saturday, with two episodes per update, and premium members could watch them in advance.
In other words, if you were a privileged subscriber, you could finish the entire series in just two weeks.
Xie Xizhao typically didn’t watch dramas with the live comments turned on, but this time, he made an exception—he wanted to see the audience’s real-time reactions.
As the sound of cicadas chirping filled the opening scene, the floating comments on the screen were flooded with [Here to see Zhaozhao!] and, from the more mischievous viewers, [Here to witness the first drama where “brother and sister-in-law” collaborate for love].
Xie Xizhao chuckled, but his gaze was already locked onto the screen.
As an investor, he naturally had access to the footage.
He had watched the entire drama from start to finish a month ago, but that didn’t stop him from being drawn in by the visuals once again.
Xuan Yang was talented.
He had said this many times before—every time with complete sincerity.
And this fact was fully reflected in the visual style of Tao Yan’s Summer.
Though it was a modern drama, the overall color palette leaned toward a soft, creamy yellow. It wasn’t a heavy tint, just a faint, hazy overlay that clung to the lens, like an almost imperceptible filter.
The first shot of the scene was not of a person.
Instead, it was of an orange-and-white tabby cat curled up on a soft, pale-yellow cushion.
The camera started from the floor, slowly moving upward, gliding past the cat’s fluffy tail and its clear, bright brown eyes, before settling on the plane trees outside the window, bathed in the golden morning sunlight.
With just this one shot, the previously chattering barrage of live comments was instantly redirected.
[Wow, this shot is actually really beautiful.]
[Haha, Xuan Yang is still as skilled as ever at capturing these artsy scenes. I was tricked into watching Rose Stem by the trailer’s cinematography.]
[? Sis, tell us your story.]
[No story. Let’s just say, I had the best sleep of my life that month.]
The comments thinned out. At that moment, the screen remained fixed on the plane trees for a few lingering seconds.
Through Xie Xizhao’s headphones, the deliberately amplified sound of wind rustling through the leaves could be heard, along with the faint noise of someone snoring.
Then, in the midst of this peaceful silence, a phone alarm abruptly rang.
The next second, the camera cut sharply.
The boy who had just woken up still carried traces of sleepiness on his face. His slightly messy bangs lay obediently against his forehead.
His pupils were wide with a near-panicked daze as he stared straight into the camera.
The background of the bedside table, the rumpled fabric of his loose-fitting sleepwear, and every detail of his expression were fully exposed in the shot.
In that instant, the entire frame seemed to wake up.
It was an absolutely stunning transition.
At the very least, when Xie Xizhao had filmed this scene, he had never expected it to result in such a dramatic and breathtaking cut.
He steadied himself and glanced at the live comments.
Then…
[Ahhhhh Zhaozhao! High schooler Zhaozhao, wuwuwu, so well behaved, so silly, so cute!]
[So beautiful, baby TT. His collarbone is showing—I wanna kiss it, hehe… hehe hehe…]
Xie Xizhao: “……”
He silently withdrew his gaze.
Fortunately, though the comments were thirsting over his face, they hadn’t reached an unbearable level.
Soon, as the plot progressed, the audience gradually shifted their discussion toward the cinematography and storyline.
When the trailer had first been released, viewers had already debated the known plot points. Their conclusion was that, apart from a talking cat, the story seemed like a typical coming-of-age tale straight out of a youth novel.
The premise was relatable, but it also had the potential to be boring. Given Xuan Yang’s track record, most people had maintained a rather pessimistic outlook.
However, upon watching the full episode, they realized that things were turning out far better than expected.
Rather than being an incomprehensible stream-of-consciousness film, it seemed more fitting to describe the drama as having a literary kind of humor.
The protagonist, Tao Yan, was an eighteen-year-old high school student. Like many main characters in youth novels, he was introverted and socially isolated. His teachers didn’t favor him, and his classmates ostracized him. Yet, despite his solitude, the story didn’t sink into a pit of gloom and angst.
Because he had a cat—one that was talkative and excellent at throwing sarcastic remarks.
It was a cat that could speak human language.
No one knew why it could talk, but the moment it appeared on screen, everyone instantly remembered its sweet, innocent appearance, its haughty strut… and its unexpectedly deep, elderly-man voice.
No exaggeration—the second the cat started speaking, the live comments flooded the screen with hahahaha. They were even denser than the previous ones thirsting over Xie Xizhao’s face.
And yet, this was only the beginning of the comedy.
The protagonist, Tao Yan, was not only reclusive but also incredibly unlucky. And every time misfortune struck him, his cat was right there to deliver a sharp-witted commentary.
On a rainy day, he took the bus. Or rather, he tried to. Lost in thought, he completely missed the bus that had stopped right in front of him. It wasn’t until it started pulling away that he snapped back to reality. Panicked, he rushed after it—only to trip over a small rock.
He was wearing shorts. His pale knees hit the dirty asphalt hard, and muddy water splashed onto the camera lens, making the scene look blurry and somber.
Just as the audience was beginning to feel heartache for him, his cat strutted up to his side with perfect composure.
“Wow~ I heard that rainy days and falling down are a perfect match! Xiao Yan, keep it up! You’ve just experienced a classic scene straight out of an idol drama! Any second now, Snow White will arrive in a winter melon carriage to pick you up!”
Tao Yan: “……”
Audience: “……”
Wait a minute! It’s Cinderella, not Snow White! And what the hell is a winter melon carriage?!
Another time, Tao Yan went to the post office to collect his college admission letter. On his way home, a group of passing delinquents mocked him for his grades.
Without a word, he folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into the envelope.
His grades were poor—or rather, he was selectively bad at academics. His greatest love was astronomy, and his biggest dream was to study the stars. But he hadn’t been able to get into the astronomy department of his dream university.
Because apart from math and physics, he had failed every other subject.
His Chinese teacher criticized his essays for being “completely incoherent.” Meanwhile, he felt the exact same way about his English teacher’s lessons.
Still, stubborn as ever, he had chosen to enroll in an astronomy program at a lesser-known university.
Sitting on a bench by the street, holding the letter in his hands, he felt both happy and a little sad.
Just as the comment section was starting to reminisce about their own college entrance exam results, Tao Yan’s cat squatted beside him, tilting its head at the same melancholic 45-degree angle to gaze at the sky.
In the midst of silence, it suddenly spoke:
“It’s okay, Xiao Yan. The tides turn every thirty years. With your current grades, if you improve by five points every year, you should be able to get into your dream school in about thirty years! Isn’t that exciting?”
Tao Yan: “……”
Comment section: “……”
Was this really meant to be comforting? Or was it just a roundabout way of telling him to give up?! At least say he could improve by 150 points a year!
…Wait. That still sounded pretty discouraging.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
There was also the time Tao Yan accidentally got drenched by water poured from a balcony above—water he could have easily avoided, if not for his cat launching itself into his arms at the exact wrong moment.
Or the time he got cornered in an alley by delinquents—only for his idiot cat to also get lost and trapped in a dead end.
Or when Tao Yan was being bullied near a garbage bin, and his cat, in a valiant effort to help, grabbed onto his pant leg and pulled with all its might—only to lose its balance and flop onto its back, limbs sprawled in the air.
The sheer absurdity of it all.
Throughout the first two episodes, the audience felt like they were experiencing an emotional rollercoaster, constantly switching between “Oh no, poor baby!” and “HAHAHAHA”.
So much so that, by the end of the second episode, when Ji Yan’s character, An Wen, showed up—acting all tsundere as he muttered, “It’s not like I care or anything,” while secretly calling the cops to help—viewers didn’t even react to his attitude at first.
Instead, their first thought was:
“Finally. A normal person.”
But just as that relief settled in, the familiar voice chimed in again:
“Wow, what a cool guy. If only I hadn’t noticed his bright red socks peeking out from those ripped jeans.”
By the time the second episode ended, the audience had lost their minds.
—
It was a strange and wonderful feeling.
When you start watching a light comedy, you know you’re in for countless rapid-fire jokes, a relaxed storyline, and an enjoyable weekend.
When you open a coming-of-age drama, you brace yourself for loneliness, melodrama, and a slow-burning emotional ache.
But when you start Tao Yan’s Summer…
You realize these two things somehow coexist.
Before your eyes are slow-motion sequences, dreamlike transitions, and a hazy, soft-toned color palette. Every single frame of this drama could be screenshotted and used as a wallpaper. Some of the scene transitions are so stunning that you almost want to crack open the director’s head just to see what kind of genius ideas are swirling inside. And let’s not forget—the breathtakingly beautiful male lead, flawless from every angle.
But in your ears…
Is a ceaselessly chattering cat that drops sarcastic remarks at just the right moments.
Its commentary is so sharp and impossible to ignore that even as you watch the protagonist suffer, you still find yourself involuntarily smiling. And the very next second, you feel an overwhelming urge to knock on a wooden fish emoji and atone for your sins.
This strange, almost schizophrenic experience is so surreal that, for the first thirty minutes after the show premiered, the discussion board fell into an eerie silence.
And yet…
Does it feel jarring?
Not at all.
The plot of Tao Yan’s Summer flows seamlessly.
Even a kindergarten child watching this drama would understand exactly what story it’s telling. The linear, straightforward narrative gives the show a nearly old-fashioned simplicity. And as for the humor—it never feels out of place. If anything, it’s like a tiny dose of sugar sprinkled over pain, offering the smallest bit of comfort after an overwhelming storm.
After all, if you removed the cat from the equation and focused solely on Tao Yan’s life, words like unlucky, unfortunate, and downright miserable would all apply to him.
As one drama critic put it:
[This is a truly special show. What makes it special is that while it feels completely unhinged, it also somehow makes perfect sense. It’s hard to imagine the director’s mental state while filming this, but I declare him the winner.
Because ‘special’ is always the most powerful weapon. A drama can be melodramatic, but it cannot be dull. It can be artistic, but it cannot be boring. Even if it has countless flaws, the moment it becomes something ‘special,’ it will never walk the path of failure. And more importantly, judging from what we’ve seen so far—it’s flawless.]
Yes.
Before its premiere, Tao Yan’s Summer faced endless skepticism. Many had predicted that even with a top-tier cast, it would flop so hard it’d crash straight through to the earth’s core.
Yet, within just two hours of airing, its absurd and bizarre storyline—combined with its stunningly surreal cinematography and transitions—caught the attention of both critics and industry professionals before most viewers had even processed what they had just watched.
Simply put—
Its reputation exploded before its ratings even had the chance to catch up.
