Chapter 134: Still Not Enough
The art and literature circle was quite an interesting one.
Its intrigue lay in the fact that many things that the general public obsessed over—such as “popularity” and “hype”—were almost meaningless within this circle.
In a way, it was similar to the fashion industry, both carrying an air of exclusivity, as if they existed in their own world, indifferent to outside perspectives. The general public, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.
When it came to these two industries, which were somewhat distant from ordinary people, the public often mocked them, failed to understand them, or reacted like the old man on the subway staring at his phone in confusion. Yet, when a celebrity landed on the cover of a prestigious magazine, they were still praised for their elevated status. Meanwhile, red carpet fashion had evolved from haute couture to ultra-haute couture and even vintage haute couture.
In the film industry, no matter how much box office revenue a commercial movie generated, it was always perceived as a notch below an arthouse film in terms of prestige. Even though, for many, the artistic depth of certain arthouse films was too advanced to truly appreciate.
Xuan Yang was filming a short drama—it couldn’t be classified as an arthouse film. But aside from its format, everything from cinematography to visual effects was indistinguishable from an arthouse production. Xie Xizhao had once asked him why he chose this approach. He had replied that it was because his works were too long, and he was unwilling to condense them.
This was one of his issues. In past projects, Xie Xizhao had carefully corrected all his eccentric ideas that strayed from the norm, little by little. He firmly believed that one day in the future, the name Xuan Yang would shine brightly in the film industry.
Regardless, the reputation of arthouse films relied more on industry evaluations than commercial films did. And when the general public encountered something they didn’t quite understand, they tended to lean more on the opinions of professionals.
No one had expected that this drama—highly anticipated because of Xie Xizhao—would have such a reception upon release. But public discourse was always like this: once one person spoke up, the sealed box could never be perfectly shut again.
After several film and television bloggers gave it highly positive reviews—even though none of them had particularly large followings—more and more ordinary viewers started sharing their thoughts in public forums.
[This drama is really special! The visuals are absolutely stunning, and the storyline is really interesting. It doesn’t have the usual excitement of typical TV shows, but it’s not boring at all. Most importantly, the male lead is insanely handsome, hahaha!]
[Xie Xizhao is ridiculously good-looking! To be honest, when I first heard he was playing a high school student, I thought it might feel a bit off, but he totally embodies the role! His acting is great too. I’m not even a fan, but I feel like I might become a mom fan for Tao Yan, haha.]
[Idols usually wear heavy makeup, but his bare-face look is already so pure. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised that he could act well—just look at how successful Jing Yin was. What did surprise me was that, when I first read the synopsis, I thought, ‘That’s it? What’s so interesting about this?’ But before I knew it, I had already finished two episodes… I even feel tempted to buy a VIP membership. Just like one of the bloggers said, the whole vibe feels kind of eccentric, but for some reason, it’s incredibly addictive. orz]
[Ahhh, I’m so surprised! It doesn’t feel weird at all! Maybe it’s just me—I love random, whimsical storytelling, haha. I totally get this kind of absurd humor. I’ve only watched two episodes, but I already bought a membership. That’s it, this is officially my new mealtime drama!]
As time passed, more and more comments like these started appearing. By the time Fang Qingqing checked in again on the latest reports from the PR team, Tao Yan’s Summer had already transformed from an obscure, supposedly misguided investment by Xie Xizhao into a well-received, discussion-worthy drama.
Fang Qingqing finally let out a sigh of relief.
Of course, it was nowhere near the explosive success of Seeking Immortality when it first aired. But the very nature of Tao Yan’s Summer meant that it was never meant to be a drama that thrived on mainstream popularity alone.
She was quite satisfied. At least for now, when she checked the trending topics, those earlier negative remarks had long been drowned out. As if by unspoken agreement, fans were actively sharing fresh nine-grid photo collages from the drama, discussing the plot, and promoting it to wider audiences. No matter how one looked at it, the reputation of Tao Yan’s Summer had completely turned around.
But Fang Qingqing hadn’t expected—this was only the beginning.
*
Almost as soon as Tao Yan’s Summer’s reputation began to shift, the hired trolls who had been lurking saw the situation turn against them and started retreating like a receding tide. In the beginning, a few still tried to stir up negativity, but the moment ordinary viewers responded with, “Have you even watched the drama?” or “How is this boring?”, they quickly lost their momentum.
Of course, controversy and criticism also brought attention. While Yaoxin let out a breath of relief, they couldn’t help but worry that Tao Yan’s Summer might lose its momentum in the long run.
But then they realized…
That didn’t seem to be happening at all.
Ever since the first episode aired, entertainment platforms had been filled with discussions about Tao Yan’s Summer, with some threads even turning into long-running discussion hubs.
If Seeking Immortality was like an ice-cold soda—fizzing and bursting with excitement the moment it was opened—then Tao Yan’s Summer was like an aged wine.
It seemed quiet and unassuming, yet its rich aroma gradually filled the entire courtyard.
Anyone who passed by could catch its scent, and some, drawn by curiosity, would step into the narrow, winding alleyways in search of its source.
Fang Qingqing found it fascinating. But Xie Xizhao simply said, “This is normal.”
“Some dramas aim for direct, surface-level sensory stimulation,” he explained. “Others need to be watched more than once to be fully appreciated. Xuan Yang is a perfectionist when it comes to details—his works are packed with elements worth discussing. Loneliness, b*llying, college entrance exams, success, dreams—any one of these themes is enough to strike a chord with people.”
So, the flood of discussion threads about the plot didn’t surprise him in the slightest.
“Also, brother, you should know…” His assistant quietly added from the side. “There are quite a lot of posts about you too.”
Compared to before, when most posts were just fans gushing over his looks, now, discussions about Xie Xizhao in Tao Yan’s Summer leaned more toward serious acting analysis.
Xie Xizhao chuckled.
Then he stood up. Fang Qingqing glanced at him and asked, “Heading to an interview?”
“Yeah.” He nodded.
*
Compared to his last drama, Xie Xizhao had changed quite a bit as well.
In Seeking Immortality, he had been the second male lead. Even though he was popular, most interviews still focused on the main cast.
But Tao Yan’s Summer was different. He was the protagonist—the sole lead—which meant that nearly all interviews and promotional activities required his presence. He took it seriously, attending every interview he could, no matter how big or small.
The interviews tended to recycle the same questions over and over, leading to an influx of new fan content. Yet, somehow, no one found it boring.
Because Xie Xizhao and Xuan Yang’s chemistry was simply too entertaining.
Xuan Yang was reserved and socially awkward. Despite being the director, Xie Xizhao often took the lead in answering questions and steering conversations. And Xuan Yang’s most frequently spoken phrase was:
“Xizhao helped me a lot.”
Xie Xizhao’s fans were way too familiar with this sentence.
In an instant, they were all transported back to that dreamlike final competition night—the very moment of his debut. Their minds flashed back to that breathtaking, emotionally charged documentary about his early career.
A collective realization hit them all at once:
“He’s back.”
And the truth was—he really was.
Xuan Yang was an honest kid—he said everything, whether he should or not.
As a result, everyone now knew how Xie Xizhao had essentially waived his acting fee and even invested his own money and resources into the project. They also learned how Xie Xizhao had juggled multiple roles—actor, scriptwriter, and even assistant director. And, most notably, they discovered what had happened on that moonlit night—how their gentle superstar had comforted a young director whose confidence had been hanging by a thread.
And so, what was once a purely mischievous, unserious CP gained a new group of genuine, emotionally invested fans. Meanwhile, Xie Xizhao’s legendary status in the entertainment industry leveled up once again.
That day’s interview was routine.
After wrapping it up, Xie Xizhao and Xuan Yang returned to their old workspace to have dinner.
At the table, the shy young director’s face was flushed red from the steam rising off the food. His gaze toward Xie Xizhao was filled with gratitude. Then, in a voice softer than a whisper, he repeated the words he had already said countless times before:
“Xizhao, thank you.”
Xie Xizhao chuckled. “Director Xuan, if you keep saying that, I’m going to start thinking I was the one who made this drama.”
Then, after a brief pause, he asked, “Are you happy?”
Xuan Yang froze for a moment.
These past few days, he really had been happy.
His drama had gained industry recognition. Its viewership numbers and audience feedback had already surpassed the combined total of all his previous works—by several times over.
But more than anything, he had received countless private messages from viewers. Some offered encouragement, while others wanted to discuss the plot. No matter the content, he cherished every single one.
No creator dislikes seeing their work being appreciated.
Even though, in the past, Xuan Yang had stubbornly told himself, As long as I know what I’m creating, that’s enough.
But whenever he came across those dismissive, “I don’t get it” comments…
He couldn’t help but feel a little sad.
Everything he had now was once an unattainable dream for his past self.
He felt that Xie Xizhao’s question was a bit unnecessary, but he still answered honestly.
After responding, he hesitated for a moment before cautiously asking, “Why?”
Xie Xizhao paused.
He hadn’t planned on saying anything. But when he saw the confusion in Xuan Yang’s eyes, he suspected that if he left it unsaid, this sensitive young director would end up overthinking it later. So, after a brief hesitation, he chose to be honest.
“I think… it’s still not enough.”
—
He truly felt it wasn’t enough.
By the time of that interview, Tao Yan’s Summer had aired two episodes publicly, with VIP members able to watch up to episode four—nearly half of the show’s total length.
For most dramas, their performance would have stabilized at this point.
So how was Tao Yan’s Summer doing?
Its viewership numbers couldn’t compare to mainstream commercial hits, but thanks to Xie Xizhao’s presence, they were still higher than those of typical mid-tier popular dramas. On top of that, it had earned the endorsement of several industry critics and film bloggers.
And among general audiences, its reputation was unexpectedly strong. If nothing else, just looking at how delighted Xuan Yang and Fang Qingqing were every day made it clear that the drama had already far exceeded expectations.
Saying this aloud would almost certainly earn Xie Xizhao another wave of backlash.
Over the years, his anti-fans had built an increasingly elaborate “black narrative” around him, portraying him as an ambitious schemer who would stop at nothing to climb higher. Xie Xizhao never understood why his haters seemed even more dedicated than his actual fans when it came to crafting an image for him—especially one that, if anything, only made him more attractive to new admirers.
But regardless of how people chose to interpret it, this thought of his was genuine.
With his experience and keen eye, Xie Xizhao believed that Tao Yan’s Summer had the potential to reach far greater heights. It was never meant to remain just a moderately popular drama or even a trending hit of the season—it could go much further.
That being said, despite feeling this way, Xie Xizhao had no sense of urgency.
He continued following his schedule as planned, attending every event without rushing.
Lately, life had been quite comfortable for him.
With the drama wrapped up and no immediate need for a TP group comeback, most of his engagements consisted of variety show recordings, endorsements, and magazine shoots. He remained one of the biggest names in the industry—China’s top-tier idol. But now, he also carried the title of a serious, capable actor.
The fashion world adored him. Advertisers and variety show producers all saw him as a prized asset.
Even the fans who had once been upset with him—well, the numbers showed that rather than losing followers, his popularity had only grown.
And whether out of guilt or some other reason, those fans had recently turned into the most docile little lambs. The usual sarcastic memes had lessened, replaced instead with desperate pleas like:
[An 18-year-old high school boy? Pfft, who would want to watch that? Not me, definitely not me. Who would even be interested in this kind of role…? Oh my god, please, brother, just give us something! We know you must’ve taken some selfies on set, post at least one! Two episodes per week is NOT enough, TT.]
As for Xuan Yang, the comments under his posts had their own chaotic energy:
[Sis—uh, no, Director Xuan! Please, Director Xuan, give us some behind-the-scenes footage, QAQ! We just want to see Baby Yanyan, don’t make me get on my knees and beg, TT!]
Just when everyone had assumed that this peaceful buzz would be Tao Yan’s Summer’s final trajectory, something unexpected happened.
One day, out of nowhere, the drama’s popularity skyrocketed again.
—
It all started with a single post on a certain forum.
This post started as a regular discussion thread about the drama’s plot. At first, the conversation was fairly normal—until someone suddenly dropped a comment:
[By the way, doesn’t anyone find the plot so far a bit… eerie? I mean, I’m not talking about the talking cat—that’s not the weird part. But why can the cat talk in the first place? Other than that, nothing in the drama suggests that supernatural elements exist. This setup just feels kind of strange to me.]
After a brief pause, someone replied:
[You’re not alone. Our group was talking about this today too. So far, we’re up to episode four, and Yanyan has made two good friends: An Wen and his cousin, Ji Mingxian. But something about their dynamic seems off.
First of all, An Wen and Yanyan are the same age, and An Wen has this rebellious personality, right? But doesn’t it feel like he’s too accommodating toward Yanyan? And then there’s his cousin—why would he specifically introduce his friend to a cousin who’s seven or eight years older? The actors are all doing a great job, but honestly, something about this setup feels weird to me.]
[Wait—what are you guys even talking about? I feel like you’re discussing completely different issues. I’m confused.]
[No, I think this actually makes sense. This drama has a lot of subtle, almost imperceptible oddities. And I don’t think they’re plot holes—I think they’re intentional.
[For example, has anyone else noticed that, aside from An Wen and Ji Mingxian, everyone seems to keep their distance from Tao Yan? There are multiple scenes where townspeople deliberately avoid him when he passes by. Even An Wen and Ji Mingxian don’t treat him like a typical friend—it’s more like they’re protecting him. And then there’s Tao Yan himself. The camera shows him waking up multiple times, and every single time (pay attention to this detail), he wakes up from a nightmare. Even if he’s introverted, isn’t that too frequent? Also, he spaces out a lot—way more than what seems normal.
[But aside from all that—no matter how comedic the scenes get—I can’t shake off this underlying sense of oppression and chaos in the drama’s overall tone. You won’t notice it in Tao Yan’s interactions with the cat, but you can see it in the cinematography.
Director Xuan has inserted so many seemingly meaningless shots. One moment, it’s a bright, sunny day. The next, Tao Yan is completely drenched in the rain. I don’t know if you all noticed his expression in that moment (sorry, I have to mention this—Xie Xizhao’s acting here was absolutely phenomenal. That split second when the teenager’s face shifted from joy to sheer terror—chills). For a brief moment, I swear I saw something strange in his gaze—something like a distortion in time and space (?).
And about that talking cat. The whole concept is way too fairytale-like. But has anyone actually paid attention to Tao Yan’s room? There are cat supplies, sure, but they’re covered in a thick layer of dust.]
[???]
[Holy crap… I just went back to check, and it’s true!]
[Wouldn’t the props team be in charge of maintaining these details? There’s no way they’d just leave dusty items on set like that. So…]
[So, does Tao Yan’s cat… really exist?]
—
When the topic “Does the cat really exist?” trended on social media, Qi Yin initially thought the internet had run out of meaningful discussions and had resorted to debating pointless philosophical questions.
It wasn’t until he clicked on it that he realized—it was a trending topic about his own artist’s new drama.
And what’s more, this wasn’t a paid promotion. It had climbed the trending list purely through organic discussion.
Qi Yin stared at the screen for a moment, his expression dazed.
All this time, he had thought Xie Xizhao was filming a heartwarming drama.
That was the mindset he had when he started watching it, too.
Seeing all the detailed discussions and speculations from netizens, Qi Yin was completely dumbfounded. He called Xie Xizhao, who was still asleep. With a pained groan, Xie Xizhao picked up:
“Hello, boss.”
Qi Yin, embarrassingly, found himself distracted for two seconds by the raspy softness of his voice over the phone.
Then he snapped out of it and asked, “Xizhao, I saw the trending topic.”
Xie Xizhao seemed more awake now and responded with a simple, “Mm.”
Qi Yin hesitated. “So…?”
Xie Xizhao let out a quiet chuckle. “Boss, what do you think?”
Qi Yin had no idea.
But, truthfully, he wasn’t desperate for an answer either. If he really wanted to know, he could just ask Fang Qingqing for the script.
Yet, he found himself restless—pacing, unable to sit still.
Somehow, it reminded him of his childhood—of the time he ran away from home.
It didn’t make much sense, but that’s where his mind wandered.
Back then, he struggled to accept what it meant to be rich. Someone trying to curry favor with his father had tracked him down at kindergarten. He still remembered the man’s obsequious smile, the way he held out an envelope containing a bank card, insisting on handing it over in a quiet corner.
He had been scared and had run out of the kindergarten, ending up on the side of a busy road.
Up until that point, the farthest he had ever ventured was the high-end supermarket near his home—a place warm and safe.
But out on the street, it was desolate and lonely, filled with an unfamiliar chill and an unsettling sense of the unknown.
Eventually, he found something to focus on—a precariously swaying billboard across the street. He stared at it, his heart suspended in midair along with it.
Then, with a resounding bang, the billboard collapsed.
And right at that moment, his family’s butler found him.
And the next week, when Tao Yan’s Summer released its two new episodes—
It was like that collapsing billboard crashing down.
The whimsical, talking cat was fake.
The one and only source of comfort in his tragic life was fake.
Tao Yan was eighteen. A high school student. He loved astronomy. His dream was to gaze at the stars.
But at the same time, he was a delusional patient.
He had lived inside the dream he wove for himself for many years, like a cocoon wrapped tightly in silk. Until one day, he met the first real friend of his life—An Wen.
On the 217th day of their friendship, he sat on a desolate roadside—one eerily similar to the one in Qi Yin’s memory—and shared his deepest secret with his best friend.
Shyly, he said, “An Wen, actually… I have a talking cat.”
The autumn wind swept by, stirring the fallen leaves.
By his feet, there was nothing but empty space.
A cat that had never existed in this world.
