Chapter 137: The Journey
What did two individual nominations mean?
To put it simply, the Tianzhao Awards had just concluded recently. The winner of Best Actor, Yu Lin, had been an actor for seventeen years, yet he had only received seven individual nominations in total.
Yu Lin was the epitome of a late bloomer. Though he had formal training, his career had remained lukewarm in the early years. Some harsh critics had once described his acting as “the craftsmanship of a skilled artisan,” implying that he had technique but lacked innate talent. He had truly risen from obscurity, gradually making his way from an unknown actor to a nominee and finally to the title of Best Actor, step by step. His first nomination came when he was twenty-eight years old, and even then, he suffered the regret of defeat.
But Xie Xizhao had achieved in just two projects what had taken Yu Lin ten years to accomplish. And even more impressively, he had secured double nominations. Though it was just one additional nomination, the difficulty of achieving it was exponentially higher.
And this year, he was only twenty-four.
The moment the news broke, it shot straight to the top of the trending list. Even usually composed marketing accounts couldn’t hold back their shock, some even swearing outright:
[What the hell?! What kind of heaven-sent Purple Star is this? Am I dreaming?!]
From the very start of his career in the talent show industry, Xie Xizhao had been called the Purple Star of Destiny. He had solidified that title by securing the center position in the final debut lineup and launching his career with an instant success. However, after he transitioned into acting, the number of his anti-fans surged. Despite his stellar performances, the mention of this title inevitably declined.
Because of this, many haters had once claimed that his career shift was nothing more than a “downhill path in disguise.”
These two nominations were like a resounding slap in the face to that narrative.
He was still the kind of person who could excel at anything he did.
Even after switching to a different field, Xie Xizhao had never stopped forging miracles.
Many fans were so overwhelmed with excitement that they teared up. Compared to the storms of controversy from before, public opinion this time, while equally surprised, was surprisingly positive overall.
The comment section was filled with similar reactions:
[Two nominations? Insane. Only Xie Xizhao could pull this off. I liked both of these roles—he definitely deserves the nominations.]
[This is hilarious. Data analysts have been debating for half a month whether Stellar would nominate him for Best Supporting Actor or Best Leading Actor. Stellar: ‘I’ll give him both.’ LOL, this is peak entertainment. Give us more drama like this!]
[Jing Yin and Tao Yan both had a 50-50 chance of making it in, according to predictions. If we’re talking about legendary roles, Tao Yan takes the crown. But some analysts thought Stellar might hesitate since he’s still a newcomer. In the end, both characters were outstanding, so the discussions all came down to external factors. But Stellar isn’t known for playing those games—if the performance is good, they give it, if not, they don’t. So honestly, it makes perfect sense to me.]
[+1. While it’s surprising, when you think about it, he really did act well. What’s wrong with giving him both? (Not a fan, by the way—just think Stellar made a solid move here. It proves that as long as your acting is good enough, anything is possible. Age and experience don’t matter. This gives hope to future talented actors.]
Scanning through the tens of thousands of comments, Fang Qingqing, who had initially worried that Xie Xizhao’s double nomination would invite another wave of backlash, finally breathed a sigh of relief.
She looked at the trending topics and the rapidly climbing engagement numbers, unable to resist the urge to share the joy with her artist. She dialed the number, and after a moment, the call connected. Before anyone spoke, the first thing she heard was the sound of the wind in the background.
一
At that moment, while Xie Xizhao was on the phone with Fang Qingqing, Ji Yan was sitting nearby, resting.
From the high vantage point, the view below was exceptionally vast. His heart was still pounding from the adrenaline rush, but he was already savoring the thrill of it. At this moment, he finally understood why, ever since filming the group variety show, Xie Xizhao had made bungee jumping a permanent part of his life.
By the time Xie Xizhao finished his call and walked over, Ji Yan had already zoned out. Xie Xizhao waved a hand in front of him to snap him back to reality. The two of them gathered their things and began heading down.
The place offered excellent privacy—right next to the bungee platform was a secluded guesthouse, and the path leading there was mostly deserted.
Xie Xizhao had booked a suite with two bedrooms and a living room. After entering, he went straight to take a shower. When he came out, Ji Yan had already changed into a bathrobe and was lying on the bed, playing on his phone.
Hearing movement, Ji Yan lifted his phone and waved it at Xie Xizhao.
“Brother, congrats.”
Xie Xizhao had just heard the news from Fang Qingqing, so he remained composed. “Thanks.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a message on Ji Yan’s phone from someone labeled [Manager.]
[Ancestor, can you give me a straight answer? When exactly are you coming back? [Weary emoji]]
He paused for a moment. “Your manager messaged you.”
Ji Yan glanced at his phone and responded nonchalantly, “Oh.” Then, just as calmly, he added, “It’s fine. Let him wait a little longer.”
Xie Xizhao chuckled.
Neither of them said anything after that. They simply focused on their own things in comfortable silence, the wind rustling through the bamboo forest outside.
After a while, as if making up his mind, Ji Yan finally spoke.
“Brother, I’ll head back the day after tomorrow. Now that ‘Tao Yan’s Summer’ has wrapped up, my manager has piled up a bunch of scripts for me. I need to go through them so I can plan my schedule.”
Xie Xizhao nodded. “Alright.”
Ji Yan met his clear gaze and hesitated for a few seconds.
“Thank you, brother,” he said.
Gone was the youthful recklessness and carefree attitude of the past. Since their reunion, Ji Yan had shown a newfound steadiness, as if he had truly grown up. And now, when he spoke those words, they carried genuine sincerity and gravity.
Xie Xizhao knew that this gratitude wasn’t just for that acting opportunity from before.
—
After the promotional period for Tao Yan’s Summer ended, Xie Xizhao went on vacation.
This wasn’t originally when he had planned to take time off, but he had asked Fang Qingqing to clear his schedule for half a month.
“I can’t take it anymore. I need a break.”
Though he had said it half-jokingly, it was also the truth.
Even for a method actor like him, he was still human. And as a person, no matter how much emotional control he had, there was always a degree of empathy involved.
A script like Tao Yan’s Summer, with its heavy and oppressive themes, was mentally exhausting. Rather than saying he took a break because of his workload, it was more accurate to say he needed time to readjust his emotions, which had become overly sensitive from immersing himself too deeply in the role.
Many people said that Xie Xizhao had been pushing himself too hard in recent years, but in reality, he was simply operating at the edge of his limits. If it ever came to a point where it endangered his health, he would stop.
So while the internet was still shedding tears over Tao Yan’s Summer, Xie Xizhao was already happily browsing travel guides and planning his itinerary.
Except, just before he left, he ended up with a little tagalong.
When Tao Yan’s Summer reached the top of the charts, the production team hosted a celebratory banquet.
Everything at the banquet had gone smoothly—except for the fact that the supporting actor got drunk, clung to the lead’s sleeve with teary eyes, and refused to let go. With the entire cast and crew shooting him strange looks, Xie Xizhao had no choice but to drag the drunkard away.
The next day, when Ji Yan woke up in his hotel room with a splitting hangover, he found Xie Xizhao sitting nearby, wearing headphones and writing a song.
Noticing that Ji Yan was awake, Xie Xizhao took off his headphones.
“I’m going on a trip soon,” he said. Then, after a pause, he asked, “I have a flight next week. Want to come?”
When did he first realize that something was off with Ji Yan?
Ji Yan had once asked Xie Xizhao this exact question, his voice full of confusion.
And Xie Xizhao’s answer was: “The first time I saw you.”
His experiences had given him a sharper sense of perception than most. From the moment Ji Yan stood in the courtyard, looking up at him, Xie Xizhao had sensed that something was wrong. The once bright and carefree young man seemed to have something weighing on him.
But at the time, Xie Xizhao chose to keep that observation to himself.
He wasn’t the type to interfere too much in his friends’ lives. Life was hard for everyone, and the pressure in this industry was even greater. It wasn’t uncommon for people to struggle, and not everyone wanted their troubles to be exposed.
Of course, if Ji Yan ever truly needed help, Xie Xizhao wouldn’t hesitate to offer it.
Ji Yan’s problem was simple.
He had risen to fame at a young age, signed with a major company, and carried the momentum of a successful talent show. While he wasn’t as famous as Xie Xizhao, he was still considered a popular idol actor. If he had no particular ambitions, the stable fan base he had accumulated would be enough to keep him afloat in the industry for a lifetime.
But he did have ambitions.
“Brother, you know what my manager told me? He said that with my face, I could keep starring in idol dramas until I’m thirty. And when I heard that, I felt terrified.”
He had spent the past few years jumping from one drama set to another, filming non-stop. Some projects flopped, some became hits. The successful ones pushed him into the ranks of trending actors, earning him a massive fanbase. And for the ones that failed, his loyal fans always stepped in to salvage his reputation.
He wanted to hone his acting skills, but he never had the time. When he wasn’t filming, the company had him booked for variety shows.
“Tao Yan’s Summer was the hardest production I’ve ever been a part of,” he said. “But it was also the one where I felt the most at peace.”
Because in that production, for the first time, he felt like he had truly rediscovered what it meant to be an actor.
When Ji Yan said those words, he and Xie Xizhao were by the sea. The waves crashed against the shore, and the only other sound was the quiet whisper of the wind.
“Brother, how did you do it? How did you make up your mind to always do what you truly want?”
His voice was filled with uncertainty, and for a moment, Xie Xizhao was reminded of the way Ji Yan’s eyes had sparkled back during their first performance stage.
He understood Ji Yan’s confusion, his hesitation. And as a friend, he gave him the most honest advice he could.
He said, with absolute sincerity, “As long as you’re sure it’s truly what you want to do.”
Ji Yan was stunned.
Xie Xizhao actually understood why Ji Yan had chosen him as a confidant.
Entering a survival show as an unknown contestant. Negotiating with Shenghong Entertainment. Insisting on incorporating his own creative work into his debut album. Choosing to transition into acting at the peak of his idol career. And even after landing a breakout role, opting for an independent art film instead of mainstream projects.
To outsiders, it seemed like he was always walking a tightrope.
And while he had succeeded every time, each success had been a gamble.
Had failure ever been a possibility for him?
Of course, it had.
Even with his background, Xie Xizhao never believed that his choices were guaranteed to be right. Because he knew that beyond talent and hard work, there was something else in this world—something called fate.
So how did he avoid being consumed by endless self-doubt?
His answer was simple:
Make choices that he could live with, without regret.
He didn’t know if Ji Yan truly took his words to heart, but when Ji Yan left, he looked noticeably more at ease than when he had arrived.
Xie Xizhao saw him off at the airport.
Before leaving, Ji Yan turned to him and said, “Brother, let’s work on another project together when we get the chance.”
Xie Xizhao smiled and said, “Alright.” Then, he set off once again on his planned journey.
Snow-capped mountains, endless deserts, dense forests. He let go of all thoughts and distractions, immersing himself in both the extremes and the serenity of his solo travels.
And on the final day, he realized that he no longer dreamed of that quiet boy sitting beneath the sycamore tree. He let out a slow breath, and when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was completely clear.
He sent a message to Fang Qingqing.
The next day, he boarded a flight home.
This time, his destination was G City.
His journey had lasted half a month—coincidentally the same amount of time between Stellar’s nomination announcement and the awards ceremony.
In the blink of an eye, it was time for the Stellar Awards.
