Chapter 140: Sly
Xuan Yang saw the trending topic while he was at home petting his cat. Du Wei had forwarded it to him.
Du Wei: Director, take a look at this.
Du Wei: Hiss… why do I feel like someone is stirring up trouble? Isn’t this post trying to drive a wedge between you and Teacher Xie? How would he feel if he saw it?
Du Wei: Would his team think we’re the ones trying to step on them? Heaven and earth can testify to our innocence. Do you think we should explain ourselves?
The moment Xuan Yang clicked on the original Weibo post, he felt like his vision went black. His palms were sweaty, and he completely forgot about the cat, letting it run off to play while he focused intently on reading the comments. Fortunately, most of them seemed fairly reasonable.
[??? What kind of baffling statement is this? Just so you know, this entire production was carried by Xie Xizhao.]
[Blogger, if you have nothing better to do, why don’t you go clean up the manure at the village entrance instead? What the hell do you mean by ‘riding on the script to win Best Actor’? Can’t a good script and a good actor bring out the best in each other?]
[It’s over. Our big brother and sister-in-law are really famous now—people are even trying to stir things up. Well then, welcome, dear passersby! Come watch our brother and sister-in-law’s fateful love story, Tao Yan’s Summer. I hear that a Purple Star director and a Purple Star actor make the perfect match. [Heart emoji]]
However, these comments did nothing to ease Xuan Yang’s anxiety.
First, he used his alt account to like every single comment. Then, he grabbed his cat and absentmindedly rubbed its belly. The cat meowed in protest as he kept kneading it, all while debating whether he should tell Xie Xizhao about this.
Just then, his phone vibrated.
He thought it was Du Wei, but when he checked, he nearly threw his phone—cat and all.
Xie Xizhao: Are you free for a voice call?
Half a second later, Xuan Yang silently dialed the call. On the other end, Xie Xizhao’s voice was slightly hoarse.
“Uh… Director Xuan, can I borrow two minutes of your time? I need to talk to you about something.”
Xie Xizhao said it would take two minutes, and it really did. He briefly explained the situation on Weibo to Xuan Yang, saying that certain industry companies had found a new angle and were taking advantage of the lingering buzz to get involved. He told Xuan Yang not to stress over it—his studio’s PR team was already handling the matter.
After saying that, he was about to hang up, but Xuan Yang stopped him.
“Um… do you need me to post something on Weibo too?”
Whenever he spoke to Xie Xizhao, he instinctively used a questioning tone—a habit left over from filming.
Or maybe, a shadow from the past.
There was a brief pause on the other end before Xie Xizhao replied, “You can if you want to.”
Then he asked, “Do you want my studio’s PR team to review your draft before posting?”
Tao Yan’s Summer was a makeshift production, and Xuan Yang didn’t have his own team. Even so, this question could have come across as overstepping. A more sensitive person might have found it offensive. But to Xuan Yang, it was a relief.
“Sure,” he replied sincerely.
Xie Xizhao: “…”
Xuan Yang vaguely heard what sounded like a quiet chuckle before Xie Xizhao said, “No need, just post it directly.”
“It’s not a big deal.” He paused for two seconds before adding, “And I should thank you, Director Xuan, for all the groundwork you laid.”
He was referring to how Xuan Yang had tirelessly promoted him in every interview, switching up his wording each time. Even when talking about how Xie Xizhao had painstakingly revised the script 32 times—something that others might have found embarrassing— Xuan Yang had framed it as a mark of dedication and professionalism.
Though all of this later turned into “shipper content,” it also helped establish a strong public persona for Xie Xizhao. Some were even saying that he might try his hand at directing or screenwriting in the future. With his talent, he might achieve just as much—if not more—than he had as an idol and actor.
Xuan Yang felt a little embarrassed. “…You were the one who helped the production so much in the first place.”
After hanging up, he no longer felt anxious.
Hugging his cat, he started thinking about how to word his Weibo post.
—
On the other side, as soon as Xie Xizhao hung up the call, he bit down and crushed the mint candy that had been in his mouth for a long time.
He had just finished a recording session, and his throat was still a bit hoarse.
After finishing the candy, he turned to the PR department head, who had been eavesdropping with perked-up ears. “Is this good enough?”
The PR head grinned. “Your CP is about to make a move himself—of course, it’s good enough. Ah, baby, I have to say, your charm is really—”
He had a bad habit of getting too chatty when excited, but one calm glance from Xie Xizhao was enough to shut him up. He quickly switched topics. “I mean, it’s a good thing you caught it early.”
“Seriously,” he added, the more he thought about it, the more unsettling it felt. “If you hadn’t given us a heads-up, we wouldn’t have been able to react so quickly. Who the hell decides to post a rant at three in the morning?”
“Alright, enough about that,” Xie Xizhao said. “It looks like we’ve stabilized the situation for now. Once Director Xuan posts his Weibo, we’ll keep pushing the momentum and make this free publicity work in our favor.”
He hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to say something else, but in the end, he swallowed the words back down.
The PR head left, still in high spirits. Xie Xizhao lingered in the hallway for a while, letting the wind blow over him. He only returned to the studio once the minty taste in his mouth had completely faded.
Barely five minutes after he got back, Xuan Yang’s Weibo post went up.
—
Xuan Yang was an emotional person. Xie Xizhao had realized this long ago when reading his script.
Emotionally driven people were well-suited for artistic creation. But their sensitivity and introversion often felt more like weaknesses than strengths. Xuan Yang was one of those people—a blend of emotion and introversion. According to him, aside from Du Wei, he had never really had any close friends growing up.
When Tao Yan’s Summer was being filmed, Xie Xizhao had once wondered whether the script’s protagonist was based on him. He had casually probed for an answer at some point—fortunately, it wasn’t.
Xuan Yang was just a somewhat reclusive and introverted little genius. A little genius with his own uniquely vivid world of imagination. Someone who was also deeply loyal and sentimental.
Xuan Yang had said he would post on Weibo, but in the end, he opted for a Toutiao article instead.
To clear up the rumors surrounding Xie Xizhao, he wrote an entire long-form piece.
Perhaps because he was eager to post it quickly, his wording felt rushed, and there were even a few typos. Eighty percent of the article was dedicated to praising Xie Xizhao’s contributions to the production, while the remaining twenty percent was an expression of gratitude.
At the end of the article, he wrote a heartfelt passage:
[I don’t know how to properly thank him. No matter how much I say, it all feels too superficial. The only thing I know is that when I was closest to giving up, he was the one who pulled me out of the darkness. If anyone was relying on the other between us, then it was me relying on him. That’s the only reason I became the Stellar Awards’ Best Director.]
The top comments under the post were hilariously honest.
[Brother, you love him so much…]
[I came here as a passerby to eat some drama, but halfway through, I completely forgot why I even clicked on this article. The more I read these black words, the more I start to stan—is this what your entertainment industry is like? I’m shook.]
[Director, I know you’re in a hurry, but don’t be too anxious. We all have brains, don’t worry, we won’t get misled, hahaha. But Director Xuan, you’re way too cute! Thank you for speaking up for our Zhaozhao! You two aren’t riding on each other’s coattails—you’re just bringing out the best in each other.]
[Ahhh! Who gets it?! This isn’t even about shipping—it’s just been so long since I’ve seen a story where everyone fights together to achieve their dreams. This was a project that even the original creative team didn’t have high hopes for, and now, one of them is a Best Actor, and the other is a Best Director. How is this not the script of an underdog success story? I’m tearing up, sobbing.]
Genuine emotions were always the most resonant. As soon as the long post was published, the already controlled public opinion completely shifted into a mix of heartfelt admiration and CP shipping. Xie Xizhao’s team didn’t even have to use the contingency plans they had prepared.
However, just when everyone thought the matter had come to an end, the original poster suddenly posted two more Weibo updates.
[So many people here.jpg Looks like I’m really trending, haha. As expected, Xie Xizhao’s fans are formidable fighters. But fans, Director Xuan, I never said Xie Xizhao was just a pretty-faced hack. I only said he got his Best Actor award by riding on good scripts and a good persona. An 80-point acting ability + 100-point persona is undeniably impressive, but only someone with 100-point acting + 100-point persona can be called legendary. Get the difference? I just think people are overhyping him too much.
[Won’t be replying anymore. It’s clear that Xie Xizhao knows how to play the game, and his team is very capable. Nobodies like me can’t handle online harassment, so I’m out. Let time prove everything. Anyway, a marketing star whose reputation doesn’t match his real ability will face backlash sooner or later. Just wait and see.]
After posting these, making sure they had been seen, the person immediately deleted their account.
The topic was still trending, and now, just as things were about to settle down, this reignited the entire discussion. Within moments, #Xie Xizhao 80-point acting climbed back up the trending list, teetering on the edge of returning to the hot search.
—
Almost the instant the new posts appeared, a thunderous crash echoed through the studio.
A trash can was kicked over, followed by a furious, teeth-gritted curse: “That absolute waste of space!”
Everyone turned to look as the PR department head stood up, venting their frustration by kicking over a second trash can.
This sharp-tongued, battle-hardened man was named Pei Yiman.
Back when he applied for the job, his personality was deemed too intense, and his overly enthusiastic declaration of love for Xie Xizhao during the interview nearly got him escorted out by security. Ironically, the one who decided to keep him in the end was none other than Xie Xizhao himself.
The reason was simple: he was fast, he was relentless, and he was a fighter.
Xie Xizhao didn’t particularly care whether people called him “boss” or “baby.” As long as someone was useful, that was all that mattered.
And Pei Yiman was useful.
At the very least, when Xie Xizhao had subtly hinted that there might be trouble brewing, Pei Yiman had pulled an all-nighter drafting multiple crisis response plans. Each one was a potential masterstroke.
But he had never expected this to be a combo attack.
Pei Yiman felt like he was about to cough up blood.
As he frantically brainstormed countermeasures, he also mentally calculated how many extra appreciative glances from his boss it would take to make up for this disaster.
Then he realized—forget the appreciative glances—this situation was turning out to be much trickier than he had expected.
This wasn’t just a casual Weibo post. This was a premeditated trap. In fact, the previous inflammatory post had been designed to bait them into responding, leading straight into this second attack.
They could prove contributions. They could prove mutual success.
But acting ability? That was subjective.
Even the most renowned directors in the industry wouldn’t dare claim with absolute certainty that someone’s acting was a perfect 100 or merely an 80. So why had the other party chosen to attack from this angle?
Because the two roles Xie Xizhao had played—Jing Yin and Tao Yan—were indeed exactly as the accuser had described: great roles with great scripts.
This, of course, could be used to highlight Xie Xizhao’s sharp eye for picking scripts and his refined taste.
But at the same time, because both the script and the characters were already so outstanding—borderline legendary—it completely eliminated the possibility that his acting had elevated the material.
At most, all he could have done was complement the script and character, creating a mutually reinforcing effect.
It was obvious that the other party had seized on this exact point, using it as a weapon.
Pei Yiman gritted his teeth in frustration. But deep down, he knew that if he were on the opposing side, he would have played the same card.
At its core, Xie Xizhao had risen to fame too quickly and too early. Everyone knew he had the ability to embody any role, but at this point in his career, he still lacked a defining performance to serve as undeniable proof.
For the first time, Pei Yiman felt like he had encountered a worthy opponent. But there was no time to dwell on who was pulling the strings from the shadows.
He took a deep breath, preparing to message Xie Xizhao—only to receive a message from him first.
Pei Yiman’s contact name for Xie Xizhao was “Baby”, complete with an adorable emoji. A small personal touch that ensured every work-related message from his boss came with a momentary burst of pink bubbles.
This time, under that affectionate label, Xie Xizhao’s message came through with an unexpectedly gentle tone:
[I saw the Weibo post. It’s fine. Just leave it.]
A definitive decision.
Pei Yiman knew that public sentiment could turn if pushed too far. The best move was to stop while they were ahead, but he still let out a quiet sigh.
—
Meanwhile, on the other side, Xie Xizhao turned off his phone screen.
He had just finished seeing off Hong Wu’s assistant, Zhai Ziyin. Before leaving, she had even asked about the controversy surrounding him. Xie Xizhao thanked her for her concern and replied calmly, “Thank you, but it’s not a big deal.”
Zhai Ziyin didn’t press further. She simply smiled, her words carrying an implicit meaning:
“Director Hong asked me to pass on a message—you’re still young. Having your momentum dampened a little isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Especially when you’ve done nothing wrong to begin with.”
She added with a chuckle, “Keep going, Zhaozhao. I believe in you.”
The last sentence was playful, clearly something she added on her own. Xie Xizhao thanked her once again.
After seeing his guest off, he returned to his room. The cat he had taken from Xuan Yang climbed onto his lap, curling up obediently in a comfortable spot.
As Xie Xizhao absentmindedly considered whether he should get a cat of his own, he opened the package Zhai Ziyin had brought him.
Inside, the first thing he found was a USB drive containing valuable footage and electronic study materials. Then came a selection of expensive gifts. Hong Wu and Lu Yong truly treated him like a younger generation they cared for. If his guess was correct, he was now receiving the same treatment as Dou Fei in their eyes.
Beyond that, the rest of the package contained a thick stack of scripts.
Before filming Tao Yan’s Summer, Xie Xizhao had officially locked in his schedule with Hong Wu’s team.
The project they had discussed—a dual-male-lead drama featuring him alongside Tianzhao’s Best Actor, Yu Lin—had finally completed script refinements and assembled its production team.
Now, at this very moment, the script for this crime thriller, titled Specter, was in Xie Xizhao’s hands.
He weighed the thickness of the script, grabbed a few freshly washed grapes to snack on, and, accompanied by the soft purring of the cat, flipped open to the first page.
