Chapter 147: A Heart as Pure as a Child’s (25% Forum Format)
1L: Just to clarify, I’m not targeting anyone specifically—I’ve just been confused for a while. This really is the crime drama I’ve seen with the heaviest focus on the villain. It’s the first time I’ve seen a show where the main plot is all about how the villain commits the crimes, rather than how the protagonist solves them. Is that actually reasonable?
2L: Huh? What do you mean? Isn’t it a dual-narrative? One line follows the police, and the other follows the villain. They’re supposed to run in parallel.
3L: Uhh… I don’t quite get it. Didn’t today’s episode have Captain Huo interrogating Di Shuo? That’s literally part of the investigation, isn’t it?
4L: tbh, the real highlight of this arc is actually Di Shuo. You could even say this episode is about how Di Shuo successfully slipped through the first interrogation. It’s just that the scene was edited in a way that made the focus seem like it was on the police side.
I get what OP means—the narrative structure of this show is kinda bizarre. Never seen a mystery show where the villain is constantly in your face. Sure, the writing is solid and most plot threads tie together well, but if you look too closely, it kind of falls apart. Meanwhile, the storyline on Captain Huo’s side is way too thin—he’s basically just being led around by the nose. It’s weird, honestly.
5L: You guys are just noticing this? I guess it makes sense. XXZ basically brought the character back to life—it’s like he pulled off a miracle. Regular viewers probably wouldn’t have caught it.
6L: LOL, honestly I’m not even a fan of his, but Yu’s marketing is so annoying. Watching him get overshadowed in this episode was super satisfying. If you don’t focus on improving your acting and keep playing dirty tricks, this is what happens—junior actors will totally outshine you. Hahaha, deserved.
7L: So what’s the deal with the screen time anyway? I remember the fans were already fighting hard over this even before the show aired. Wasn’t there some drama?
8L: Just XXZ fans trying to control the narrative. Outside of this thread, no one even cares.
9L: Damn, upstairs is savage.
…
327L: LMAO, YL fans really don’t know their place, huh. Accusing our side of trying to control the narrative? Fine, let’s talk. Your beloved Random Number Sister is here, and we’re going to break down exactly what’s going on with this screen time issue.
Let’s talk character settings. Your precious villain brother has the ultimate tragic-beautiful-powerful combo fully maxed out. Outwardly, he’s a gentle and refined businessman, but behind the scenes, he’s a cold-blooded psychopath. His fashion sense is through the roof like he doesn’t even have a budget. Out of the total 20 episodes, the show spent an entire episode and a half just on his backstory, from his birth to how he turned twisted. If you’re following the plot, great. If not, you’d think this was The Biography of Di Shuo.
And then we have Huo Xiangyang, supposedly one of the dual male leads of this series. His family background and upbringing? Only mentioned in one and a half lines of dialogue and a side interview. Are you sure this is how a main protagonist is supposed to be treated? 🙂
Now let’s talk plot. Including the opening case, there are four and a half total cases. We’re currently on the third. The fourth? Entirely revolves around Di Shuo.
Sure, you can say he’s the final boss, and yeah, the plot needs to move forward somehow. But this is a crime investigation drama. Even if we’re pushing the story, shouldn’t it logically be the police solving the case through clues, not the villain constantly jumping in front of the screen?
Out of 20 episodes, the villain takes up nearly half the screen time. The highlights of this ‘crime drama’ aren’t about how the police solve the case, but about how the villain commits them. I just want to ask the Specter production team: What exactly are you trying to do?
Of course, maybe this isn’t entirely the production team’s fault. But if you’re going to jump out and accuse our side of controlling things, we’re not accepting that. We’ve been holding back for a while now. If this kind of obviously biased production team that treats our guy like a prop shows up again, we’re out.
Screenshot this all you want. Come at me. If I said anything wrong, I’ll take the loss.
—
If everything before this was just small jabs, then this last part hit like the final drop of water in a pan of sizzling oil.
It was far too impactful not to suspect that Xie Xizhao’s fans had been holding it in for a long time. Still, despite the strong tone, one thing was clear… this message had a point. And soon, everyone realized…
What they said… honestly, most of it seemed to be true.
After that comment, people started spamming “666”, praising the combat skills of Xie Xizhao’s fans. But others began to sense that something was off.
If there’s one kind of person in this world who’s always willing to waste time on things that don’t benefit them in the slightest, it’s the ever-curious bystanders who just want to watch the drama unfold.
Once that post from Xie Xizhao’s fan went viral, some meddling netizens actually went ahead and made a comparison chart.
And lo and behold—what they found was eye-opening. Character development, plot arcs, key moments—across the board, when put side by side, this so-called “dual male lead” show turned out to be anything but balanced. Aside from the opening credits giving both actors equal billing, there was barely a shred of equality to be found. The only reason it hadn’t blown up earlier was because the underdog had been carrying the weight with sheer acting skills—just like in today’s episode.
And just like that, the already lively public opinion exploded.
In the Specter drama’s ongoing public discourse, the side that originally held the upper hand was Xie Xizhao’s.
He’s always had a bit of a “national idol” vibe. The younger crowd follows him like a celebrity crush, while older fans see him as the sweet, ideal son. His widespread appeal only grew when he transitioned into acting. But because his public image has always been polished, dependable, and unproblematic, that portion of his fanbase—the so-called “casual supporters”—mostly just watch his shows, check out his performances, and maybe toss him a follow on Weibo.
In short, since debuting, Xie Xizhao’s team has never tried to stir up drama or emotionally manipulate fans. If they had, his endorsement sales would probably be twice as high.
That kind of tactic has never been Xie Xizhao’s style. But that doesn’t mean his silent supporters aren’t out there.
And now, for the first time, this always-“sensible” child seemed to be the one getting b*llied.
These people, who normally paid little attention to fan circles, finally caught on after getting bombarded by wave after wave of trending topics.
And so, the Specter production team’s alleged script bias became the center of unprecedented scrutiny.
Core fans began to shape public opinion, boosting visibility and keeping the spotlight on the issue. Semi-insiders and those with entertainment industry ties started analyzing the already-aired episodes with surgical precision. And the general public? In discussion after discussion, they pushed the whole matter toward its peak—
Toward a public frenzy that no PR effort could possibly rein in. A true, uncontrollable, all-out national-level drama watch party.
Once the situation started spiraling, Meng Xuran got a phone call almost immediately.
It was from Xie Xizhao’s team. The woman on the line had a soft-looking face, but when she spoke harsh words, she did it so casually—like chatting about the weather. She asked with a light, almost cheerful tone:
“Director Meng, ready to get called in for a little talk?”
Meng Xuran really hadn’t expected things to go exactly the way Xie Xizhao had predicted. His mind was practically blank at this point.
WeChat was still popping with messages from Cao Anyin, but he just blocked him on the spot. Then he swallowed hard and practically begged: “Please, auntie, spare me…”
On the other end of the line, Fang Qingqing gave a soft laugh.
She was sipping milk tea—Meng Xuran could tell. This woman was just casually drinking milk tea in the middle of this chaos. Meng Xuran was on the verge of a breakdown. He genuinely wanted to shout to the fans that Xie Xizhao’s studio was just a bunch of demons in disguise. But he held it in.
Instead, he asked: “What do I do?”
He was genuinely scared.
He had already seen more than a few people calling out Specter for its problematic messaging and moral stance. But because he was scared, he didn’t dare make a move before Xie Xizhao’s team gave the word.
And Fang Qingqing saved him.
She said, “You can send out that prepared statement now. Just make sure you do it smartly, okay? You don’t need me to teach you how to clear things up and distance yourself at the same time, do you?”
Meng Xuran let out a breath of relief.
He was about to hang up when Fang Qingqing added, “Wait a second.”
“You know… you should really thank Xizhao for this,” she said. “Director Meng, you get what I mean, right?”
Meng Xuran fell silent.
Of course he understood what Fang Qingqing meant.
In truth, he really had been lacking in awareness when it came to things like this—value systems, messaging, the responsibility that comes with storytelling. He’d been making commercial films for so long that he had forgotten, or maybe just willfully ignored, what it meant to have a sense of social responsibility.
This industry was too flashy, too chaotic. The endless chase for sensory impact had blinded him to so many other things. And what had finally convinced him to stand on Xie Xizhao’s side… was something Xie Xizhao had said to him.
He had spoken calmly: “Director Meng, if you were not coerced by Yu Lin to shoot these things, I would not be sitting here at all.”
Xie Xizhao had saved him.
Because Xie Xizhao could tell that, in the end, Meng Xuran wasn’t a bad person. Had there been even a trace of malice in him, Xie Xizhao would’ve had no hesitation in putting him on the list of people to take down.
Meng Xuran had never really understood what Hong Wu meant when he said that Xie Xizhao and Huo Xiangyang were alike. In his eyes, one was a glamorous top-tier celebrity, and the other a righteous, crime-fighting police captain—how could they possibly be similar?
But now, in this very moment, he finally saw it—the shared essence at the core of both men.
What they shared wasn’t their profession.
It was their pure heart and deep-rooted desire to do good for the world.
People like them reaching the top of their respective circles—that was what gave the industry a shred of hope.
He exhaled deeply and said: “I understand.”
“Next time I get a chance, I’ll treat Xizhao to a meal.” He added, “Leave the rest to me. I’ve got this.”
—
Meng Xuran said there was no problem—so there really was no problem.
He didn’t ask Xie Xizhao to step forward, nor did he show up himself. Instead, he went straight to the head writer of Specter’s storyline.
The head writer was a young guy, and by now he was completely terrified. Meng Xuran told him, “If you don’t want to be forced out of the industry, then listen to me. There’s still a way to fix this.”
His idea was very simple.
Since everyone already knew there were issues within the production team, then they might as well blow things wide open.
After all, once you trace everything back to the truth, the ones who end up suffering are always those in the wrong.
So, that very night, a document spread across the entire internet.
It was the script for the aired parts of Specter.
But what made this script special was that it was the original version.
Someone had leaked the initial draft of Specter’s script.
It was obvious who that person was. But right now, no one cared about that.
Because the content of the original script was vastly different from what had actually aired—especially in the parts that viewers had been questioning.
In the original script, Di Shuo was a hidden manipulator from the start, always lurking in the shadows. Each time he appeared, it was in a positive light. It was Huo Xiangyang who slowly followed the trail of clues to uncover his fox tail.
And in the released portion of the original, there wasn’t even a scene where the two characters directly faced off.
In other words, by this point in the story, the two should still be in a light-vs-shadow dynamic.
All the speculations were confirmed by that script. Xie Xizhao’s fans exploded.
Previously, under guidance from Xie Xizhao’s studio, his fans had been very restrained and rational. Even if they’d had their suspicions, at most they withheld engagement, only stepping in to clarify when things got out of hand.
But no matter how restrained someone is, they can’t stay calm in the face of blatant, undeniable b*llying.
This was already the most formidable fanbase in all of domestic entertainment—arguably without exception. And now, for the first time, everyone got to witness what they looked like when their anger levels hit maximum.
The most logically organized Weibo post detailing the situation had been reposted over a million times. Side-by-side comparison charts between the original script and the aired plot flooded every corner of the internet. The official Specter account didn’t dare post any promotional content—because under their latest post, from the top comment all the way past number one hundred, it was all critiques and anti-fan comment manipulation accusations.
Some of the rival production teams onlookers who had previously been gloating didn’t even dare breathe now, afraid that the fire would spread to them next.
But the ones hit hardest… were still Yu Lin’s studio.
At this point, not even Cao Anyin—with all the influence and power in the world—could reverse the outcome.
Yu Lin was still raging on the phone, yelling about who had leaked the script. Cao Anyin gave a bitter laugh: “Boss, who do you think?”
Who had access to the original script?
Why would the Specter production team rather be accused of taking an official stance than leak the script?
Because they knew: if they didn’t cut ties with Yu Lin now, and ended up permanently labeled by viewers as “morally bankrupt and maliciously misleading,” then the consequences would go far beyond a few angry words.
…They were finished.
Cao Anyin never imagined that something as simple as a scene rehearsal could spiral into something this big.
Truth be told, he was already tempted to give up. But since he hadn’t resigned yet, duty still compelled him to rack his brain for a way out. Right now, the top priority was calming Yu Lin down.
But when he looked up, he froze. “Where’s Teacher Yu?”
The assistant beside him had been lost in their own thoughts too. When asked, they blinked and replied blankly, “I don’t know… he just walked out a moment ago.”
He paused for a moment, finally realizing with some concern, “Uh… Teacher Yu was just looking at the comments, and he saw one that said, ‘No wonder you’ve never been popular all these years.’ Do you think he might’ve taken that to heart…”
Cao Anyin froze for a beat—then his expression suddenly changed.
He immediately grabbed his phone and dialed Yu Lin’s number, but all he got was a busy tone.
—
Meanwhile, on the other side of things, Xie Xizhao had just brought some drinks from the convenience store near the entrance for the TP group. Deep in thought, he was slowly making his way back.
This was something not even Fang Qingqing knew about—something even Xie Xizhao himself felt was too much of a coincidence to explain.
And that was: on the day Yu Lin nearly str*ngled him, he actually had a voice recorder in his pocket.
Xie Xizhao had brought it with him himself.
The reason was simple: he’d heard what Meng Xuran said—that Yu Lin had once spiked his roommate’s drink with a laxative. From that moment on, Xie Xizhao had a vague feeling that there might truly be something mentally off about Yu Lin.
But no matter how unstable he thought Yu Lin was, he never expected that the man would actually try to strangle him in broad daylight—and say it out loud as he did it.
His first instinct after recording the whole thing had been to report it to the police. But he figured the marks on his neck wouldn’t count as serious injury. In order to avoid alarming the other side prematurely—and to make sure the efforts of everyone in the crew wouldn’t go to waste—he ultimately chose to stay quiet.
Now, though, it was clearly time.
The problem was, he hadn’t figured out what to do with the recording.
Should he release it?
But it would be hard to explain why he had the foresight to record Yu Lin in the first place. Truth be told, he had completely forgotten that he’d tossed the recorder into his pocket until Yu Lin started saying disturbing things—then it came back to him.
Of course, claiming he was afraid after their conflict would be a valid excuse too. But even that was risky—if not handled carefully, the other side could easily twist it into an accusation of intentional publicity stunt.
Xie Xizhao rarely felt a headache.
Sometimes, the world works like this. Even when a good person has concrete evidence, they still wonder how to strike back logically and reasonably. As for the bad person…
His thoughts suddenly stopped.
Today, they had a rare gathering in the dorm. The villa area was in a secluded location, especially at night—the roads outside were particularly quiet and desolate.
It was the perfect place for the Specter crew to shoot certain scenes.
The sound of something breaking the air reached his ears, and in that instant, Xie Xizhao instinctively dodged to the side. A punch landed heavily on his shoulder.
He lifted his head and locked eyes with a pair of bloodshot and crazed eyes.
The blow missed, and his assailant didn’t stop for even a second. But Xie Xizhao was ready. He quickly grabbed the person’s wrist and twisted it, slamming them onto the ground.
He let out a soft breath and spoke quietly: “Teacher Yu, what brings you here again?”
Yu Lin stared at him, his eyes devoid of rationality.
At that moment, only one thought filled his mind: he was done for, and Xie Xizhao wouldn’t have it any better.
Breathing heavily, he flashed a sinister smile: “What do you think the chances are of anyone finding out if I kill you here?”
His palm clenched tightly around a small knife—something he’d brought with him before leaving.
At that instant, he genuinely considered killing Xie Xizhao. Killing this person who haunted him and left him helpless. If he died, he’d disappear—just like that fool from back then who had missed the exam because of the methods Yu Lin had used on him.
The thought was both wild and clear, almost pulling him out of his despair, giving him a sense of twisted excitement. But before his chaotic mind could settle on a decision, he heard Xie Xizhao speak: “Did you record all of this?”
Yu Lin froze.
He looked up in disbelief, following Xie Xizhao’s gaze. Behind some nearby trees, he saw several people holding cameras—dazed paparazzi and standing fans, frozen in place.
