Chapter 158: “To be needed.”
Xie Xizhao and Xuan Yang were sitting on stone stools at the entrance. Behind them was the police station, and across the street was a small group of fans who had rushed over after hearing the news.
The two sides were separated by a pedestrian path in the middle, forming a stark contrast — a clear and distinct standoff. The scene looked strangely tense and awkward.
But in reality, the fans were happily snapping photos and videos with their phones and long-lens cameras, while Xie Xizhao was looking down, typing on his phone. Each side was minding their own business, seemingly comfortable. Only Xuan Yang looked stiff and out of place. He had never experienced a scene like this before and was so nervous he nearly stammered: “You, me, them…”
After finishing a conversation with Fang Qingqing about the trending topic, Xie Xizhao put away his phone and spoke up: “I still don’t get it.”
He turned to look at Xuan Yang, his expression difficult to describe: “Why didn’t you just leave yourself behind in the car?”
Xuan Yang: “……”
He immediately switched the topic awkwardly: “Why are you just… sitting here like this?”
Xie Xizhao’s current posture was roughly equivalent to a kid riding a wooden rocking horse — and if the stone stool had that function, he looked like he might’ve happily rocked back and forth a few times.
It wasn’t exactly unseemly, but definitely far from elegant. Compared to the dazzling, money-stacked top-tier celebrities that Xuan Yang was used to seeing in videos, Xie Xizhao was nothing alike — except for the face.
For a brief moment, Xuan Yang even suspected Xie Xizhao had been body-snatched.
But Xie Xizhao innocently replied, “Well, there aren’t any chairs outside.”
Xuan Yang was left speechless.
He wanted to say, “I just meant to get some air, not sit outside,” but before he could, a police officer came out from the station.
She looked a bit confused by the whole scene, but quickly got back to business: “We’ve made contact. When the shift changes in a bit, they’ll swing by. Come in and wait.”
So the two of them got up from the stone stools.
Xie Xizhao waved at the group of fans, then pointed inside.
Chaos instantly erupted on the other side.
Someone quickly asked, “Teacher Xie, when are you coming back?”
“Yeah, yeah! You’ve been traveling for over two months!”
Xie Xizhao smiled and played dumb: “Heading home soon.”
Amidst a chorus of disappointed sighs, he entered the police station. Not long after, a taxi pulled up at the entrance. Xie Xizhao and Xuan Yang went out together to check through his backpack and suitcase. Once everything was accounted for, Xuan Yang let out a sigh of relief, took out his wallet, and was about to give the driver a red envelope (tip).
At that moment, a kind-hearted bystander fulfilled everyone’s expectations by calling out: “Ah! You’re Xie Xizhao, right? I’ve seen you in a drama!”
And just like that, the red envelope turned into an impromptu autograph session.
It wasn’t until 2:30 in the afternoon that they finally left the police station.
Xuan Yang carried his bag. Xie Xizhao carried Xuan Yang (figuratively, of course).
–
The whole thing was pretty surreal — for both of them.
For Xie Xizhao, it was the strange experience of being on a nice, peaceful trip, only to suddenly receive a call from a former collaborator. The caller claimed to be in the same city, and said that aside from his phone, he had lost literally everything else. It sounded exactly like the beginning of a scam call… but somehow, it turned out to be true.
At the very least, when Xie Xizhao arrived at the police station, he did indeed find a thoroughly dejected Xuan Yang sitting there.
As for Xuan Yang…
“You’re not even going to ask why I’m here?” he said.
They were sitting in a taxi. Xie Xizhao had originally planned to drop off his luggage and then stroll through the old town. Xuan Yang’s call had thrown off that plan, but Xie Xizhao had stubbornly set the original destination in the taxi app anyway.
Xie Xizhao replied, “Ah, Director Du just messaged me.”
“He said you were looking for me about something, couldn’t wait for me to return to A City, and heard I was back in the country — so you came to find me.”
Xuan Yang awkwardly corrected, “It’s not that I had something important.”
Xie Xizhao looked at him — a gaze that clearly said ‘Young man, be honest.’
“…Okay,” Xuan Yang admitted. “Maybe a little something.”
He scratched his head. “But I haven’t figured it out yet.”
He hadn’t figured it out.
Yet he’d taken a ten-hour high-speed train just to come track him down.
And during that trip, he’d gotten so caught up jotting down inspiration in his phone’s notes app that he forgot both the backpack he was carrying and the suitcase in the taxi’s trunk. Which left him no choice but to change plans and contact Xie Xizhao earlier than he’d intended.
Classic Xuan Yang.
Xie Xizhao felt like this should’ve been a moment for sarcastic commentary. But maybe it was because everything around him — the people, the place, the situation — felt too unfamiliar, or maybe it was just that Xuan Yang’s sudden reappearance carried more warmth than absurdity.
Or maybe it was simply that he was never the sarcastic type to begin with.
In any case, Xie Xizhao surprisingly didn’t feel like saying anything snarky.
But what he didn’t expect was — even though he’d graciously held back from roasting Xuan Yang — Xuan Yang didn’t return the favor.
As soon as the taxi drove off and they stepped out, barely a second after the car disappeared down the road, Xuan Yang asked carefully:
“Xizhao,” he said, “Are you… a little upset?”
—
Out of all his travel experiences, Xie Xizhao actually liked hiking the most.
Most mountains were far from the city. If they weren’t famous tourist spots, you could walk for hours during the off-season without seeing another soul. Only the sound of the wind in your ears, and when you looked up — only green foliage, with blue skies and white clouds beyond it.
He could see the mountains now too. Towering, distant.
Xuan Yang appeared at the doorway again, holding a teapot in his left hand and a bag of xian hua bing (Yunnan flower cake) in his right. He looked a little lost, not quite sure what to do with himself.
Xie Xizhao took the teapot from him, freeing up Xuan Yang’s less-coordinated left hand.
The two of them sat down at the same inn where TP had once filmed their group reality show. It was the off-season for tourism, and it was afternoon — the outdoor tea table in the garden was quiet, with only the two of them there.
Xuan Yang took a sip of tea first. His hands were still slightly trembling from carrying all that stuff, and as he trembled, he said, “I saw the trending topics — a lot of your fans were tagging you.”
News of the two of them appearing in K City had unsurprisingly made it to the top of the trending list. Aside from people making jokes and watching the drama, there were also many urging Xie Xizhao to return to filming and variety shows. Fans were highly sensitive — it was only thanks to Xie Xizhao’s solid reputation that things hadn’t exploded. If it had been someone else’s studio, it would’ve already been bombarded.
Xie Xizhao said, “It’s fine. I’m a missing person right now. They’re just worried about me.”
Xuan Yang pursed his lips but couldn’t help being amused by that.
Xie Xizhao hesitated for a second, then said, “…Honestly, I’m not that upset.”
“How’d you tell?” he asked.
He genuinely wanted to know.
He was very clear on his own strengths. There was a whole quantitative evaluation system, and in the category of emotional control, he had scored full marks. Even someone as close as Fang Qingqing hadn’t realized something was wrong until he told her himself.
But Xuan Yang’s one comment had hit him square in the face — making him wonder if he’d gone a bit unhinged from being alone too long.
He asked directly, but Xuan Yang looked a bit embarrassed.
“I don’t really know either,” he admitted.
He thought for a moment. “…But to me, it just seemed really obvious.”
“You’ve actually always been, um, kind of tense,” Xuan Yang said, scratching his head. “Even back when we were filming, I wanted to tell you to take more breaks, but you seemed like you had everything under control, so I didn’t say anything.”
Xie Xizhao had a powerful presence. People around him naturally treated him as the one holding everything together.
The “pillar of strength” was always a role directed outward — it symbolized steadiness and certainty. Very few people ever worried about whether such a person could handle their own problems. It was a blind spot in most people’s thinking.
Xuan Yang asked softly, “Can you tell me about it?”
He looked a lot like his cat at home right then — a little blank, a little earnest. Xie Xizhao thought, ‘Artists really do have a gift when it comes to emotions.’ And at the same time… he felt a kind of resigned acceptance.
It was time to go back.
He knew it.
He wanted to be reckless and stay longer. After all, over the past few days, he’d realized that the off feeling he’d had was actually subtle — not overwhelming. In other words, he could coexist with it.
But he also felt a bit unwilling.
There were very few problems Xie Xizhao couldn’t solve. So when he actually encountered one, he had the instinct to dig until he reached the root.
But this time, he couldn’t find it.
He wasn’t sure whether his subconscious had slowly chipped away at his logic, pushing him to avoid the issue… or if the problem truly had no answer at all.
In any case, Xie Xizhao realized that without external help, he probably wasn’t going to figure it out anytime soon.
‘This guy’s the author of Tao Yan’s Summer,’ he thought.
Xie Xizhao didn’t really believe in fate. But he did believe in his sixth sense.
Some vague, fleeting thought crossed his mind — Was it fate that made Xuan Yang forget his bag in the taxi?
He was mildly exasperated by the thought… and by himself. Yet Xuan Yang was still waiting for him, patiently and sincerely.
So Xie Xizhao made a decision.
“…Okay,” he said.
—
He obviously couldn’t talk about the system. Xie Xizhao thought, ‘Thank goodness for those medical miracle reports back then — at least they gave me plausible excuses for that unprovable coma period.’
The missions were dreams, the system’s evaluations were his consciousness struggling between life and death — and those dreams had bred ambition and desire, leading him down this path. Xie Xizhao felt that the surreal nature of this whole thing had already surpassed even the absurdity of picking up Xuan Yang in K City. But Xuan Yang was listening — seriously, intently.
That eased Xie Xizhao a little.
But he quickly realized the story itself didn’t really matter — because he didn’t actually know which part of the story the problem came from.
He tried starting from the beginning.
He said, “When I… first woke up.”
Right.
Where had he seen the casting call for Super Rookie again?
As he paused to think, Xuan Yang looked at him and suddenly said:
“Were you scared?”
Xie Xizhao froze. “What?”
“Ah.” Xuan Yang said, “I asked if you were scared. When you woke up.”
Xuan Yang pushed up his glasses. Xie Xizhao didn’t know why, but he suddenly saw a sharpness in Xuan Yang’s face — the kind that only came out when he was in work mode. It was completely different from his usual dazed, clumsy self. But that clearly wasn’t the point right now.
“If you were conscious,” Xuan Yang said seriously, “you would’ve wanted to wake up really badly, right? Like you could sense hope just ahead, but couldn’t get any confirmation. And when you finally did wake up, I bet your first emotion wasn’t joy.”
So what was it, then?
Unease. Tension.
The fear of closing your eyes and falling back into that illusion.
The constant need to confirm: Am I really here?
What’s the best way in the world to confirm you exist?
Xie Xizhao opened his mouth slightly.
But Xuan Yang had already answered:
“To be needed.”
…
For a long time, Xie Xizhao couldn’t say a word.
After a moment, he said, “…I thought I wouldn’t do something I dislike just to confirm something.”
“That doesn’t necessarily conflict, does it?” Xuan Yang hadn’t expected to hit the core issue right away. He tried to analyze it for Xie Xizhao. “You really are talented, and you do love this line of work. But, you know, living under the spotlight, surrounded by fans—it really is the fastest way to feel a sense of existence.”
Xie Xizhao looked at him.
Xuan Yang shrank back a little and said, “Actually, you don’t have to worry too much. I don’t think your problem is that serious.”
Xie Xizhao was just…
Trying very hard.
He worked hard to keep himself busy, to fill his life with the things he used to love most. At the same time, he drew energy from his career to keep his emotions stable.
The difference from pure hard work was that his effort started from a place of avoidance. He filled his time with frantic busyness, gave himself artificially set goals, and poured all his energy into achieving them—all to avoid the lingering fear and unease brought on by the near-death experience he once had. It was a kind of psychological escape he wasn’t even aware of. A subconscious defense mechanism.
But the problem still remained.
Fame, status, wealth—these things had lifted him high into the clouds. Eventually, all goals are completed—especially for someone like Xie Xizhao.
Now, he no longer needed to keep pushing forward. He had gone from chaos to the top of the pyramid. But the peak of that pyramid was full of intoxicating illusions, a dreamlike world. And Xie Xizhao had never been someone to get lost in illusions.
So, what seemed like a perfect life to everyone else became, for Xie Xizhao, a reason to reflect on everything he had experienced along the way.
He began to ask himself—why did I start this in the first place? Why did I come all this way? Everything I’ve achieved now… are these really the things I truly need?
Whether the answer was yes or no didn’t really matter.
What mattered was that the long-buried spiritual exhaustion, suppressed beneath ambition and dissatisfaction, had finally seen the light of day.
—
Xie Xizhao said, “So actually, I’ve been afraid.”
Xuan Yang replied cautiously, “The fact that you can recognize it probably means… you’re not afraid anymore.”
Though it had been a deep wound, everything Xie Xizhao had experienced along the way was very real, and so were the rewards. It was just that, because his initial motivations weren’t so pure—and because he was someone highly skilled in introspection and self-reflection—he ended up feeling something was off once everything had been achieved. That realization plunged him into a wave of emotion.
If it had been someone else, they might’ve either woken up only to be instantly defeated by PTSD and gone into therapy—or gotten lost in the glitz and glamour, forgetting where they started altogether.
Xie Xizhao corrected himself: “Okay, fine. I was really scared right after I woke up. So I turned into a workaholic. I worked so long that the PTSD basically got force-cured. But my brain is just now catching up, and it’s started going back over the old accounts.”
Xuan Yang felt like laughing was wildly inappropriate right now—so he held it in.
He said with difficulty, “Could you not crack jokes during such a serious moment?”
But Xie Xizhao didn’t laugh.
After a while, he said, “Director Xuan.”
Xuan Yang: “Yeah?”
Xie Xizhao let out a soft breath. “Thinking about it now… I’m still pretty scared.”
Xuan Yang looked at him.
“It’s terrifying,” he said after carefully choosing his words. “You don’t know what that feeling’s like.”
He had always felt that his attitude toward the System was… complicated.
Gratitude? Yes, he was quite grateful—the System had given him a second chance at life.
But it had also been truly hard.
Thanks to a happy family and a smooth life, Xie Xizhao was the kind of person with a well-developed, stable personality. But even someone like him, when faced with an unknown future and endless streams of virtual data, would sometimes feel moments of collapse.
Every time a task ended, it felt like a countdown to death. It wasn’t real death, strictly speaking, but it always brought him back to the moment of his car accident—the searing, gut-wrenching pain, the sensation of his consciousness drifting away. Reliving that kind of shadow over and over again would be torment for anyone. And then there was the so-called task completion rate—yet another source of mental strain. Because he knew very clearly that if he didn’t meet the System’s required standards, he truly would never come back.
Xie Xizhao would never forget that moment he stood at the exit of the System, with a soft white glow behind him and a brand-new life ahead.
People tend to romanticize pain when they look back on it.
It wasn’t until now that he realized just how deep a psychological shadow that experience had cast on him.
Of course, saying it out loud brought a sense of relief—but Xie Xizhao knew that this shadow wouldn’t simply disappear just because he had found the answer.
Xuan Yang probably thought this was all just a struggle of awareness. But only he knew—he had lived through that chaos, that complexity, for real.
So… what now?
Xie Xizhao let out a sigh.
One step at a time, then.
First face the problem, acknowledge it—and then slowly learn to accept it. Maybe he’d even need a little help from a professional along the way.
He wasn’t someone who wallowed in self-pity. From beginning to end, what troubled him was just a wave of emotions that had no clear source. Now that he’d identified the problem, he actually felt a sense of relief.
Turns out, travel really was helpful after all.
Relaxation and healing had significantly reduced the anxiety and inner torment that often came with high-pressure situations. It allowed him to think calmly now.
He said, “I’m going to give my manager a call.”
Xuan Yang paused, surprised. “You’re planning to go back to work?”
“Yeah,” Xie Xizhao replied, smiling a little. “Can’t just stop living because there’s a problem, right? Life has to go on.”
“But I definitely won’t push myself like I used to. I’ll pick a lighter role, something easier to shoot, and take on fewer gigs,” he said. “Hmm… and maybe find a new hobby or two, just to shift my focus.”
He thought that getting a cat wouldn’t be a bad idea.
In just a moment, he had already mapped out his future.
Xuan Yang’s expression looked a little conflicted.
He said, “Would it… be okay?”
Xie Xizhao: “…”
Still caught up in the idea of adopting a cat, he hadn’t quite registered the question.
“…Huh?”
“Would you consider taking my script?” Xuan Yang asked. “It might not be super light, but it’s not overly heavy either.” His expression grew more conflicted. In a quiet voice, he added, “The script can be revised, of course. But I really feel…”
He took a breath and summoned his courage. “I was a little hesitant at first—Du Wei said you’ve only acted in three films, and since this would be a second collaboration and also a genre shift, your studio might want to play it safe. But after hearing what you said, I honestly think this script suits you perfectly.”
He rummaged around in his bag for a while and finally pulled out a well-worn script with frayed edges.
Xie Xizhao had already seen it earlier. It was part of the reason he believed Xuan Yang hadn’t come to him with any special intentions. His bag didn’t just have a script in it—there was also a thick stack of handwritten notes, a camera, and a voice recorder.
It seemed like Xuan Yang had been out collecting material and inspiration from various places during this time.
He took the script and felt that he should explain himself a bit. “A second collaboration isn’t that bad, since I’ve already got some achievements under my belt. It’s just…”
He wanted to say, “The thing is, Director Xuan, your film’s mental tone is just a bit too beautiful for me right now. I’m probably not suited for it in my current state,” but the words didn’t sound very tactful. As he thought it over, he lowered his head and looked at the title of the script on the cover.
The words were written in pen, and several phrases around it had been crossed out multiple times, leaving the handwriting barely legible. The final, confirmed version of the title was:
The Player.
