Superstar Ch.166

Chapter 166: He was Radiant

That night, amid the eager anticipation of the crowd, their special notification finally popped up.

Xie Xizhao came online.

Almost the moment he logged on, countless people clicked into his homepage.

Unfortunately, this man really had no sense of romance. First, he calmly and unhurriedly reposted the official account’s finale post to offer his congratulations, then shared the promotional essay. After making the rounds through all the main cast members’ posts, just as the onlookers were being baited to the point of exhaustion, a video finally refreshed on his homepage.

The caption read: [Good night 🌙]

Good night, my foot!

Everyone immediately perked up and clicked in—

Three minutes later, countless people came out of the video dazed and disoriented.

Actually, even before Xie Xizhao came online, many people already knew he would definitely keep his promise.

That’s just the kind of person Xie Xizhao is. Whether it’s a promise to fans or to someone else, he has never once broken his word.

But no one expected him to be this dedicated.

It was a video three and a half minutes long.

First of all, the video background alone already stirred emotions.

The Shenghong practice room.

In the first two years after TP debuted, all their practice videos were filmed in this spacious, well-lit room.

But time flew by, and the members became immensely popular. After that, they moved to a larger practice space. Later still, they each went their separate ways. Then, even practice videos had become a thing of the past.

Of course, that sense of nostalgia lasted only a moment.

Familiar backgrounds may stir memories, but for everyone who clicked into the video, what caught their eye first—without a doubt—was the figure at the center of the practice room.

The camera was placed on the floor, and the first thing in frame… was a pair of long, straight legs.

Xie Xizhao’s legs were famously good-looking. Everyone knew that. But he didn’t like to show them. Forget shorts—his casual wear all year round was always loose-fitting pants. The cuts were stylish, sure, but his legs were always thoroughly covered.

Yet today, he was wearing a pair of khaki shorts that ended above the knee. Below the loose hem, his long, straight legs—untouched by the sun for years—looked impossibly pale and flawless. His ankles peeked out delicately, fair and slender, so perfect they were almost dazzling.

Opening with a killer move like that? Sleep vanished from everyone’s mind.

Then the camera moved upward, sweeping past a simple, pale white T-shirt, revealing beautiful collarbones and an elegant Adam’s apple—until finally landing on the boy’s face, where every viewer in front of the screen instantly lost their minds.

Because there—was a pair of exquisitely crafted, dainty, realistic cat ears.

A soft cream-colored interior that gently faded into light gray; the fur was dense and lifelike, nestling naturally in the boy’s unstyled black hair, looking as though the ears had truly grown from his head—perfectly fitting and full of life.

In an instant, the screen was flooded with a barrage of tearful, all-caps “Aaaahhhh” comments.

[Xie Xizhao, just say it—who are you trying to seduce? WHO?! Waaaah my baby, Mama’s little kitten…!]

[AAAAHH was this on purpose?! It had to be on purpose—God, I’m gonna pass out. Those cat ears are TOO perfect. He’s so cute, so flirty, I need to pet him AAAHHHH.]

[I give up. He has to do everything perfectly, huh? Even wearing cat ears and dancing to a girl group song—he just had to outshine the whole damn industry. Sisters, a pretty idol who knows he’s pretty is just terrifying.]

That’s right—

Idol.

The profession that first brought Xie Xizhao into the public eye had once been the most defining label of his identity.

Later on, with his own strength, he earned another label. And over time, the public slowly forgot the first one. But now, in this moment, it felt like everyone was seeing again that calm, grounded boy who had taken his very first steps into the industry back during initial evaluations.

Now, he was radiant from head to toe. Even in the small, unassuming practice room, the dazzling aura of stardom surrounding him couldn’t be hidden.

Just like that, bathed in brilliance, he stood still. His expression was calm, his eyes serene. He adjusted his stance slightly, then looked straight into the camera and smiled.

The very next moment, a bright, energetic beat began to play.

—

As it turns out, the people who understood Xie Xizhao best were undoubtedly his fans.

He truly had the mindset of “if I’m going to do it, I’m going to do it perfectly.”

With that attitude, whether it was wearing cat ears or dancing a girl group routine, there was nothing to feel shy or awkward about. Treating it also as a little celebration for the movie’s box office success, Xie Xizhao didn’t choose a single viral girl group hit—

Instead, he went big: buy one, get ten—he performed a medley of girl group dances.

Sexy ones, cute ones, refreshing and upbeat ones. As snippets of familiar songs floated through the viewers’ ears one after another, their eyes, however, were glued to the boy in the center of the screen.

Xie Xizhao had a very distinct dance style. To put it plainly—he had great rhythm and feel for dance.

Even after years of acting, he hadn’t let his dance foundation slip at all. It took him barely over an hour to learn and break down all the routines. But the movements he now presented before the audience were smooth and effortless, as if he had practiced them a thousand times over.

On camera, his posture was relaxed and natural, yet every move was clean, powerful, and precise. The first few routines were sultry in style, but whether it was the basic steps or the sensual hip movements, everything was fluid and seamless. His elegant bearing carried a kind of beauty that was soft but never coy.

And when the music switched to a bubbly, high-energy girl group hit, his dance style shifted effortlessly again, adopting a whole new vibe.

The fluffy cat ears on his head twitched with his movements, as if they had truly grown from within his hair. His fringe was slightly damp with sweat, but in keeping with the upbeat rhythm of the song, his face still wore a smile—bright and sweet. For a fleeting moment, it felt like being transported back to one of TP’s summer comebacks.

Three and a half minutes passed, the progress bar reached its end. As the final beat landed, the boy finished the last move with a smile.

Slightly out of breath, eyes curved into a grin, he looked at the camera and said,

“Good night, bye-bye~”, then walked over to turn off the camera.

At that very moment, the trending topics page had already descended into a full-on carnival.

What is happiness?

Happiness is watching your beloved little idol grow from an unknown trainee into a top-tier celebrity—all while staying diligent and sincere, never once slacking, not even when it’s just fan service.

Ever since Xie Xizhao launched his own studio, whether it was through public appearances, interviews, or photoshoots, his image had consistently remained steady and composed. Maybe not aloof, but always calm and mature. That image was undeniably attractive, but because he came up through the “watch-him-grow” idol route, many of the early “mom-fans” still clung to memories of his younger, more delicate self.

It had been a long time since he had been this adorable, this soft in public—wearing a simple, youthful outfit, smiling so sweetly, just like an ordinary college boy. You could tell that even if it started as a joke or a light-hearted bet, he genuinely had fun dancing. He looked happy. Relaxed.

The entertainment industry may be messy, corrupt, and run by capital, but in any field, sincerity will always be the ultimate trump card.

So even though his studio staff were probably weeping over how their boss had single-handedly destroyed years of carefully built-up “dependable image” in just three and a half minutes, Xie Xizhao’s dance medley still exploded across the entire internet in no time.

What’s worth mentioning is that within just two hours of the dance medley being posted, nearly every girl group mentioned in the video had already shared and thanked him on their official Weibo accounts.

Half of the hottest girl group official accounts in the entire entertainment industry were suddenly gathered under one person’s post—like a massive corporate team-building event. Coupled with the video’s millions of likes, reposts, and comments, there was really only one word that came to mind:

Phenomenon.

Sure, reposting and thanking is standard PR etiquette. But whether you were a fan or a casual observer, everyone knew the truth—when Xie Xizhao does a dance cover, it’s basically charity in terms of traffic.

That statement needed no qualifiers. It didn’t matter if the original artists were popular or obscure, girl groups or boy bands, soloists or full ensembles. If he danced to it—even just a playful snippet—it was enough to spark a butterfly effect that roared like a hurricane.

Some people admired him. Some envied him. Some sighed in awe. But no matter the mix of emotions, nothing could change one simple truth: Xie Xizhao had become a one-of-a-kind, phenomenon-level idol in all of Chinese entertainment. At this point, he himself was the embodiment of top-tier traffic.

The frenzy lasted for a full two to three days, feeding an entire ecosystem of reaction content creators and dance fan accounts. Fans had already begun writing metaphorical blood letters begging for a TP reunion tour—when suddenly, another bombshell dropped and pulled everyone—feeling like they were stuck in a nostalgic time warp—right back to reality.

The Chenxi Film Festival, held once every two years, had just released its list of nominees.

Among them, “The Player”, the film, received multiple nominations across various categories—and Xie Xizhao’s name was prominently featured.

By the time the news hit the internet, Xie Xizhao was already on a plane heading to the award ceremony.

His phone was blowing up with notifications, but he? He was fast asleep on the flight, dead to the world.

He hadn’t gotten much rest during the entire promo tour for The Player, and these two days for the awards were the only time he had carved out for himself to recover—to finally catch up on some sleep.

He’d been dreaming a lot over the past two days, but the dreams were peaceful. Mostly replays of things that had happened during the day—no sudden twists into the bizarre, no horrifying depths that jolted him awake.

When he woke up, the plane had already landed. His team escorted him through the brightly lit airport, where fans who had gotten wind of his arrival were already waiting.

In the bustling crowd, someone shouted,

“Zhaozhao kitty, I love you!”

That one shout sent the whole crowd into laughter, and soon after, chants of “girl’s outfit!”, “little skirt!” started echoing one after another, each more shameless than the last. Hidden among the crowd, people even dared to call out “wifey!”

Xie Xizhao took it all in stride. Just before getting in the car, he quietly accepted a stack of letters handed over by a fan.

In the car, on the way back to the hotel, he opened one. The first sentence, written in neat, elegant handwriting, read:

“I hope Zhaozhao gets everything he wishes for.”

He chuckled softly and looked out the window at the glittering night lights.

“Getting everything you wish for”—it was a lovely blessing. But the premise, of course, was having a wish in the first place.

Before receiving the invitation, Xie Xizhao had never seriously considered that he could be nominated for the Chenxi Awards—or that he might even be in the running for Best Actor.

There are three major awards in the TV world, and three in the film world. Chenxi was solidly mid-tier among them—not impossibly difficult to attain…

—That is, not impossibly difficult for someone of Xie Xizhao’s level of fame and acting ability. For an ordinary actor, even one who’s already A-list, just a nomination from Chenxi would be enough to brag about for a lifetime.

So no, it wasn’t unreachable. But neither was it cheap or meaningless.

All in all, for Xie Xizhao, this was a pleasant surprise.

A surprise—but not one that left him feeling shaken.

Because at the end of the day, awards come down to real, solid acting. Xie Xizhao had been steeped in the film and television industry for years. If, after returning to his own world, he still had to struggle as hard as everyone else just to win something—it could only mean he’d regressed.

The only thing that genuinely surprised him was that his luck with awards seemed to be pretty decent. At the very least, the Chenxi Awards only happened once every two years—and he just so happened to catch it at the right time. If his luck had been even slightly worse, he might’ve missed the window entirely, just because of scheduling.

The car sped toward the hotel. Fang Qingqing was busy texting Pei Yiman. After typing away furiously, she suddenly let out a sigh.

“This is so nice,” she said.

Xie Xizhao: “Hmm?”

“That you’re still here.” Fang Qingqing glanced at him. “It’s really… nice.”

She had genuinely been worried for a while that Xie Xizhao might quit the industry for good.

Thankfully, he’d come back.

Filming, dancing, reappearing in the public eye—relaxed, at ease. Even just trending for a playful joke gave Fang Qingqing a sense of completeness, like everything in the world had settled into place.

But she also knew this was a transformation he had to go through. Only after reaching this point could Xie Xizhao truly move forward without distractions—on the path he chose for himself, doing the things he really wanted to do.

Fang Qingqing was just casually voicing her thoughts, stopping there without pressing further. She then switched topics:

“So—how confident are you for the Chenxi Awards this time?”

There was a flicker of excitement in her voice.

If he won Best Actor, it would completely solidify Xie Xizhao’s standing in the film industry.

Not that anyone had been able to shake his status for a long time—but when it came to actual accolades, the more the better.

“Hard to say,” Xie Xizhao replied.

And it really was hard to say.

From the moment nominations were announced to the start of the festival, the internet was buzzing. Rumors swirled—some true, some false—but the vast majority of the discussion revolved around one single question:

After breaking the record for the youngest Best Actor in TV history, could Xie Xizhao work a second miracle… and break the film record as well?

But this wasn’t something ordinary people could argue their way into a conclusion about.

So on the day of the film festival’s live broadcast, the bullet comments were still a battlefield.

[If Xie Xizhao wins Best Actor, then this year’s Chenxi Awards will go down as the biggest scandal ever. Chenxi, please don’t ruin your own reputation just for traffic!]

[You guys said the same thing about Stellar Awards last time, and look how that turned out…]

[It’s perfectly normal if he doesn’t win—there are lots of incredible seniors nominated. But it’s also perfectly normal if he does win, okay??? Wasn’t his acting in The Player amazing? That final showdown scene was god-tier, hello? What part of his performance isn’t Best Actor-worthy, I’d like to know???]

[I’m a casual viewer, and just speaking objectively—The Player was a lead-heavy film. If the male lead’s acting wasn’t strong, the movie wouldn’t have worked, period. No way it would’ve made nearly 4 billion at the box office. Don’t get misled by the antis.]

[Ahhh is it time for the red carpet yet?! My kitty boy! I want to see my kitty boy!!]

The red carpet, of course, was a must.

This year, Chenxi gave Xie Xizhao plenty of face—he was given the honor of walking last, right before the finale group of veteran artists.

That made things very clear. No matter how chaotic the bullet comments were, it was obvious: in the eyes of the organizers, Xie Xizhao was one of the most important guests of this year’s film festival.

And as for Xie Xizhao himself—well, to start with, his looks absolutely lived up to the weight of that spotlight.

He wore a black suit with subtle embroidery—typically a safe, even conservative choice. But on him, it was like the outfit had transformed entirely. It emphasized his slim waist, long legs, and gave him an aura that was impossible to ignore.

Xie Xizhao’s styling team had always been top-tier, and his beauty was on another level entirely. Whether through the live broadcast lens or the reporters’ cameras, he looked flawless—so stunning, there was no room for criticism.

After signing his name, he followed the staff inside. His posture was straight as a bamboo stalk, his presence so dazzling it was almost impossible to look at him directly.

Even the arguing in the bullet comments paused—for quite a while.

[No wonder there’s an unspoken rule in the entertainment industry: if you want to know which male star the event organizers can’t stand, just look at who they make walk the red carpet right before or after Xie Xizhao. Brutal. Absolutely brutal…]

[This reminds me of those beauty contests where everyone silently agrees to throw out the highest score.]

[Back when TP debuted, someone tried to use them for comparison trash talk too. What flop group was that again?]

No one remembered.

The past was drowned in a sea of bullet comments, washed away by the tides of time. And in the end, only those as rare and precious as unpolished jade could grow more brilliant with time.

Soon, the bullet comments returned to their usual arguments.

Meanwhile, Xie Xizhao had already taken his seat inside the venue.

Qi Yin had also come to this year’s film festival, and the organizers had seated him right next to Xie Xizhao.

Sitting with your boss had its pros and cons. The good part: no need to comfort a nervous director. The bad part: despite his polished, proper appearance, the boss had the personality of an unfiltered hype man.

Xie Xizhao barely managed to hold him back before he blurted out something like, “Hey, Xizhao, feels like we’ve got this one in the bag, huh?”

In the back-and-forth of quietly shushing and distracting, time slipped by unnoticed.

The host stepped onto the stage, lights shifted—and with that, the award ceremony officially began.

…

It turned out that although Xie Xizhao was the biggest buzz of this year’s Chenxi Awards, the event’s status as one of the most prestigious in the film industry ensured the entire ceremony glittered with stardom.

Strictly speaking, Xie Xizhao was still considered a newcomer to the film world. Most of the people in the room, he only knew through work-related encounters—many, he didn’t know at all.

But that didn’t stop him from watching attentively and offering sincere applause and congratulations for every award that was presented.

The cameras also seemed particularly fond of him. After sweeping over his profile several times—perhaps intentionally, perhaps not—the attention of the livestream comment section was momentarily diverted.

[Say what you will, but Xie Xizhao really knows how to carry himself.]

[No doubt about his character and emotional intelligence… No wonder so many people like him. Isn’t Qu Hengyang rumored to be approaching him lately? If he teams up with him, he’s basically skyrocketing to the top of the film world.]

[Wait, Director Qu?! Isn’t he known for serious historical dramas? OMG.]

[Honestly, whether or not Xie Xizhao wins tonight doesn’t really matter anymore—his position is already untouchable. Winning awards is just a matter of time.]

[Yeah, true, but still… this is The Player.]

That last comment brought a brief hush to the chat.

At that moment, as another winner stepped down from the stage, Xie Xizhao’s thoughts briefly drifted away.

He thought back to a past interview.

Xie Xizhao once told Xuan Yang that, when making films, you shouldn’t let too much personal emotion seep in.

But the truth was, it was impossible to completely separate art from emotion. Xuan Yang’s final script had undoubtedly been influenced by that heart-to-heart he had with Xie Xizhao.

Neither of them had ever shied away from talking about it. And once it was spoken aloud, it became this:

Xie Xizhao, during his performance, had woven in elements of his own personal experience.

It was a neutral statement on the surface. But it meant that—regardless of how Xie Xizhao himself felt—the fact that The Player held extraordinary significance to him was now fully exposed to the public eye.

And so, the meaning behind this award took on a deeper layer.

He might never again encounter a film like this in his lifetime. A film that, in a roundabout but true way, told the story of a miracle he had lived through.

The small dice in his pocket grew subtly warm, and Xie Xizhao suddenly realized—perhaps, he was hoping after all.

He had always been good at enduring. At waiting.

In the past, he waited for hope at the end of the road, waited for the sharp edge that came after patience. But at the same time, he knew that without hope, there could be no disappointment.

So over time, he had forgotten what hope even felt like.

But now—right here, right now—he remembered that feeling with piercing clarity.

It was vivid. Stirring. It reached deep into the chest and tugged at something raw and real.

His heartbeat seemed to quicken, the blood in his veins just faintly warming.

He looked up—and saw the golden décor, the dazzling stage.

The host was already holding the envelope, the one with the winner’s name.

So far, The Player had taken home quite a few awards. Though it had missed out on Best Picture—which had gone to another breakout indie film—it had secured Best Visuals and Best Director. For a debut feature from a first-time director, that was already more than generous.

So then…

Aside from all this—

Could a miracle still happen?

Xie Xizhao drew in a quiet breath.

Many years later, he would still remember this minute and a half.

He sat there at the spotlight-drenched awards ceremony with a film he had poured his heart and soul into, waiting for the final result.

That result, truthfully, couldn’t define anything.

But to him at that moment—to the version of himself who was still raw-edged and unpolished—it did seem to stand for something.

True recognition.

A rebirth.

And…

The beginning of a future that would follow that rebirth.

A minute and a half felt endless—and yet impossibly short.

In a certain instant, it was as if every sound had disappeared, except for the thudding of his own heartbeat.

In that hushed stillness, he heard the host’s voice:

“The winner of Best Actor is—

Xie Xizhao!”

The weight pressing on his chest suddenly lifted.

Something light and intangible seemed to float upward.

He raised his eyes.

The brilliant lights poured into them—like stars, like the sea.

Just as he had once stepped through that ethereal, unreal doorway, and returned to the mortal world—

In that moment, he feared nothing.

He was radiant.

<< _ >>

**TN

[End of Main Story] There are still Extra Chapters! 😀