Superstar Ch.167

Chapter 167: Five Years After the Main Story (Extra 1)

February, early spring.

The weather was just beginning to warm but still carried a lingering chill. On afternoons when the temperature crept higher, it easily lulled people into a sleepy haze.

However, at this moment, a rather plainly decorated hotel near the film studio was absolutely packed. In the hallways, in the rooms—people were crammed in shoulder to shoulder. By the time Lu Ting, drenched in sweat, made it to the third floor, the line had almost reached the emergency exit.

He glanced at his watch and let out a sigh of relief. Scanning the crowd, he scratched his head and finally spotted someone who looked like a staff member. He hurried over, nervously saying, “Hi, excuse me, I’m here for the audition.”

“Everyone here today is here for the audition.”

The woman didn’t even look up.

Lu Ting: “…”

Crap.

He was stunned.

He quickly added, “I’m here to audition for the supporting male role, Qi Min. I’m looking for Liu Sihan.”

His face flushed bright red as he added, “Um, there was a traffic jam this morning, so I’m late… and I can’t reach her right now.”

This time, the woman finally looked up at him with mild surprise.

“You’re here to see Sister Han?” she said. “Then go on in, she’s in the cubicle inside. Use the side door—don’t go through the wrong one, they’re doing interviews in there.”

Lu Ting quickly responded with a grateful nod.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead, murmuring apologies as he squeezed past the surprised onlookers. Then he saw the girl standing in the cubicle.

She had jet-black hair and soft lips, with the warm and lively look of the girl next door, but her mannerisms were brisk and professional. She held a cup of hot coffee and was speaking rapidly to the person in front of her.

And almost the instant she caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye, her face lit up.

“Lu Ting! Get over here!”

She waved Lu Ting over, then let out a heavy sigh of relief. “You scared me to death. I thought you were going to miss the audition.”

Lu Ting looked a little nervous. “Sister, there was traffic on the way, I—”

“It’s fine, no need to explain. You’re here now, that’s what matters,” the girl interrupted. “You’re actually up next. Once the person inside finishes, you’ll go in right after.”

Lu Ting froze. “Huh?”

As soon as she finished speaking, someone rushed out of the room, their face wearing a strange mix of confusion and daze.

Behind him, Liu Sihan gave Lu Ting a push. He stumbled a couple of steps forward, and in the next moment, he looked up to see a spacious room, a neat row of chairs not far off—and the people seated in them.

He shivered slightly.

One by one, he scanned their faces. When his eyes met a pair of gentle, beautiful ones, his expression froze, and his back instinctively straightened.

The next moment, he saw the surprise in that person’s eyes—and the subtle smile that curled at their lips.

Although it all happened so suddenly, Lu Ting’s audition went surprisingly smoothly.

He was auditioning for a supporting male role in a large-scale historical drama. The character was a lone survivor of a blood feud, burdened with a deep hatred. Although a supporting role, this character played a key part in the regime change, making him an extremely pivotal figure. Even though Lu Ting had formal training, he didn’t dare take it lightly. As soon as he got the script, he spent half a month of his spare time poring over the character bio. Lately, his mind had been completely consumed by this role.

And as it turned out, the time and effort paid off.

When the audition scene ended and he saw the director in the center nodding repeatedly, Lu Ting knew the role was pretty much in the bag.

Sure enough, in the next few minutes, the director didn’t dismiss him immediately but instead asked him about a few details in his performance.

Just as Lu Ting was about to leave, someone suddenly chuckled and said, “Xizhao, this actor’s from your studio, right? Aren’t you going to give your thoughts?”

The moment those words fell, the tense, serious atmosphere in the room immediately relaxed.

Lu Ting’s face turned bright red. The breath he had just managed to release caught in his throat again.

He nervously looked toward the handsome young man sitting beside the director, casually fiddling with something in his hands. All the calm and composure he had during his performance vanished without a trace, leaving behind a look that was almost… pitiful.

Xie Xizhao took it all in and found it amusing. He had a few comments prepared, but suddenly didn’t feel like saying them.

“Not bad,” he said with a smile after a brief pause.

In the very next instant, he saw the light practically explode in Lu Ting’s eyes.

…

Later, after a full day of auditions, Xie Xizhao was getting ready to head out when his assistant, Liu Sihan, suddenly remembered something and called out to him.

“Lu Ting just messaged me. He said he’s at the company.”

Her tone was… suggestive.

Xie Xizhao lazily tossed a die in his hand and chuckled. “So dedicated, huh.”

He thought for a moment. “Tell him to wait for me there. His performance today did have a few issues—I’ll go over them with him later.”

He pocketed the die and gestured to Liu Sihan,

“Let’s go.”

Liu Sihan followed behind him and said in a faint voice, “Just thought of a saying.”

Xie Xizhao: “?”

“A determined suitor can melt even the most aloof beauty,” she said.

She paused. “If the many gorgeous people in the entertainment industry who’ve been admiring you all these years found out that you’re the kind who gives in with a little persistence… would their illusion of you as some untouchable flower on a high mountain be shattered? And would your villa’s front door be trampled flat?”

Xie Xizhao: “…”

He said seriously, “Sihan, don’t let Sister Qing corrupt you.”

Liu Sihan looked completely serious and utterly innocent.

“Understood, boss.”

The two of them walked out the hotel doors. Their chauffeured van was already waiting outside.

In the distance, the sun—hidden behind the clouds all day—finally peeked out just in time for sunset, casting a golden glow that bathed everything in a warm, beautiful light.

At this point, it had been nearly five years since that legendary awards ceremony.

Back when Xie Xizhao won the Chenxi Best Actor Award, even though many in the industry had already sensed it coming, the actual announcement still triggered a massive public stir.

And for good reason.

Winning both TV and film awards—two years in a row—taking the title of Best Actor in both, and setting records as the youngest ever to do so… no one in the history of the domestic entertainment industry had ever achieved that. Not even those born into prominent acting families who’d been child stars.

It was a jaw-dropping achievement.

So much so that for a long while, the flood of congratulations and glowing recommendations came hand-in-hand with a frenzy of speculation and rumors.

One day people claimed he was backed by powerful capital; the next, that he was an illegitimate child from a wealthy family. The most outrageous rumor? That he and Ai Qingyuan were actually half-brothers—same father, different mothers—and that the Ai Corporation had been secretly supporting him the whole time.

The rumor even came with a detailed “timeline” of events, framing Xie Xizhao as the “hidden prince” and Ai Qingyuan as the “public prince.”

According to the gossip, the reason Xie Xizhao got to be the center was due to guilt over being the illegitimate son.

When Xie Xizhao first heard this, he was like: “…”

Ai Qingyuan, who was casually scrolling through Weibo on vacation: “…”

Ai Qingyuan’s actual older brother, who was swamped with work at the company but still had to keep tabs on his “little brother’s” gossip: “…”

Naturally, those spreading the rumors were dealt with.

The Ai Corporation responded swiftly and decisively. By the next day, the rumors had become nothing more than a running joke no one took seriously.

But the waves around Xie Xizhao didn’t stop there.

During that period, the busiest department in Xie Xizhao’s studio was definitely Public Relations.

Besides dealing with all sorts of speculation and rumors, they had to constantly monitor public sentiment online. Because in addition to the gossip, a fair number of people had started aiming their criticism at the two award organizations that had recognized Xie Xizhao’s achievements, accusing them of favoritism and bending to popularity.

These doubts, though buried beneath a flood of congratulations and praise, were like buzzing flies in the night—unable to cause real trouble, but endlessly annoying.

Still, annoying as they were, neither the industry insiders who liked Xie Xizhao nor his fans took the drama seriously. No one expected every negative voice to disappear. After all, the world’s a strange place, and when you’ve got the results to back you up, you can laugh in the face of nonsense. The more bitter the critics, the more it proved that Xie Xizhao could stay hot for another hundred years.

But what no one expected was that the controversy they thought would linger around Xie Xizhao for years… would be completely silenced by Xie Xizhao himself within five.

In the second year after he won the Chenxi Best Actor award, The Phoenix’s contract expired.

At the time, rumors about a renewal were flying everywhere. TP was still wildly popular even up to the end, and Shenghong wasn’t willing to let them go. Neither were their original companies.

The company and fans argued for days. Real and fake PR statements flew around for nearly two weeks. But in the end, they couldn’t come to an agreement. That summer, TP went ahead with their planned disbandment concert.

At the end of the concert, the whole stadium—on stage and off—sang their debut song together. Even Fu Wenze, usually the calmest one, was caught on camera with red eyes on stage. And as for Yun Pan, who threw himself into Zou Yi’s arms after the concert and sobbed until he couldn’t breathe? No words needed.

All things must come to an end.

On the last night they moved out of the villa, they all broke their usual no-alcohol rule for once.

Everyone drank like crazy in that villa.

The next day, they each set out on their own paths.

Of the five members, aside from Yun Pan—the youngest—who returned to lead a new group and debut again, Ai Qingyuan, Zou Yi, and Fu Wenze all started over and re-debuted individually, launching their careers in the entertainment industry as solo singers.

Then, just a month after the group disbanded, Xie Xizhao’s studio officially announced his plan for the coming years.

To everyone’s surprise, Xie Xizhao did not immediately transition into becoming a full-time actor or even a film star after TP disbanded.

Instead, he chose to pursue both singing and acting simultaneously, making them his dual professional paths for the next few years.

And starting from that moment, Xie Xizhao began releasing one solo album a year—consistently—and also started joining film and drama productions like crazy.

When he was still part of the group, even though he had already begun acting in the later years, his filming schedule had to work around the group’s activities. Because of this, his acting output was actually quite low for someone his age. It was essentially a rhythm of “film one, release one,” with group promotions keeping up his visibility in between.

But after the group disbanded, all that time suddenly opened up. On top of that, with his album prep schedule being flexible, he could finally live the typical actor’s life: filming multiple projects in advance and stockpiling work.

And this was when everyone started to see just how terrifying it was when this man put his whole heart into running on a single track.

First came the script selection process.

It was common knowledge that Xie Xizhao’s studio was entirely under his control.

This had both upsides and downsides.

The upside? Fans were more cautious when criticizing the studio and had a lot less distrust toward it—because they all knew it was Xie Xizhao himself making the decisions.

The downside? If there were ever a crisis of trust, fans would jump ship immediately, no questions asked.

But when it came to Xie Xizhao?

That second scenario had never happened. Not even once.

In five years, Xie Xizhao starred in two lead-role dramas, four films, and took on several supporting roles. His project choices might have seemed random—ranging from movies to dramas, even web series—but without exception, every single finished work was stunning. At the very least, they were far above the average standard of the domestic entertainment industry.

His taste and discernment in picking scripts were unmistakable.

Xie Xizhao had a very distinct style when it came to choosing projects.

People in the industry all knew:

If you want Xie Xizhao to act in your production, budget doesn’t matter—because he’s rich.

A mediocre production team? Not a problem—Xie Xizhao has his own solid crew.

An unknown director? Also fine—he’ll personally guide them.

Need proof? Look at Xuan Yang, the once-nameless director who collaborated with Xie Xizhao twice. Now he’s a hit-making star director whose schedules are packed solid.

All of that was thanks to Xie Xizhao’s—ahem—for the good of the industry’s talent cultivation, of course.

In short, if you want to move Xie Xizhao, you don’t need flashy names or deep pockets.

All you need is a good script.

Because of this, Xie Xizhao spent five years quietly racking up accolades, collecting trophies from all the major awards.

One project after another, one major award after another—he crushed every single voice of doubt beneath his feet.

The past was glorious—but Xie Xizhao wasn’t someone who clung to past achievements.

To outsiders, he seemed endlessly busy, but to him, life felt relaxed and fulfilling.

He only acted in roles he wanted to play.

When he was bored, he’d write songs for fun and sing them for himself.

He never felt strung out or pressured. He didn’t take himself too seriously.

Xie Xizhao was someone with zero idol baggage.

He never put himself on a pedestal just because he’d won a few big awards, nor did he obsess over preserving some perfect, untouchable image.

He had a very open attitude about it all:

As the saying goes, the waves of the Yangtze River push forward the ones ahead; the front waves die on the shore.

He knew someday he’d be replaced by the next generation.

So, while other actors were busy tripping up talented juniors or trying to block rising stars, Xie Xizhao was out here signing young artists under his own studio and nurturing them—just for the fun of it.

Unfortunately—or perhaps because he accidentally climbed too high, or because this generation of newcomers just wasn’t cutting it—Xie Xizhao still remained an undefeated legend in the film and television industry.

Forget about tarnishing his image—there wasn’t even a hint of a wobble.

Thinking of this, Xie Xizhao let out a slightly melancholic sigh.

On the other side, Liu Sihan was sending a message.

In the past two years, Xie Xizhao’s manager hadn’t changed. But he had gained a few reliable assistants, and Liu Sihan was one of them.

Fang Qingqing, with an eye toward training a successor, had taken a vacation during a rare lull in their schedule, leaving her most promising protégé—Liu Sihan—at Xie Xizhao’s side.

The young woman worked efficiently and had a pleasant personality.

Though sometimes she was a bit too lively and had a knack for saying shocking things to the boss, overall, she was a very competent assistant.

After sending the message, she looked up.

“Boss, Director Qu’s assistant messaged me again.”

Xie Xizhao responded calmly, “Mm.”

Liu Sihan said, “Boss, are men in their fifties and sixties also part of your fishing pool now?”

Xie Xizhao: “……”

“Even though neither of us majored in Chinese literature,” he said peacefully, “Sihan, sometimes we still need to mind our words and phrasing, don’t you think?”

Liu Sihan was quick to adapt. “Got it, boss.”

“He wants to schedule a proper sit-down. Says he can’t wait even one more day. If we don’t set something soon, he’s threatening to hold up a banner downstairs at your hotel. How should I respond?”

Xie Xizhao thought about it.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I have time around noon. Book a private room—same place as usual.”

Liu Sihan nodded. “Will do.”

She lowered her head and began typing again. Xie Xizhao got out of the car.

Arriving at the office, sure enough—just as he’d expected—the artist from his studio whom he’d seen that very morning was already there, sitting on the lounge sofa in the break room with a very well-behaved posture, backpack on his shoulders, waiting for him.

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