Superstar Ch.168

Chapter 168: Five Years After the Main Story (Extra 2)

Lu Ting was a new artist signed by Xie Xizhao’s studio this year.

The studio had started signing artists about three years ago. Because of Xie Xizhao’s age, this move was initially heavily criticized.

But three years had passed, and the number of people signed to the studio could still be counted on one hand. Compared to three years ago, people were now scrambling to get in.

The first artist signed by the studio was Ji Yan.

This former close friend of Xie Xizhao, who shared a deep bond with him, was exceptionally talented when it came to stock investments. No one had expected that not only would he use his sincerity to win himself a priceless friendship, but also a bright and promising future.

When he signed with Xie Xizhao, it caused a huge stir in the media. Setting aside all the tired clichés about “red and white roses,” it was definitely awkward for a once-rising young celebrity—who, while not an A-lister, was at least second-tier or higher—to sign under someone who had debuted alongside him.

The truth was, Ji Yan had reached a dead end in his career. His original company had drained him for years. At first, they let him be, but as he stubbornly insisted on becoming a serious actor, most of his fans who were only there for the hype left him. He did manage to attract a few new, more serious fans, but not nearly enough to give him bargaining power with the company. As his contract was about to expire, his future looked bleak.

To say he had no regrets would be a lie. His manager tried to persuade him to turn back, saying:

“You want to be like Xie Xizhao, but have you ever considered that in the entire entertainment industry—across three whole generations—there’s only one Xie Xizhao, Xiao Yan. Don’t blame me for being harsh, but do you really think the only difference between you and him is ideals and determination?”

That night was the closest Ji Yan ever came to wavering. He had never doubted Xie Xizhao—only himself. And in later interviews, which he gave countless times, he always said the one thing he was proudest of in his life was making that phone call to Xie Xizhao before signing his renewal contract.

“If you trust me, come to my side.”

On the phone, Xie Xizhao’s voice was gentle, as if he saw through everything.

“Ji Yan, you have talent. It shouldn’t be buried.”

The past was like smoke—faint, fading.

By the time Lu Ting joined, his senior Ji Yan had already soared to stardom—thanks to a supporting role that made him the undisputed white moonlight of the “soft puppy” category, a role that no substitute could match. The big star was a cool, handsome guy in public, but behind the scenes, his favorite pastime was teasing his boss without a shred of respect—and occasionally messing with his dopey little junior.

Lu Ting was the one being teased.

The reason he was able to sign with the studio really did come down to what Liu Sihan had once said:

“It’s karma, spun from persistence.”

In the industry, people called Xie Xizhao’s studio a miracle.

All seven artists currently signed were, without exception, climbing the ladder of success.

But the truth was, Xie Xizhao had strict standards from the very beginning—even during auditions.

He rarely signed complete newcomers. Most of the people he took in already had some acting experience, at the very least having been in a production. This rule weeded out the ivory tower dabblers and made it easier for Xie Xizhao to judge their talent and acting style.

Lu Ting was an exception.

Earlier this year, Xie Xizhao went to the capital to film a drama. They were using the film academy as a location, and during a break, he gave a public lecture to the freshmen.

Only one person had the courage to stop him after the signing session—stammering through a confession and asking for a chance.

By coincidence, when Xie Xizhao saw him, he immediately thought of a role in his current project.

And Lu Ting didn’t disappoint. Aside from his stammering confession, he snapped into character the moment he started acting. Because of that, Xie Xizhao broke his own rule and signed him.

The result of that exception?

Whereas new signees were normally required to attend three months of acting classes arranged by the studio, in Lu Ting’s case… the lessons were taught personally by Xie Xizhao himself.

Lu Ting was a complete newcomer with no experience, so Xie Xizhao had to start by helping him build his own acting framework from scratch.

This made Ji Yan insanely jealous. He complained about favoritism in Xie Xizhao’s ear every single day—so much so that Xie Xizhao finally got fed up and just shoved him into a filming crew to get rid of him. But it was undeniable: after those three months, Xie Xizhao’s relationship with Lu Ting was indeed a little closer than with the others.

And with closeness came dependence. Xie Xizhao knew Lu Ting would show up today—not because he really wanted feedback, but because he’d gotten into the habit of coming to him for reassurance once everything had settled.

He sighed and said, “So, from now on, every role you take on—after filming, you’re going to bring it to me for approval too?”

It was obviously a joke.

Lu Ting mumbled a quiet protest, “Well, it’s not like you’re on set for the other roles…”

Xie Xizhao: “…”

The kid had grown up. Out in the world now, no longer getting b*llied by that annoying senior of his. That was good.

Before he left the set, Xie Xizhao had asked for the footage of Lu Ting’s audition. Now, he started off by giving him a few compliments, then carefully reviewed and analyzed the performance with him. By the time the city lights had begun to glow outside, he finally took Lu Ting out for a casual meal, then drove him home.

He watched as Lu Ting went upstairs and the lights in his home flicked on. Only then did he turn around and head back to his own villa.

The moment he opened the door, a fluffy golden furball—noticeably plumper than before—came barreling toward him and immediately started clawing at his pants, trying to climb up. It let out soft, wheedling meows as it climbed. On its head was a neon green dice, making it look both sweet and a little ridiculous.

Xie Xizhao scooped up the cat with one hand and shut the door with the other. As he picked her up, the dice on her head bounced gracefully in a perfect arc and landed right into his shirt pocket.

At that moment, the lights in the living room clicked on. He took off his coat, warmed up a cup of milk for himself, and sank down onto the sofa in the soft, golden glow of the room—completely sprawled out, shamelessly lazy.

And he stayed that way until the next day.

At some point, he got up to refill the cat’s water and food, washed up a bit, and then moved himself to the bed.

The next morning, Xie Xizhao got a call from the production team. Unsurprisingly, Lu Ting had passed the audition. The person on the other end exchanged a few polite words, said the newcomer had great instincts, and then asked,

“Teacher Xie, the shooting schedule is still unchanged, right?”

Xie Xizhao paused for a second, absentmindedly squeezing his cat’s paw as he replied in a calm voice,

“Didn’t we reschedule to start filming in half a month?”

“Ah, yes, yes!” The assistant director on the other end hurried to laugh and smooth things over.

“Just confirming with you—if your schedule changes at all, we’re happy to adjust on our end. Whatever works best for you.”

After hanging up, Xie Xizhao played with the cat for a bit, thoughtful, then got up and called Liu Sihan. As expected, his assistant answered and told him:

“You might want to check the trending topics.”

The trending list didn’t look like much.

Xie Xizhao had been on the trending list more times than he could count in the past couple of years—more often than he’d eaten meals, probably. This one seemed pretty ordinary, just some behind-the-scenes shots from the audition. But the engagement was through the roof.

In this drama, he was playing a villain—a dethroned emperor who loved traditional opera. It was a short role, just about a week’s worth of filming, and he was only a special guest star. But the character had a unique charm. Plus, since Xie Xizhao himself gave off a gentle, scholarly vibe, his fans loved it when he played against type.

This was his second historical villain role since Jing Yin, and his fans were celebrating like it was New Year’s.

Xie Xizhao scrolled through the mountain of rainbow-colored praise without changing expression. In one popular comment, he found exactly what had the production crew so nervous:

@Qu HengyangV

[Director Qu, what’s your opinion on the ‘Purple Star’ you once swore you’d drag back to your set even if you had to break his legs, now running off to another crew to play a little emperor? 😏]

And right beneath that, one particular reply from a verified user stood out:

Qu HengyangV:

[My opinion? I’ll look at it—with my eyes.]

—

In the quiet, private room of the teahouse, the two sat facing each other.

A pot of fragrant Biluochun tea sat between them, steam curling upward like rippling water—gentle and swaying, like willow branches blown by the wind outside.

Qu Hengyang spoke first: “You really have nothing to say to me?”

Xie Xizhao replied, “Actually… yeah, no—wait, maybe just a few words.”

He let out a sigh, a bit helpless.

“Why are you taking a joke with your fans so seriously?”

Qu Hengyang was nearly livid.

“You think I’m taking it seriously with the fans? Xie Xizhao, tell me—am I arguing with fans here?”

Halfway through the outburst, his tone suddenly softened.

“We’re about to start filming. Just give me a clear answer. If you’re in, name your price. Even if I have to sell the entire crew to pay for it, I’m bringing you on board.”

His shift in attitude was faster than flipping a page.

The server who had just come in with their food was completely stunned, but managed to suppress her excitement while sneaking a glance at Xie Xizhao.

Xie Xizhao gave her a gentle smile and said,

“Hello. Please keep my visit here confidential, if you don’t mind.”

She quickly nodded in agreement, face glowing with happiness as she left the room.

Once she was gone, Qu Hengyang continued,

“Five years ago, you told me you didn’t have the skills yet and couldn’t handle the role. Fine—I could wait. The project wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. But now it’s been five years, Teacher Xie, Boss Xie. I figure you’ve played your fair share of powerful, high-status characters by now. So tell me, are you avoiding me on purpose?”

Qu Hengyang had served in the military in his earlier years—his words and actions usually carried a sharp, decisive edge. But now his tone was tinged with bitterness, sounding a little too much like a heartbroken ex complaining about a ghosting boyfriend.

Xie Xizhao found it both funny and guilt-inducing.

Luckily, he had already made up his mind before coming here, so he answered without hesitation:

“If you’re still willing to have me, I’m willing to give it a try.”

As soon as he said it, Qu Hengyang’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“You serious about that?”

Xie Xizhao: “……”

Why does this feel like walking into a wolf’s den?

But after a moment, Xie Xizhao still said, “Mm.”

“I’ve learned a lot these past few years,” he added. “I think I’m ready to give it a try now.”

The complicated history between Xie Xizhao and Qu Hengyang could probably be traced back to five years ago.

Contrary to the version the public loves to gossip about, Qu Hengyang had actually approached Xie Xizhao before he won his award. But everything that happened afterward was more or less the same: Xie Xizhao turned down a revered director who, for the first time in his career, was actively pursuing a young actor.

Twice.

The first time, Xie Xizhao politely declined.

The second time, Qu Hengyang personally came to see him. They sat down and talked for an entire afternoon while the media camped outside. But in the end—still nothing.

Nothing happened = another polite refusal. Public opinion exploded.

At the time, Xie Xizhao faced a serious wave of backlash. Add to that the controversy surrounding his recent Best Actor win, and while it wasn’t quite a full-on public condemnation, it was definitely the most intense backlash he’d faced since winning the award.

Eventually, it was Qu Hengyang himself who stepped in to say a few words in his defense—and only then did the storm calm.

Why did Qu Hengyang step in? The reason was simple: he was disappointed, yes, but not angry. Xie Xizhao’s reason for declining had been sincere.

He said: “Thank you for your trust, Director Qu, but I don’t think I’m capable of playing a role like this yet.”

A role like this—what kind of role?

A founding emperor.

A man who held the power of life and death in his hands during his lifetime, and whose legacy remains controversial. Not exactly a sage ruler, but undeniably one of the grand figures in the annals of history. Qu Hengyang wanted to make a film about his entire life.

And Xie Xizhao felt he simply couldn’t carry that kind of role.

He truly couldn’t.

He was self-aware enough to admit it. Messing around in the entertainment industry was one thing, but a role that required both gravitas and experience—Xie Xizhao could act it, but he believed doing so would be a disservice.

To the role, and to the audience.

Qu Hengyang actually felt a bit guilty—he had been gambling on Xie Xizhao’s potential. But unfortunately, while he was dreaming of hitting the jackpot, the lottery seller packed up shop.

Xie Xizhao’s words had struck a nerve. He really did feel a bit of—

Regret, my foot.

That was Qu Hengyang’s fierce thought on the way home.

Over the years, watching Xie Xizhao act, the thing he regretted the most was listening to his nonsense.

Xie Xizhao was simply too modest. In reality, if his portrayal of historical figures was considered a disgrace to the role, then half the actors in the industry doing historical dramas should go bow down to their ancestors in shame.

…

It had started drizzling when they parted ways.

Xie Xizhao didn’t like calling a driver; if he could drive himself, he always would. The car radio was playing an old Cantonese song as he drove toward Qu Hengyang’s house.

As they were on the road, Qu Hengyang asked,

“I remember you’ve already collected all the major Best Actor awards for television. For film, aren’t you just missing the Lingxiao?”

Xie Xizhao responded with a simple “Mm.”

That was an impressive achievement—his other two Best Actor titles had even come from the same drama. That series had taken the whole country by storm, yet here they were, talking about it like it was nothing.

Qu Hengyang scoffed, “If you’d agreed to work with me earlier, you’d have had that Best Actor award in your pocket already.”

It wasn’t arrogance—Qu Hengyang had mentored multiple award-winning actors. With someone like Xie Xizhao, who already had solid foundations, a collaboration would’ve been mutually beneficial.

Xie Xizhao just smiled, saying neither yes nor no.

He dropped Qu Hengyang off at his place, and just before he left, the older man confirmed one last time that he really was joining the production.

The old man beamed and cheerfully walked into his house.

Xie Xizhao got back in the car and drove home.

…

Half a month later, Xie Xizhao joined the crew.

What was originally scheduled to be a week’s worth of filming was wrapped up perfectly in just three and a half days.

For the remaining three and a half days, Xie Xizhao stayed on set to keep a close eye on his personally mentored disciple.

Lu Ting was almost driven to tears under the pressure, and along with him, the entire cast—both leads and supporting actors—were visibly stressed.

Half a year later, the production released its first official still.

In the photo, the young emperor’s face was split between light and shadow: the lit side showcased delicate, ethereal features, while the shadowed side displayed stunning, elaborate stage makeup.

When the show aired, Xie Xizhao’s brief screen time—just a few dozen minutes—became the irreplaceable and unmatched “white moonlight” in the hearts of countless viewers.

The scene where he, clad in royal robes, took his own life atop a towering flight of stairs broke hearts over and over again.

With that single performance, he became a staple in every tragic fan edit—a scene that could never be skipped.

And what no one expected was that, a year and a half later, Xie Xizhao would return to the screen in another imperial role—this time, in an entirely different kind of kingly presence.

The film, directed by Qu Hengyang and starring Xie Xizhao, not only fulfilled the last lingering dream of his acting career, but also went on to become a timeless classic—one that would remain unmatched for the next half-century.

<< _ >>

**TN

There are still some extra chaps~