Chapter 153.2: “Storm” Roadshow
That night.
After Shen Xiu got home, he recalled what Ling Yuanzhen had said. He walked into the study and turned on the dormant computer.
He opened the spreadsheet he had made before starting the thesis.
System: [?]
[Don’t tell me you’re about to add new topics again, doing that whole “Well, I’ve got nothing else to do, might as well write a few more” thing?]
His urge to plug gaps and make up for perceived shortcomings had been seen through.
Shen Xiu: “…”
“If I’m not writing a thesis, I don’t know what else to do.”
Last semester, he’d spent every weekend filming. His weekdays, when free, were filled with either driving lessons or script reading.
He had been busy nonstop—he hadn’t had time to pause at all.
It seemed he had grown used to being busy. Now that things had slowed down, he genuinely didn’t know what to do with himself.
Looking at his database that was practically bursting at the seams, the system, monitoring him, saw Shen Xiu sitting at the computer with his back turned and couldn’t help but speak up.
System: [Maybe… take a look at my database?]
Shen Xiu: “?”
“Are you joking?”
He glanced toward the large office desk not far from the study desk. Ever since he got the computer, he had avoided touching anything on it.
He was afraid that if he wasn’t careful, he might break something.
If he broke something, he wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for it in his entire lifetime.
System: [I’m not joking!]
[Just take a look. It’s not like you’ll lose a chunk of flesh. What, do you think you’ll start randomly messing with things?]
Shen Xiu: “…That’s unlikely.”
[Exactly, so go on—take a look!]
Under the system’s insistent urging, Shen Xiu temporarily shut down the laptop he had bought for himself and walked over to the desk filled with several computers, sitting down in front of them.
He sat properly in the chair, keeping his eyes from wandering as much as possible, and asked the system:
“Which one?”
System: [Third from the left. The one with the hound icon. Open it five minutes from now—that’s my temporary home.]
[After browsing, help me check if anything seems off. If you think something’s wrong, feel free to make changes.]
Worried Shen Xiu might refuse, the system started speaking in a melancholy tone, tailored to suit Shen Xiu’s current mood:
[I trust you so much—I’m inviting you to look at me so you can understand me better, just like I understand you. Can you really bear to turn me down?]
After saying that, the system had no idea what Shen Xiu felt—but even it felt a little guilty.
It understands Shen Xiu?
Heh, it didn’t understand him at all!
Shen Xiu: “…”
The system sure had guts to say that.
It might dare to say it, but Shen Xiu didn’t dare believe it. Unable to reject the system’s request, Shen Xiu decided he’d just take a look.
Like the system said—it’s just looking. It’s not like it would cost him anything.
Shen Xiu was also firmly convinced that there’s no way he wouldn’t notice anything wrong.
So, without arguing, he took out his phone and silently started a countdown.
When the five-minute countdown ended, Shen Xiu, to be extra cautious, waited one more minute before clicking on the black hound icon the system had mentioned.
Although Shen Xiu originally only intended to take a quick look, the moment he saw the green streams of code flickering across the screen, he stared at them without blinking, not missing a single second.
Fully focused, Shen Xiu became more and more absorbed. His hands subconsciously followed along with his thoughts, making changes on their own—without him even realizing.
He had opened the black hound icon at 7 p.m. By the time he closed it, it was already 2 a.m.
Raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, Shen Xiu finally glanced toward the bottom-right corner of the screen and, upon seeing the time, was stunned. “Time flew by so fast!”
After speaking, he seemed to notice something. His expression shifted as he looked down at his own hands in disbelief.
Only now, in hindsight, did he realize what he had just done. His fingers, still splayed open, trembled slightly.
Recalling what the system had said earlier, Shen Xiu unlocked his phone and began a five-minute countdown.
“System, are you… okay?”
“S-System?”
As he watched the seconds tick down, Shen Xiu grew increasingly uneasy.
What if, because he didn’t control his hands properly, he accidentally paralyzed—or worse, deleted—the system? How was he supposed to fix that?
Five… four… zero!
[I, Hu Hansan, have returned!]
The moment the countdown hit zero, the system’s voice rang out through the study.
Hearing it instantly, Shen Xiu let out a heavy sigh of relief. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and from the tension, his voice came out hoarse: “Scared the hell out of me…”
“Wait a minute…”
Frowning, Shen Xiu looked at the computer’s desktop, noticing that the black hound icon had vanished, and spoke in confusion.
“Why didn’t I manage to…”
He instinctively wanted to say paralyze you, but thought better of it—those words sounded too ominous. His luck was already notoriously bad; if he tempted fate with something so inauspicious, the system might really crash on the spot, and then he wouldn’t even know where to begin fixing it.
The words reached his throat, but Shen Xiu quickly changed them: “…mess up.”
System: [……]
Even though Shen Xiu corrected himself, the system could still guess that the original word he had wanted to say was “paralyze.”
Hadn’t Shen Xiu always claimed to be a firm materialist, someone who believed in “man conquers destiny, fate is in your own hands, all superstition is nonsense and hocus-pocus”? So why was he now… this superstitious?
No, that wasn’t quite right.
To be more accurate:
The current Shen Xiu was constantly flip-flopping between materialism and idealism—his style could only be described as “adapting to the situation.”
And the only pitiful one left being thoroughly taken for a ride… was it, the system.
When Shen Xiu didn’t hear a response after speaking, he assumed his phrasing hadn’t been tactful enough.
But since the other party was an “old acquaintance,” even if he felt uneasy, Shen Xiu still dared to ask: “Was what I said… too presumptuous?”
System: […No.]
Only then did Shen Xiu feel relieved.
The system then finally responded to Shen Xiu’s earlier question:
[Maybe… it’s because you’re a genius? That’s why I didn’t get broken.]
Shen Xiu: “…That was a painfully bad joke.”
System: [……]
So it was true—after expanding and reorganizing its database, it could even understand what a cold joke was now.
But Shen Xiu didn’t take the system’s words to heart at all. He simply assumed it was trying to comfort him.
As far as he was concerned, the reason the system hadn’t broken was just because it had strong self-repair capabilities.
He was simply thankful it hadn’t crashed.
—
Time flew by, and in the blink of an eye, it was nearly time for Storm to premiere.
At the same time, the second semester of Shen Xiu’s junior year was already more than halfway through. Before long, he would finish his third year and step into senior life.
On Wednesday, at 6 p.m., Shen Xiu had just finished dinner and was in his study, adding yet another thesis to his collection, when he received a call from Xuan Yushu.
Even though he wasn’t face-to-face with his idol, Shen Xiu’s posture instinctively tensed.
He had originally been lounging on the sofa, but now sat upright, his tone respectful as he asked, “Director Xuan, hello. How can I help you?”
On the other end, Xuan Yushu heard Shen Xiu’s calm, cool voice.
Having worked together for so long, Xuan Yushu naturally knew that although Shen Xiu sounded indifferent, it wasn’t personal—he wasn’t being cold toward anyone on purpose. That was simply his personality.
Laughing warmly, Xuan Yushu said, “Haha, Shen Xiu, good to hear you. So, here’s the thing—Storm finally has a confirmed release date. It’ll be online on June 1st!”
Shen Xiu: “!”
A flicker of joy flashed through him, but it took him two seconds to realize he hadn’t responded yet. He quickly said, “Congratulations, Director Xuan!”
Xuan Yushu responded cheerfully, “Likewise, likewise!”
Knowing Shen Xiu was busy, he didn’t want to take up too much of his time and got straight to the point.
“Shen Xiu, the reason I’m calling is because, as one of the main leads, I think you should take part in the film’s promotion—specifically, the roadshow tour before the premiere. What do you think?”
Without hesitation, Shen Xiu answered, “Of course I’ll join!”
From the lurking he’d done in the group chat, he knew the others were scattered around the globe. The roadshow was part of his responsibility as a lead actor—but beyond that, he wanted to use the opportunity, a little selfishly, to meet up with everyone again.
After answering, Shen Xiu added, “But… I can only join the weekend events—Saturday and Sunday. Is that alright?”
After all, the semester wasn’t over yet—he still had classes to attend.
Xuan Yushu: “Of course, that’s no problem. We scheduled the roadshow specifically for Saturdays and Sundays.”
With Shen Xiu being such a walking billboard, the Storm production team naturally followed the principle of “make the most of what you’ve got” and arranged all appearances for the weekend.
With that settled, Xuan Yushu moved on to the second matter.
“As for Storm’s poster and billing order, our team already discussed it with your agent. Your agent felt it would be best to get your personal opinion. You’ll be listed second, with Shang Yu as the lead. Is that okay?”
Although Xuan Yushu personally disliked how billing order had become such a contentious issue in the industry, he still felt he had to ask—just in case fans from different camps ended up fighting over it.
“Billing order?”
Shen Xiu looked puzzled. “Based on the script and character roles, I am the second lead. Why would I try to take Shang Yu’s spot?”
If he did try to take it, that would be truly shameless.
Xuan Yushu: “……”
The truth was, billing order nowadays was less about actual screentime or plot importance and more about the celebrity’s popularity and status. It had become totally warped.
Clearly, his own thinking had been too small-minded. How could someone like Shen Xiu care about such meaningless competition?
Xuan Yushu felt an even deeper admiration for Shen Xiu and chuckled awkwardly: “Ahem, just pretend I was joking. As long as you’re fine with it.”
Online, there had been constant speculation that Shen Xiu didn’t like driving himself. The Storm crew, being part of the entertainment circle where gossip flew fast, had also heard about it.
So Xuan Yushu said, “Alright then—this Saturday, the early screening starts at 9 a.m. If it’s inconvenient for you to drive, we’ll have a driver pick you up from Yulin Banxia at 7 a.m. on Saturday.”
When Shen Xiu heard that, he immediately felt it would be too much trouble for others and quickly said, “It’s no problem—I can manage.”
Xuan Yushu responded just as straightforwardly, “Alright then. I’ll send you the address shortly. Once you get there, Jin Can will meet you.”
Shen Xiu’s expression turned serious as he nodded earnestly. “Okay, understood.”
“Mhm. Well then… goodbye?”
Shen Xiu: “Goodbye, Director Xuan.”
—
Saturday.
Shen Xiu took the elevator down to Basement Level 2—the third time he had visited this level—and without hesitation, chose the most low-profile black sedan.
He drove toward the address Xuan Yushu had sent him earlier…
**TN
“I, Hu Hansan, have returned.” – This phrase comes from an old movie that tells the story of the b*lly Hu Hansan oppressing the people, but after being suppressed by them, he is able to return to his previous status. Every time he regains his status, he says, “I, Hu Hansan, have returned.”
