Chapter 163.1: Basat Award Ceremony
Xuan Yushu heard the calm certainty in Shen Xiu’s voice and immediately understood—Shen Xiu must have already received the news. Smiling, he replied, “That’s right. There’s a 90% chance it’s secured.”
Truly, nothing could be hidden from Shen Xiu.
If he hadn’t been 90% sure, he wouldn’t have dared to share the news with Shen Xiu in the first place.
Compared to the Qingzhu Award, the Teles Award was even less conventional and covered a broader range. Rather than focusing on the moral compass of the characters, it placed greater value on the actors’ performances in the film.
“Shen Xiu, congratulations!”
Shen Xiu was so young, yet with his very first film, he had already managed to win Best Supporting Actor at the biennial Teles Film Awards. Xuan Yushu could hardly imagine how bright Shen Xiu’s future would be.
Especially since Shen Xiu had implied in a previous interview that he wouldn’t be like Shang Yu—returning home to inherit the family business. Clearly, he was going to sweep every major Best Actor award in the future.
Multitasking, Shen Xiu revised his unused acceptance speech from the Qingzhu Awards into a new one for the Teles Awards while chatting with Xuan Yushu.
“Thank you, Director Xuan.”
Xuan Yushu’s cheerful voice came through the receiver, “Ah, I still need to notify the others, so I won’t bother you any longer. Bye.”
Shen Xiu responded, “Goodbye, Director Xuan.”
After ending the call, Shen Xiu continued editing.
Meanwhile, after hanging up, Xuan Yushu called Lu Wen. As the phone rang, he suddenly remembered what he had forgotten and smacked his own forehead. “Look at my memory—I forgot to remind Shen Xiu to prepare an acceptance speech!”
That had been the whole point of the call.
Hearing this as he walked by, Xuan Ji chimed in, “No big deal—I’ll just message Shen Xiu on WeChat.”
As he spoke, Xuan Ji held the bitten apple in his mouth, lowered his head, and sent Shen Xiu a WeChat message.
Xuan Yushu had initially wanted to say something, but then thought that it was actually a great thing for Xuan Ji to have more interaction with Shen Xiu, so he didn’t stop him and let him pass on the message instead.
Shen Xiu received Xuan Ji’s WeChat just as he finished editing his acceptance speech. He picked up his phone and replied:
Shen Xiu: Thanks for the reminder. I’ve written it. Please help me let Director Xuan know—he can rest assured.
Although he wasn’t fond of speaking on stage, when it was necessary, he wouldn’t mess up or embarrass the crew by dragging them down with him.
Reading Shen Xiu’s reply, Xuan Ji silently typed two words:
Xuan Ji: …Got it.
That—that fast?
If he remembered correctly, his dad had just finished the call with Shen Xiu a few minutes ago. And in just a few minutes, Shen Xiu already had a complete acceptance speech? Was that even humanly possible?—No, wait, Shen Xiu is the Great Demon King. Of course he’s not human!
After sending the message, Xuan Ji shoved his phone into his pocket, then finally pulled the apple from his aching jaw and took another slow bite.
As he chewed, his gaze landed on Xuan Yushu, who was still on a call. He stared at his father with a deep, brooding look.
A few minutes later, Xuan Yushu ended his call with Lu Wen and immediately met his son’s aggrieved expression. He clicked his tongue and asked, “What’s wrong now? Did you message Shen Xiu?”
Xuan Ji swallowed his bite of apple and spoke gloomily, “Dad, I suspect you deliberately forgot to tell Shen Xiu about preparing an acceptance speech just so you could trick me into stepping in! Be honest—is it because I’ve spent the past few days eating, drinking, and goofing off that you want to use Shen Xiu to motivate me? To let his brilliance shame me into a self-esteem crisis?”
Xuan Yushu: “???”
Not understanding why his son was suddenly acting so dramatically, Xuan Yushu bluntly said, “Speak human.”
Xuan Ji replied, “Shen Xiu just messaged me back and said, ‘I’ve already written it. Tell Director Xuan not to worry.’”
Before Xuan Yushu could say a word, Xuan Ji started rambling like popcorn in a hot pan, words flying out of his mouth.
“Dad, Shen Xiu finished it in this short amount of time. I’m honestly spiraling into self-doubt! The gap between people is already huge, but why does it feel even bigger than the gap between humans and dogs?”
“I don’t get it!”
“How am I supposed to keep playing around like this? If I keep goofing off, the next time I see Shen Xiu, the gap between us is going to be even wider. How am I even supposed to show my face in front of him anymore? …No wait—Shen Xiu loves hardworking people who push themselves! Oh no. I think I’m about to be removed from his friend circle, Dad…”
After finishing his rambling monologue, Xuan Ji looked at Xuan Yushu and declared, “I’m going to the study. Bye!”
And with that, he dashed off so quickly that even his shadow couldn’t keep up.
Hearing his son’s self-pitying rant and seeing how thoroughly shaken he was, Xuan Yushu chuckled but didn’t stop him.
His son really was a one-track-mind type.
Shen Xiu, after all, wasn’t your average person. A mere Teles Best Supporting Actor award was nothing in the grand scheme of Shen Xiu’s extraordinary life.
There’s no way Shen Xiu spent a lot of time preparing the speech. He probably just mentally sketched a draft.
Of course, knowing Shen Xiu’s habit of striving for perfection in everything he did, even his “mental draft” wouldn’t be like anyone else’s.
Other people’s drafts were true rough sketches—messy and half-baked. Shen Xiu’s casually thrown-together draft? Probably indistinguishable from someone else’s final, polished version.
—
Shen Xiu read through his revised acceptance speech three times. After confirming that there were no errors, he sent a copy to his phone and then closed the document.
The system, watching his actions, spoke in a low, slightly baffled tone:
System: [You already finished memorizing it while reviewing—why bother sending it to your phone too? That’s totally unnecessary.]
It had never once seen Shen Xiu forget something he had intentionally committed to memory.
Shen Xiu answered truthfully, “I don’t really trust my brain. Just in case, I save a copy on my phone and in the cloud—so if my brain ever malfunctions, I can still look it up.”
As soon as he finished saying that, even Shen Xiu felt his logic was a bit contradictory.
On one hand, he believed in his memory. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander into wild “what-if” scenarios—
“What if my brain suddenly breaks?”
“What if I hit my head and lose my memory?”
Those never-happened, purely imaginative possibilities sent his sense of crisis spiraling.
System: […]
At the very least—whether in the past or now—Shen Xiu was still the same person who always thought ten steps ahead and made three or more contingency plans for everything.
…Was that some small comfort for the system?
Thinking about Shen Xiu’s behavioral patterns, the system cautiously offered a suggestion:
System: […Don’t be mad, okay? I don’t mean this in a “there’s something wrong with you” kind of way, I just think… maybe you should consider seeing a therapist…]
But no sooner had the system said that than it saw Shen Xiu’s fingers tighten around the mouse, his brow slightly furrowed, his expression turning cold. He stared silently at the running operating systems in front of him, lips pressed into a thin line.
System: [!]
Oh no—it had accidentally touched Shen Xiu’s reverse scale!
Terrified that Shen Xiu would get truly angry, the system immediately logged itself off, shut down all its sensory functions, and locked itself deep inside the massive data bank, curling up like a turtle hiding in its shell.
In the face of Shen Xiu’s fury, only rows and rows of brightly-colored data offered it the tiniest sliver of safety.
The moment Shen Xiu heard the system’s words, it felt like invisible fingers tightened around his heart. He instinctively gripped the mouse, frowning as he hesitated for a few seconds. But then, reminding himself that the system had only spoken out of concern, he forced himself to respond.
“…Okay.”
That’s it. No wonder it’s a system—it had seen right through him.
He did have paranoid tendencies.
But…
The system was right. He really should make time to see someone.
However, just thinking about hospitals made Shen Xiu’s scalp tingle, a chill creep over his whole body, and his mind feel like it had just exploded in static.
Even though he had agreed to follow the system’s advice, Shen Xiu still wanted to buy himself some time. He spoke in a soft, tentative voice to try negotiating:
“How about… I go after the Teles Award ceremony?”
If he could delay it, even a little, it felt like a blessing from above.
After speaking, he waited for three seconds. When he didn’t hear a reply from the system, Shen Xiu assumed silence meant consent. He let out a long, relieved breath.
That was close. He narrowly escaped this round!
—
After the news broke that the Storm production team had been invited to attend the 28th Teles Awards ceremony, netizens couldn’t help but recall the last time Shen Xiu had attended the Qingzhu Awards—only to walk away empty-handed.
As a result, people started speculating whether Shen Xiu would win anything this time, even launching a PK-style poll online.
Jian Jiayu, currently unemployed and idle at home scratching his feet, saw the poll asking whether Shen Xiu would once again walk away empty-handed at the Teles.
Without hesitation, he selected the “He will go home empty-handed” option.
Only after casting his vote did he get to see the results.
When he saw that the “He will NOT go home empty-handed” option had absolutely crushed the other choice in a landslide, Jian Jiayu’s expression turned so sour it was as if he’d swallowed a fly.
Even after what happened last time, he couldn’t understand why this group of fans was still so confident.
The Xiuologists blindly hyping their idol was understandable—after all, those brainless fans who remained after he “washed” his fandom were the kind who believed in his public image without question.
It was expected that members of The Galaxy would repost in support of Shen Xiu. That was fine. They were in the same group—they saw each other all the time, and they had to keep up appearances.
But… what was up with all these other artists?
Why were they also jumping on the bandwagon, confidently declaring things like, “If Shen Xiu doesn’t win, I’ll do a handstand while washing my hair”?
Were they just brainlessly praising him to suck up to his background and family connections?
Seeing post after post from fellow celebrities reposting in support—each one helping Shen Xiu and Storm gain even more attention—Jian Jiayu’s eyes turned red with envy.
He cursed silently in his heart, blaming the so-called haters for being useless—can’t even rig a vote properly.
—
Wednesday.
The crew of Storm arrived in Basat, the venue for this year’s Teles Awards.
When netizens saw the group photo of the main cast and production team at the Basat airport, posted recently on the Storm crew’s social media, they excitedly left comments.
— Ahhh, first row! Let me catch and kiss Xiu-baby! President Shang really is the president this time! It’s such a pity he didn’t go, sob sob. I really wanted to see the babies in the same frame!
— Heard Basat is a tiny bit chaotic. Babies, stay safe!
— I really don’t understand why the Teles Awards are being held in Basat this year. Even though the organizers said they hired bodyguards for every participating artist from abroad, and the local authorities will ensure everyone’s safety, I’m still really worried.
Shang Yu had wanted to go, but he was no longer the artist Shang Yu—he was now the heir to the Shang family.
Thankfully, no one in The Galaxy minded. Shang Yu could only keep working while staying updated on the crew’s whereabouts in Basat through their group chat.
With someone like Xiang Yueting—who talks about everything everywhere—around, Shang Yu never had to worry about not knowing what was going on.
