Chapter 97: The Response to the Finale
The dramas Voice of the Dead and The Path of Bones carried elements of thrill and suspense, while When I Was 18 maintained a plain and unassuming tone throughout. When the latter’s popularity score exceeded 16,000 at its conclusion, many within the industry couldn’t remain indifferent.
Those who hadn’t followed When I Was 18 specifically sought it out to study and analyze the reasons for its explosive success.
[…Warmth is the theme of When I Was 18. Though the series isn’t lengthy, it captures the details of everyday life for ordinary people. As I watched, my attention was entirely drawn to Huang Luning, hoping that his transformation would hold meaning and that he, along with those he loved and who loved him, would find happiness.]
[A TV series doesn’t need to be grandiose, but it must touch the heart. It’s been hours since the finale aired, yet I’m still reminiscing about the daily interactions of Huang Luning’s family.]
[The ending was so heartwarming—it gave me a sense of warmth in this cold world.]
Although most viewers’ reviews weren’t particularly professional, they conveyed a feeling: Huang Luning was like someone living among them, an ordinary person who went back in time and changed his life.
On closer examination, it wasn’t a drastic change. It didn’t stop the Earth from spinning, nor did it propel technology forward at lightning speed. Yet, during the days of following his story, it always brought a comforting warmth to the heart.
[I love every drama Lu Puppy has acted in!]
[When I Was 18 is now my top favorite!]
[Comparing When I Was 18 with Rising Sun, choosing the right actors really makes all the difference.]
After Rising Sun’s disastrous failure, the production team scrambled to shift blame onto Jin Mu, as no one wanted to take responsibility for the series’ defeat.
Objectively speaking, the script for Rising Sun was by no means inferior to When I Was 18. In fact, Jin Mu had invested more time and effort into the former than the latter.
However, the outcomes of the two productions were worlds apart.
What’s more, even though When I Was 18 became a massive hit, no one in the production team claimed all the credit.
Mu Qian expressed gratitude on Weibo, thanking Jin Mu for his scriptwriting and acknowledging the efforts of actors like Lu Xu, Han Xiao, and Zhou Lin.
Jin Mu, in turn, showed his appreciation for the actors who brought his words to life, transforming them into a deeply resonant story.
Lu Xu, who was filming with the Deception crew at the time, wrote a heartfelt essay about Huang Luning. He shared that he was first moved by the story of When I Was 18 and later discovered that the script was Jin Mu’s creation.
[The challenge of portraying an ordinary character lies in maintaining a sense of proximity. I always imagined Huang Luning as someone living nearby.
One day, I might go downstairs to eat and see him wolfing down his meal at the next table. I might spot him napping in a corner of the subway. Or I might witness him breaking down in tears over the loss of a loved one…]
Lu Xu rarely shared such sentimental reflections. As soon as this post went live, it was immediately reposted by other members of the When I Was 18 team.
[I absolutely adore Huang Luning!]
[As an audience member, it’s such a joy to see a beloved character cherished so deeply by the actor who played them!]
[Then there’s Rising Sun… I don’t even want to talk about it.]
Although Rising Sun was an older drama, its ties to some of the key players in When I Was 18 brought it back into the spotlight for renewed criticism.
A marketing account even ran with the headline “Same Writer, Different Execution,” comparing Lu Xu’s performance with Gu Sinian’s acting.
The contrast was nothing short of brutal.
Gu Sinian was so enraged that he smashed several cups in frustration. “Is this ever going to end?”
After all, he only had two flops, The Watchers and Rising Sun, yet it felt as though he’d been forever branded with disgrace.
“I might have flopped, but not as hard as The Swordsman, right?” Gu Sinian grumbled. “Could this trending topic have been bought by Ye Hai Entertainment?”
From what Gu Sinian knew of Lu Xu, he was unlikely to resort to such tactics. However, Lu Xu’s agency, Feiyang Entertainment, was a different story. That said, with When I Was 18 already a massive hit, its popularity alone was sufficient without needing to step on Rising Sun for added attention.
After all, Rising Sun was still one of Jin Mu’s dramas.
The more Gu Sinian thought about it, the more he felt that the negative trending topics about Rising Sun were likely orchestrated by Ye Hai Entertainment. After all, The Swordsman had been a catastrophic flop, and Ye Hai might be using this as a distraction to shift public focus.
His manager confirmed the suspicion. By the next morning, not only had Rising Sun returned to the trending topics, but so had the tag #Gu Sinian Vs Lu Xu Acting Comparison#.
Gu Sinian muttered, “…If they have this kind of money, why don’t they use it to boost The Swordsman’s box office instead?”
Gu Sinian had always been a bit underhanded—he was like that during his days in Verse, and he hadn’t changed after the group disbanded.
Silently, he posted ticket stubs for a comedy and a mystery film that had premiered on the same day as The Swordsman, captioning them, “Both are stories I really enjoyed!”
Ye Hai, naturally, understood the message behind Gu Sinian’s post.
Zhang Che’s dislike for Lu Xu now extended to all former members of Verse.
Although Xie Qingyang and Meng Qin had never crossed him, in his eyes, nothing good had ever come out of Verse.
…
When I Was 18 premiered in late August, perfectly aligning with the eligibility period for the next year’s Stellar Awards. The production team promptly submitted Lu Xu’s name for the Best Actor category.
Voice of the Dead also submitted Lu Xu and Shao Yao for Best Actor. However, their presence in that series paled in comparison to the impact of Huang Luning’s character.
As soon as the Stellar Awards opened for submissions, drama forums began to see a steady stream of prediction posts.
[I’m betting on Lu Xu winning Best Actor this time.]
[With Huang Luning’s performance, how far can Lu Xu be from the Stellar Best Actor title?]
In the past, whenever awards discussions came up, young actors were often excluded from the running. When Zhang Che tried for the Stellar Awards several times, most forum users were skeptical of his chances.
However, since Lu Xu’s nomination for Son of Heaven, public opinion had gradually shifted.
Even though Lu Xu didn’t win Best Actor for his role as Yu Yi, viewers felt his performance in The Path of Bones was nearly on par with Yue Hui’s.
Naturally, the topic shifted from predictions about the Stellar Best Actor award to anticipation for Lu Xu’s upcoming film, Deception.
Many forum users were optimistic about Lu Xu clinching the Stellar Best Actor title.
First, over the past year, there were hardly any dramas with greater impact than When I Was 18.
Second, Lu Xu had addressed the two shortcomings that held him back last year:
Experience – Although still young, Lu Xu had already been nominated for both Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor, making his credentials more than sufficient.
Role positivity – Huang Luning was a warm and uplifting character. Since the drama’s release, multiple official platforms had analyzed its value and positive influence.
One user even changed their username to “Has Lu Xu Won the Stellar Award Today?” and vowed not to change it back unless he won.
Although Deception was still in production, the buzz around whether Lu Xu could win the Stellar Award was so intense that Gao Xingchuan and Yue Hui had already decided on the film’s release date—to coincide with the Stellar Awards ceremony.
If Lu Xu won, Deception would be the first film featuring the newly crowned Stellar Best Actor.
If Lu Xu didn’t win the award—he would at least secure a nomination, and countless viewers would likely rally behind him, expressing their dissatisfaction. For the Deception crew, this was undoubtedly a way to draw audience attention.
Lu Xu sighed, “…Could you not make it sound so noble when you’re just using me?”
“Using you?!” Yue Hui clapped a hand on his shoulder with a righteous air. “This is called fulfilling our duty as actors.”
Lu Xu’s contract with the Deception crew wasn’t for a fixed salary; it was a profit-sharing agreement.
Although Deception marked Lu Xu’s first foray into film, his fame was undeniable, and the crew couldn’t possibly offer him a standard rookie actor’s pay.
But truth be told, the Deception production didn’t have much money.
The funding was entirely pulled together by Yue Hui. As everyone knows, making movies is a money-burning endeavor. Even with Deception being as cost-effective as possible, the crew still couldn’t afford high upfront salaries for the two leads.
Thus, both Yue Hui and Lu Xu signed profit-sharing contracts. The higher the box office revenue, the greater their earnings. As Yue Hui put it, they were both prepared to make sacrifices.
Lu Xu raised an eyebrow. “…I wasn’t prepared.”
Why did this feel like he’d boarded a pirate ship without realizing it?
…
For Lu Xu, Deception had one advantage over The Swordsman: the crew maintained a remarkably low profile during filming. They didn’t rush to release promotional teasers or boast about “revitalizing a fading genre.”
This approach was partly due to the mysterious nature of Deception’s content, which wasn’t suited for extensive pre-release reveals.
Moreover, in this film, both Yue Hui and Lu Xu had leading roles. The production wasn’t banking on Lu Xu alone to carry the box office. Even if the movie underperformed, the blame wouldn’t rest solely on his shoulders.
The game in Deception consisted of five rounds, each one progressively uncovering the true face of “Chang Qing”.
Shi Xinshan had suspected something was off about “Chang Qing” from the very beginning. However, he hadn’t anticipated that the “Chang Qing” who entered the game wasn’t the real one—it was someone else entirely. It wasn’t until the third round of the game that he realized this and demanded that “Chang Qing” reveal his true identity.
“Make sure to do a good job on his makeup,” Gao Xingchuan instructed the makeup artist early in the morning. “That face is worth a lot.”
Lu Xu sighed. “…Director, if you didn’t say that like a butcher selling pork at the market, I’d be happier.”
Gao Xingchuan, being about the same age as Lu Xu, had a casual rapport with him.
Ignoring Lu Xu’s complaint, Gao Xingchuan scrutinized his face closely, tossing out various suggestions as he observed.
For previous scenes, Gao Xingchuan had focused on pacing, but for today’s shoot, he had already briefed Lu Xu: the camera would zoom in on his face. The goal was to fully showcase Yan Huan’s brilliance, charisma, and sharp intellect.
“We’re going to hook the audience with your looks!”
Lu Xu deadpanned, “…Shouldn’t we rely on the plot instead?”
Oh well, he had already resigned himself to this fate.
Coincidentally, Shao Yao visited the set today. Seeing Lu Xu being fussed over first thing in the morning, he couldn’t help but chuckle suspiciously.
Lu Xu shot him a sharp look, silencing Shao Yao instantly.
“Trim the bangs a little shorter—make sure his eyes are fully visible, yes, that’s it!” Gao Xingchuan continued his stream of instructions.
The makeup artist didn’t do much to embellish Lu Xu’s features; his sharp, striking looks hardly needed it. Simply removing the glasses that belonged to “Chang Qing” and applying a light layer of foundation was enough.
Lu Xu was an actor who knew exactly how to command the camera. He understood how to captivate an audience.
Before the shoot, Lu Xu had been joking around with the director, but as soon as filming began, his demeanor shifted entirely.
As soon as Shi Xinshan finished speaking, “Chang Qing” smiled faintly. “Alright.”
The glasses were removed, revealing a radiant and striking face that clashed vividly with the eerie atmosphere of the game. At that moment, the person shed their previous rigid and dull demeanor, becoming suddenly vibrant and alive.
This round of the game was still about identifying the real culprit.
However, unlike the previous stage, where clues were frustratingly scarce, this round provided an overwhelming amount of information—tens of thousands of pieces.
The remaining participants at the table looked pale, while Yan Huan wore a faint smile at the corner of his lips. “It seems no one has chosen this answer?”
“Then I’ll make the choice.”
His gaze radiated confidence, making it impossible not to wonder whether his composure was genuine or just a facade.
But at this moment, Yan Huan was undeniably the center of attention. He was dazzling—so much so that it was hard to look away.
Then, as he made his selection, he raised an eyebrow slightly and gestured to one of the participants across the table. “My apologies—goodbye.”
His fingers formed the shape of a gun. There was no bullet, no smoke, yet as his words fell, a hidden mechanism in the floor suddenly activated, swallowing the participant entirely.
It felt as though Yan Huan was orchestrating everything.
