…sorry for the sudden hiatus, I genuinely thought I had queued the updates for last Thursday and today ;w;
as compensation, I’ll upload 3 chapters today!
That night, Lin Zhu blocked all of Zhong Yao’s team for half an hour.
The short break quickly passed, and by the next day filming was back on track.
Zhong Yao didn’t have much left to shoot. Over the next week his schedule was far lighter than before. Aside from finishing the remaining scenes from that night shoot, he only filmed some scattered shots to keep pace with the crew. Once he wrapped the climactic scene where his character sacrifices himself to protect the protagonist, he could officially finish and leave the set.
Since Zhong Yao wasn’t too busy, and Lin Song had also sent over top-level assistants to help, Lin Zhu was finally able to free up some time. He met with Tianxing several times, and the basic terms of cooperation were preliminarily set.
As the filming end drew closer, the actors’ schedules were filling up, forcing the production’s plans to keep shifting. After much shuffling, the final meeting with Tianxing happened to land on the same day as the shoot for Zhong Yao’s last big scene.
“It’s fine… Leaving some suspense will make the finished product feel more powerful.”
Lin Zhu hadn’t been in high spirits all morning, so Zhong Yao deliberately kept him in the dressing room, slipped a candy into his mouth, and ruffled his hair with a smile. “How about I talk to the director and push the scene to tomorrow?”
“No, no.”
Lin Zhu quickly shook his head. “The schedule’s already been changed eight times in two days. If we change it again, Director Wei will start throwing equipment.”
If it could be adjusted, they would have already done it. Tianxing’s press release was set to go out tomorrow, so the details had to be finalized today. And with the actors constantly having problems on set, if he asked for another change for personal reasons, the director might very well murder him on the spot.
Career came first, and Lin Zhu knew that clearly. Still, he couldn’t hide his reluctance. “Then please make sure your assistant takes plenty of photos…”
Zhong Yao chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’ll ask the assistant director for the unedited footage too.”
Lin Zhu’s eyes lit up. “Deal!”
The final scene was Zhan Yuan sacrificing himself in order to cover for the protagonist. This was also the show’s very first death scene[mfn]this is censored in the original, so I made a guess based on context[/mfn].
Wei Geping wanted an extremely strong visual impact. The storyboard artist had worked late into the night, revising the final sequence more than twenty times. The finished result was guaranteed to be even more stunning than anyone imagined.
Lin Zhu had been looking forward to this scene for a long time. Even if he couldn’t witness it in person, as long as he got his hands on the raw footage, he could edit and render it himself to his heart’s content.
Zhong Yao smiled, patiently making his promises, but his thoughts drifted to something from long ago.
Back then, the assistant director had mentioned in passing that Lin Zhu once edited together a compilation of sixteen of his works. Surprised, Zhong Yao had borrowed it and watched it a few times in secret.
Since the edit focused on acting highlights, there weren’t many clips from his raw and clumsy debut, and nothing particularly special stood out. But the footage itself was unusually clear, clearly not just a collection of scraps floating around online.
Zhong Yao had watched it again and again without result, yet he still felt that something was hidden in that old drama, waiting for him to rediscover it.
Judging by the clarity, Lin Zhu must have had access to the original footage…
Zhong Yao wanted to ask, but never found the right moment. Now, watching his agent sitting at the dressing table, sucking on candy while tapping away at his phone, Zhong Yao hesitated, then drew a quiet breath. “By the way, before—”
Lin Zhu’s phone chimed. Tianxing had sent over the prepared materials, ready for him to confirm.
He hopped down to change clothes, waiting for Zhong Yao to continue. But Zhong Yao only smiled and shook his head, pressing the sudden thought down for now. He ruffled his hair gently. “Another time. Be careful on the road, and drive slowly.”
Though he still didn’t know what clues that twelve-year-old series held, something told him it was important, too important to rush into under these circumstances.
Lin Zhu blinked, nodded obediently. “You be careful too. I heard explosion scenes are dangerous. Director Wei supposedly set up hundreds of charges. They say he’s planning to blow up the whole building…”
Zhong Yao knew what he was doing and nodded with a smile. But Lin Zhu still couldn’t help fussing, repeating his warnings before finally hurrying off to the meeting.
Zhong Yao’s luck was good.
Before Lin Zhu even arrived at Tianxing, word came from the crew that the filming schedule had been adjusted yet again.
Zheng Lingyang’s company had arranged for a full-day profile feature, bringing in plenty of media to secure a number-one trending spot and boost his visibility.
But the problem was, Zheng Lingyang only had a handful of low-key dialogue scenes that day. If Zhong Yao’s explosive sequence went ahead, it would once again steal all the attention.
As the only character to survive in a story where everyone else dies, Zheng Lingyang had oddly gotten the least exposure throughout the whole [No Bridge] publicity run.
Though Director Wei was focused entirely on filming, with the filming end approaching, he too gave in to human feelings. After cursing out Zheng Lingyang’s agent, he held back his anger long enough to reshuffle the schedule before Zhong Yao’s set was finished.
Remembering the last time Zheng Lingyang accidentally lost the trending spot, Director Wei went the extra mile — ordering Zhong Yao, who now had no scenes to film, not to show up on set at all. It was the greatest kindness he could offer.
Zheng Lingyang’s agent was so moved he gifted Zhong Yao two limited-edition Beatles vinyl records in thanks.
When Lin Zhu called back, Zhong Yao had just returned to his room, records in hand.
With no filming left, the great Film Emperor was bored to death. On a whim, he said, “Are you there yet? How about I come with you to the meeting?”
“No, no, the terms aren’t even finalized yet.” Lin Zhu was startled and quickly refused. “Negotiations aren’t done. The main star absolutely can’t show up. If anyone took a photo, there’d be no way to explain it.”
Zhong Yao was speechless, then compromised. “Then I’ll disguise myself and wait at the corner. Once you’re done, we’ll grab dinner—”
“No, no. A TV station is filled with nothing but reporters. You can’t possibly go there.”
Lin Zhu had just pulled into the parking lot, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear as he parked smoothly. “If you’re recognized, you’ll be mobbed. You wouldn’t escape in under an hour or two.”
After being blocked at every turn, Zhong Yao sighed. “But I’ve already cleared every stage of Candy Crush with three stars.”
“My fault. Next time I’ll leave you ten levels with one star so you can redo them.”
Lin Zhu stifled a laugh with a cough. Thinking of Zhong Yao sitting idle in the hotel, his heart softened. Tentatively, he suggested, “How about… you go out for a walk?”
Now that Zhong Yao could at least have some street photos leak out, Lin Zhu locked his car and added, “Just remember your sunglasses and mask, bundle up. Wear your usual clothes. It’ll give us a nice contrast against the youthful idol image from recent interviews. Just avoid the paparazzi hotspots, and you’ll be fine…”
On Zhong Yao’s end, he hesitated for a moment, then vaguely agreed, no one could tell what exactly he was thinking of.
The ever-upright Veteran Actor Zhong, who poured all his energy into acting and had no bad habits, always maintained excellent self-discipline. Lin Zhu wasn’t worried about him. They agreed to have dinner together later, then hung up. Lin Zhu quickened his pace and entered the Tianxing TV building.
He had been to Tianxing headquarters before, and some of the longer-tenured staff still remembered him quite well. Before the guard at the entrance could even stop him, the department head waved frantically to let him through. He went straight into the elevator without a hitch.
Lin Zhu was long accustomed to this kind of treatment. Without pause, he went all the way to the top floor and knocked on the director’s office door.
“No one comes to the main hall for no reason. Seeing you here is really rare.”
The station director, in his early sixties with graying hair, was watching the station’s Mid-Autumn Festival street interview livestream. Spotting Lin Zhu, he smiled and waved him in. “Sit. What’s up with Zhong Yao this time?”
Lin Zhu was momentarily speechless, then greeted politely. “Director Lin, sorry to disturb you.”
“Now you’re so well-behaved. But wasn’t it you who once slammed my desk?”
The director chuckled, motioning him to sit while he got up himself. “These past years you never once showed your face. Artists came and went under you, yet you never brought any here, except for that one farewell press conference for Zhong Yao. And for that you’ve hated us all this time?”
Lin Zhu gave a dry laugh. “No, I just hadn’t come across the right opportunity for collaboration… until now.”
What the director said wasn’t wrong.
Lin Zhu had watched that farewell press conference hundreds of times, until he could recite every word by heart.
During that period, he hadn’t been in the best frame of mind, and Tianxing’s glaring station logo had suffered his resentment. So even when cooperation opportunities came up, he would skim over them and toss them aside without a glance.
If Zhong Yao hadn’t really come back, Lin Zhu might never have watched Tianxing again in his life.
The director could already guess the truth. Without comment, he poured him a cup of coffee.
Lin Zhu stood to thank him, accepted the coffee, then handed over a proposal. “These are our suggestions, with slight adjustments within the allowable limits. It won’t put the station or the program team in a difficult spot. Please take a look—”
“If you’ve brought it here, then even if I wanted to negotiate, in the end I’d still have to agree. Better to save the effort.”
The director accepted the proposal but didn’t read it, simply set it aside. His gaze softened as he looked at the young man before him, so different from three years ago, and he smiled faintly. “You’re really devoted. So, you’ve finally gotten your wish? I hear Zhong Yao treats you well, even defended you during a live broadcast… Seems you two have the same temperament.”
Lin Zhu smiled, warmth in his eyes. “My wish is fulfilled. I’m content with everything.”
“Don’t be too content. Leave yourself a way out.”
The director had gotten to know him back then through conflict, but he had always had a good impression of this young man. He patted Lin Zhu’s shoulder. “Don’t blame me for pouring cold water… People change. Right now he’s close to you because he’s starting over, building everything from scratch. But once you really prop him up, give him the power to call the shots. Who knows how his heart might change?”
Tianxing itself had once invested heavily in several star hosts, only for every one of them to be lured away by bigger offers from rival stations. Some had even bitten the hand that fed them, publicly criticizing Tianxing for unfair treatment and harsh contracts, all in the sake of popularity and hype.
Sharing hardship but not prosperity was already the norm in the industry. After a lifetime in television, the director had seen too many such ingrates.
He knew better than anyone how far Lin Zhu had gone for Zhong Yao. Watching him still stumble along all these years without changing his heart, the director felt both comforted and concerned.
Lin Zhu shook his head firmly. “He won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
The director couldn’t help but laugh in exasperation, shaking his head. “Anyone can see that being with you means resources and a spotless reputation. Maybe he just values your capability.”
Lin Zhu only smiled faintly and lowered his gaze, saying nothing.
Seeing him still stubbornly clinging on, the director grew more pained. He sighed. “Actors are all good at acting. The man you’ve set your sights on is an award-winning actor. No matter how close, it can only ever be private. You know, he knows, and maybe a handful around you know. But for a lifetime, it can never be brought to light. Can’t you think of yourself—”
Before he could finish, the live broadcast suddenly erupted with shrill screams of excitement.
The microphone quality was poor, combined with the noisy background, leaving both men’s ears ringing. They raised their heads at the same time.
“What’s wrong with these rookie reporters nowadays? So unprofessional. Screaming and fussing, no composure at all…”
The director frowned and reached to switch it off, when his gaze froze in shock.
On the giant HD screen, under the clear autumn sky, a tall figure in a sharp Italian bespoke coat, with sunglasses and a mask covering his face, was cornered by the camera. In his hands were two large boxes of freshly bought ice cream mooncakes. He was helplessly surrounded, answering the reporters’ breathless questions.
“Yes, for Mid-Autumn Festival.”
“I eat them too… Yes, I like this flavor as well.”
“He likes sweet things. I… I also think it tastes good. Watching him eat makes it taste good to me.”
“Another one? Yes, I bought more— for family… to share. We’ll spend the festival together, the two of us. I’ve already planned it all out.”
This certain Mr. Zhong, a “random passerby” who refused to reveal his name, was hidden tightly behind sunglasses and mask, struggling through the street interview. Gradually, he regained his footing, his words carrying an unmistakable thread of smug, self-satisfied pride.
“Other flavors? I’ll buy those for him next year. There are a dozen kinds. In ten or so years, I’ll have bought them all…”
