Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Troubles of the Famous

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(Fond thanks to Caimile, Polu2005, and Cangping for your generous rewards—truly appreciated!)

The New Year began on February 4th, yet Wu Xiang, who should have been an exceptionally busy man, lingered at home until almost the start of the new semester before returning to Yanjing.

There was no other reason—February 14th is Valentine’s Day, after all. If Wu Xiang went back alone while Haiqing remained in her hometown, was he supposed to stare forlornly at all the couples displaying their sweetness everywhere?

Ah, in truth, this wasn’t a matter of Wu Xiang lacking romance. The real issue was that Haiqing was terribly shy. To be fair, she also had her reasons—she wanted to be filial, to spend the New Year with her parents, and so on.

But in reality, it was her shyness that prevailed. For instance, Wu Xiang had planned a birthday celebration for her, yet she found a slew of excuses and fled home beforehand. As a result, she didn’t even show up for the show they were working on. Wu Xiang had pointed out that joining such activities would benefit her career, but Haiqing just didn’t think it mattered—a promotional event was nothing compared to going home.

A shy girlfriend wasn’t such a big deal, but what Wu Xiang didn’t expect was that, before he left Shenyang, his mother assigned him a task.

“These are the works of my comrade’s cousin’s child. Take a look. Don’t you write songs? And novels too? See if this child has any talent in that direction. Why the sour face?”

Faced with the stack of manuscripts his mother brought, Wu Xiang felt a bit exasperated—his mother’s comrade’s cousin’s child? That’s quite a distant connection.

Wasn’t this just pulling strings, using connections? Wu Xiang had always looked down on such things—though in truth, he’d never had the chance to pull strings even if he wanted to. No one cared about him before. But now, the situation had changed.

This time, people were asking him for a favor, and Wu Xiang couldn’t help but feel a certain satisfaction.

But his mother continued, “Actually, this child has had a tough time. A good kid—started hosting on television while still in secondary school, more accomplished than you. But in college, something happened and he got implicated and expelled. Still, he’s a good kid—last year he got into the Central Academy of Drama. I hear there were complications, but he managed in the end. His mother just feels he’s had a rough couple of years. Now he’s in a performance class, but wants to sing as well. If he can’t make it as a singer, what then? His mother’s worried, so she asked me to have you—her big-shot director son—look after him, or at least see if he’s got potential as a singer. I already agreed. Now that you’re both in the capital, I can keep an eye on things, right?...”

His mother could go on endlessly, and Wu Xiang really had no way to argue. Fine, just obey and be a good son.

After he agreed to his mother’s request, his father came over as well.

“Your mother made big promises at the mahjong table. So, you have to handle this well—otherwise, she’ll lose face, and neither of us will hear the end of it...”

His father added a bit of inside information—his mother had now officially retired, though she was only forty-five. As far as Wu Xiang remembered, his mother had merely been laid off, not retired. Retirement had strict rules: women who’d done heavy labor or hazardous work could retire early. His mother had worked in a steel factory and met the requirements, but in his previous life she never managed to retire—her quota got blocked. But now...

No need to spell it out—someone had clearly helped, probably because Wu Xiang was now a director. The unspoken quid pro quo was obvious. Well, it was just doing someone a favor. If nothing else, perhaps he could offer this person a small part in a future film, just as a gesture.

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That was Wu Xiang’s initial thought, but after reading those manuscripts, his perspective shifted.

Take those martial arts novels, for example. After 2000, the genre had truly declined—no market for print, and dwindling readers online. In Wu Xiang’s estimation, posting such stories online would bring, at best, a minor stipend for consistency.

But the song was something else. It was called “Gazing at the Sea,” and it showed some real skill. And the name signed at the bottom...

Chen Sicheng. Yes, that Chen Sicheng. While reviewing the novels, he’d noticed the author used a pen name, but the song was different.

Wu Xiang couldn’t help but smile. This kid was full of tricks—not only in the future, but already causing a stir.

Before coming to the capital, Wu Xiang had spoken with Chen Sicheng twice by phone, agreeing to meet at the Film Academy. Wu Xiang was simply curious to see if this young man’s trademark smirk was still as pronounced as ever.

Chen Sicheng readily agreed, but when Wu Xiang arrived at the academy after getting off the train...

“Director Wu Xiang? Are you Director Wu Xiang? Can you say a few words to us?” This was definitely not Chen Sicheng—it was a stranger, microphone in hand.

“What would you like me to say?” The question came out of nowhere—how was Wu Xiang supposed to know what to say?

Suddenly, a crowd closed in.

“Hey, Wu Xiang is here! He finally showed up for class!”

“Director Wu, how do you feel about breaking several box office records at such a young age?”

“Director Wu, what’s your opinion on the currently sluggish domestic box office?”

“Director Wu, ‘First Intimate Encounter’ grossed eighty-seven million—will you be donating the proceeds again?”...

Question after question—Wu Xiang quickly realized these were all reporters, fully equipped.

He had miscalculated! On the train, Wu Xiang had worn sunglasses, getting a taste of being a celebrity. He had figured that, once at the Film Academy, it wouldn’t matter—this place was crawling with stars and big shots; he’d be just another face in the crowd.

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With such enthusiastic attention, Wu Xiang had to admit he had never experienced anything like this, not in either of his lives. He felt he had no choice but to answer a few questions.

“Those records—honestly, I have no particular feelings. I never expected it myself.”

“As for the sluggish film market, well, we’re still at the starting line, still feeling our way forward. We need to find an operating model that fits the current market.”

“I haven’t even received the box office returns yet,” Wu Xiang said truthfully—he hadn’t been paid yet.

Sometimes, you just can’t indulge people too much. The moment the reporters saw Wu Xiang answer, they pressed in tighter, their questions coming even faster, the crowd swelling.

“Director Wu, you’ve beaten Director Feng Xiaogang at the New Year box office—any thoughts?”

Now that was a loaded question—wasn’t this trying to set him up?

“I’m just a newcomer, making my own films. What others do really has nothing to do with me.”

Wu Xiang was getting a bit frustrated, and the questions only grew more bizarre—these were clearly tabloid reporters. The crowd kept growing, with more and more onlookers joining in. Wu Xiang realized he’d never make it to class at this rate, so he decided to take action.

“Director Wu, I haven’t finished my questions yet!”

“Oh no! Wu Xiang is making a run for it! Everyone, catch him!”

“After him!”...

Good grief! Wu Xiang dashed into the school as if fleeing for his life...

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