Chapter 32: The Storm Breaks

“And he will only get better.”

The host also laughed. “Are you referring to Shen Chao’s current web drama ‘Nine Streams’? Has he delivered action scenes even more stunning than the movie version?”

Su Xuan looked straight at the host. “He already has.”

“Really? I don’t believe it. Director Hua said on our show that every part of that movie is hard to surpass, especially Shen Chao’s scenes—they required a specific moment to bring out that effect. Even if you asked him to redo it, he might not be able to recreate it.”

“Then just wait and see,” Su Xuan said. “Shen Chao’s action scenes in ‘Nine Streams’ are even better than before.”

He said seriously, “So good that I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to film something like that in my lifetime.”

“If one day I can film such a scene, by then Shen Chao will have already reached an even higher level. He’s truly amazing, and I really look forward to his future.”

The host smiled. “Su Xuan, you sound like a fan of Shen Chao.”

Su Xuan gave a small smile. “Not really a fan. Just someone who has witnessed his growth.”

When Su Xuan got on the plane, he let out a tired sigh. He said to Ning Xinyang, who had been following him like a transparent person, “When we get back, pack up. We’re heading to the set.”

Ning Xinyang nodded. “Okay.”

[The plane is about to take off. Please fasten your seatbelts…]

Ning Xinyang hesitated, then asked, “Su Xuan, the host kept asking about Shen Chao during your personal interview… aren’t you angry?”

Su Xuan was startled. “No, not angry.”

Ning Xinyang looked confused. “But last time someone asked about Shen Chao during Fu Ge’s interview, Fu Ge got so mad that afterward he bought up all the Shen Chao posters at a high price and pasted them on his boxing sandbag to punch every day…”

Su Xuan: “…”

For some reason, Su Xuan found this surprisingly predictable. Fu Mu had always hated Shen Chao—since before Shen Chao was even famous, back when he was still at Leaf Media. He hated him so much that he would do things like replace the toilet paper in the bathroom with extra-spicy fire chicken noodle seasoning packets when Shen Chao went in.

Luckily, Shen Chao always carried his own toilet paper.

If Leaf Media hadn’t strictly prohibited fighting, Fu Mu would have brawled with Shen Chao. And even with the ban, they did fight when Shen Chao left.

Ning Xinyang stammered, “Su Xuan… is Shen Chao’s action acting really that good?”

“Yes, and he’s still young. Once his body gets used to the training, he’ll be even better,” Su Xuan said. “But I haven’t seen him for so long. He’s probably even better than when I left.”

Ning Xinyang’s eyes widened. “Is it really that exaggerated?”

Su Xuan smiled helplessly. “Yeah, because he’s in great physical shape and has amazing execution… Compared to him, I feel like a total loser.”

As he spoke, Su Xuan’s voice trailed off. Ning Xinyang looked over and saw Su Xuan leaning back against his seat, fast asleep.

Ning Xinyang paused, then asked a flight attendant for a blanket and covered Su Xuan. He shook his head with a wry smile—tired as he was, he’d been so animated just moments ago talking about Shen Chao.

Ning Xinyang noticed Su Xuan’s phone still buzzing with messages. Without looking at the content, he took it and switched it to airplane mode, then went to sleep himself.

[Liu Pangpang: Message me as soon as you land! Something’s happened to Shen Chao!!!!]

Su Xuan’s brow furrowed uneasily. In his dream, Shen Chao’s back was slowly disappearing into the rain.

A downpour.

A small landslide occurred at the filming location of “Nine Streams,” but the crew had good safety measures and retreated quickly.

The only accident involved Song Xiao. She had been soaked in rain all day, her clothes heavy with water. The costume became even heavier as it absorbed moisture, dragging her down and making her stumble several times.

Halfway through the retreat, someone stepped on her costume, and she fell. Suddenly, her face went pale, and she clutched her lower abdomen. She couldn’t move. Then a secondary landslide happened, and she was about to be buried. Shen Chao, still in costume, reacted faster than anyone. He drove a broken sword deep into the mountainside, shielding Song Xiao, and in an instant, he was covered in mud, rocks, and debris.

Song Xiao was completely stunned. Drenched, her lips trembling and pale, she stared at Shen Chao standing before her. Tears burst from her eyes. “Shen Chao…”

Shen Chao’s face was scratched by branches. He shook his head, refusing help, and said, “Someone, help her out.”

He couldn’t move; if he did, both would be buried. Shen Chao grimaced with effort, kneeling on one knee under the weight of the mud and rocks. The debris shifted, drawing screams from the others.

Shen Chao shook his head. “I’m fine. Call the park staff.”

By the time the park staff arrived, Shen Chao had been kneeling in the mud for half an hour. He was soaked in sludge, his face as pale as paper.

When they pulled him out, someone shouted, “It looks like a fracture! Don’t move him! Where’s the doctor?!”

By the time Shen Chao was rushed to the hospital, the news had exploded. It was an earthquake across the entire industry.

Fans begged for news on his official account, while others seized the opportunity to mock him, saying no one had died, so why pray? They claimed Shen Chao had disrupted the ecological balance and getting hit by rocks was karma.

Some even photoshopped black-and-white photos of him and lit virtual candles. The black campaign against Shen Chao was fierce, instantly clashing with his frantic fans.

Star Culture’s PR department went into overdrive, but even the director couldn’t stop frowning. This wasn’t the first time Shen Chao had been targeted online—popularity breeds jealousy. As many people love you as hate you, believing the world’s love is finite and Shen Chao had stolen theirs.

But those people forget that Shen Chao is Shen Chao precisely because of his unique qualities. He’s admired and favored for a reason.

Some people are indeed born to be in the spotlight.

This black campaign was especially vicious. The PR director had never seen anything like it.

It seemed as though Shen Chao, who drew everyone’s attention, was an anomaly—and now all that hatred was converging to attack him. That, too, defied reason.

There had to be a major company behind it, someone out to get Shen Chao.

But the director had never felt so trapped. They couldn’t follow the opponent’s script, which clearly aimed to force Star Culture to reveal Shen Chao’s injury details. If they did, Shen Chao would be painted as a victim begging for sympathy, spiraling out of control.

Star Culture refused to let Shen Chao become a sympathy case. Shen Chao himself had explicitly rejected any such marketing. He’d been injured before but never disclosed details. This time, caught off guard, the PR team hadn’t been prepared before the attack.

Playing the victim, whether subjective or objective, was never a good strategy in the entertainment industry. People’s joys and sorrows don’t connect outside of work. Sympathy is fleeting; overdoing it only invites annoyance.

And Shen Chao was still so young. He couldn’t be labeled with ‘tragedy’. He was destined for greatness.

So he couldn’t and wouldn’t play the victim. They couldn’t open that door.

The opponent leaked a recording of a conversation between the park and the “Nine Streams” crew. The park urged the crew to leave quickly, citing possible environmental damage causing an early rainy season. The crew replied that Shen Chao’s reshoots would finish soon.

On the surface, it seemed innocuous. But combined with rumors about environmental damage from filming and Shen Chao delaying production, the narrative shifted dramatically. Worse, the crew’s official stance was that Shen Chao was fine.

When Song Xiao revealed she was seriously injured, the situation spiraled. Some began calling for Shen Chao, a mere pretty face attracting traffic, to leave the industry.

Negative reviews from passersby skyrocketed. Black kept rising. Old scandals were dug up one by one. Searching Shen Chao’s name returned nothing but smear campaigns—not just about this incident, but everything from years past.

Fights with other male stars, vague relationships that ended messily, stealing resources and fighting for status…

It was like an avalanche. Once someone pushed the snow down the mountain, the discussion exploded, and a chain reaction was inevitable. Hard to control, with plenty of people fanning the flames.

Shen Chao had enjoyed popularity for so long that he’d accumulated proportional hatred.

#ShenChaoBadActing #ShenChaoOnlyLooks #ShenChaoDoesntDeserveHisMoney #ShenChaoHurtSongXiao

The snowball of public opinion grew bigger. #ShenChaosLeaveEntertainmentAndPark trended. Star Culture’s repeated reassurances failed to calm Shen Chao’s fans, who started fighting back with increasingly extreme words. Screenshots of those words were circulated by marketing accounts, framing Shen Chao as misleading youth…

The PR director broke into a sweat. What to do? What to do?

Which company is behind this? Damn it! Such a huge operation! How many trending topics did they buy?

This was premeditated! They must have coordinated with some park staff before Shen Chao even joined the “Nine Streams” crew!

Someone looked at the director helplessly. “We can’t control it!”

The director pursed his lips. “Normal. Many bystanders have been misled and joined in.”

Another person asked anxiously, “…Should we release the specifics of Shen Chao’s injuries?”

The director let out a long, long sigh. He had led many PR battles for Shen Chao, like a general under his lord. Though not undefeated, he had never let his master fall to the point of begging the whole country: “I’m badly injured, please pity me, stop attacking me.”

His master was still lying in a hospital bed, and he was about to lose a battle and then have to use that very pity to salvage whatever dignity remained.

That wasn’t Shen Chao. Shen Chao shouldn’t be like this.

The director closed his eyes, letting go of the mouse in exhaustion. “…Release it.”

His phone rang. He opened his eyes and answered.

The voice on the other end sounded like it had been through a storm of tears, but struggled to stay calm. “I’m Song Xiao. I want to ask—if I reveal now that I’m pregnant and delayed the filming schedule, and that Shen Chao got injured saving me, can that shift the focus onto me and save him?”

The director was completely stunned. “…Ha?! Whose is it?”

Song Xiao’s voice trembled, but she pressed on. “It’s not Shen Chao’s. Would my premarital pregnancy scandal be enough to save him?”

She couldn’t help crying out. “He can’t be destroyed like this!!!”

Song Xiao seemed to stomp her foot, her sobs shaking her voice. “I won’t allow it!!!”

The plane landed smoothly. Ning Xinyang patted Su Xuan awake. He put on his mask, rubbed his eyes, and opened his phone. The vibration was so intense it nearly slid off his lap. Su Xuan stared dumbfounded as his phone buzzed for almost a minute before stopping.

What happened?! Did they expose that time he wore a rainbow dress to a parade?

Su Xuan opened his phone. All expression drained from his face, leaving only a blank void.

Then he turned and ran, not even grabbing his luggage. Ning Xinyang scrambled to pick up their bags and chase after him. “What’s wrong?!”

Su Xuan took a deep breath. He opened his mouth, then opened it again. Finally, his eyes reddened, his lower lip trembling uncontrollably, he choked out a few words through clenched teeth: “…Something happened to Shen Chao.”

Ning Xinyang froze.

Su Xuan turned off his phone. Ning Xinyang caught a glimpse of the screen—a long article titled: [Shen Chao Suspected of Severe Lower Back Injury: Can He Still Deliver That Mythical Sword Strike in the Web Drama?]

It was written by the host who had interviewed Su Xuan earlier.

Without even leaving the airport, Su Xuan bought tickets and rushed with Ning Xinyang to the hospital where Shen Chao was. Liu Pangpang told him to calm down and not interfere, but Su Xuan ignored him, earning a string of curses.

When they arrived, the hospital entrance was swarming with reporters.

Su Xuan went around to the back entrance, where Hua Na led him upstairs. More than ten hours had passed since the incident. Panting heavily, Su Xuan asked Hua Na, “How is Shen Chao?”

Hua Na looked dazed. “I don’t know either. They did a CT scan. The doctor said he has a lumbar spine fracture and needs surgery, but they can’t do it here. He needs to be transferred, but the reporters are everywhere. If they move him…”

Hua Na nodded toward a room. “Song Xiao is inside too. Go on in.”

Song Xiao sat on a small stool, still in costume, wailing. Her hands shook. “Shen Chao, how can they f*cking curse you like that?! This has nothing to do with you!! Why won’t you let me say I’m pregnant?!”

Su Xuan’s hand froze on the door.

She cried so hard she could barely breathe, wiping her tears with her palm. “You’re the godfather—he’s half your kid! What’s wrong with exposing him a bit early to save you?!”

Shen Chao interrupted her. “You can’t say that. You were supposed to finish filming, get married, and keep your child and your lover safe from harm.”

Song Xiao’s tears kept falling. “Then what about you? They say you delayed the shoot—it’s all bullshit! If it weren’t for me…”

“It’s not because of you.” Shen Chao turned to look at her, his gaze calm. “You acted wonderfully.”

Song Xiao broke down again.

Su Xuan knocked. Song Xiao looked up, wiped her eyes, and left with a pitiful expression. “Su Xuan’s here. I’ll stop bothering you. Talk to him.”

At the door, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and whispered, “Su Xuan, thank you so much for coming. Can you… stay with him a while?”

Su Xuan was silent for a moment. “If he needs me to.”

He walked in slowly, sat down, and first turned his head to steady his breathing, afraid he might break down crying.

Shen Chao’s face was pale. He had been changed into clean clothes, but he seemed eerily weak. Shen Chao was always a calm person, but not this lifeless, powerless.

Su Xuan fought to keep his voice even. “How are you?”

Shen Chao half-lidded his eyes. “Why are you here?”

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” Su Xuan couldn’t hold back. Tears streamed down his face as he choked back sobs, trying to maintain composure. His words came out broken. “Why can’t I come?”

After shouting, Su Xuan seemed to realize he’d lost control. He turned away, took a few deep breaths, and wiped his eyes.

Shen Chao seemed taken aback by Su Xuan’s tears. Awkwardly, he explained, “…It was too sudden.”

Su Xuan felt ridiculous for crying. He covered his face with his hands, head down, his words disjointed. “…The surgery… when are you transferring?”

Shen Chao shook his head. “Surgery isn’t necessary. ‘Nine Streams’ can’t wait that long.”

Su Xuan was shocked. “You’re going to keep filming?!”

“There might be some aftereffects,” Shen Chao nodded. “But I’m used to it. It’s nothing.”

His fingers twitched on the bed. His gaze fell on Su Xuan’s profile, deep and soft beyond belief. Finally, he reached out and ruffled Su Xuan’s hair. Meeting Su Xuan’s bewildered eyes, Shen Chao’s face relaxed. “So stop crying. Just wait for me to come back to set.”

“Seeing you cry is worse than lying here,” Shen Chao said softly.

Su Xuan walked out of the hospital room in a daze, collapsing onto the bench outside. Opposite him sat Song Xiao and Hua Na.

Song Xiao asked anxiously, “Su Xuan, what did Shen Chao say?”

Su Xuan stared blankly, turning his head toward her. “He said not to involve you in any PR plans.”

Song Xiao grew frantic. “But this is my fault! If I hadn’t come to shoot this lead role while pregnant, and then slipped in the mudslide dragging Shen Chao down…”

Su Xuan slowly shook his head. “If we’re talking about fault, Song Xiao, I’m the one who’s most at fault. If I hadn’t replaced Emperor Wang, your filming schedule would have been much faster, and you could have left before the mudslide.”

Song Xiao blurted out, “How can you blame yourself?!”

Su Xuan stared at her steadily. Under his gaze, Song Xiao’s resistance crumbled. “…I get it. So what do we do about the public opinion now?”

Su Xuan opened his mouth, struggling to speak. Finally, he forced out the words hoarsely: “…Shen Chao says he wants to keep filming. No surgery, just conservative treatment. He’ll hold a press conference to address the public…”

Song Xiao and Hua Na were dumbfounded. Song Xiao couldn’t believe it. “What did you say?!”

Su Xuan exhaled, head bowed. “He’s already decided. Director Hua, prepare to announce it.”

“Wait?! I disagree!!” Song Xiao shot up, hopping with agitation. “How can he be so reckless?! Does he know the consequences…”

“Aftereffects,” Su Xuan cut her off calmly. “He knows. But Shen Chao said since he’s already started, there’s no reason to quit. He wants to finish.”

Song Xiao stared blankly, then plopped back down, muttering, “Even if it means permanent damage to his lower back, and he can never perform those stunning action scenes again, he’s okay with that?”

Su Xuan’s hands clenched into fists. “Yes, he’s okay with it.”

Many actors have left the industry due to injury or illness. They may have once shone brilliantly, but after getting hurt, no matter how long they struggle on, it’s always a messy exit. People compare their current selves to their past glory, lamenting that they’re not as good as before. Every minute they linger in the circle adds to their humiliation.

Everyone knows this.

Shen Chao knows it too. The more brilliant he was, the more pity or sighs he’ll attract in the future. Surgery doesn’t guarantee he can handle such intense action anymore.

So he wants to at least finish this last role, then fade away quietly.

Once Hua Na left to coordinate with Star Culture’s PR, Song Xiao looked at Su Xuan. “You didn’t oppose his decision?”

Su Xuan hesitated. “I couldn’t. If it were me, I’d probably finish it too.”

Song Xiao’s tears welled up again. “Why? It’s just a web drama.”

“I don’t know what Shen Chao thinks, but for me… maybe because Shen Chao is in it.” Su Xuan lowered his gaze. “This is the first collaboration between us in four years. It’s meaningful… I have to finish it. To let someone else take over my role—I’d regret it too much.”

Song Xiao was stunned.

She understood why Shen Chao insisted on filming: because Su Xuan was there. Su Xuan was still in the show. Shen Chao had waited four years for this chance to work together again. Miss it, and who knows how many more fours it would take. He’d regret it too.

He had been so eager to pull Su Xuan out of Wang Muzhe’s crew, almost afraid Su Xuan would run away. How could he be willing to quit now?

Su Xuan found it a bit ironic. He now understood Wang Muzhe’s feelings—to have a role you created taken over by someone else, especially if that someone else earned Shen Chao’s approval, would be unbearable.

Song Xiao finally leaned back in understanding, wiping her eyes. A sad smile crossed her face. “It reminds me of when Shen Chao and I were filming ‘Hoofbeats in the Dust.’ He got injured a lot back then, and the infirmary had a special room for him. But he insisted on finishing.”

She turned to Su Xuan, tears and mirth mingled. “He told me about a crew he’d been with once. The script was borderline, the whole set was chaotic, and everyone wanted to leave. But one actor stayed. That actor grabbed Shen Chao on the street, said he was perfect for a role, and wanted him to play his boyfriend.”

Su Xuan’s eyes widened as Song Xiao continued:

“He didn’t agree, but that guy kept pestering him. Shen Chao finally joined—and felt like he’d been tricked by a con artist.”

Su Xuan: “…”

See, Shen Chao totally thought they were a scam!

Song Xiao looked at Su Xuan. “Then Shen Chao asked that actor why he insisted on staying. And he said—

‘Since I’m in it, I have to finish it.'”

Su Xuan was stunned.

Song Xiao smiled, speaking to the oblivious Su Xuan. “When Shen Chao was filming with me, he talked about that actor every day. He said if they ever got to work together again, he would—”

—He would tell Su Xuan that the WeChat number he gave back then was for him, not for the director. You scammer, Su Xuan.

Scammer Su Xuan never added that WeChat before leaving the crew. He had no idea Shen Chao waited until he left that spot, waited for a friend request that never came.

Su Xuan had added everyone in the crew—except for the very first person who gave him his number: Shen Chao.

After Hua Na discussed with Star Culture, they held an emergency meeting with the producers and investors. Finally, they approved Shen Chao’s plan: not dropping out, holding a press conference.

And finding a stunt double for Shen Chao.

Shen Chao rarely used doubles. Back when filming “Hoofbeats in the Dust,” Director Liu hated using doubles. Song Xiao learned ethnic dance, and Shen Chao learned archery—all genuine skills. The habit stuck.

But now, with his injury and remaining high-difficulty action scenes, a stunt double was necessary.

After the official announcement that Shen Chao wouldn’t leave the show, Star Culture’s PR faced another wave of attacks—but this time, the opponent was getting desperate, showing their hand. Star Culture’s investigation into the paid trolls’ IPs revealed the culprit.

It was UK.

UK, short for ukulele, was a Sino-foreign joint venture focused on music and film media. It also invested in hotels and other industries, with headquarters in Hong Kong and abroad. It had a long history, deep roots, and complex backing. It was Wang Muzhe’s former employer.

Beyond that, UK had a secret grudge against Star Culture.

Director Liu, the executive who had poached Shen Chao and Wang Muzhe from UK, was the ex-wife of UK’s largest shareholder. After their messy divorce, she left to found Star Culture and had been thriving ever since.

The two companies had been at odds for years, but they’d never gone to war on this scale.

By evening, the PR department found an answer amid the overwhelming information. Before Star Culture could officially announce the role change, UK had already leaked that Shen Chao was out and that a newcomer would take over. Whether people supported or opposed it, the discussion exploded.

The PR director understood: UK planned to step on Shen Chao to promote their new star, branding him as Shen Chao’s successor.

He was familiar with the tactic—Leaf Media’s Fu Mu had risen to fame riding on “Little Shen Chao” buzz.

But this time was different. This wasn’t just about borrowing heat; they wanted to knock Shen Chao down completely.

After all, successors only appear when the predecessor is dead.

UK truly wanted to snatch this resource. If Shen Chao was replaced by this newcomer, no matter how the newcomer performed, they could always use the swap as a marketing point.

Unlike Wang Muzhe or Su Xuan’s cases, this was a malicious replacement, extremely harmful to Shen Chao.

This was beyond the PR department’s control; it involved investors.

The director immediately called Director Liu. “Director Liu, regarding Shen Chao…”

“I know.” A gentle but firm voice interrupted him. “I’ve already heard that some people are threatening to pull funding unless we recast. I won’t let that influence our decision. But is Shen Chao really okay? Can he still play this role?”

Shen Chao had been transferred to a hospital near the film set. The doctor gave similar advice: surgery or conservative treatment. Surgery was riskier but potentially more effective; conservative treatment had lower risk but higher chance of aftereffects. The choice was up to the patient.

If he chose conservative treatment, he’d need to rest for about a month. Surgery outcomes were uncertain—it could be better or worse than conservative. It all depended on the patient.

But Shen Chao had clearly made his choice.

The crew asked Su Xuan to stay with Shen Chao.

Su Xuan watched as Shen Chao read a book with an indecipherable title, looking perfectly at peace—unlike the internet storm raging around him. Su Xuan, however, was not handling it well. He had scrolled through his phone all day, frustrated, wishing he had a thousand keyboards to battle the professional fans of that celebrity named Du Mu.

Du Mu was the so-called “Shen Chao successor” promoted by UK. Su Xuan could tell at a glance that UK was using professional fans.

Du Mu’s positioning was similar to Shen Chao’s—the “descending purple star” route, a debut superstar. His persona was: a rich playboy in the entertainment industry, who’d inherit the family fortune if he didn’t study. It was a common trope, but Du Mu’s background had been dug up (or perhaps deliberately leaked). His father was UK’s largest shareholder.

He was a true prince.

He had been casually guest-starring in movies with top actors since childhood. Recently, he starred in two short literary films as the lead. He wasn’t famous, but after watching, Su Xuan had to admit grudgingly—

Du Mu acted well.

And he was good-looking. From certain angles, his profile resembled Shen Chao’s, but head-on, he seemed more frivolous. He had peach-blossom eyes and a pronounced lip pearl, the kind of face that appealed to female audiences—a bit roguish.

Su Xuan scrolled through Du Mu’s Weibo history back ten years, finding frequent selfies, extreme sports, rock climbing, and decent academics. Aside from a high turnover of girlfriends, he couldn’t find any obvious flaws.

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