The day after Fu Yanzong returned to the country, public opinion about him—which had been unusually quiet for several years—suddenly boiled over once more. It showed every sign of growing even more intense.
Weibo’s trending topics kept popping up one after another. Starting around six or seven in the morning, entries related to Fu Yanzong never let up.
The first ones to catch the public’s eye were headlines like “Film Emperor Fu and a foreign starlet partying at a nightclub with impure intentions.” They were quickly followed by fabricated stories popping up in browser feeds: “White actress gets intimate with top movie emperor, suspected hidden marriage.”
Then came the entertainment influencers, clearly paid off by someone, churning out announcements nonstop. Clickbait accounts paired blurry photos of the Silver Lake Hotel’s entrance with inflammatory captions: “Is there a hidden story behind Fu Yanzong’s sudden return? Who’s getting the hotly contested script for that raw 00-life drama Hidden Face?”
Countless self-proclaimed discerning passersby let their imaginations run wild in the comments: “Didn’t they say Fu Yanzong was playing the male lead opposite Kran in Berlin? He slips back quietly now—did he get fired?”
“Goes overseas and can’t hack it, so he wants back in? Am I the only one who finds his movies incomprehensible and boring? Those actresses have nothing going for them besides their looks?”
And then there were the shameless opportunists riding coattails: “Asia’s looks are carried by two guys: Fu Yanzong and me. Too bad he’s starting to age, and I probably won’t last much longer either…”
Fu Yanzong lounged on the sofa, scrolling through the comments with keen interest. After all, they’d be gone if he waited too long.
Sure enough, three minutes later, the anti-blackout squad under the Fu Yanzong Fan Support Group sprang into action.
The upside of the man himself delivering was that fans could ruthlessly drop achievement screenshots in response to the haters, without a care for passersby feelings, and mock them openly:
“Yeah, just you lacking taste. When his last movie raked in over fifty billion at the box office, no one dragged you along? You could try a pet-friendly theater—link here, you’re welcome.”
“Riding his coattails, are we? So confident—go stare in a bathroom mirror. Your taste must be on intermittent lockdown…”
Fu Yanzong watched as the comments vanished into the endless stream of posts. He let out a soft chuckle, then found the fan support account he mutually followed. With practiced ease, he reposted a fan’s welcome tweet, captioning it with three simple words.
“Fu Yanzong: Thanks for the hard work^^”
The replies flooded in instantly.
“Not hard at all—welcome home!”
“No trouble at all~ Stay safe on set, Bro. Send us some selfies before joining the crew; we’ve been nursing the old ones with lukewarm water for three years now…”
“Good son, take care of your health. Mom loves you, mwah!”
“Back for Hidden Face? Can’t wait for your new project, aaaaaah!”
Reading these genuine comments—unlike the original plot’s casual gloss-over of “Fu Yanzong, the A-list movie emperor with legions of fans”—the Self-Rescue System couldn’t help but sigh in Fu Yanzong’s mind: “Host, there are so many people who like you.”
In the undepicted corners of the book, Fu Yanzong was the object of pure, sincere admiration from countless people, free of lust or malice.
That was the sly beauty of being an actor, Fu Yanzong mused.
Truth be told, he wasn’t someone worth liking. His reasons for entering the industry had been entirely selfish at the start.
Yet fans fell for him through a single frame, a fleeting second, a perfect segment on screen. Without knowing his past or his true self, they projected the virtues of his characters onto him and showered him with their devotion.
Fu Yanzong felt both uneasy and deeply grateful.
It was a pure emotion, distinct from love or hate. He had no way to repay it except by pouring his heart into every film.
The Self-Rescue System fell thoughtful.
In the original plot, these fans were rarely mentioned. When they did appear, it was after Su Tang and Fu Yanzong starred together in Hidden Face, amid the internet-wide CP frenzy.
There, everyone gushed about how perfectly the movie emperor matched his top-streamer little wife. Su Tang got shoved into the spotlight time and again.
But Fu Yanzong? He faded into the background. Or rather, he wasn’t drawing attention as an actor celebrated for his roles, the way he was now.
For every person who liked him, there was another who hated him.
Was this the point of the Management Bureau sending the system—to alter the plot? Or to let it glimpse the real world…
The Self-Rescue System lingered silently in Fu Yanzong’s mind, peering through his eyes at this alternate story from a true third-person view.
/
Xiao Sun had been monitoring public sentiment from nearby, but the sheer volume overwhelming every platform made it impossible to keep up.
Whether short videos or social feeds, anyone tuned into entertainment news had something to say: “Saw the trends—that Fu Yanzong guy from whatever movie is apparently coming back to shoot something.”
It was hard to pinpoint true rivals in the industry at Fu Yanzong’s level. But in a broader sense, every male actor on a similar track counted as competition.
As the buzz heated up, so did the baseless smear campaigns, flying thick and fast. Private-life scandals were the go-to attack vector—and in that arena, Fu Yanzong was already a walking wasteland.
To many, he’d burst onto the scene as a teen sensation, arrogant beyond measure, with no concept of humility or respecting elders and juniors. He’d been overly chummy with co-stars of both genders, rude to up-and-comers, and utterly dismissive of seniors. He sued journalists without hesitation and botched even basic fan service—vanishing for three years of filming without a peep, only to return with a cutesy emoticon and draw crowds of admirers. It must have turned countless eyes green with envy.
Fan data and anti-black efforts could only stem the tide of bot-spread rumors. The real sticky taffy—the big influencer marketing accounts—required lawsuits from the studio. They couldn’t be cleared instantly, and while there was no real damage, the sight was nauseating.
“Why are they so fixated on that rumor about me seducing Yang Wan and cheating? They trust my face more than my fans do.”
Fu Yanzong spoke as he speared a piece of the low-cal sushi Xiao Sun had brought with his fork. He seemed utterly unbothered by the online storm—in fact, he was treating the dirt as dinner seasoning.
Xiao Sun clutched his phone and glanced at the man beside him, the very source of the uproar. It all felt a bit surreal.
“Aren’t you mad, Brother Fu?” he asked.
He immediately regretted it—Fu Yanzong was clearly enjoying his snack.
Xiao Sun paused, then reminded him, “Brother Fu, you’ve got to watch your body fat before joining the crew. Ease up.”
Fu Yanzong let out a vague “Mm,” perfunctorily but earnestly waving his fork before curving his eyes into a squinting smile. “Last one. I’ve got it under control.”
Xiao Sun: …Damn it, I’m straight! …No, can’t let the boss get away with this!
He steeled his resolve, ready to snatch the food from the tiger’s jaws, when Fu Yanzong’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. The finger tapping his phone screen paused.
The smear posts that had been going viral turned gray in an instant, the entire trending entry wiped clean. Even habitual rumor-mongers went dark with blacked-out profile pics—clear signs of a harsh crackdown.
Such a massive, no-expense-spared purge was downright extravagant. Fu Yanzong glanced down at his screen for a moment, then tossed the phone into Xiao Sun’s lap with evident impatience. His tone flat, he commanded, “Find Dongyu’s PR team and tell them to back off.”
“Uh…?”
It took Xiao Sun half a beat to fumble and catch the phone. He couldn’t fathom why the smears vanishing left his boss looking even more displeased.
Wasn’t this good news? And why was Dongyu involved now?
He hesitated, only for Fu Yanzong to drop his gaze with an irritated tsk. The actor swept the entire sushi box into the trash, rose, and headed to the water dispenser for a drink.
Xiao Sun figured his boss really was moody as hell—no telling what set him off.
At least the collateral damage was just a box of sushi, not him.
With that in mind, he wasted no time. He grabbed Fu Yanzong’s phone, scrolled through the contacts, and dialed Dongyu’s PR department and Xinyu Entertainment’s management.
Xinyu Entertainment was backed by Dongyu. As the company expanded, its media resources had ballooned beyond count. In recent years, every major PR success story in the industry had come from their playbook. Cynics joked that they could turn a stray dog into an internet sensation with two days’ packaging.
Xiao Sun hadn’t clawed his way to Fu Yanzong’s side by being clueless. By the time the call connected, he’d pieced together the whole story.
He’d joined the studio late, but the rumors had circulated for ages: Fu Yanzong’s team had deep ties to Dongyu back in the day, with resources others could only dream of.
The gossip predated even Song Linyu’s rise to power at Dongyu.
Yet after heading abroad, Fu Yanzong’s very first directive to his domestic studio had been to sever all Dongyu-related resources, minimize contacts, and achieve total independence.
That seemed to be why Ji Cheng had started managing newbie actors—though Fu Yanzong never paid it any mind.
Frankly, at Fu Yanzong’s level of stardom, the studio had little left to do. Handle routine endorsements and PR, and serve as a punching bag for fans to @ and vent at when needed.
Which meant the force that silenced all those big influencers and media outlets in under half an hour sure as hell wasn’t the studio’s legal team.
So who was it?
Self-evident.
In the top-floor meeting room of Dongyu, the air conditioning was blasting. Lead-gray clouds pressed against the glass curtain walls of the Central Business District, creating a heavy, oppressive atmosphere.
Song Linyu kept his eyes lowered as he listened to the project manager report on the key data. He’d only written halfway through his notes when the screen of the phone beside him lit up silently.
It showed a missed call and a text message.
The content was simple: “President Song, Teacher Fu has something for you.”
With a sharp scratch, the pen tip halted, leaving a faint ink blot on the paper. The project manager’s words trailed off, and everyone else in the room looked up, waiting for Song Linyu to speak.
Song Linyu raised his hand. His long, bony fingers decisively closed the planning document with a soft snap. He stood up and said calmly, “Excuse me, everyone. Give me fifteen minutes.”
His voice carried no particular inflection, as if he were mentioning something utterly routine. But President Song abruptly interrupting a meeting like this was a first at Dongyu.
His subordinates exchanged glances, a flicker of confusion in each other’s eyes.
…
The line that had been transferred over was utterly quiet. Song Linyu could tell right away it wasn’t Fu Yanzong himself, so he held the phone and asked flatly, “What’s this about?”
“Uh, hello…? President Zheng asked me to take your call. I’m Sun Jiayang, assistant to Mr. Fu Yanzong. I’m filling in for him—”
“I know he has a new assistant. You don’t need to explain that.”
The voice on the other end sounded utterly cold and impersonal, laced with clear impatience.
Xiao Sun felt like he’d heard that voice somewhere before, but he was too timid to say anything. He could only manage a meek “oh” before continuing tactfully, “The thing is, sir, regarding the PR issue with our artist Fu Yanzong, the studio has emergency protocols and procedures in place. We have no intention of partnering with Xinyu Entertainment at this time, so we’re informing your company…”
Song Linyu had no patience for the official jargon. He cut in directly: “What did he say exactly?”
Xiao Sun hesitated: “…Well…”
“He said… get lost.”
Perhaps it was his imagination, but in the brief silence after Xiao Sun forced out those words, he could have sworn he heard a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle from the other end of the line.
Only then did the man speak, his voice low: “That caller ID suits those words perfectly.”
The call ended.
Xiao Sun: …???
He wasn’t sure if he’d handled it right. He stood there clutching the phone for a moment before turning pleading eyes toward Fu Yanzong, who had just returned with a glass of water.
Fu Yanzong took the phone and asked idly, “Why the long face? Did someone actually pick a fight with you?”
“Not really. I just ran into a pretty strange manager.”
“Wasn’t it Zheng Zhao?”
Fu Yanzong unlocked the screen casually, and the first thing he saw was that familiar number with no name attached.
As he gazed down at the screen, the slightly longer strands of hair near his cheek fell forward, obscuring his eyes. Xiao Sun couldn’t make out Fu Yanzong’s expression, but he sensed an impenetrable darkness in those eyes.
It gave off an inexplicable sense of irritation.
He watched as Fu Yanzong dialed back. The call connected before the first ring had even finished.
“…Did you not understand me?” Fu Yanzong launched in without any pleasantries, his question blunt and straightforward. Xiao Sun’s heart skipped a beat at the sound of it, and he tactfully stepped aside.
Song Linyu didn’t reply for a long moment.
Fu Yanzong lost patience waiting. “Speak.”
“Can’t I say I didn’t?”
The voice from the other end was as calm as before, but the tone had flipped entirely—marked by an unusual yielding softness.
Fu Yanzong’s voice stayed even: “No.”
Another brief silence came through the receiver.
Song Linyu had never found it so hard to speak. He didn’t want to upset Fu Yanzong, but he couldn’t—no, he just couldn’t say it—
“Don’t be mad… Xinyu is just used to handling these things their way. I’ll make them change.”
Fu Yanzong heard Song Linyu’s voice turn suddenly weak—nothing like the lofty President Song. It even reminded him of the old days, when Song Linyu had deliberately knelt before him and called him “brother” in that soft little voice… It was a bit aggravating to hear.
“That’s no excuse.” Fu Yanzong ignored the wheedling and ruthlessly dismantled the flimsy justification, then made an even harsher demand.
“Song Linyu, you have no right to handle my affairs. At least for now, stay out of my sight. Don’t do anything that would make me think of you. All right?”
He phrased it like a request for negotiation, but Song Linyu knew he had no room to refuse.
So he dug his fingertips into his palm and mustered the casual, nonchalant tone he used in business dealings: “…That’s a bit tough for me, Teacher Fu. I might not be able to manage it.”
It was a refusal.
Song Linyu knew exactly what would come next: Fu Yanzong would hang up on him for the lack of cooperation. Then he could keep watching from the shadows, as long as he stayed hidden. It wouldn’t be too hard.
But he hadn’t expected Fu Yanzong to respond like this—
“You will.” Fu Yanzong lifted his gaze, his tone flat but utterly certain.
“Song Linyu, you promised you’d be obedient.”
