Chapter 67: Offline Part 1

The Self-Rescue System blacked out fast and woke up just as quickly. Upon regaining consciousness, it first felt grateful that it was a non-living entity, then swiftly adjusted its code settings. But even so, facing Fu Yanzong’s half-smiling expression, the little system still had a bellyful of questions it wanted to blurt out.

However, their quick-fire Q&A had barely gotten started when the midday break ended. Fu Yanzong and Yang Wan composed themselves and returned to the set to film the last two scenes of the day, leaving no time to pay it any mind.

Though the guest appearance wasn’t taxing work, the Self-Rescue System knew Fu Yanzong was always fully focused during shoots, with no spare attention to divide its way.

So it could only tuck away its shock and reconnect to the vast internet database. It first pulled up keywords related to Song Linyu, then clicked into the entry titled “Yanfish” from the search results.

…One look, and it was like a whole new world had opened up.

The Self-Rescue System first skimmed several CP threads rich in text and timeline details. The one with the highest views started like this:

“Fu Yanzong × Song Linyu | The greatest distance in the world is between fish and flying bird—but not between you and me.”

Clicking into the post, the first thing that caught the Self-Rescue System’s eye was a photo of Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu holding hands on the Heartthrob Game.

Sea breezes lifted the hems of their clothes, their gazes locked in quiet tenderness.

Below the photo, the poster had noted the location in grayed-out text—Winterley Bay, Kuang Valley.

The poster then traced the two leads’ life paths in a restrained, measured tone.

“Fu Yanzong rose to fame young, captivating audiences from his screen debut and becoming the darling of the camera. Spotlights never left him, swirling with rumors and acclaim, as if he were born for the stage.

Meanwhile, Song Linyu—the illegitimate son of Dongyu—lurked far from the public eye, his existence a whisper known to almost no one.

Some say Song Linyu bided his time with deep schemes before displacing his father; others speculate that, as the bastard son, he endured a tragic, unspeakable childhood.

But truth is elusive, and perhaps unimportant in this tale. What matters is looking back on their lives and realizing how close they came, yet diverged so sharply. The young Movie Emperor, ever before the lens, tasting true hearts and false amid expressions that betrayed nothing; the aloof, silent tycoon who seized control young—like their names implied, a soaring bird and a deep-diving fish, worlds apart.

Yet somehow, fate granted them a brief, blazing intersection. Song Linyu’s sixteenth year likely didn’t miss the nationwide hit Spring Tide Undercurrent—perhaps amid surging crowds on some street, he locked eyes with the boy on those massive posters.

Years later, they clasped hands on the cliffs of Winterley Bay’s Kuang Valley—that stretch of mountain and sea, Song Linyu’s private domain now, once the winter ocean Fu Yanzong had casually mentioned in interviews, a view he’d savored many times.

By the time they appeared on Heartthrob Game, perhaps they’d already crossed paths in hidden corners more than once.

Otherwise—”

The poster meticulously listed every natural, intimate interaction between Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu on Heartthrob Game. The Self-Rescue System reeled from all they’d done while it slumbered, moved by the shipper’s deft, peeling-back prose. Before it could clarify the truth, it was tearing up digitally, thinking: So Song Linyu and the host are such a fated pure-love couple—too touching, too romantic!

Energized, the Self-Rescue System dove into the comments, ready to dash off its own essay for some scholarly exchange with the OP. But there, in the top comment, she coolly added: “The above is pure-love fanfic rumors. Truth be told, I’d rather see Yanfish f first, f later, and f for three straight days—so here’s my personal quick-hit smut. Hope you enjoy.”

“Warning: Pure fluff/smut ahead. Confirm you’re okay with it before reading. Contains fering, brt play, anl, tos, mturbation, dirty tk…”

The opening warnings stretched longer than the Self-Rescue System’s own mission log. Untutored by the Spacetime Administration Bureau in such matters, the little system skimmed the whole doc in a blink—then—

It plunged into a profound new realm.

How to describe it? Suddenly, it understood why, so many times upon waking from standby—maybe half a second in—Fu Yanzong would shove it back into oblivion with a ruthless override, then beam: Nothing to worry about, kiddo—you don’t need to get it.

Enlightenment dawned.

The system went silent for a beat, then—with a peculiar mindset—scoured the web for docs with matching warnings. It devoured new vocab, fresh styles, even itching to try its hand at writing.

It took a deep, nonexistent breath of digital oxygen, then opened the poster’s DMs and messaged earnestly: “Ma’am, you there?”

And so the Self-Rescue System spent the whole afternoon thirsting for knowledge in Fu Yanzong’s mind, chatting with a fellow enthusiast in this brave new world. Of course, with its stellar processing power, it didn’t hog all the bandwidth—it’d long split off threads to monitor recent online buzz about Su Tang.

The latest uproar involving Su Tang was his termination with Dongyu.

No need to guess: Song Linyu’s occasional early exits from set were to tie up the Su Tang mess.

After Su Tang’s PR crisis erupted, Song Linyu had methodically arranged their split. His initial all-in backing—letting Su Tang bully castmates and hog resources—had already irked half the industry, who grumbled silently out of deference to Song Linyu.

Once the scandals hit, Dongyu promptly cut Su Tang loose with a termination fee, stating: “We respect market rules and deeply regret the reckless actions of certain internal artists and mid-level staff revealed today. We’ve parted ways with Mr. Su today—wishing him all the best…”

Not only ditching Su Tang, but also purging a batch of Song Wen’s plants and mouthpieces that Song Linyu had deliberately left till now.

Of course, that generous termination payout never reached Su Tang. The fee Song Linyu had fronted to buy out Su Tang’s contract from Ji Cheng was already deducted upfront.

In short, Song Linyu had played textual tricks in the fine print. Cocky Su Tang never ran the contract by his Heartthrob System, so he got played.

Even the big-budget flick Hidden Face—halted for reshoots and prepped as Su Tang’s star vehicle—axed his name from the leads.

It had the air of when the person leaves, the tea grows cold.

Dongyu’s move all but confirmed Su Tang’s scandals as real. His “pure white jasmine of showbiz” image flipped to synonym for drama queen and gold digger.

The reversal hit hard, turning Su Tang’s rabid fans against him—yet his fracturing fandom united as never before. From half-doubting the antis at first, they’d been brainwashed into believing it was all corporate sabotage to kick him while down.

In hours, Su Tang stans mobbed Dongyu’s building with protest signs, howling for the unethical corp to cough up cash. Glaring daggers, they looked ready to devour Song Linyu if he dared step out the front door.

Fu Yanzong learned of it from the Self-Rescue System after wrap, showing zero surprise.

Fandom dynamics could be complex or simple. Without the celeb steering, most fans trailed the big accounts.

And half those influencers were pros monetizing stan culture—spewing toxic solo-stan rants to farm traffic and tippers, while pocketing agency cash to angst-bait and lock in loyalty, sustaining hype for endless grift.

Fu Yanzong had his share, but he’d never gone full traffic-chasing. His team managed tightly; with his massive, genuine fanbase and roadie goodwill, plus endless station sisters and normies, the toxic solo effect diluted.

Without hacks, squashing Su Tang was child’s play for Fu Yanzong and Song Linyu.

But Su Tang was a public figure who’d mysteriously snagged unearned trust. Per Cheng Yan’s idea, the best revenge was letting him taste fan abandonment, indifference, universal scorn.

…And that was just the opening act.

Fu Yanzong asked the Self-Rescue System, “So, did you spot anything else?”

Otherwise, why the sudden good behavior?

The Self-Rescue System stiffened for a moment, then awkwardly changed the subject. “N-no. What I meant was, Host, aren’t you worried about Song Linyu getting into trouble? A ton of Su Tang’s fans are protesting downstairs at the Dongyu Building.”

“They can’t get into Dongyu’s underground garage anyway,” Fu Yanzong replied in his mind to the Self-Rescue System, “and Song Linyu’s bodyguards are reliable.”

Even so, after a moment, he still smiled and shook his head. He picked up his phone, opened their chat, and sent Song Linyu a message.

Yang Wan’s micro-movie had been a spur-of-the-moment project, and its schedule hadn’t been widely announced. The usual fans who picked her up after work weren’t that numerous, and Fu Yanzong’s were even fewer.

Most fans assumed Fu Yanzong was resting at home. He had money and influence, after all, making his schedule harder to dig up than a typical celebrity’s. The chances of a sasaeng fan sneaking in were slim. Only a few big fans with solid industry connections had gotten wind of it from insiders, learning that he was guest-starring in Yang Wan’s film.

Since Fu Yanzong hadn’t announced his guest role himself, those big fans knew better than to make a fuss. They hadn’t bothered him these past few days. Instead, they’d checked the studio’s upcoming schedule, estimated that he was wrapping up today, and notified local fans to come pick him up—snapping a few photos and delivering flowers and letters along the way.

All the fans who’d received the event notice had passed verification based on their spending records and super topic levels. On-site, the fan club would double-check them to prevent any so-called undercover antis from the fandom wars crashing the party.

With today’s event being an unannounced schedule, the fan club was extra diligent. They’d lined up in a long queue outside the studio’s cars bright and early.

One of the big fans handling verifications went by the ID Wen Wen. She was always meticulous and diligent, frequently attending offline events and familiar with many fellow fans.

Right now, Wen Wen was checking everyone’s Weibo accounts while handing out the milk teas, plush dolls, handheld fans, and movie ticket stubs that Fu Yanzong had asked the studio to prepare in advance—along with some he’d snagged from Yang Wan.

“Good, let me check your ID. Xiao Yu loves full-sugar passionfruit… Ah, Xiao Yu!”