MACRM Chapter 25

Filming was nearing its end, and Sichuan Film Crew’s publicity team was going all out. Media reporters came and went like a steady stream during set visits, and before long, the buzz exploded online.

The incident of Zheng Yi’s “role being stolen” had only just died down, but the embers were still warm. Many media outlets took the chance to jump on the trend, focusing their cameras on Zhong Yao, the gossip’s protagonist.

Lin Zhu was familiar with most of the media, and the stories about him still circulated within the industry. His reputation was still intimidating enough that even when he greeted and saw people off politely with a smile, the reporters remained cautious and obedient, not daring to take the interview in any wrong direction.

“I really envy Zhong-laoshi.”

After the previous incident, Zheng Lingyang didn’t dare let the media film any scenes of him acting opposite Zhong Yao. Just earlier, a clueless reporter had set up a camera to record a segment, and his agent had chased after them to negotiate deleting the footage. They hadn’t come back yet.

Standing under a parasol with his assistant, Zheng Lingyang watched the shivering, trembling reporters under Lin Zhu’s gaze and couldn’t help feeling envious. “He’s so good, yet people still pick fights with him. Those kids online really have no idea…”

Zhong Yao was sitting a short distance away reading his script. He looked up at the sound of the comment. “What’s going on online?”

“You don’t know?”

Zheng Lingyang froze, just about to speak, when the assistant beside him gave him a discreet tug. He snapped back to his senses and quickly changed his words. “Nothing, just saying that back when you were slandered, those people were too immature, believing rumors without proof—”

It was a sore spot for Zhong Yao. While he himself didn’t care much, most others avoided mentioning it. Realizing what he’d brought up, Zheng Lingyang grew more flustered. “No, no! Zhong-laoshi, I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine.”

Seeing how miserable he looked, Zhong Yao didn’t press the matter. “It’s all in the past. I don’t mind if it’s mentioned.”

Zheng Lingyang had never expected Zhong Yao’s hearing to be so sharp, and inwardly cursed his luck. He quickly murmured an agreement, and when Zhong Yao wasn’t looking, he tugged the assistant away to swap for another parasol.

Zhong Yao refreshed Weibo several times but still couldn’t make sense of it. Setting the script aside, he got up, intending to go talk to the screenwriter.

“Online stuff? How should I know? I’m not in your fan circle.”

The screenwriter, whose work had just been slashed to pieces, was slouched under a parasol. He tossed a three-page version of the script into Zhong Yao’s arms. “Here’s the outline you wanted. I’ve cut it down as much as possible. Aside from forbidding your little young master from playing tough and hiding his discomfort, I haven’t left him any other restrictions…”

Zhong Yao flipped through a few pages and nodded. “This is much better. Thanks.”

“Good—”

The screenwriter was annoyed but too tired to be angry. He chewed on his unlit cigarette for a while before looking up to speak, only to notice Zhong Yao’s gaze fixed on Lin Zhu, who was smiling warmly while confirming interview arrangements with the reporters.

Studying him for a moment, the screenwriter tossed aside the cigarette, got up, and patted his shoulder. “You… aren’t you being a bit overly concerned about him?”

Veteran artists often had the habit of worrying too much, but the person being fussed over didn’t always appreciate it.

Lin Zhu’s age, for most young men, was right at the tail end of the rebellious phase. The screenwriter didn’t get many chances to ship CP and had no desire to see these two part ways because of a personality clash.

“Don’t be fooled by how meek he seems around you. In the industry, his methods are far sharper than yours.”

The screenwriter didn’t want to spell it out, so he hinted, “Haven’t you heard about his past? He used to be able to glare at reporters until they couldn’t even lift their heads. He’s really a force to be reckoned with. Even now, there are veteran reporters who, the moment they see him, get PTSD and practically run the other way. You couldn’t drag them back to face him even if you tried…”

Zhong Yao rarely heard anything about Lin Zhu’s past, so he turned slightly, listening intently.

Scratching his head, the screenwriter continued earnestly, “He knows what he wants and how to get it. Isn’t it normal for a guy to be a little forceful? He’s focused entirely on you. Even if he’s hiding something from you, it’s surely for your own good. Just pretend you don’t know, let him show that care, and call it a day. You—”

“He’s 24 years old this year,” Zhong Yao interrupted, “and this is his second year in the industry.”

The screenwriter froze mid-sentence.

“He’s grown too quickly, because he’s been chasing after my 3 year comeback promise… growing in leaps and bounds. No one’s been protecting him, so he had to learn to endure pain first.”

Zhong Yao looked up and shook his head. “That’s not okay.”

The screenwriter, for once, didn’t know how to respond. He took a breath and scrubbed at his hair.

“If he’s upset, hurting, wronged, or bullied… whether he tells me or chooses to keep it to himself is, of course, his decision. But at the very least, he needs to know that he can tell me.”

“Even if he does tell me, I won’t get angry, won’t be impatient, won’t turn cold toward him, and won’t… stop wanting him because of it.”

“He needs to know that.”

The screenwriter was left speechless.

Zhong Yao wasn’t surprised at his reaction and smiled faintly.

“Once I’m sure he knows this, whatever he chooses afterward, I won’t force him. If he wants to tell me, I’ll stay with him, listen to everything, and protect him as much as I can. If he doesn’t want to tell me, I’ll pretend I don’t know a thing, and when he feels ready to bounce back, everything will still be the same as before.”

“The starting tone is important. I don’t want to be careless about it. He’s going to be my manager until I’m at least 75, helping me act for the people…”

“Alright, stop talking! Just stop right there! That part was good. I’ve realized how shallow I’ve been!”

The screenwriter lunged to cover his mouth, but Zhong Yao politely blocked him. He didn’t press further, just snatched the script back. “I get your main idea! Just you wait! Don’t you have an exclusive interview tonight? I’ll revise this scene and after the interview, and tomorrow we’ll start shooting it! If we don’t, the assistant director’s shaving his head bald!”

The assistant director, caught in the crossfire, poked his head over in confusion. “Shave my head for what?”

The screenwriter didn’t let him butt in, shoving him away and muttering under his breath.

Zhong Yao stood where he was for a while, patiently waiting for his young agent — who had just finished scaring off the reporters — to come running back, happily gesturing as he retold what had happened. Zhong Yao’s eyes gradually softened into a gentle smile.

That night, the interview team was led by the stage crew to the hotel’s conference hall right on schedule.

This live interview focused on quick wit and adaptability, with a humorous and engaging host who already had a sizable base of loyal fans. The publicity team and PR department had joined forces to flood every possible channel with the preview. Combined with the production crew’s nonstop behind-the-scenes coverage over the past two days, the stream had already attracted nearly a million viewers even before it started.

A live broadcast can’t be edited, so the demands on the guests were naturally much higher.

During the segment involving the drama’s cast, the script needed to be reviewed in advance. Lin Zhu stayed with Zhong Yao to finalize the talking points, then, once the broadcast began, slipped back to the next room that was temporarily serving as the backstage area, and went over the process with the other cast members preparing for their interviews.

On camera, Zhong Yao wore a set of light-toned, business-casual menswear. It was completely different from the “veteran actor” image the public was used to. The moment he appeared in the stream, an instant wave of admiration swept through the chat.

“When the host asks about fun moments during filming, just share freely, no need to be nervous…”

Lin Zhu’s tablet was streaming the interview. He glanced at it between script notes, and his heart warmed slightly.

He had picked out this outfit for Zhong Yao.

An actor’s greatest taboo is being typecast. Zhong Yao was only 30 years old, with endless possibilities ahead. Just because he had debuted early and consistently acted in serious dramas didn’t mean all other avenues should be shut away.

“Zhong-laoshi, your outfit today is really nice.”

The host, catching sight of similar comments in the live chat, chuckled, “The behind-the-scenes shots from a few days ago had you in full suits. I almost felt like I was reliving my childhood memories…”

“I’ve heard people say my casual clothes bring back even more childhood memories than my drama stills.”

Zhong Yao smiled warmly and joked with unusual candor, “My agent picked this out for me. He has better taste than I do.”

Lin Zhu: “!”

Remembering the little secret he’d kept from Zhong Yao, a faint unease crept into Lin Zhu’s chest. He quickly checked the live comments, but everyone was simply gushing about how honest and endearing the “veteran actor” was. Relieved, he exhaled softly.

Publicity likely had also made sure to keep certain fans that are prone to criticizing him out of the stream to avoid trouble.

In fact, the controversy around him had unexpectedly helped solidify the core fanbase. As long as it didn’t affect Zhong Yao’s mood, Lin Zhu had no intention of interfering further. He refocused, continuing to run through the interview procedure with the other cast members.

After the promotional questions, the host moved into an impromptu interview. 

Zhong Yao had been interviewed countless times since childhood. He was unfazed by such rapid Q&A. He answered them all smoothly and graciously, even throwing in a brief exchange in English and another in Italian at the host’s prompting.

If they wanted to rebuild his popularity, no effort could be spared. Cherishing Lin Zhu’s hard work, Zhong Yao advanced step by step, dismantling his cold, unapproachable persona, while subtly but repeatedly weaving in the fact that he was only thirty years old.

“By the end of this interview, I think everyone’s going to remember Zhong-laoshi is a grand old age of thirty.”

The host grinned over his teacup. “Are you particularly conscious of your age because you don’t want stereotypes to limit your roles and future development?”

Zhong Yao replied with complete honesty, “No, it’s because before I came, my agent specifically told me I needed to say at least ten times that I’m thirty.”

The host nearly spat out his tea, and the chat instantly exploded with strings of “hahahaha,” the atmosphere turning light and playful.

The popularity in the stream was very real. Before the interview even ended, #Famous Film Emperor Grand Old Thirty# was already rocketing up the trending list.

“Zhong-laoshi is amazing. If I had seen this live first, I’d definitely have been won over.”

The assistant director had been sent specifically to give praise, speaking sincerely while scrolling through Weibo on the sofa. When he refreshed, a new trending tag popped up:

#Zhong Yao Set Footage Live Mentions Mysterious Agent. Suspected To Be Revealed?#

Lin Zhu glanced at it, his heart giving a hard thump. He quickly took out his phone to search and open the post.

His identity wasn’t mysterious in the slightest.

When he had accompanied Zhong Yao to an audition, a recording had been leaked, briefly earning him a wave of fans. But once the publicity machine started churning, that same act went from “protecting his artist” to “scheming to pave his own way,” and support for him dwindled by the day.

And now, of all times, for it to resurface…

Lin Zhu already knew what Canxing was trying to do. He tapped open the Weibo post and played the blurry clip.

No one knew which video it had been pulled from, as the resolution was atrocious, but it was still clear enough to see Zhong Yao talking to him, handing him a thermos, and ruffling his hair in a good mood.

Right now, Zhong Yao was in the middle of a fan surge. He posted little on Weibo, had few public appearances, and the new fans had almost no direct interaction with him. So, seeing this clip made them instantly envious.

But the sudden burst of popularity hadn’t lasted long enough for a solid core fandom to form. Combined with earlier smear campaigns, these young, loosely connected fans were easily riled up into outrage and had already launched a full-scale attack.

Steadying his breath, Lin Zhu forced himself back into work mode, scrolling quickly through the replies.

The comments section was already a battlefield. Many were “educating” others on his supposed misdeeds as an agent, speaking with utter certainty. The few voices of defense were quickly drowned out. The rest were swearing vehemently that they’d rather starve to death than support “this leech of an agent” or any “cult CP” between him and Zhong Yao.

Lin Zhu tightened his grip on his phone, pressing down the faint sting in his chest. He fired off urgent messages to the PR team to control the comments.

“Don’t feel bad… I’m actually jealous of even this kind of trending topic. I’m more upset than you are.”

Zheng Lingyang set down his phone, patting Lin Zhu on the shoulder in shared misery. Rubbing his face, he tried to adjust his mood, “And this was even clipped from an interview with me…”

Lin Zhu was momentarily speechless, pouring him a glass of water. “You’ve worked hard.”

Zheng Lingyang, who had been almost entirely cut out of the clip except for the corner of his jacket, accepted the paper cup and drained it in one gulp as if to wash away his frustration.

In the live stream, the mood remained upbeat as they moved into the audience Q&A segment.

“Zhong-laoshi, your reactions are so quick. If it weren’t against the rules, I’d be tempted to ask you something private, just to see if I could stump you.”

The host laughed as he picked questions from the scrolling comments. After several rounds, he paused on one, his expression shifting slightly before he set it aside. “Thi—this one’s a bit too private. Let’s skip it, pick another…”

A flicker passed through Zhong Yao’s eyes as he turned toward the screen.

His sharp vision caught the text clearly on the tablet. There were too many new comments flooding in from the trending tag, and the moderators couldn’t keep up. A large, bolded comment scrolled across the screen like an eyesore:

[Why skip it? We genuinely care about Zhong-laoshi. We just want to know how much longer he has to let that garbage agent bleed him dry.]

The host, realizing the situation, paled and lifted his hand to block the view, but Zhong Yao was already on his feet.

Lin Zhu had also seen the comment.

Before anyone could react, before the comment even scrolled off-screen, Zhong Yao had vanished from the frame.

An inexplicable premonition tightened in Lin Zhu’s chest. He instinctively looked up.

Zhong Yao was standing at the doorway, his shoulders and back sharply defined, his presence cold and imposing, yet his gaze remained calm and gentle.

“Lin Zhu.”

He stepped forward and held out his hand. “Come.”