Chapter 58: “Jiao Si” Will Resume Filming With The Original Cast…

**Starting over was his beginning, but no one knows if it will also be his end.

#The “Jiao Si” Film Crew Officially Announces Resumption of Production#  

This hashtag, marked with a [爆] (explosive trend) symbol, rapidly surged to the top of the trending list like a tidal wave.  

In the scorching heat of early August, the entertainment industry’s first bombshell caught netizens off guard, leaving them dazed. Before anyone could question how the film would resume production—had the lead actor been recast?—another bombshell dropped.  

#”Jiao Si” Will Continue Filming with the Original Cast#  

Excuse me? Original cast? Was the official account serious?  

Wasn’t Jiang Qi, the male lead of this male-centric film “Jiao Si,” already retired from the industry? How could they possibly reassemble the original cast?  

Online forums erupted with speculation, but most netizens quickly connected the dots—Jiang Qi might be making a comeback. After all, an official announcement wouldn’t just spout nonsense, right?  

Yet, even with this possibility in mind, when paparazzi captured two blurry candid photos of Jiang Qi returning to the set, the internet exploded.

The slender figure, sharp and devilishly handsome face, and the fierce aura surrounding him could belong to no one but Jiang Qi.

But how dare he retire and then return on a whim? Did this problematic actor think he could flip-flop so shamelessly, treating the public like fools?

Apart from a handful of die-hard fans celebrating, the majority of netizens were furious. They transformed into self-righteous keyboard warriors, hurling criticism online.

[= =: So he retired and now he’s back? Couldn’t even last half a year before crawling back for money?]  

[= =: Everyone, spam #FickleActorJiang and #MasterOfComebacksJiang!]  

[= =: Don’t forget #FlipFlopKingJiang, lol.]  

[= =: Shh, careful—don’t trigger his depression or bipolar disorder. Wouldn’t want to upset the fragile star.]  

[= =: Quiet, it’s Schrödinger’s depression—exists when convenient, disappears when not (.]  

[= =: My heart aches for those two extras Jiang beat up. Just because they’re nobodies means they deserve it? How can a trashy actor like this return? The entertainment industry is rotten to the core!]  

[= =: Don’t ask—just accept that Jiang is the chosen one, forced to return against his will.]  

[= =: Am I committing cyberbullying if I say #JiangGetOutOfEntertainment? So scared of shattering his fragile ego and triggering his depression. Wow, might even get a lawyer’s letter.]  

[= =: Just stating facts. Is #JiangGetOutOfEntertainment even defamation?]  

[= =: Just expressing opinions. Jiang truly is the youngest Best Actor, a destined superstar—both on and off-screen (dog head).]  

The forums were flooded with sarcastic comments like these. Soon, the hashtags #JiangGetOutOfEntertainment and #JiangQiFlipFlopShenanigans trended.

Some were bought by media companies unhappy with Jiang’s return, some were posted by long-time anti-fans, and others were just bandwagoning netizens. The backlash was overwhelming.

After all, making a grand exit following a scandal, only to return after just half a year, was nothing short of a jaw-dropping stunt—worthy of ridicule.

But Jiang Qi had no time to pay attention to any of this.

As August arrived, it seemed he had returned to his former state.

Behind him, there was no longer a company backing him or “whitewashing” his image. Yet, Shen Lei still sent Qiu Mi back to Jiang Qi’s side as his assistant, handling the endless stream of invitations and offers that surrounded him.  

Jiang Qi’s only task, however, was to focus on the script—to rediscover the essence of the character “Chen Si,” to immerse himself in the role, and to methodically complete the filming of Jiao Si.  

But unlike before, when he had felt a certain loneliness in his struggles, this time, Jiang Qi had Zhi Qi by his side.  

Whenever she had time, the girl would come to the set to see him, accompanying him as he studied the script and delved into his role.

After several such visits, even Qu Heng realized what Zhi Qi meant to Jiang Qi.

Whenever she appeared, the icy barrier that perpetually encased Jiang Qi seemed to soften ever so slightly. The rare youthfulness he seldom showed would surface, making him seem like the 22-year-old he truly was—full of naive anticipation.

The entire Jiao Si crew spent a week revisiting the script and reconnecting with their characters before officially restarting production. A week later, the cast and crew signed new contracts.  

When it was Jiang Qi’s turn, Qu Heng hesitated and asked him again: “You really don’t want any payment?”  

“Mn.” Jiang Qi gave a quiet hum, pulling the contract from Qu Heng’s hands and signing his name without hesitation.  

Zhi Qi had bought him calligraphy practice books, and his handwriting was no longer as stiff and unpracticed as before.  

Qu Heng’s gaze was complicated. “I don’t know whether to thank you or—”  

“No need.” Jiang Qi cut him off. His amber eyes, when he lifted his head, were like thin panes of glass—effortlessly distancing himself from others, creating what he deemed a safe boundary. Then, he stated plainly: “I’m here to repay a debt.”  

Jiao Si had shut down because of him. Now, it was restarting because of him.  

It truly was a case of what begins must end—a full circle.  

On the first day of filming, Jiang Qi had thought he would struggle with acting again.  

But when the crew returned to the outdoor set at Chenkong Alley, and he stepped once more into this former home, he found, to his surprise, an eerie sense of calm—completely unlike the restless, blood-boiling agitation he had felt over half a year ago.  

Now, Jiang Qi could truly treat this former nightmare as nothing more than ruins—just another filming location.  

He wasn’t Jiang Qi. He was Chen Si.  

Once fully immersed in the role, filming proceeded smoothly.  

Through the lens of the camera, Qu Heng captured every subtle shift in Jiang Qi’s expressions, and for the first time in months, a smile finally reappeared on his face.  

He had known it all along.  

Insisting on Jiang Qi’s return as the male lead to complete Jiao Si—that decision would never be wrong.  

Though the first scene after the restart was set in the same outdoor location as the unfinished shoot, Qu Heng had discussed with Jiang Qi the possibility of changing the setting. It would have been a shame—because the footage from Chenkong Alley had been preserved, and Jiang Qi’s portrayal of Chen Si’s frenzied, desperate emotions had been pitch-perfect. Changing the location would mean reshooting that scene.  

Still, the actor’s comfort had to come first.  

But Jiang Qi had refused.  

Only now did Qu Heng understand why.  

It was the same principle as “To slay the beast, one must first walk into its den.” If Jiang Qi wanted to pull out the thorn in his heart, he couldn’t avoid the brambles in front of him.

Running away makes a person weak.

Only after this scene did Qu Heng finally let go completely.

He forgave Jiang Qi for his sudden emotional outburst back then, forgave the months of frustration and despair over the film’s collapse. When the shoot wrapped, Qu Heng couldn’t help but stride over and, under Jiang Qi’s slightly bewildered gaze, pull him into a hug—a moment that might have looked oddly intimate to outsiders, but in that instant, he just couldn’t hold back.  

It felt like a priceless treasure, once lost, had been returned to his hands.  

Astonishment, joy, fulfillment… emotions too tangled to name.  

“Jiang Qi, let’s start over.” Qu Heng clapped him heavily on the shoulder, voice thick with excitement. “You’re a damn good actor.”  

The scene they’d just filmed depicted Chen Si, alone in Chenkong Alley after being bullied by his classmates, lost in self-reflection—that dazed, fragile loneliness was so palpable that Qu Heng had nearly forgotten to call “Cut.”

And precisely because of his delay, Jiang Qi—still curled up in that filthy alley—slowly uncoiled his thin frame and lifted his head slightly.

Like someone struggling to find light in the suffocating grime, forcing himself to look at the sun.

Jiang Qi kept insisting he “couldn’t act,” yet everything he did was exactly what a brilliant actor should do.

Complete immersion. Fearless commitment to the role, no matter how dirty or degrading. Even salvaging the director’s mistakes mid-scene. If Jiang Qi dared call himself a bad actor again, Qu Heng might actually lose his temper.

The man adjusted his glasses, schooling his expression into something stern. “From now on, you’re not allowed to say you can’t act.”

The corner of Jiang Qi’s mouth twitched imperceptibly. He didn’t reply, just wiped the grime off his face—after rolling around in the deliberately filthy set, he was covered in dirt.

He figured Zhi Qi would probably come to check on him today, and while his clothes were beyond saving, he could at least keep his face clean.

Qu Heng didn’t notice this sudden vanity, too absorbed in his own euphoria.

When the crew moved out of the alley to the open set beyond, Jiang Qi’s gaze swept the area and—just as expected—landed on Zhi Qi standing beside Qiu Mi, her delicate face etched with worry.

His eyes lit up, and he strode over immediately.

Qiu Mi, assuming Jiang Qi was coming for him, promptly held out a damp towel and fresh clothes. “Brother Qi, here—”  

Only to watch Jiang Qi stare straight past him at Zhi Qi, grinning like an overexcited puppy. “You came.”  

……  

Thoroughly ignored, Qiu Mi could only scream internally.  

His existence? Merely that of a 2000-watt lightbulb.

“Mm.” Seeing Jiang Qi in good spirits, Zhi Qi exhaled in relief and reached up to wipe his face with a wet wipe. “Did filming go okay?”

She’d been on edge all day, terrified that returning here might trigger something in him. Only now, seeing him safe and smiling, did she relax.

But the moment her smile deepened, she dug into her bag, pulled out a pill bottle, and tapped two tablets onto her palm.

Then, mercilessly: “Time for your meds.”

……

Zhi Qi had become a ruthless medication enforcer. Ever since Jiang Qi’s return to the industry, she’d set alarms—or shown up in person—to ensure he never missed a dose.

Jiang Qi’s eyes curved faintly. He held up his hands—blackened with dirt.

The unspoken request was obvious. Zhi Qi huffed but, after a brief stare-down, relented and fed him the pills.

When her slender fingers neared his lips, he almost bit down on them. She yelped, yanking her hand back to glare at him.

Meanwhile, Qiu Mi—forced to witness this disgustingly public display of affection—felt his retinas burning.

And yet, his bigger concern was the lurking paparazzi. Despite Jiao Si’s airtight security (signal jammers, staff armed with laser pointers to block cameras…), he couldn’t shake the unease.

His gaze swept the perimeter—then froze on the upper-left corner of a rundown building in the distance.

Was that… a camera flash?

Or just his imagination?  

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