Chapter 71: The Story Of That Young Man

As late November arrived and Zhi Qi returned to school for classes, something of moderate importance happened in the entertainment industry.

For Zhi Qi and Jiang Qi, it wasn’t really explosive news, but for online onlookers and gossip-eaters, it was quite a juicy story—one that even overturned certain long-held biases some people had stubbornly clung to.

The whole incident began with a long post that Qu Heng published on his Weibo.

The title sounded very literary, even a bit deliberately mysterious: “The Story of That Young Man.”

When people clicked in, they were surprised to find that Qu Heng’s blog post wasn’t about venting his own feelings. Instead, it was written for Jiang Qi.

In the form of a “letter,” he spoke to netizens as if they were old friends, carefully narrating a story he had heard—one so moving that he couldn’t help but write it down.

And it just so “happened” that the young man in question was none other than the male lead of his film.

The article described some of the experiences Jiang Qi had gone through before entering the entertainment industry: the people around him, his growth… Where things needed to be kept subtle, they were subtle; where they needed to be touching, they were touching. And in this piece, Qu Heng also directly addressed a few key points:

1. The reason Jiang Qi went to prison back then—he discreetly offered an explanation on the young man’s behalf.
2. Jiang Qi’s repeated wavering, and the shift in his mindset after returning to the Jiao Si crew—vividly portrayed.
3. Whether or not the young man was truly sick, whether that medical report was real, or—as netizens had claimed—fabricated merely as a way to “whitewash” him.

…

As for that last point, Qu Heng expressed it in a humorous, joking tone: “If this kid wasn’t actually sick, would I have let him delay my production like that? Wouldn’t I have taken him to court?”

And indeed, at the time, that had been Qu Heng’s genuine, furious thought.

But now, with time having passed, his perspective had shifted greatly.

Qu Heng, being both director and screenwriter, had always wielded his pen like a weapon—sharp, stirring, sarcastic, full of nuance. He could write articles of all kinds, using words as a gun to manipulate hearts with ease.

But this time, he simply painted, in plain strokes, “the story of that young man.”

No deliberate sentimentality, no ornate vocabulary—just a gentle, steady narration.

The reason was simple: because Qu Heng is a sharp-eyed director. He believed that Jiang Qi’s own journey of growth was already moving, and that the girl by his side who had always been there—and who told him these things—Zhi Qi, was even more moving.

In the article, Zhi Qi is the “sun” in Qu Heng’s pen. Like sunlight that shines on everyone, she has never given up on redeeming Jiang Qi—finding ways, slipping in through every crack, just like the sun.

To protect the privacy of a non-celebrity, though, Qu Heng didn’t state it outright.

But anyone who read the piece carefully could tell that this “sunlight” was in fact Jiang Qi’s non-celebrity girlfriend.

Many people were moved to tears by Qu Heng’s “magic pen,” while others questioned the truth of what he wrote.

It still came down to the two points people always harped on with Jiang Qi: the reason he went to prison, and the medical certificate.

If, as Qu Heng’s article said, Jiang Qi had voluntarily taken the fall for that old man and gone to prison, then where was that old man? And wouldn’t doing so itself be another kind of crime—covering up for the real offender? But in any case, the traces of abuse on Jiang Qi’s body did exist; otherwise, when Qu Heng shot the nude scene back then, he wouldn’t have needed to resort to the “body painting” trick.

So his explanation did offer some account.

The other issue was the “psychological condition” Jiang Qi had long been criticized for.

Even with a medical diagnosis, the rubberneckers and haters have never been shy about assuming the worst of a person. So, in truth, Qu Heng’s article only explained things to passersby who genuinely wanted to listen and were curious, while the haters remained obstinate—haters have their own kind of persistence, after all.

Even so, the piece did, to some extent, turn around Jiang Qi’s reputation.

Especially after people like Shen Lei reposted it, which further amplified Qu Heng’s Weibo post.

When Jiang Qi saw the article, he was at home being lovey-dovey with Zhi Qi. The two hadn’t seen each other for months; having finally reunited, sparks naturally flew. He had the young lady pinned to the sofa, teasing her hard, when a call from Qiu Mi came in.

“Haha, y-you should answer the phone first.” Zhi Qi, ticklish all over from his “bullying,” slipped away while she had the chance, smiling sweetly: “Go on, pick up.”

She was clearly signaling she didn’t want to keep “messing around” now. Jiang Qi smiled helplessly and answered, his voice, unusually, still carrying a trace of lingering softness: “Hello.”

Then he heard the news Qiu Mi was relaying.

Jiang Qi froze for a moment. After hanging up, he clicked into Weibo’s trending page for the first time. Sure enough, his name was linked with Qu Heng’s, ranking third on the hot search.

#QuHengWritesALongPostAboutJiangQi

Seeing his expression change, Zhi Qi leaned over curiously and saw the screen as well.

“Director Qu…” she murmured, taking Jiang Qi’s phone and opening the article. Only after reading carefully for quite a while did she suddenly understand: “So that’s why he asked those questions—because of this.”

Previously, Qu Heng had added her on WeChat, saying he wanted to learn more about Jiang Qi’s past in order to better write the script and explore the character’s inner world. Zhi Qi thought this request was reasonable and agreed.

Later, when they communicated on WeChat, Zhi Qi had indeed told Qu Heng quite a lot about Jiang Qi’s past.

What she hadn’t expected was that the director had gathered this information to write an article for Jiang Qi.

Such delicate writing, voicing all his grievances to the world on his behalf… Even Zhi Qi felt an impulse to cry as she read it, almost like a “fan.”

Jiang Qi pressed his lips together in silence. After a while, he took the phone and dialed Qu Heng.

Zhi Qi heard him ask: “Brother Qu, why did you do this?”

The living room grew very quiet when neither of them spoke.

Quiet enough that Zhi Qi could hear the man’s voice clearly over the phone, carrying a hint of laughter: “Consider it your ‘payment.’”

Jiang Qi frowned. “Brother Qu, I really didn’t—”

“Shh, Xiao Jiang, listen to me.” Qu Heng interrupted, his bright voice carrying a touch of seriousness: “You’re a very good actor—talented and hardworking. I believe you can last long in this industry.

But here, you can’t believe in that nonsense about ‘the innocent will clear themselves.’ You’re stubborn as a log and don’t like to explain yourself—but you must explain.

You can’t let others think your silence is because you’re ‘guilty,’ not if you want a sustainable career.

I see you as a friend, which is why I wrote this little essay for you. Do you understand?”

Jiang Qi was silent for a very long time—so long that the joints of the hand holding his phone had turned pale. At last, his voice came out hoarse.

“Brother Qu,” the young man said softly. “Thank you.”

“No need for thanks. I told you this is your payment—you earned it.” Qu Heng laughed, his tone as easy and refreshing as a clear moonlit breeze. “Besides, if the male lead’s reputation improves, it benefits my box office too.”

Jiang Qi chuckled but didn’t flatter him with agreement.

“In January, once editing is done, the film will be sent to compete in Venice’s main competition.” Qu Heng sighed. “I hope we can snag an award.”

He said it casually, then hung up the call.

But Jiang Qi was reminded of what Shen Lei had once said—Qu Heng had long since set his sights beyond the domestic awards he had already won. His gaze was fixed overseas—on the Big Three.

Qu Heng had also said that Jiao Si’s script was the one he had polished the longest, and the film with the best shot at competition glory.

January was still more than two months away, but now time felt as if it had been wound tight like a spring—passing in the blink of an eye.

Jiang Qi silently wished in his heart that Qu Heng’s hopes would succeed. Then the fingers resting on his knee were gently taken by the girl’s soft little hand.

“Jiang Qi.” Zhi Qi leaned her head against the boy’s shoulder, gazing at him from close range. “What are you thinking about?”

Jiang Qi was silent for a moment before answering honestly: “Qiqi, I owe Brother Qu a favor.”

Shen Lei, Qu Heng—both of them could be called benefactors who had changed the course of his life, their kindness as heavy as a mountain.

But as for how to repay them, Jiang Qi didn’t know.

That’s just the kind of person he was—when faced with indifference or malice, he could handle it calmly; if not, he’d simply meet coldness with coldness, never afraid of ridicule or mockery. That was why Jiang Qi had never explained away those so-called scandals of his.

But when it came to kindness shown to him, he was at a loss.

“Jiang Qi, are you feeling pressured?” Zhi Qi pressed her forehead lightly against his, smiling softly. Her slender legs curled up against his waist, the two of them so close they could hear each other’s breathing. That tender intimacy gave Jiang Qi a subconscious sense of security and contentment.

So he nodded honestly, letting out a soft, obedient “Mm.”

“Don’t feel pressured, and don’t think of favors as a mountain weighing on your shoulders.” Zhi Qi understood Jiang Qi, so she knew exactly what was troubling him. Shrugging, she wrapped her arms around his neck and said lightly, “You know what? What those two directors really hope for is that you’ll keep growing in this industry, hone your craft, and shine brightly…”

Here, her tone shifted, and she smiled as she asked him: “Do you know what the real way to repay them is?”

Jiang Qi shook his head, his eyes truly bewildered. Looking at the girl, his gaze also carried a genuine desire to “be taught.”

“Become famous—wildly famous.” Having already been “trained” into a top-level fangirl by Meng Chunyu, Zhi Qi smiled without hesitation. “Then, act in their films for free, promote them well—that’s the real repayment.”

This was also what Shen Lei and Qu Heng truly hoped for from Jiang Qi. It could even be called an “investment.”

The boy’s once dazed gaze gradually cleared, pulling him from his earlier brooding. Looking at the girl’s bright teeth lightly biting her rosy lips, her smiling face—his eyes darkened, and he lowered his head, wanting to kiss her.

“No.” Zhi Qi’s little hand covered his lips.

She knew Jiang Qi too well. If he really kissed her, it would surely go on and on—and then this rare day of free time they had together would be wasted.

The boy blinked at her, as if asking why.

“I don’t want that, it’s too much.” Zhi Qi’s cheeks turned red, her voice coquettishly pleading. “Let’s go out and have fun, okay?”

Naturally, Jiang Qi went along with her. Hearing this, he hugged her and stood, helping her dress. “Where to?”

Zhi Qi thought for a bit. She didn’t really have anywhere in mind for a date, so she said: “Let’s go see Langlang.”

Her little dolphin.

Because of all the recent turmoil, she hadn’t visited it in a long while.

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