Chapter 1
Early in the morning, the entertainment industry gains another new joke.
#The entire Little Mountain God crew caught soliciting prostitutes#
#Spring launch, overnight rush#
#Shao Dancheng arrested#
#Is Meng Xuehuan still asleep?#
……
Every trending topic related to this incident comes with the word “EXPLODE” attached.
On what should have been a drowsy Monday morning, once the legal news breaks, office gossipers light up with smiles and begin reviewing the clarification statements released by various parties.
Because the news says it was a group offense, every actor connected to the film—big or small—has to come out one by one to issue statements if they weren’t involved: not familiar, didn’t know, strongly condemn.
The trending list turns into a bulletin board. Endorsements drop like flies. Netizens type “read” while compiling a checklist.
[The director, male lead, cinematographer, makeup artist—all arrested.]
[Anyone else? Anyone else? I remember this was a dual–male-lead film! The other male lead, Meng Xuehuan, still hasn’t issued a statement?]
[That just means they’re stalling for PR. Anyone clean would’ve spoken up already.]
[Meng Xuehuan debuted two years ago, focuses on his own work, doesn’t care about entertainment-industry chaos. His studio is urgently contacting the crew to learn the situation and will release an official statement shortly. Rumor-mongers will bear legal responsibility. Justice lies in people’s hearts.]
[Please! Does Meng Xuehuan need to pay for sex? The number-one beauty of the entertainment industry— with that aloof, untouchable look and aura, who’d be paying whom exactly?]
[Woke up and the whole crew is gone except him. I feel so bad for Meng Xuehuan!]
Meng Xuehuan’s fans are called Snowflakes. They’re numerous by entertainment-industry standards, but among a nation of a billion netizens, drowned in the sea of real-life onlookers, they’re like snowflakes falling on vast black soil—noticeable, yet thin, crushed at a single step.
[Oh? The Snowflakes are out defending again?]
[The last ones who argued like this were Shao Dancheng’s fans. No matter how a man looks, his brain’s the same.]
Shao Dancheng—one of the male leads. Handsome and tough, both idol and capable actor, long hailed as a male god. When the news first broke, his fans shouted, “Impossible! My brother looks like that—why would he need paid sex? Do you believe Shao Dancheng solicits prostitutes or do you believe I’m Qin Shi Huang?”
They held out for half an hour before being crushed by official media.
[Meng Xuehuan landed a New Year blockbuster male lead by a top director just two years after debut. No backing? Only a ghost would believe that. The whole crew is either clarifying or admitting fault—he’s the only one still struggling at death’s door. Fits his persona.]
[What aloof flower on a high peak? He debuted tied to heavenly king superstar Lu Xiao, selling bromance for hype. A repeat offender, that’s all.]
[Have some sense! It’s only been two hours since the news broke. Meng Xuehuan’s studio has always been super laid-back— they probably haven’t even woken up yet!]
[Everyone at the table got taken in. What do you think the odds are that Meng Xuehuan alone was missed?]
[Bury them all together. Tomorrow’s Qingming Festival— they were all decent people in life. Everyone spit once and move on.]
[Keep spoiling him, Snowflakes. When the avalanche comes, not a single snowflake is innocent.]
[Other fandoms have house collapses—yours is a full-on avalanche!]
Witty remarks fly thick and fast. Before long, “avalanche” shoots to the top of the trending list.
The heat stays sky-high, partly because Little Mountain God had been billed as an all-star lineup.
Major capital Shence Entertainment served as producer. The director was internationally renowned Jiao Shu. The screenwriter held three blockbuster dramas. The cinematography, lighting, and makeup teams were all highly respected. Both male leads were top-tier traffic stars; veteran supporting actors were household names.
A commercial comedy film with top-tier configuration, locked in for next year’s Lunar New Year slot—when casting was announced, it made countless people jealous.
[An all-star lineup soliciting prostitutes.]
[Guys, I was actually looking forward to this film. Now do I need to serve a sentence first before I’m allowed to watch it?]
[Internal film prison-exclusive release**]
……
At Baihua Apartments, Meng Xuehuan wakes up, opens his phone—which had been on silent—and freezes.
An avalanche?
It’s already spring—what natural disaster could be this severe?
He taps in to take a look, and his expression gradually turns cold.
Today at eleven a.m. is the opening ceremony for Little Mountain God. Last night, the main creative team had dinner together to get acquainted. After the meal, the director—putting on a sanctimonious front—announced there would be another activity, calling it a necessary ritual before filming to bless the movie with a smooth shoot. Meng Xuehuan disliked socializing and left early. The director tried to persuade him repeatedly, failed, and left in a foul mood.
So that was what they were going off to do—something that disgusting.
Meng Xuehuan pressed his lips together. Getting news like this first thing in the morning was truly unsettling.
The young man’s brows and eyes resembled the snowline on a perpetually snowbound ridge—icy and aloof. Beneath the white snow lay a pair of pitch-black eyes, like frozen black agate. On either side of his straight, elegant nose, near the corners of his eyes, were two faint, symmetrical red moles. His face was that of a true beauty—an iceberg beauty—but not an easy one to talk to.
The phone buzzed. His agent was calling.
“Quick, quick—post a selfie on Weibo to clarify!”
Agent Lin Mu wanted to punch himself. Sleep whenever you want—why did you have to sleep like a dead pig today of all days?
Damn it! The trending topic exploded at six in the morning; the entire studio didn’t wake up until eight-thirty! They’d completely missed the golden PR window. Now no matter how they explained, netizens would spin conspiracy theories—those two hours of playing dead were clearly spent pulling strings to suppress the news.
He’d thought that once his star artist entered a film crew, he himself could finally rest for a bit, enjoy some peace and stability. Who knew disaster would come flying in out of nowhere?
The purer and more flawless a person appears, the harder it is to defend themselves when a basin of filthy water is suddenly dumped over them—someone with such a perfect persona must be terribly fake in reality.
Especially since some netizens dug up photos from last night’s dinner with the main creative team, hammering home that Meng Xuehuan had also participated in the after-dinner entertainment.
From there, the speculation spread: before entering the industry, Meng Xuehuan came from an ordinary family; after entering, resources poured in nonstop. He must have latched onto some major sugar daddy—and even had the ability to suppress legal news. Definitely worth an investigation by the disciplinary authorities.
Meng Xuehuan said, “Okay.”
He changed clothes, casually took a selfie, and posted it with the caption: Thanks for the concern. No crime committed.
Almost the moment he posted it, a wave of onlookers flooded in—voices full of doubt.
Soon after, the studio account released an official statement, clarifying that they had no prior knowledge and would sue the production team, seeking compensation. But these days, nothing looks more like scrap paper than a celebrity’s lawyer’s letter.
Lin Mu drove straight to Meng Xuehuan’s place, bringing a pile of groceries and daily necessities. As soon as he stepped inside, he caught a whiff of floral fragrance.
Meng Xuehuan loved flowers; there were always plenty at home. He didn’t even need perfume—he naturally carried a light scent.
The gentle fragrance soothed the nerves. Lin Mu’s agitation eased a little. He set the supermarket bags on the table and said, “There are paparazzi everywhere outside. Don’t go out for the next couple of days. No idea how they found this place—I’ll look for a new apartment for you tomorrow.”
“Mm.” Meng Xuehuan didn’t like juggling multiple projects. He’d cleared two months to film this movie; now that it had fallen through, he had nothing to do. He sat cross-legged on the sofa with aristocratic ease, playing on his phone.
From the moment Lin Mu entered, his phone hadn’t stopped ringing. He stood by the window taking calls until his throat was dry.
Meng Xuehuan got up and made him a cup of honey water.
Lin Mu tilted his head back and took a sip—it was sweet loquat honey. Loquat trees bloom in winter; spring is the perfect time to harvest the honey. At Meng Xuehuan’s place, he always got to drink all kinds of honey flavors, utterly authentic and impossible to buy on the market.
After wetting his throat, he burst out cursing: “Shao Dancheng’s fans are like water ghosts, trying to drag you down with them. Every one of them swearing it’s unfair—why is only he being blacklisted? What, did Shao Dancheng text those brain-dead fans before soliciting prostitutes to say you two were in it together?”
The two sides had already clashed over billing order. Shao Dancheng’s blacklisting was a done deal; his fans had no way to spin it clean, so they poured all their fighting power into dragging Meng Xuehuan down.
“And Zhang Xinru—every day with that thick skin of his, calling himself your rival. He posted on Weibo with that sarcastic tone, saying he was lucky he sensed something off about the crew and withdrew early.”
During Little Mountain God’s casting, Zhang Xinru and Meng Xuehuan had both been contenders for the Mountain God role. Both had shot costume test photos. Meng Xuehuan possessed a naturally innate divinity that fit the character better. Zhang Xinru failed to get the role and released press claiming Meng Xuehuan had stolen it, citing the very existence of the test photos as “proof.”
Clearly the defeated one—yet now he’d turned into someone who had withdrawn voluntarily, earning praise from passing onlookers for his supposed innate integrity.
“Zhang Xinru definitely hired paid posters. He wants to step on you and climb up.”
Online, the uproar was intense, with an air of everyone pushing when the wall collapses. Lin Mu contacted websites again and again to delete content, only to provoke a wave of backlash.
He pressed his forehead. “And… Lu Xiao’s fans are also in there stirring the mud.”
Meng Xuehuan and Lu Xiao had debuted as a duo, then quickly split off solo after becoming popular—kings never meeting kings. Between the two, there were many CP fans, but even more toxic solo stans. Now Lu Xiao’s fans were reposting lottery giveaways, celebrating that their idol had finally been unshackled from a bundled, hype-driven ‘criminal-law celebrity.’
Lin Mu thought bitterly: this really turned black and white upside down. It was clearly Lu Xiao who had used every means to force—
The entertainment industry looked crowded, but there were only a handful of truly top-tier male stars: Lu Xiao, Zhang Xinru, Shao Dancheng. Ranked in sequence, each had successively become Meng Xuehuan’s sworn rival. The combined force of these three fandoms against Meng Xuehuan was not to be underestimated.
When Lin Mu cursed Zhang Xinru and Shao Dancheng, Meng Xuehuan remained indifferent. When Lu Xiao was mentioned, Meng Xuehuan’s lashes lowered slightly.
Following the thread, he opened his browser, tapped a bookmarked site, and a Lu Xiao only fan forum popped up—inside, everyone was joyfully singing Unforgettable Tonight.
“……”
Seeing this, Lin Mu coughed twice and tried to console him. “That’s just the standard house-collapse process. If rivals weren’t holding lottery giveaways to celebrate, that’d mean you’d flopped completely. It’s all bandwagon behavior.”
Honestly, these fans—Meng Xuehuan and Lu Xiao hadn’t shared a frame since unbundling. No interactions, even unfollowed each other on Weibo. And yet they were still obsessed with a former colleague. Wasn’t this some kind of deeply closeted fixation?
Meng Xuehuan flipped his phone face-down. “Since the movie can’t be filmed, help me take on some other roles—anything, even supporting ones.”
He wouldn’t be getting the Little Mountain God paycheck. At best there’d be a bit of breach compensation. He needed other work to make up for the lost income, so it wouldn’t derail his plans for the year.
Lin Mu shook his head instead. Losing a male-lead role in a big-budget production and then going to play a supporting role in a low-budget drama would get him mocked to death. “No rush. I’ll see if there are any variety shows you can go on.”
Everyone knew variety shows were powerful tools for image rehabilitation. But with Meng Xuehuan’s aloof personality—quiet, not fond of talking—he’d be at a disadvantage.
Lin Mu’s phone vibrated again. He glanced at the caller ID—another one of Meng Xuehuan’s endorsement brands calling to ask about the incident. He picked up and, for the one hundred and eighth time, assured them that Meng Xuehuan wouldn’t affect the brand’s image and so on.
There was no helping it—Meng Xuehuan was practically covered head to toe in luxury endorsements.
Lin Mu hung up, thought for a moment, then dialed another number. It rang ten times with no answer.
On the screen, it showed five unanswered calls.
Lin Mu muttered to himself, “Why hasn’t Lu Xiao made any move…”
Seeing this, Meng Xuehuan felt a bit guilty. He’d auditioned for this film himself because he liked the script so much, and now his agent had to keep apologizing to brand partners because of it. After thinking for a moment, he said, “I have an idea.”
Lin Mu: “What is it?”
Meng Xuehuan: “Announce that I already have a stable romantic partner.”
Lin Mu’s eyes widened. “Lu—”
Meng Xuehuan: “Pull the rug out from under it.”
The most effective way to divert public attention from one issue was to explode an even juicier one. If Meng Xuehuan had a partner, on the one hand it suggested there was no need for soliciting prostitutes; on the other, it could appeal to netizens to watch their words and not make wild guesses that might affect a young couple’s relationship.
Lin Mu: “Then what if they ask who it is?”
Netizens weren’t idiots. Suddenly announcing a relationship would obviously look like a shield—who would believe it? And no one would want to wade into muddy waters like this.
Well… plenty of C-list nobodies would happily chase the clout, but there was no way they’d let them.
Meng Xuehuan: “Mm, just say they’re outside the industry.”
Lin Mu: “Let’s think about it more… announcing a relationship means losing fans.”
Meng Xuehuan lifted his chin slightly and said seriously, “I’m already past the age where I sell a ‘single’ persona.”
It could also be a chance to transform his image.
Lin Mu: “No—you’re only twenty-three. There are tons of male stars in the industry pushing forty who still act like giant babies. The one who sang with you the other day—he’s thirty-eight and still plays dumb like Makabaka whenever romance comes up.”
And you—you really are Makabaka.
But Meng Xuehuan had already made up his mind. “That’s it.”
He picked up his phone, edited a post, and urged Lin Mu, “Repost it on the studio account.”
He could say “I have a stable romantic partner,” but the line “please watch your words and don’t speculate, so as not to trouble a young couple” had to come from the studio.
Lin Mu’s rule was never to go against his artist’s wishes. He’d advised and advised; now he could only accept his fate and log in to repost.
Ding-dong—posted successfully!
Meng Xuehuan’s brows lifted slightly as he let out a soft breath.
Lin Mu said, “I’ll contact a few marketing accounts to repost. Someone will definitely say you’re feeling guilty and dragging out a shield—wait!”
He opened his mouth in disbelief. At the exact second—literally, physically the next second—after Meng Xuehuan posted his Weibo, Lu Xiao also posted one. The content was—
[@Lu Xiao: He was with me last night @Meng Xuehuan.]
And Meng Xuehuan’s post read: [I have a stable romantic partner.]
Put together, it became—
!!!
Damn.
Damn—it’s alive.
The CP fandom that had been dead for 1 year and 249 days resurrected on the spot.
[Wuhu~ Wildfires never burn it all; when spring winds blow, it lives again!]
[Wuhu~ Past filth not worth boasting of, today’s indulgence endless, endless!]
[Sisters, I’m alive again! Where’s the Snowy Night Army?!]
[Here we are, here we are! Spring is wonderful—everything revives~]
[Your daddy was just lying low, not dead. Time to give everyone a shock.]
[Wuwuwu tomorrow’s Qingming—I was just about to burn some smut fics to mourn our deceased CP, and it comes back to life!]
[Together last night, couldn’t wake up this morning, hehe.]
[The whole entertainment industry exploded while you two were just waking up—what were you doing?! slaps table]
[Posting at the same time—if it wasn’t from the same bed, I don’t believe time can sync like that. side-eye grin]
[Watched Snowflakes and Lu Xiao’s fans fight all day—you curse me, I curse you, meanwhile our brothers are sweet as honey.]
Meng Xuehuan: “……”
The image was cleaned up—but also turned yellow.
He tried to exit Weibo, but his finger slipped, accidentally switching into the still-open Lu Xiao true-love forum.
He glanced at it briefly. The fans who’d been singing Unforgettable Tonight were now struck dumb.
“……”
Lin Mu’s phone received a message from Lu Xiao: [Just saw it. I clarified it for him.]
“……”
The humble agent’s CPU was about to burn out.
He hurriedly replied, then called him. The melodious ringtone rang out—after three years of use, the phone somehow produced a dual-channel surround effect. Suspicious, Lin Mu covered the speaker and turned to Meng Xuehuan. “Are you singing?”
Meng Xuehuan looked perfectly calm. “No.”
