Chapter 13: New Drama

Jiang Zhizhou woke up at nine o’clock the next morning. She habitually picked up her phone and, as soon as she unlocked it, saw the WeChat message Jiang Qingmeng had sent her:

“You got drunk, and I didn’t know your production crew’s hotel room number, so I booked a room at this hotel. Your clothes have been sent for dry cleaning and will be delivered later. I have a schedule today, so I’m heading out first. Talk later.”

Jiang Zhizhou rubbed her forehead. She had already been seven parts drunk when she left the wrap party the night before, and later Jiang Qingmeng had poured her quite a few more drinks. She couldn’t bear to refuse, so she downed them one after another until she blacked out completely and couldn’t remember a thing.

It didn’t matter if she couldn’t remember; she had complete confidence in her own drinking behavior and wouldn’t do anything outrageous when drunk. She also had complete trust in Jiang Qingmeng’s character—after all, they were both women, so there was no way she’d get out of hand after drinking.

After tidying up simply, Jiang Zhizhou returned to her own hotel room to pack her luggage and headed back to the company.

For some reason, after Injustice Cleared wrapped, Chen Lin stopped arranging any schedules for her.

She had tried communicating with Chen Lin, but Chen Lin kept giving her official, evasive responses.

Left with no choice, she pulled out the management contract the original host had signed with Star Source Entertainment and read through it clause by clause. In the end, she gave up on trying to communicate with her agent and patiently sat on the bench.

With no schedules, Jiang Zhizhou had no intention of idling away.

Her current body was on the weaker side, as if a gust of wind could knock her over. Though she could be considered slender and tall, it bordered on sickly. So, with her free time, she picked up her fitness hobby again—running, martial arts, and dance, all things she had excelled at in her previous life, and she picked them up like a fish to water.

From June to December, Jiang Zhizhou was idle for a full half year.

She made the most of that half year, not only sculpting a flat, tight midriff, but also transforming her temperament and appearance entirely—it was no exaggeration to call it a complete rebirth.

She posted before-and-after photos on Weibo: the same outfit of black fitness pants on the bottom and a black cropped top on top. Half a year ago, Jiang Zhizhou had a frail figure with a slight belly pooch; half a year later, her posture had become upright and lean, her snowy abdomen free of any excess fat. Paired with her refined features and graceful figure, it set her few fans screaming, even drawing likes and reposts from passersby, gaining her a few thousand followers.

After Jiang Qingmeng reposted and liked it, her follower count shot up in a straight line.

Unlike the rainbow farts she blew for other friends in the industry when reposting their Weibo updates, Jiang Qingmeng’s repost for her was just three words plus a comma—”Senior Sister, amazing”—clearly typed out by hand, not some templated copy-paste from her PR team.

When Jiang Zhizhou got the repost notification, she stared at those four words for a long time.

After their reunion in Hengdian, they hadn’t seen each other again and had very little contact. One was a hot trending idol, the other an eighteenth-tier actress—their circles barely overlapped.

Over the past half year, Jiang Zhizhou had unconsciously paid more attention to Jiang Qingmeng. Billboards on the streets, LED screens in malls, snack and beverage packaging—her face was everywhere.

She scoured and watched all the TV shows, movies, and ads she had starred in, one by one.

After Jiang Qingmeng’s repost and like, Jiang Zhizhou started posting on Weibo more frequently, going from once a month to once a week.

The content was almost all about fitness and movies.

She still loved movies and would write short reviews—a habit shared with the original host Shen Xinghe, but Jiang Zhizhou’s richer experience and insight led to deeper, more profound critiques, gradually attracting fans who also loved films.

She also created a side account just to follow Jiang Qingmeng, even diving into the fandom for her.

Her first foray into fandom culture came from following Baidu tutorials on how to post in super topics and how to chart and generate data, during which she got schooled on fan types.

Netizens explained that there were leech fans, CP fans, girlfriend fans, career fans, solo fans, and more—the fan circle had its own hierarchy of disdain, with solo fans at the top, CP fans unable to show their faces to the main stars, and lazy, no-money-no-effort leech fans undoubtedly at the bottom.

Jiang Zhizhou didn’t want to be a leech fan. After learning to post in the #JiangQingmeng# super topic on her phone, she made a Weibo post as the start of her stanning journey—

“My little girl is great. Though her acting isn’t outstanding yet and her line delivery is just average, she’s earnest and professional, always improving. It’s just that the dramas she’s done so far are pretty bad—mainly because the scripts suck, with illogical stories, messy character relationships, clichéd plots, and sloppy costumes and sets, so it can’t all be blamed on her…”

Jiang Zhizhou classified herself as one of Jiang Qingmeng’s career fans, offering some objective evaluation and summary of her acting and works, then expressing that “she’s still young with a bright future ahead.”

The post hadn’t been online long before the views shot up. Fans in the super topics were left baffled, so inundated with effusive praise that they couldn’t tell if this commenter was a stan or a troll.

Clicking through revealed a brand-new account. Undoubtedly a hater.

Qingmeng’s Girlfriend Fan: “Pretending to be a fan? Scram!”

My Sister is the Most Beautiful: “Heh, average acting skills? You give it a shot. (smiley face)”

Zhuang Sheng Butterfly Dream: “Talking so big—do you think you’re Jiang Zhizhou herself? (toothy grin)”

Carry Away My Qingmeng: “The Legend of the Bright Pearl smashed dual-channel ratings over 2, first-lead box office hit 5 billion, swept covers on all five major and two minor magazines, 19 endorsements including Cartier, L’Oréal, and vivo. Haters, no need to be salty—may your whole family boil straight through to the earth’s core. (toothy grin)”

…

Jiang Zhizhou blinked at the comments piling up under her Weibo post, feeling a little dazed.

So that’s how fandom worked? You couldn’t say a single bad thing about an idol? Only gushing praise—no criticism allowed?

She grasped the idea now, but Jiang Zhizhou wasn’t the type to swallow insults. Anyone who dared take a swing at her got an immediate, no-holds-barred keyboard barrage in return. Even when swarmed by fans, she stood her ground, holding her own with logic and facts against the horde.

Replying to Qingmeng’s Girlfriend Fan: “Loyalty that looks like betrayal—ring any bells?”

Replying to My Sister is the Most Beautiful: “Don’t make me pull out that line about ‘evaluating an air conditioner means you have to know refrigeration.'”

Replying to Zhuang Sheng Butterfly Dream: “Now that’s clever…”

Replying to Carry Away My Qingmeng: “Read more books, follow the news. Bottom-of-the-well frogs just won’t cut it. (dog-head emoji)”

…

Three days of nonstop sparring later, the fandom bigwigs couldn’t take it anymore. They rounded up their fans, herded them back into the group chats, and laid into them: “That’s just a contrarian troll. Why get sucked in? You’re only giving everyone else a laugh.”

On the other side of things, the relentlessly argumentative Jiang Zhizhou snapped out of it and realized her mistake. What kind of fan picked a fight with another star’s supporters first?

She’d fallen into her old habit of prioritizing snappy comebacks.

With a wry smile, she pivoted to tearing into Jiang Qingmeng’s actual haters on their own Weibo pages.

When Jiang Qingmeng’s fans spotted it, their feelings were a tangled mess. This woman really was a walking, breathing contrarian.

Taking the hint, Jiang Zhizhou updated her alt account’s ID to “A Happy Little Contrarian.”

In addition to following Jiang Qingmeng, she made time to keep an eye on updates from Chen Lin, He Jia, and Star Source Entertainment.

He Jia had a knack for investments and was always dipping into new business deals.

Chen Lin, perhaps feeling the strain as her roster grew, established a dedicated studio for Jiang Qingmeng in early July. She handed off her fringe artists to other managers and picked up a new client named Chen Yu—rumored to be her sister.

Star Source, the industry’s hot new powerhouse, was riding high. By late November, they’d signed a slew of fresh faces and even poached a rival agency’s top starlet.

Early in December, after six months kicking around at home, Jiang Zhizhou finally got a call from Chen Lin.

Chen Lin slid a slim script her way. “Nine Songs. Qingmeng’s the lead—she’s a ratings magnet. I’ve put in a word for you; go for Third Female Lead.”

Jiang Zhizhou had never shot a TV drama in her previous life, much less a xianxia epic. The script only included the Third Female Lead’s character bio and audition sides—no full storyline to help her get into the role.

She scoured the internet for the source novel and read through it in one sitting.

The tale unfolded across the Heavenly, Human, and Demon Realms. Whenever a human dynasty shifted, the Heavenly Realm’s Dragon Clan and Feather Clan’s phoenix lineage would each select one dragon and one phoenix to form a sacred pact. Once bound, the dragon guarded the emperor’s throne, the phoenix the empress’s seat, together preserving the mortal realm’s dragon-and-phoenix fortune.

The Dragon Clan had always prized sons over daughters. The female lead, Yuan Zhi—third princess of the Dragon Clan and mistress of the Xiang River—was a demigod born from the Dragon King’s tryst with a human woman. Raised in male disguise amid female companions, she had always been the Dragon King’s favorite.

The second female lead, Yin Yue, had once been the Three Realms’ greatest beauty and the Feather Clan’s supreme war god. In an immortal-demon war five hundred years prior, half her face was destroyed, leaving her to wear a mask year-round. Shunned for her disfigurement and erratic temperament, no dragon dared form a pact with her—until the female lead stepped forward.

Beautiful and kind-hearted, the female lead ventured to Kunlun Mountain for an immortal herb to restore the second female lead’s looks. There, she encountered the Heavenly Realm’s foremost war god, Emperor Beichen—the male lead—imprisoned in the depths. He fell for her at first sight.

The second female lead, too, gradually fell for the female lead in her male guise. By a twist of fate, she uncovered the female lead’s true identity as a woman and learned the shocking truth: five hundred years ago, during that immortal-demon war, the Dragon Clan had colluded with the Demon Clan. To harvest phoenix marrow and save his human lover, the Dragon King had slain the second female lead’s mother.

Enraged, the second female lead turned dark. She scarred her own face further, imprisoned Yuan Zhi, and massacred the Dragon Clan. With dragon and phoenix divided, the human realm’s fortunes crumbled: emperor and empress turned on each other, the palace descended into chaos, and fields ran red with blood. The Heavenly Emperor had once shielded the Dragon King, so in her fury, the second female lead razed the Heavenly Court to the ground.

The Demon Realm seized the chaos to revolt. In an instant, the Three Realms descended into anarchy, with countless lives lost.

At that moment, Emperor Beichen—the male lead who had been silently standing by Yuan Zhi’s side—stepped forward to rescue the female lead and save the world. He first saved the female lead and captured the second female lead, then seized the throne and clashed with the Demon Lord. After rounds of fierce battles, victory seemed imminent for the protagonists and their heavenly soldiers and generals. But then the female lead was snatched away by the Demon Realm.

With no other choice, the male lead pleaded with the second female lead, locked away in the heavenly prison, to set aside her grudge and fight the enemy together. Her great vendetta avenged and the world thrown into chaos, the second female lead couldn’t bear to stand idly by. She agreed to join forces with the male lead against the Demon Realm.

But the Demon Lord proved far too ferocious. Even the Heavenly Realm’s two great war gods, fighting side by side, couldn’t defeat him.

The turning point hinged on the female lead. The Demon Lord’s son—the second male lead—fell for her and demanded she marry into the Demon Realm.

To save the world and under pressure from the Heavenly Realm’s gods, the female lead consented. She wed the Demon Lord’s son, bringing peace between the immortal and demonic realms, restoring their alliance, and returning the human world to tranquility.

That’s when the male lead turned dark for love. He betrayed the Heavenly Realm, fell to the demonic path, slew the Demon Lord, claimed the throne, and took the female lead as his bride. During their wedding ceremony, the second male lead—driven mad by love turned to hate—tried to kill the female lead. The second female lead intervened, blocking the fatal blow, and died in the female lead’s arms. Clutching her, the female lead wept bitterly before personally grinding the second male lead’s bones to dust and scattering his ashes.

And so, with all the supporting characters and cannon fodder out of the way, the main leads enjoyed their happy ending.

Jiang Zhizhou watched with a straight face, inwardly remarking how ridiculously over-the-top the script was. The female lead was a classic airheaded Mary Sue sweetheart, the male lead an arrogant, cool, flashy bad boy. Only Yin Yue’s role as the second female lead had any real spark—beautiful, powerful, and tragic. Played well, it could really shine, far more interesting than Jiang Zhizhou’s own third female lead.

The third female lead was a spoiled, headstrong little princess from the Heavenly Realm who fancied the male lead. She died on the battlefield, taking a sword meant for him. The character was thinly sketched, leaving scant room for interpretation.

Too bad this wasn’t like Injustice Cleared, where she’d lucked into the role. Nine Songs was an IP Star Source Entertainment had snapped up specifically to launch newcomers. The production team was a joint effort between Star Source and Huamei, and if she wasn’t mistaken, neither company would yield this prime opportunity. Both would cram in their rookies to ride Jiang Qingmeng’s coattails. No shot for Jiang Zhizhou.

The thought of Injustice Cleared reminded her that the web drama should be going live any day now. A few days earlier, Producer He had called, asking her to help with the crew’s promo push—rallying her Weibo and WeChat contacts in the industry to spread the word.

Problem was, Jiang Zhizhou’s circle was so small she couldn’t name a single industry friend.

It was pretty pathetic, being a star reduced to this.

At least after six months on the sidelines, she finally had work again.

Jiang Zhizhou reread the source material twice more and printed out all the third female lead’s scenes.

She was deep into jotting notes on the pages when her phone rang.

She glanced at the caller ID, froze for a second, then picked up. “Qingmeng?”

“Xinghe, long time no see. Got time tomorrow? Coffee?”

“Of course. Where?”

“Caffe Pascucci downstairs from the company. Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon work?”

“Perfect. See you then?”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Once Jiang Qingmeng hung up, Jiang Zhizhou stared at the call timer—under a minute—and frowned.

Why cut it so short? Why not chat more?

The warm glow of delight hit her a beat late. Clutching her phone, she began mulling over tomorrow’s outfit, her makeup, the topics she’d share once they met.

Suddenly, she wished time would fly—faster, if possible—straight to tomorrow afternoon.

The next afternoon, Jiang Zhizhou spent two full hours on her makeup before heading out.

She arrived at the café to find Jiang Qingmeng already seated.

December brought biting winter chill, but Jiang Qingmeng looked elegant in a tailored camel coat cinched with a belt that highlighted her graceful figure.

Camel was said to be a color of warmth.

The instant their eyes met, Jiang Qingmeng’s smile bloomed like winter sun, melting away the frost.

“Long time no see. How’ve you been?”

Even her greeting felt cozy.

“Not bad. Mostly just… still drawing a blank on a lot of things.” The café’s heat chased away the cold; Jiang Zhizhou shrugged off her coat and scarf, revealing a creamy white wool sweater underneath.

“Dissociative amnesia, right? No rush—you’ll remember when you’re ready.” Jiang Qingmeng flagged down the server to order.

“Right, but honestly, it doesn’t matter. I prefer looking ahead over looking back.” Jiang Zhizhou brushed it off and ordered a Blue Mountain.

Smiling, Jiang Qingmeng said, “At least your taste for Blue Mountain hasn’t changed.”

“Some habits stick, some don’t. You know what they say—women are fickle.”

Jiang Zhizhou didn’t like Blue Mountain coffee. To be precise, she didn’t like coffee at all—she only drank tea or plain water. But she had read the original host’s diary and knew that the original host only ever drank this brand.

Jiang Qingmeng nodded with a smile, said nothing more, and took a sip of her coffee.

Jiang Zhizhou lifted her hand to rub her throbbing left temple, suddenly struck by the intuition that Jiang Qingmeng was testing her.

Maybe it was just her imagination.