Chapter 23

During the entire exercise session, Qi Yu kept sneaking glances at Zhong Yao, who was in the neighboring class.

But the distance was too far, and he couldn’t make out her expression. She was performing the exercises with good form, though.

He himself moved absentmindedly, just going through the motions. When the group was dismissed, he saw her get pulled away by her desk mate and quickly leave. Unable to resist, he sent her a message:

[What are you planning to do?]

She didn’t reply right away—maybe she didn’t have her phone on her—so Qi Yu, back in class, took the initiative and sent another:

[How about you wait until after school, and I’ll sneak over and tear it down for you?]

This time, she replied quickly:

[Why tear it down? Is it that shameful?]

…?

So she didn’t realize what it meant for her reflection to be posted? Or—did it mean she and Jin Chuan didn’t care?

Qi Yu frowned and decided to clarify:

[If it’s posted, won’t your relationship with Jin Chuan be exposed?]

But the girl replied with a question of her own:

[So am I never allowed to let anyone know?]

Qi Yu was momentarily at a loss for words.

Because of how famous his parents were, he had been under a spotlight since birth—surrounded by cameras, whether he liked it or not. Naturally, he viewed Zhong Yao and Jin Chuan’s relationship through that same “celebrity logic.”

A celebrity having a secret daughter? That kind of headline was explosive—probably even more scandalous than his parents’ divorce. Unless one of them had an affair, it wouldn’t come close. And when the news broke, she and her mother would be harassed by reporters, their pasts dissected by strangers, and maybe even become targets of public criticism.

Could she really handle all that?

But from Zhong Yao’s perspective, demanding that she forever hide her father—as if he were some dirty secret—was pretty cruel too.

Even Jin Chuan and She Rui hadn’t figured out how to solve that dilemma. Qi Yu certainly didn’t have the answer either.

After a long pause, he simply wrote:

[I don’t know. But I envy the freedom you have right now.]

The class bell rang. Zhong Yao stared at his final message, deep in thought.

It seemed like everyone else believed keeping the secret was the best choice.

In the end, Zhong Yao’s reflection letter was indeed posted on the school’s bulletin board by Mr. Jiang.

As soon as Qi Yu stepped into the cafeteria that afternoon, he heard students already talking about “Zhong Yao’s parent.” He paused, expecting the worst—only to hear something completely different:

“She’s so cool—she took her mom’s last name!”

“I’m so jealous. I’ve always wanted to take my mom’s surname, but my dad would never allow it.”

“Her mom’s name is Zhong Wan, right? I heard her name was inspired by the phrase ‘yǎo yǎo zhōng shēng wǎn’ (the distant sound of bells at dusk). So poetic!”

Qi Yu was stunned.

He recalled the day he dyed his hair—Xiao Manru had specifically warned him: Zhong Yao’s mother has passed away. So even if you’re mischievous, you’d better have a sense of boundaries. If you dare bully that girl, I’ll break your legs.

Yet now, on her reflection letter, it was signed with her mother’s name.

So… was it Zhong Yao who signed it herself, or was it Jin Chuan?

As the boy pondered whether Jin Chuan had a conscience at all, Zhong Yao was already staring out the window in a daze.

The clouds in the sky drifted high above, and golden ginkgo leaves danced in the wind in the distance.

She thought: If Jin Chuan doesn’t speak first, she won’t take the initiative to tell anyone about it either.

They had their burdens to bear. And she had her pride to keep.

—

With National Day approaching—and it being the 70th anniversary of the founding of the country—Zhong Yao overheard many classmates talking about the upcoming military parade on October 1st as school let out.

Many schools in Beijing had already selected groups of students to participate in the mass parade formations. Taoli High was no exception. Ever since Zhong Yao transferred in, she had noticed students constantly practicing on the field. Only recently did she realize they were preparing for the grand military parade.

Walking under the tree-lined avenue, she glanced sideways through the poplars, stopping in her tracks, her eyes full of envy.

She had never even been to Tiananmen Square. She had watched parades before, but only with her mom, Aunt Liu, and Shiwu—huddled in front of a small television. She didn’t understand much about military equipment; she simply enjoyed the feeling of nationwide celebration, of being part of something.

That evening, wrapped in a blanket, Zhong Yao sat on the terrace and called Sun Shiwu.

As usual, Sun Shiwu was chattering on about the latest celebrity gossip and cautiously asked if Zhong Yao knew any insider news.

“Shiwu,” Zhong Yao interrupted her, biting her lip. She finally couldn’t hold it in and asked, “Can you and Aunt Liu come to Beijing for National Day? I want to go to Tiananmen with you.”

Sun Shiwu blurted out, “What about Jin Chuan?!”

Zhong Yao pouted and said sulkily, “He’s been leaving early and coming home late again. Probably performing in some National Day event, like during Mid-Autumn Festival.”

On the other end, Sun Shiwu went silent.

She wanted to say, Why don’t you just ask Jin Chuan directly what his plans are for National Day? What if he’s not working? Would my mom and I coming over be a bad idea? Would we be interrupting your chance to bond with him?

But she knew Zhong Yao too well. With her pride, she would never ask. So she let it go.

“Yaoyao, what if Jin Chuan doesn’t have a performance?” Sun Shiwu hesitated, then added, “And coming to Beijing is so expensive. I’d feel bad making Mom spend that much money. Yaoyao, if you miss us, you could always come back and watch the parade with us instead.”

Zhong Yao, of course, had no intention of making Aunt Liu pay. She stared at the ¥20,000 transfer from Jin Chuan sitting in her bank account and hesitated to speak.

She really had decided not to use his money—but she wanted so badly to bring Aunt Liu and Shiwu to Tiananmen, to watch the flag-raising ceremony, to see the parade.

She wondered if she could borrow the money for now and pay it back once she started earning her own.

“Shiwu, I—”

“Oh my god, Yaoyao!”

Just as Zhong Yao was about to say I have money, Sun Shiwu suddenly shouted in excitement, cutting her off: “Qi Yu’s reflection got on the trending list! Tons of people are bashing him…”

Huh?

Zhong Yao froze. For the time being, there was no way to continue talking about the parade.

After a pause, she said, “Shiwu, send it to me.”

She now knew what trending meant—mass attention and public scrutiny, which could greatly influence a celebrity’s image.

Sun Shiwu quickly sent her a link. When Zhong Yao clicked it, the headline read:
“The Most Arrogant and Rebellious Celebrity Kid in History—Qi Yu.”

The article’s claims were even more ridiculous than the rumors spread by their classmates. It claimed Qi Yu gave reflection speeches as routinely as eating breakfast, and that he was so arrogant he even talked back to teachers. The most outrageous part was that it accused him of having stayed overnight at school with Shen Qingqing, the youngest daughter of Qingyi Entertainment, and that was the real reason for the public reflection.

To “prove” its credibility, the post included both photo and video evidence of Shen Qingqing and Qi Yu during their reflections. The videos were blurry, clearly taken from a distance and at a high angle. The still images were clearer—besides Qi Yu, there were some obscured faces, but from the visible edges of their uniforms, it was obvious they were shot by fellow students.

The post even included screenshots from several censored Weibo accounts claiming to be students of Taoli High, saying things like “Another celebrity kid giving a speech on the podium again.”

Zhong Yao was stunned. She couldn’t understand—how did two completely unrelated events get twisted into something like this online?

On the other end of the call, Sun Shiwu, who knew the truth, was already swearing at the unethical paparazzi.

As Zhong Yao scrolled further, she almost thought she had wandered into a student gossip forum.

“PR agents, get lost. Everyone knows what Qi the school bully is really like. [eye roll emoji]”
“He’s only fourteen, right? And he’s already staying overnight at school with a girl? Is it the entertainment industry that’s messed up, or are middle schoolers maturing way too early?!”
“Let me be blunt—besides being born lucky to famous parents, what talent does Qi Yu actually have? He’s just a spoiled brat. What’s there to be arrogant about?!”
“Oh please, y’all didn’t have this tone when he choreographed Sorry Sorry during Mid-Autumn Festival.”
“Trash. Next topic.”

At that point, Zhong Yao couldn’t keep scrolling anymore.

Ever since she transferred, all she’d seen was how dazzling Qi Yu was, all she’d heard was praise. This was the first time she saw him being scolded—harshly, mercilessly.

With a heavy heart, she asked her friend, “Shiwu, why are there always so many people who speak so cruelly when they don’t even know the truth? Qi Yu’s a great star, isn’t he? So many fans wait at the school gates all day just to see him. Why does he still have to suffer this kind of verbal abuse?”

Before, she thought the gossiping classmates were just young and didn’t realize their words could hurt.

But now she didn’t understand—why were people on the internet the same? Were they also just middle schoolers and elementary school students?

“Ai!” Sun Shiwu let out a heavy sigh and explained, “It’s not like that, Yaoyao. The more popular a celebrity is, the worse and nastier the hate gets. Those haters say the most awful things—ten times more toxic than Tan Xiao’s mouth. Honestly, I can’t even repeat how vicious they are.”

Zhong Yao felt that ever since coming to Beijing, her entire worldview had been constantly shifting.

So… being a celebrity did come with downsides?

“Is it like this for every popular celebrity?” she asked. “Even Jin Chuan?”

On the other end, Sun Shiwu hesitated before saying, “Yaoyao, don’t go searching for those kinds of posts on purpose. They’ll just upset you. Let’s only look at the ones praising our ‘gege’.”

“Gege?” Zhong Yao was confused.

Sun Shiwu explained, “I joined a fan group recently—everyone calls the celebrities they like ‘gege’ now! Doesn’t it sound so sweet and gentle?”

“Mm.” Zhong Yao couldn’t picture Sun Shiwu calling Jin Chuan “gege,” so she changed the subject. “Then… what do you do about a trending topic like this?”

Having only just begun her journey as a “fangirl,” Sun Shiwu didn’t yet understand terms like “PR team,” “publicity management,” or “suppressing/deleting trending topics.” So she naively suggested, “Yaoyao, since Qi Yu got into this mess because he was trying to help you, why don’t you just message him and comfort him a little?”

Zhong Yao suddenly remembered the crumpled paper ball Panda had tossed her when she first transferred to Taoli High. When the whole world misunderstands you, having one person stand up for you and protect you… that kind of warmth really moves the heart.

She deeply agreed with what Sun Shiwu said.

But Zhong Yao wasn’t good at comforting people. She thought for a long time before coming up with an idea.

First, she painstakingly tracked down the trending post on Weibo, then carefully typed out a truthful account of what had really happened. After that, she began copying and pasting her explanation into the comment section—replying one by one, starting from the top comment and working her way down.

After replying to about a hundred comments, her app suddenly froze. No matter what she did, it wouldn’t unfreeze. So she took a screenshot and asked Sun Shiwu for help.

[Shiwu, I’m trying to help explain things for Qi Yu, but something’s wrong with my Weibo. It keeps freezing on this screen.]
[What should I do? Help me figure it out.]

After sending the message, Zhong Yao went back to fiddling with the app.

Moments later, she heard two notification pings from QQ. Thinking it was Sun Shiwu replying, she opened the app—only to see…

At the very top of her chat list was Qi Yu.

Zhong Yao blinked rapidly in disbelief. Just as she saw a “?” message pop up from him, she had to face the mortifying truth:She had accidentally sent the screenshot of her Weibo explanation to Qi Yu himself.