Chapter 14

In the following days, the office’s lunchtime conversations revolved entirely around the family that got into a brawl in front of the memorial hall.

The commotion was so intense that even the police were called.

Since there was no local station in the mountains, the officers had to drive a long distance from the town, and as soon as they got out of the car, the family members swarmed them.

At first, the officers thought they were dealing with a group fight. Unexpectedly, as the argument escalated, two of the families suddenly joined forces to accuse a third party of fraud involving a large sum of money!

Exchanging a glance, the officers immediately decided to bring the entire family to the station for statements.

Thus, they all left in a hurry, not even staying for the final farewell ceremony.

Although the funeral home always reminded its employees not to discuss clients’ affairs and to respect their privacy, rules were one thing, but in cases as outrageous as this, it was hard for people not to whisper and marvel at how unpredictable human nature could be.

“Ling Chen, I heard you did the makeup for the deceased that day?” A senior makeup artist asked him curiously, “Did they really start fighting?”

Without looking up, Ling Chen muttered, “I was in the storage room at the time. I didn’t see anything. By the time I came out, they had already been taken away by the police.”

“Ling Chen never bothers with drama,” another colleague remarked. “Even if he hears something, he’s too lazy to check it out. Anyway, I heard the family hasn’t even picked up the ashes after cremation. They’ve just left them here.”

According to regulations, cremated ashes could be stored temporarily, but 99% of families took them away promptly for burial. Rumor had it that Director Song had personally called the family, asking them to retrieve the ashes soon, only to be blocked outright.

“How awful,” someone muttered.

“Come on, it’s not like this is the first time a family has fought in front of the memorial hall.” Across from Ling Chen, a colleague casually gossiped while cleaning brushes. “I’m more interested in where Driver Zhao went.”

“Driver Zhao? Why do you care about him?” another woman teased. “Are you interested in dating him?”

“Stop it!” The first woman laughed but suddenly glanced around before lowering her voice. “Haven’t you noticed he hasn’t been around lately? I heard he got assigned to transport a special VIP client back to their hometown.”

“I heard that too!” someone whispered eagerly. “The VIP was brought in late at night with a lawyer, and all the staff working that night had to sign a confidentiality agreement. The coffin was hurriedly sent off at dawn, just before working hours, so hardly anyone saw it.”

“Really?” A clueless colleague gasped. “So mysterious? A wealthy tycoon or politician?”

The three women debated further before simultaneously falling silent, turning to the always-quiet Ling Chen.

Only after a long moment did Ling Chen notice their stares. He raised his head slowly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Ling, weren’t you on night duty that day?” one asked tentatively. “Was there really a VIP client?”

“Uh? I don’t know.” Ling Chen feigned confusion. “I slept through the night in the lounge and went straight to my dorm afterward. Are you sure this gossip is reliable? First of all, don’t we have a rule against taking clients before sunrise? Secondly, if there was a confidentiality agreement, how did this rumor even start?”

His calm demeanor and uninterested tone nearly spelled out his indifference to gossip.

Ling Chen was known for keeping to himself. Any big news reached him last, if at all. His colleagues accepted his nature — whether they called it being aloof or just solitary.

Believing him, they quickly dropped the topic and went about their business.

In their line of work, words should be few and careful — too much talk invited trouble, or worse, ghostly trouble.

When his colleagues had left with their kits, the office grew quiet. Ling Chen began organizing his makeup brushes, though his eyes drifted toward a corner of the room.

No one noticed the phone hidden behind a potted plant, its screen lit up and scrolling as if a phantom user were surfing the web — opening trending topics, leaving comments, switching between social apps as if directed by an unseen hand.

Others couldn’t see it, but Ling Chen could.

When his coworkers mentioned the VIP, none of them realized the real VIP stood right behind them.

“Ge Jinzhai, I thought your legal team was impressive. With all those lawyer threats online, I expected better.” Lin Chen glanced at the semi-transparent figure. “Didn’t everyone sign confidentiality agreements? How did news leak?”

The man leaned lazily in midair, sitting as if on an invisible chair. Hearing Ling Chen’s words, he quirked an eyebrow, floated down, and leaned close, lightly pressing a finger to Ling Chen’s lips.

“Lin, stop overthinking and take a break,” Ge Jinzhai murmured, eyelids half-lowered as if hiding a smile. “Don’t worry — I’ll handle it.”

Ge Jinzhai had beautiful hands — slender, with elegant joints.

Ling Chen vividly remembered when Ge Jinzhai portrayed a patriotic opera artist in a historical film, secretly funding the war effort and refusing to perform for invaders. He ultimately walked to his execution in his finest robes. Ge Jinzhai had spent over a year training under a master’s descendant, perfecting his craft. His hand movements in The Grand Opera left audiences in awe, earning him another Best Actor award.

Now, those same graceful fingers rested on Ling Chen’s lips.

But instead of a ghost’s icy touch, there was only softness — a gentle warmth, like a cloud brushing against him.

Ling Chen’s heart raced. He pulled back quickly, distancing himself and forcing his gaze away from those mesmerizing hands.

“Talk without touching — you said you’d handle it. How exactly?”

Ge Jinzhai gestured toward the phone.

His personal phone was a customized model Ling Chen had bought (featuring his autographed backplate and promotional wallpaper). He immediately downloaded every popular app, declaring he’d monitor online buzz. Even death wouldn’t stop him from staying connected.

Ling Chen watched as He Jinchao skillfully opened the Weibo app and searched for the account @HeJinchaoV.

By coincidence, just an hour ago, @HeJinchaoV had posted a five-minute selfie vlog. The video captured his solo weekend hike, sitting by a mountain stream, enjoying the sound of falling petals and flowing water, and immersing himself in the wonders of nature.

@HeJinchaoV: It’s been so long since I last heard birds singing. [Share – Video]

Though it had only been up for an hour, the post had already amassed an impressive number of comments, likes, and shares.

—-

In the comment section, someone posted a movie ticket stub, saying they cried through the second half of his new film. Another shared photo of flowers and plants from a park, happily noting they had also gone bird-watching last weekend. Someone else cheerfully remarked that their husband was finally back online, referring to the vlog update, since his last post had been a week ago celebrating a movie’s two-billion-yuan box office milestone.

The comments were filled with joy. Most of the fans had profile pictures of He Jinchao, and their usernames often referenced his birth date or works. A simple post from him could bring them immense happiness.

“My Weibo has been managed by the company for a while now,” He Jinchao said as he played the video and casually skipped through it without much expression. “This video was filmed last year. It wasn’t posted then, so they’re releasing it now to keep the fans reassured.”

At that moment, Ling Chen felt a strange dissonance.

He Jinchao was already dead, yet to his adoring fans, he was still very much alive, present in their hearts and lives.

It was their unwavering love that kept his presence lingering in this world, and in return, he gently maintained the illusion without shattering it.

Ling Chen cleared his dry throat and pulled the conversation back to the issue at hand. “So, how do you plan to alert your company? You can’t exactly tell them, ‘Hey, I’m not dead—I’ve just achieved cyber immortality,’ can you?”

“Of course not.” He Jinchao shook his head, a confident smile playing on his lips. “A brilliant general always uses the simplest tactic.”

“You mean…?”

“I’ll directly message @HeJinchaoV on Weibo.”

“…”

“My PR team checks fan messages twice a week—once on Tuesdays and once on Saturdays—right around now, actually.”

“…Hmm, wait a second, I think—”

“Relax. I’m not stupid enough to say my funeral details might have leaked. I’ll dangle bait they can’t resist, pretending to be an outsider who heard rumors. When they take the bait, the legal team will swoop in and clamp down on everyone involved in the funeral arrangements.”

Somehow, Ling Chen thought the plan made a bit of sense on the surface, but the more he considered it, the more dubious it seemed.

He Jinchao, however, was supremely confident. With a few keystrokes, he opened the direct message interface and began typing.

A line of text appeared in the message box:
@FeelingCorpseWarmAndCozy: Is it true that He Jinchao died?

He sent the message but received no immediate response.

Puzzled, He Jinchao glanced at the clock on the wall. “Strange. They usually check the messages every Saturday at 3 p.m. Why haven’t they replied?”

He refreshed the page, only to discover that he could no longer access @HeJinchaoV’s profile—it now appeared as a blank page!

He Jinchao was dumbfounded. “What’s going on? Is Weibo glitching? Why can’t I see my own profile?”

“…” Ling Chen gave him a sympathetic look. “It’s not a glitch. You’ve been blocked by @HeJinchaoV.”

The man’s eyes widened in disbelief. His handsome face was a picture of astonishment. “Me?? Blocked?? Why???”

“Because that message you sent sounded like a curse or a taunt.” Ling Chen sighed. “Congratulations, Great Film Emperor. You’ve just been mistaken for your own anti-fan.”