Xie Guan hesitated for a long time before replying with a response colder and harder than an ice block in freezing weather, “Hmm.”
Even through the phone screen, Huo Mingjun could feel the chilly atmosphere. Nevertheless, any response was a step in the right direction. Xie Guan finally took a hesitant stride forward, and Huo Mingjun readily covered the remaining distance.
“Hello?”
Xie Guan felt like his ability to use language suddenly malfunctioned, and it took some effort to articulate the address that was at the tip of his tongue: “Mr. Huo.”
It was the same address he used the night prior, as if they went back in time. Huo Mingjun smiled in response, “The TV series is doing exceptionally well, and I haven’t had the chance to congratulate you yet. I wish you a successful career and even more success in the future.”
“It was thanks to your blessings,” Xie Guan’s voice on the other end was faint, and although his hidden expectations turned into reality, he still couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. This persistent sense of melancholy was both irrational and stubborn, refusing to get better. “I appreciate Mr. Huo’s concern.”
“You acted very well,” Huo Mingjun said quietly. “I know you will definitely succeed. You’ve always been outstanding, and you will do even better in the future.”
Xie Guan suddenly felt a bit angry.
The two had long since parted ways, their differences as deep as the Mariana Trench. The affirmation given by Huo Mingjun was neither professional nor like the congratulations from friends like Wang Ruolun. From what position, standpoint, and authority did he have to praise him? A fan?
Xie Guan couldn’t explain how this emotion developed. He wasn’t happy even when praised, and he felt difficult to handle even for himself.
This kind of emotion is generally called “rebellion” by adolescent experts, referred to as “oppositional psychology” by psychologists, and personal bloggers called it “clearly caring but still wanting to act tough.”
The general public usually refers to it as “finding faults in a good thing.”
Xie Guan asked with a not-so-friendly tone, “Mr. Huo, do you still have time to watch TV dramas with your busy schedule?”
His intention was to mock Huo Mingjun, suggesting that he might not even know what role he played but was still casually bragging about the fact. However, facing the three screens on his desk, with one on Weibo and the other on a video player, the person in question was a bit caught off guard. “Um, this can be considered… a combination of work and leisure?”
Xie Guan was so startled that his phone almost slipped. “You really watched it?!”
He couldn’t understand why a domineering CEO like Huo Mingjun—who didn’t even take breaks to look at stock market trends or attend Harvard lectures—would be interested in a domestic melodramatic series!
Huo Mingjun was equally indignant, “The stock market doesn’t operate 24 hours a day. Even I take breaks on public holidays. Why can’t I watch TV?”
We’re sorry for MTLers or people who like using reading mode, but our translations keep getting stolen by aggregators so we’re going to bring back the copy protection. If you need to MTL please retype the gibberish parts.
Wlf Xejc gfabgafv, “Pr atja atf qblca? Ktf gfji lrref lr atja atf rtbk lr qbbgis wjvf, jcv sfa sbe wjcjufv ab kjamt la…”
“P gfjiis mbeivc’a yfjg kjamtlcu atf ktbif atlcu,” Leb Zlcupec rjlv klat j riluta rwlif, “Vb P bcis kjamtfv atf fvlafv milqr bo sbeg rmfcfr.”
“Mlcf,” Wlf Xejc atbeuta tfiqifrris, “Lf’r ugbkc eq fnfc wbgf, jcv ifjgcfv tbk ab olcv jmabgr’ tlutilutar bc atf Pcafgcfa.”
“Alright, as long as you’re happy,” Xie Guan felt deeply embarrassed to have someone he knew, especially someone like Huo Mingjun, witness his portrayal of an evil character on screen. However, there was no turning back now, so he just went along with it. “Is there something you need from me?”
The relaxed atmosphere from before disappeared with his question. In the distance, the bright headlights of the bus pierced through the darkness, and the engine noise grew louder. Amidst the noise, Xie Guan paid and boarded the bus, finding a seat by the window.
The phone call remained “in progress.”
Xie Guan didn’t rush him. He had a vague sense of what Huo Mingjun was about to say but didn’t dare to be sure. He could only respond with silence.
“I owe you an apology.”
Huo Mingjun spoke gently and solemnly, each word carrying an indescribable weight and eroding on the defenses Xie Guan set up from miles away.
“I’m sorry.”
“For the situation that day, and for my previous mistakes.”
The car left the town and entered the outskirts, where buildings with more than three floors were nowhere in sight. Along the way were dark single-story houses, occasionally lit by a few lights that were quickly left behind by the speeding vehicle, disappearing like shooting stars in the night.
The bus’s windows weren’t sealed, and it was cold inside the sparsely populated vehicle. Xie Guan stared at the pitch-black night outside, shrinking deeper into his down jacket as if he were afraid of the cold.
“If I were as mature as I appeared to be, I should say ‘it’s okay, don’t worry about it,'” his voice blended into the rumbling noise of the bus, the signal strength fluctuating. It sounded a bit distorted, “But in this matter, both you and I know saying ‘it’s okay’ won’t restore everything to the way it was before.”
“I don’t mean to hold a grudge against you. The little clash we had has long passed, and you didn’t even need to apologize, because I was the one who benefited from start to finish. I have nothing to complain about.”
“But Mr. Huo, every word you say to me now, I can’t help but wonder, are you really talking to me, or do you see me as someone else?”
He sighed very, very lightly.
“No emotion can withstand the erosion of such suspicion. Instead of turning against each other later, it’s better not to start, don’t you think?”
“Xie Guan,” Huo Mingjun called his name. Perhaps because they were on the phone, his tone sounded unexpectedly gentle, like the whisper that fell on his temple in the dim corridor that day, “Don’t be afraid.”
Xie Guan felt like a cat whose chin was scratched. His vigilance he was holding onto suddenly vanished, and his confidence in resisting Huo Mingjun was on the verge of collapse.
I’m not afraid.
He wanted to refute Huo Mingjun, but the other man was one step ahead, speaking before he could.
“I didn’t come to hear you say ‘it’s okay’ today,” Huo Mingjun said, “On the contrary, I hope you keep that phrase to yourself. Don’t say it hastily.”
“I made you uncomfortable; that was my fault.” His voice carried a hint of a subtle laugh. It made Xie Guan feel a bit nostalgic, reminiscent of the past, yet not entirely similar. It seemed gentler than before and more stable.
In the beginning, whenever Xie Guan met Huo Mingjun, he felt extremely nervous because Huo Mingjun’s aura was overwhelmingly dominant, powerful enough to instill fear in people. But now within this dominance, a sense of security gradually emerged. He could still sense Huo Mingjun’s control over everything and everyone around him, but he no longer wanted to keep his distance.
“I know you find it hard to overcome this hurdle psychologically, but it’s okay, don’t be afraid,” Huo Mingjun closed all the windows on his screen casually, “You don’t have to do anything. Leave all the unsolvable problems to me.”
At that moment, even a resolute man such as Xie Guan couldn’t help but be stirred by these words.
He took a deep breath, thinking to himself that if he were a girl, not only would she forgive him, but she might even propose to Huo Mingjun on the spot.
Huo Mingjun walked over to the dark wood coffee table in the outer room and sat down. The light from the pale yellow ceiling lamp cast a warm glow on his profile, reminiscent of the pages of an old book. The furnishings created a heavy and tranquil space, perfect for discussing some bygone stories. “I have some past stories here, about… that person. Are you interested in hearing them?”
He didn’t expect Xie Guan to open up all at once but planned to gradually let him understand the situation. Although the past was a scar on his heart that he didn’t want to bring up, there was nothing shameful about it.
Unexpectedly, Xie Guan refused.
“Not now.”
He wasn’t mentally prepared yet, and he knew that revealing this matter might not be as easy for Huo Mingjun as it appeared. They just reached their first peaceful consensus, and it was necessary to take some time before having the energy to move on to the next point of agreement.
Huo Mingjun was a bit surprised. “Hmm?”
Xie Guan provided him with the most convenient excuse, and told the truth, “Because my phone is about to run out of battery.”
This time, Huo Mingjun couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, come ask me whenever you feel like hearing it.”
The online buzz around Rising Tide of the Blue Sea continued until the Chinese New Year, after which all major platforms were dominated by the Spring Festival Gala. During this period, Xie Guan stayed in his hometown to relax and to avoid watching the series. He made every effort to hide the remote control in an attempt to discourage his father from watching it as well, which made his father so angry that he chased him around the yard three times.
At least the ice was broken between Xie Guan and Huo Mingjun. They kept their previous foundation of friendship, so it only took a day or two for them to reconnect. However, Xie Guan consistently avoided discussing the “old stories.” After exchanging New Year’s greetings and chatting on the phone for two hours and discussing topics from poetry and literature to life philosophy, they never touched upon this subject. Xie Guan’s excuse was that it was the holiday season, and he didn’t want to bring up unpleasant matters. Huo Mingjun didn’t dare to say anything too serious to him now; he let Xie Guan handle things however he pleased. Thus, this matter continued to be postponed until after the New Year.
On the seventh day of the Lunar New Year, Xie Guan returned to B City from his hometown. He opened Weibo and checked the real-time trends, finding that the popularity of Rising Tide of the Blue Sea was still persisting, albeit slightly lower than before due to the influence of the Spring Festival. With over half of the plot revealed, the male lead finally began his counterattack, and Xie Guan’s character gained a large fan following. However, this couldn’t change his fate as a cannon fodder character.
The impact this drama had on him far exceeded his expectations and he no longer needed to pay attention to its future developments. Xie Guan logged out of Weibo, calmed his emotions, and then opened his email. Among a pile of spam emails, he found the first draft script sent to him by Director Bai.
His first public appearance after the New Year was scheduled for the ninth day, and was an interview on a streaming platform, mainly discussing his recent surge in popularity. After spending more than half a month in the mountains, Xie Guan felt somewhat detached from the situation. He appeared exceptionally calm and composed, which the reporters praised him for, saying he had a good mindset and remained unruffled in the face of praise and criticism.
Lin Yao, who was present as an observer, was more familiar with Xie Guan. Seeing his demeanor, she knew he was putting on an act. While she secretly chuckled, she also maintained a dignified demeanor and modestly spoke up for Xie Guan, “There are many outstanding predecessors in the industry. There’s nothing to be proud of with these achievements. This step merely brings him before the audience. As for how he will win the hearts of the audience in the future, there’s still a lot he needs to work on.”
“Sister Lin is too modest,” a sharp-witted reporter on the scene commented, while a sweet girl beneath the stage added, “Teacher Xie is handsome and has great acting skills. If he doesn’t become famous, it’s against the natural order.”
After finishing the interview, Lin Yao was headed back to the company. Xie Guan had another similar program to record in the afternoon, and the location was near the company, so he planned to go with her.
Huang Cheng was driving, Xie Guan was in the front passenger seat, and Lin Yao was in the backseat looking at her phone. After a while, there was a small exclamation from the back, and Lin Yao said, “Xie Guan, do you know Qinglan from Starlight Entertainment? What’s your relationship with him?”
Xie Guan replied, “I’ve met him, but we’re not close. Why?”
Lin Yao looked serious and handed him her phone, indicating to him to read the news. “Just now, look at the news. Qinglan was caught drunk driving last night. After the police stopped him, he forcibly tried to escape. When the police controlled him, they found a firearm in the back seat of his car. Qinglan has been detained now.”
Both drunk driving and illegal possession of a firearm were scandals big enough to ruin his reputation. Xie Guan was not only surprised but immediately thought to call Director Bai and resign—before the movie even started shooting, there was already such a scandal. If they proceeded with filming, how could anyone survive this?
Thank you for the chapter!