OSM Chapter 14:  Li Yuze had changed.

 Li Yuze had changed.

At least in Meng Lin’s eyes, his ge had changed a lot recently.

Not only was his temper much better, but even his attitude toward work had become noticeably proactive.

Though all he had done was promote a new movie and accept an invitation from a director he’d worked with before,

Such efforts would have been unthinkable in the past.

Even the director who personally invited him was stunned, unable to believe that Li Yuze had agreed to the job.

“I was just trying my luck. I didn’t think you’d actually come. After all, you used to reject this kind of work outright, so I didn’t focus much on your character. Just two or three scenes. Why don’t you take a look first? If you feel it’s too little, I can add more for you,” said the director, surnamed Sun, a wiry man in his fifties.

When Li Yuze first entered the industry, they had crossed paths twice, but they’d never had a chance to work together.

Director Sun had always been fixated on working with Li Yuze. He had publicly expressed his admiration for the actor many times, determined to collaborate with him at least once.

No matter what movie or TV show he was making, as long as the role seemed fitting, he would send an invitation to Li Yuze—four or five times a year—but never once received a reply.

Though they weren’t familiar with each other, Sun had heard of Li Yuze’s reputation. He knew Li Yuze was extremely selective with scripts, never attended commercial events, disliked interviews and magazine shoots, avoided media exposure, and didn’t like adhering to tight schedules.

Once filming wrapped, he’d go straight home.

Most of the time, Director Sun had to contact his management company, which often couldn’t even find him.

The fact that Li Yuze accepted this job and showed up on time had left Director Sun stunned for days. He thought to himself that rewriting the script or even making Li Yuze the male lead would have been worth it.

However, Li Yuze didn’t think the role was too small. After flipping through the script, he said, “No need to change it. This is fine.”

After trying on his costume, he asked the director while changing, “Does this production require confidentiality during the early stages?”

The director replied, “No, we’ve already released official photos of the main cast. For your role, we’re planning to release a separate set.”

Li Yuze nodded and politely said, “You’ve been inviting me for a while, but I never managed to give you an answer. I feel quite apologetic about that.”

The director quickly said, “Not at all! You’re so busy, and taking time to participate in this small, modest film of mine is already a great honor.”

“You’re too modest,” Li Yuze replied. “I grew up watching your films. I remember one of them even became part of the film curriculum. The shooting techniques and scene transitions were truly unforgettable.”

Director Sun hadn’t expected Li Yuze to have seen his films, let alone that the temperamental superstar rumored to be difficult to work with would turn out to be so humble. His impression of Li Yuze soared, and they chatted a bit more, with Director Sun airing some grievances.

He lamented how the entertainment industry wasn’t what it used to be, how genuine actors were hard to find, and how his past glory was long gone. These days, he often had to fund low-budget indie films himself. They lacked money during production and even more so after wrapping.

He had meant to express that having Li Yuze on board would surely bring much-needed attention to their film.

Unexpectedly, Li Yuze said considerately, “In that case, why don’t we use my Weibo to release the stills?”

“Huh?” Director Sun froze. “Your… Weibo?”

Li Yuze explained, “I noticed the production’s Weibo doesn’t have many followers. While my fanbase isn’t particularly large either, it might have an advantage for promotional purposes.”

Director Sun’s mouth twitched as he swallowed nervously. “Are you saying… you’ll help promote the film on your Weibo?”

“Is there a problem with that?” Li Yuze asked.

“No! No, no, no!” Director Sun exclaimed. “If you’re willing to do that, it would be amazing! I’ll have the photographer export the photos right now. We can post them today—right away!”

Director Sun’s excitement was understandable. The production’s Weibo account only had 200,000 followers, whereas Li Yuze’s, though rarely active and mostly filled with reposts, boasted over a hundred million followers.

That earlier remark about his fanbase “not being particularly large” had been a massive understatement.

As soon as the costume photos were posted, the comments from fans skyrocketed into the thousands.

“Let me see! Let me see! Which ad got our superstar Li to personally share it?! Ahhhhhhh—oh my god! It’s costume photos!!”

“First! First! I got the first comment!”

“Ahhhhhhh, I’m losing my mind!”

“Wait! What movie is this? What role? Why is there no news about this?!”

“So many photos? Did Meng Lin post these?”

“Is the ninth one a selfie? Oh my god! Mom—MOM! Li Yuze posted a selfie on his Weibo!”

“Holy crap! Is that really a selfie?! Li Yuze actually posted a selfie!”

“I’m so moved I could cry! Six years in the fandom! His first selfie ever!”

“It really is a selfie! I can die happy now!”

In less than five minutes, the news about Li Yuze posting on Weibo shot to the top five trending topics. Scattered among them were discussions about the movie. The production’s official Weibo account also saw its followers grow by the hundreds of thousands.

Meanwhile, He Zhiqiu’s web drama had just wrapped filming.

The cast and crew gathered for a group photo with bouquets in hand. Director Lin was about to post a congratulatory photo when he found Weibo lagging for a long time before outright crashing.

Puzzled, he asked, “What big event happened now?”

Tang Song, a dedicated fanboy, followed the whole thing on his phone and excitedly said, “Li Yuze posted on Weibo!”

Director Lin asked, “What did he post?”

Tang Song replied, “Not much, just some stills and… a selfie!”

“Oh.” Director Lin nodded, understanding. When Weibo finally recovered, he checked the trending topics, frowned, and clicked on Li Yuze’s Weibo. “What kind of movie did he take on?”

Tang Song said, “I don’t know, seems like it’s by some no-name director. Never heard of them.”

It was natural for someone like Tang Song, still young, to not know Director Sun, who had fallen out of the limelight.

But just because Tang Song didn’t know him didn’t mean Director Lin didn’t. Not only did he know Sun Zhichun, but there also seemed to be some bad blood between them.

Seeing the buzz around the movie, Director Lin grew jealous and immediately doubted the legitimacy of the trending topic. “What kind of dumb luck did Sun Zhichun have to get Li Yuze? And he’s just playing a supporting role?”

The rest of the crew, who had been eager to join the discussion, fell silent at Director Lin’s attitude.

A few sycophants, however, chimed in, criticizing Sun Zhichun’s lackluster directing skills and claiming his decline was well-deserved. When they ran out of things to say, they shifted their focus to Li Yuze.

Though immensely popular, Li Yuze had his share of haters.

And many of these haters weren’t just online trolls but insiders within the industry.

Over the years, Li Yuze’s lone-wolf style had offended many who wanted to work with him but never got the chance.

Rumors of arrogance, rudeness, and a bad temper surfaced yet again.

One particularly spiteful young actor, scrolling through Weibo, snarked, “No star shines forever. At this rate, hogging so much public attention over one post, he’s bound to face backlash eventually. I can’t wait for his downfall.”

No sooner had he spoken than a sudden chill ran down his back as icy liquid trickled down his neck.

Startled, he spun around to see He Zhiqiu holding a vigorously shaken bottle of soda, looking flustered as he stammered, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to.”