Chapter 68: Escalation of Events

When Su Tong finished his shower and quietly returned to the guest room, it was nearly two in the morning. He had stayed here twice before; this was his third time. Su Tong preferred to wait until his hair dried before sleeping, and since it wasn’t dry yet, he sat at the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone.

As he scrolled, he realized he’d gone too far this time; many fans were still in turmoil. Tonight, countless people would find sleep elusive, haunted by the tragedy of Biyao’s demise.

By half past two, Su Tong scratched his head, noticing his hair was almost dry. He was about to get up to lock the door and go to bed when he suddenly heard a noise behind him—the bed shook, startling him so much he jumped up at once.

In the faint light cast from the window, Su Tong saw a slender silhouette. He had no idea when she’d entered his room. Her large, dark eyes stared at him, pleading, as she knelt atop the bed.

“Su Tong, please don’t let Biyao die, okay?” Yang Feifei gazed at him with a pout, still wearing that oversized cartoon T-shirt. “I’m begging you, please, please?”

Su Tong felt uneasy around her. He reached for the light switch and turned the room lamp on.

“It’s already happened…” Su Tong began, but when he saw Yang Feifei’s raised eyebrows, as if she might devour him, he quickly amended, “Well, Biyao still has the Harmony Bell. In the final moment, the Harmony Bell forcibly captured one of Biyao’s souls, keeping it within the bell, so her body wasn’t destroyed. If the lost soul-recovery technique can be found, there’s still hope… hope that she can be revived.”

He spoke with little conviction, for in the end, Zhang Xiaofan found a sorcerer in the southern region who knew the soul-recovery art, but the elderly, gravely wounded sorcerer failed to guide back Biyao’s other two souls and seven spirits. All efforts ended in vain.

Ultimately, even Biyao’s body disappeared into the abyss left by the collapse of Fox Mountain, leaving only a scrap of green fabric.

Yang Feifei, delighted by his words and oblivious to his subtle expressions, instantly blossomed with joy and lively energy. She crawled across the bed, giggling, toward Su Tong.

Su Tong instinctively retreated, only to see Yang Feifei leap from the bed toward him.

Damn, she’s trying to crush me.

If it were a year ago, Su Tong surely would have been injured if he didn’t dodge.

But he didn’t dare move—if he did, she’d almost certainly hurt herself in the fall.

Yang Feifei threw her arms wide as she pounced from the bed, and Su Tong had no choice but to catch her, spinning as he embraced her soft, delicate figure to disperse the impact.

Even so, he felt two soft masses pressing against his chest, and a jolt shot through him, spreading from his chest to every part of his body.

Yang Feifei wrapped her legs around his waist.

Such an intimate pose sent another shock through Su Tong’s nerves, leaving him disoriented.

“A~a~~~”

Yang Feifei began nibbling at Su Tong’s forehead, while his mind had practically crashed—he couldn’t think, nor act.

When he finally snapped out of it, Yang Feifei had already gotten off him, completely unembarrassed, rolling about on his bed, her fair, long legs dazzlingly exposed.

Su Tong touched his burning cheeks and sighed inwardly—actors truly could let themselves go.

“You actors are terrifying,” Su Tong remarked sourly, sitting on the bed.

Yang Feifei crawled over, glanced at him, then burst into laughter and rolled to the side. “So shy! You couldn’t film this way.”

Thinking of their recent intimacy, Su Tong grumbled, “You really like these kinds of scenes?”

Yang Feifei lay on her side, propping her head on one hand, tilting it. “Not at all. My roles are very wholesome, even hugs are just gentle touches. Ugh, I feel so uncomfortable—I hate scenes like this.”

After finally shooing Yang Feifei away, it was nearly three in the morning. Su Tong lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

Did she wear shorts or not?

This question kept popping into Su Tong’s mind; the less he knew, the more he wanted to know, and the more he wanted to know, the less he could sleep.

“Hey, did you wear them or not? I just want to know the answer, nothing else.”

Su Tong wailed, unsure when he drifted off into a restless sleep.

…

The next morning, Su Tong thought the uproar over Biyao’s death had subsided, but it only grew more intense.

“That heartless villain! Ruined a perfectly good weekend. I didn’t sleep all night, got two hours this morning, my mind’s full of Biyao’s sorrow, and I can’t sleep anymore…”

“What, Biyao died? I was busy last night, missed the live broadcast… Let me go check the replay first.”

“Aaah… my Biyao, sob…”

“Damn you, you’ll die a miserable death!”

“Why did Biyao have to die? What did she ever do wrong?”

“You must be the most ruthless man alive, to let our Biyao die.”

…

On every corner of Nian Nujiao’s domain—shows, microblogs, forums—complaints echoed everywhere, even die-hard fans couldn’t resist cursing.

Su Tong didn’t dare show his face. He locked his account so no one could add him as a friend or initiate chats through group messages.

Within a day, “Biyao’s death” became a trending topic on microblogs. Su Tong never expected that after a day of attacks, insults, and curses from fans, the topic would reach over 800,000 views.

But that wasn’t the most astonishing part. What truly unsettled him was that by the third day, the Biyao incident made the news.

It was not good news—its negative impact was enormous, weighing heavily on him, making it hard to breathe.

A fan had committed suicide over Biyao’s death, leaving a note behind.

“Xiao Tong, where are you now?” Zhang Xin called, having seen the news herself, worried that Su Tong couldn’t bear the pressure.

I didn’t kill Bo Ren, yet Bo Ren died because of me. Anyone would feel terrible in such a situation.

Of course, those truly evil criminals are a different matter.

But there are not so many utterly wicked people in this world. Some murderers act for special reasons, not out of their own will; their hearts are still kind.

Zhang Xin understood Su Tong’s nature, so she worried for him.

Her voice was calm, but she was anxious inside, wanting to rush over to find him, but first needing to know where he was.

“I need to talk to you about something. Let’s meet up again,” she said. During Victory Day, Zhang Xin and Su Tong had met.

Su Tong laughed, “Xin, I’m fine. If you need anything, we can talk on the phone. It’s only ten cents a minute, right? Driving over would cost dozens in gas. I doubt we’d need more than an hour or two to cover everything on the phone.”

“It’s nothing, really. Seeing you like this reassures me. If you’re unhappy, you can always talk to your big sister. But I suggest you post something on microblog now—this is a PR crisis, so say something thoughtful,” Zhang Xin said, ending firmly, “Do it well. If any more fans are harmed, the authorities might order ‘Zhu Xian’ to be shut down.”

“Okay.” After hanging up, Su Tong knew he couldn’t stay silent any longer, so he logged onto his microblog.