Chapter Nineteen: On Fire

After finally dealing with the swarm of reporters, Chen Ling felt both exhausted and exhilarated. Having lived two lives, this was the first time he’d experienced the intense focus of a press interview, and he couldn’t deny the thrill it brought him.

Most of these journalists represented some of the country’s major media outlets, many with correspondents stationed in Hong Kong and Taiwan. At the news conference following the Golden Melody Award nominations, a reporter asked the official whether Chen Ling’s nomination was legitimate. The spokesperson replied that the nomination fully complied with the rules and emphasized that the Golden Melody Awards belonged not only to Taiwan but to the entire Chinese pop culture sphere. They expressed hope that more mainland artists would bring their talents to the awards, and declared their intention to embrace the mainland even more actively.

The goodwill extended to the mainland was clear to all. After watching the conference, Chen Ling acknowledged that Fan Zheng’s analysis made sense—there was indeed good reason to attend the ceremony.

In the weeks that followed, Chen Ling’s popularity soared. His name appeared on the trending list for several days. Walking through campus, classmates would approach him for autographs, making him feel slightly embarrassed, especially given how wildly popular his songs had become. The school intercom played his music nonstop between classes.

Meanwhile, his social media following ballooned. While he’d always had an account, his audience was once limited to a few hundred, mostly friends and classmates. But with the success of his album and the boost from trending topics, his follower count began to climb rapidly. Well-known celebrities and influencers started paying attention—being a Golden Melody Award nominee meant Chen Ling was no longer an unknown. His followers soon surged past tens of thousands, approaching a million. These were genuine fans, not purchased numbers.

The speed at which his fanbase grew startled him. More followers meant more comments, and the most frequent question was whether he had ever dated Jing Tian. Chen Ling posted a clarification, but most fans doubted his word. Finding no answers from him, they flocked to Jing Tian’s page to ask her, leaving Chen Ling helpless.

With fame came offers for commercial performances and endorsements. Unable to reach him directly, companies contacted his agent, Zhao Qian. Chen Ling didn’t even bother looking at most endorsements—the fees were low and the products unappealing. He had Zhao Qian decline all commercial performance offers as well.

The main reason for turning down performances was the low fees; his fame was still budding, so offers reflected that. In this era, artists not widely known often struggled to monetize their work. As for the matter concerning Jing Tian, Chen Ling had already told his teacher and a few close classmates about their breakup, describing it as amicable and making no effort to embellish. He asked them to keep it private and, if questioned by reporters, to claim they were simply friends.

With these matters settled, Chen Ling began preparing for the film’s publicity campaign. With only a month until its release, and a trip to Taiwan required beforehand, his schedule was tight. The Golden Melody Awards ceremony was set for June 26th, four days before the film’s premiere. Several streaming platforms would broadcast the event live, and Chen Ling had already agreed with Fan Zheng to attend. Whether he won or not, his reputation would surely benefit.

Fan Zheng relayed this news to the awards committee. The trip wouldn’t take much time and offered a chance to promote the film—why not go, when all it cost was a few plane tickets? Shortly after, the official guest list featured both Chen Ling and Fan Zheng.

In his previous life, the box office success of “Love Lost in Thirty-three Days” owed much to its marketing prowess. It was the first film in cinematic history to use short videos as the main online promotional tool. Before the premiere, the director interviewed young people who had experienced heartbreak, edited their stories into short clips, and launched them on platforms like Tudou and Youku, targeting users with precision.

What’s the greatest fear in movie promotion? Lacking discussion points and failing to identify the target audience. The original “Love Lost in Thirty-three Days” not only found the perfect discussion point but targeted its potential viewers precisely—the heartbreak crowd. The tactic of shooting and targeting short videos was nothing short of ingenious.

It was easy for those who’d experienced heartbreak to relate to these videos. Once they found resonance, they were likely to buy a ticket. If the film was well-made, viewers would recommend it to friends or even post reviews online, drawing more people into theaters and building momentum. With strong scheduling and sustained marketing, the film’s chances for success soared.

Knowing the effectiveness of this approach, Chen Ling decided to follow suit. Why not use a proven method? He recruited a few heartbroken individuals, filmed them—it was a simple matter. He called upon two classmates from the film crew who majored in cinematography. As for finding people who had endured breakups? With three major film academies and several production bases in the capital, extras were in abundant supply.

Shooting and editing took less than two days. After paying to place the videos on Tudou and Youku, the response was overwhelmingly positive. The crew refrained from offline promotion and television appearances; Chen Ling had already discussed this with both the crew and Zhong Ying. The reason given was the busy schedule of “Warring States”—with so many big names on set, they couldn’t all pause for Jing Tian’s film promotion. With Jing Tian absent and Chen Ling, though his songs were hits, still relatively unknown, bringing the crew’s lesser-known actors to shows or offline events wouldn’t yield great results.

The crew had no objections, and Zhong Ying, seeing Starlight Brilliant and Chen Ling united in their stance, did not oppose. Most importantly, their investment was modest—a million yuan, not enough to risk a loss, but not expecting huge profits, either.

Thus, a film nearing release held no premiere, conducted no offline promotion, and did not appear on any programs, relying solely on online publicity. It all seemed strangely unorthodox.

For a time, netizens watched the drama unfold online, and reporters with a nose for gossip dredged up the couple’s romance. “Reliable sources confirm Chen Ling and Jing Tian were indeed a couple, though they parted amicably.” “A student from Beijing Film Academy revealed that Chen Ling once serenaded Jing Tian in the classroom to confess his feelings.” “Shocking: the pair often stayed out all night during their school days.” “Countdown to the Golden Melody Awards—several streaming sites will broadcast the ceremony live.”

News about the two and the upcoming awards exploded onto the trending lists. Chen Ling was unfazed—he’d grown accustomed to it, though the film’s attention had certainly risen, likely boosting its box office prospects.

Fortunately, neither Chen Ling nor Jing Tian had hardcore fans at this point. Most of Chen Ling’s new followers were drawn by his music, though many were also curious about his film. Fans wanted to see how this rising star’s movie turned out, but their interest in his personal life and rumors was mostly for entertainment.

All in all, Chen Ling had become something of a minor celebrity.