Chapter Seventy-Three: Tearing Apart

“You could say that—this is both a good age and a bad one, an era where even fools can become famous.”

At that moment, Cheng Yongming spoke again, “The phenomenon of Gu Zhi has, in fact, become a driving force in the development of our society, breaking through traditional values. If we can’t handle it well, it may also bring about negative consequences.”

“We hope that when the media discusses Gu Zhi, they also consider certain social norms. Young people shouldn’t see only his success; we should highlight, above all, his mastery of a craft.”

The host continued, “There are many middle school students imitating Gu Zhi, idolizing him. At the same time, there’s always controversy and doubt surrounding him. How should we view this?”

“I think the first thing our teachers should do is self-reflect, self-criticize, and try to understand what today’s youth are thinking and what they truly need,” Cheng Yongming replied.

“What’s your view, Mr. Chen Ming?”

“In fact, while Gu Zhi seems unique, this kind of rebellious culture has always existed throughout history. There’s nothing extraordinary about it. Teenagers naturally seek individuality and freedom; it’s just that now Gu Zhi happens to be the emblem of this spirit.”

“But his achievements have already surpassed many adults. If we still see him as just another rebellious youth, aren’t we being a bit naïve?”

...

While the two guests and the host continued their discussion, Gu Zhi listened attentively backstage. Chen Ming quite obviously looked down on him, his tone brimming with condescension, while Cheng Yongming remained more objective, even leaning in his favor.

Soon after, the host involved the audience, inviting them to participate. True to the show’s name, “Dialogue” really was all about conversation.

But backstage, Gu Zhi was growing restless, his seat growing uncomfortable as he silently complained. He had already listened to so many dialogues—when was it going to be his turn?

He decided he would never come on such a tedious show again. He’d have more fun on Happy Camp.

After fifteen minutes, the host finally delivered a tease and invited him onto the stage.

“We’ve talked so much about Gu Zhi. Are the audience members here eager to meet him?”

“Yes!”

Was there ever any doubt? Gu Zhi couldn’t help but mock inwardly. Amidst applause, he finally, finally took the stage.

After a brief greeting with the audience, the host, and the two guests, the host began the interview.

“Looking at our show, with so many in the audience—even if they don’t all know you personally, they’re familiar with you, and many are your fans. At such a young age, you’ve become a household name. How does that feel?”

“I feel... well, not much, to be honest. If I had to sum it up, I’d say I’m indifferent. Becoming famous was something I wanted, and I knew what would come of it. Maybe it’s because I was prepared for it, psychologically. To be frank, I really don’t feel much.”

The host broke into a broad smile, sensing that Gu Zhi was putting on airs—as if fame came simply by wishing for it. Both guests looked at him with a touch of surprise, especially Chen Ming, whose eyes glinted with clear disdain.

Yet, Gu Zhi spoke nothing but the truth. He’d been reborn, entered the entertainment industry with the express purpose of shaping culture, using the industry as an avenue for cultural influence. Fame was inevitable; it was essential to wield any real influence.

He couldn’t explain this, nor did he care to try.

The host then asked about his family, how his parents had agreed to let him drop out, whether he missed campus life, and so on.

At this point, Gu Zhi had to admit—this was a truly boring program. He still couldn’t figure out the host’s intentions.

“I’ve heard your royalties have already exceeded three million. Is that true?” The host shifted to his income.

“Roughly.”

In fact, it was much more than that, though he’d lost count of the exact figure; the people at Guangming Daily Publishing knew better than he did. And with the box office bonuses from “Butterfly Effect” yet to come, the royalties were a mere pittance.

“Mr. Chen Ming, if I may—so far you’ve published over a dozen books. May I ask, have your royalties reached... um... reached that amount?”

The host nearly asked if Chen Ming’s royalties had reached three million but caught herself just in time, lest it sound insulting.

Chen Ming hesitated, adjusted his posture, then smiled and replied, “To preserve the dignity of the academic world, I’ll refrain from answering that. But the truth is, it’s far from ideal. After all, there’s only one Gu Zhi in the whole country. Besides, popular literature and academic writing can’t really be compared—one is a tool, the other is a cultural industry. They’re not the same.”

Gu Zhi nodded. Although Mr. Chen Ming often targeted him, there was nothing wrong with what he’d just said.

In addition to popular and academic works, there was a third category: online literature. Compared to the first two, online novels were less literary and ought to be classified as entertainment products, much like games or films—just a form of leisure.

Next, for reasons unknown, the host returned to chatting with the two guests, leaving Gu Zhi sidelined.

Only then did he realize he was not the main character of this episode at all. The two academic heavyweights were.

“What on earth is this? I’m the hot topic, I’m the ratings draw! Lady, do you even know how to host a show? No wonder you were replaced later—your skills are seriously lacking.”

After a while, the host changed tack and finally posed a pointed question to Gu Zhi.

“Have you considered that, for the media, Gu Zhi might be replaced in two years; for publishing, maybe three; and for film and television, perhaps five or six years at most? Your value could be replaced at any moment. Does that ever make you anxious?”

Gu Zhi’s mind sharpened. “Finally, a question worth answering,” he thought.

“Let’s start with film and television. Everyone knows how well my first work did; there’s no need to elaborate—I don’t want to sound self-important. As for my second work, ‘My Savage Girlfriend’...”

Here, he paused deliberately for several seconds.

He had come all the way to national television; this was his chance to advertise. If he couldn’t promote his film, then this trip would have been a waste.

“The film is already complete, and I have every confidence it will succeed. Next year, I’m planning to write a TV series and another film. From now on, my focus will be on the film and television industry. In this world, as long as you keep producing new work, you’ll never be forgotten. And if there’s anything I have in abundance, it’s ideas and scripts.”

“The media and the industry can barely keep up with me, let alone replace me.”

Gu Zhi paused again, repositioned himself to face the camera, signaling for a close-up, then slowly shook his head.

“Impossible.”

“You’re that confident? Do you really believe you’ll never run out of inspiration? No one dares claim they can create great works forever. You’re only seventeen, meaning you’ve had, at most, ten years of real life experience. Writers from earlier generations have decades of depth behind them—even greats like Wang Shuo and Jia Pingwa wouldn’t dare make such boasts. Your foundation is nowhere as deep; how will you compete with them?”

“First, I’ve never compared myself to them. Second, I will not run dry. Every year, you’ll see new works from me, new headlines, even my every word and action. Time will tell.”

Gu Zhi’s answer was resolute and direct.

If anyone called it bluster, no one would doubt them.

“I’ve never met a young man as arrogant and full of himself as you. What makes you so bold—those three books and a single film? There are plenty more talented and famous than you. History will never remember someone like you!”

Chen Ming, unable to stomach Gu Zhi’s attitude, lashed out.

“It’s not your place to decide whether history remembers me.”

At that point, Gu Zhi saw no reason to hold back. He cut straight to the chase.