Chapter 50#
Leaving the Circle#
“There’s no need to cancel my identity, just issue a certificate so it’s visible when someone checks. Issuing a death certificate also avoids the back-and-forth pulling; at least it’s cleaner and more decisive than something ambiguous like ‘missing’.”
Mo Xuzhi’s expression was very flat, and his voice was steady, as if he were talking about something completely unrelated to him.
Wang Zhifeng nodded: “I’ll file a report when the time comes.”
Although Mo Xuzhi’s words sounded a bit frightening at first, once you understood his meaning, it was easy to see why.
Issuing a death certificate was within the allowable scope of the project.
In order to allow researchers to fully devote themselves to research, if issuing a death certificate could effectively solve problems, as long as the researcher applied, they could go through internal channels. After approval by the local bureau, a perfect death certificate could be created.
“There’s nothing more to do today. I want to go back and rest for a bit. Could you help me mark a personal leave, Teacher Wang?” Mo Xuzhi handed the glass back to Wang Zhifeng and said,
“Thank you, Teacher Wang.”
He had just turned and walked a few steps when Wang Zhifeng called him back.
He asked: “Is your clothing too big?”
Looking at him just now, he always felt that the clothes Mo Xuzhi was wearing were a bit large.
The white lab coats in the institute were custom-made. The clothes that used to fit very well now looked a size too large, draped over Mo Xuzhi, making him appear even thinner.
“Is that so?” Mo Xuzhi tilted his head and glanced, finding that the shoulders were indeed a circle wider. His expression remained unchanged as he said, “Maybe I put on someone else’s by mistake.”
Wang Zhifeng watched Mo Xuzhi leave.
Mo Xuzhi didn’t have the energy to wander around campus anymore. He took a campus bus, sat in the last row, and caught his breath for a moment.
He returned to his room, washed his face, and opened Weibo.
Public opinion had already fermented to the ideal range.
By now, various rumors of being “kept” and news of a messy private life had successfully been implanted into netizens’ consciousness. In addition, the company knew how to make the best use of everything. Not only did they demand liquidated damages from him, but they also spent quite a bit of money spares no effort to let the company’s newcomers catch a ride on his wave of traffic.
His Weibo still stayed on the last retweet of the “First Experience of Love” Weibo, unchanged.
Quite a few people had @’ed him, though.
Besides netizens, there were also some small and big artists he had no memory of @‘ing him, expressing disappointment in his behavior and, in passing, expressing their own noble pursuits. Although many people accused them of clout-chasing, it was clear that they had successfully caught this wave of traffic.
The Weibo programmers must have worked quite a bit of overtime; the program that was originally very laggy had become much smoother.
Mo Xuzhi glanced at the comment section.
Netizens inherited the fine tradition of being very persistent, constantly checking in on his comment section, asking him every day when he would leave the entertainment industry.
There were also many netizens who threw cold water, most of whom were his dedicated anti-fans—the kind who had followed him since he first became popular until now. Compared to others, they appeared much more rational, their words carrying a sense of indifference and certainty.
[Everyone disperse. People have demanded Mo-someone leave the circle several times already. After so many times, has he ever left? The internet has no memory; after a while, he’ll make a comeback just the same.]
[I reckon he’ll only leave when he truly can’t stir up any more trouble. Insider news says the movie he acted in is about to be released. This has to be hyped up well; who would be willing to leave now?]
[? He actually filmed a movie??]
[? There’s actually a director who dared to find him?]
[No way, no way, surely no one really thinks people will watch it just because a movie was filmed? Watching a movie Mo Xuzhi filmed is equivalent to paying an IQ tax, right? Who would go watch it?]
[At first, I fell for Mo Xuzhi’s looks. My classmates all hate Mo Xuzhi, so I didn’t dare say I liked him; I could only like him secretly. Now, I really can’t love him anymore. Why does such a good-looking person always fail to do proper things?]
Mo Xuzhi’s hand scrolling on the phone stopped, ending it there. Then he closed the comment section and opened the Weibo editing interface.
His hand typing was very steady, and he typed very fast.
When this moment, which he had been looking forward to in the beginning, finally arrived, he was calm instead.
Perhaps year after year had caused his sense of expectation to gradually weaken, or perhaps he had already thought about this moment countless times. When it truly arrived, it felt natural and ordinary.
Or perhaps he had never truly looked forward to this moment from the bottom of his heart, but had constantly been self-suggesting, thinking he would feel happy at this time.
The interface lagged for a moment when sending the Weibo, and then it was successfully sent out.
[Mo Xuzhi V: I’ve had enough fun. Goodbye. [Attached Image: Termination Statement]]
When his Weibo was posted, netizens were still passionately cursing in the comment section, completely unaware that he had posted a Weibo, still jumping around because he had been hanging around without leaving the circle.
Later, after being reminded by others, they finally saw the latest Weibo.
The Weibo was right in front of them, black text on a white background, yet they didn’t dare to believe it easily.
They thought this was just like before, a slightly larger storm. Then Mo Xuzhi would remain silent and continue to be active within their line of sight after some time.
They didn’t expect to actually get a direct response from Mo Xuzhi.
And the response was a statement of leaving the entertainment industry.
They repeatedly compared the “I’ll leave the circle after I’ve had enough fun” that Mo Xuzhi had said on a variety show before, and combined it with that termination statement, finally sensing the seriousness in it.
Mo Xuzhi was really leaving the entertainment industry.
[Is it real? Is it real? Could it be hype? The kind where the value is hyped up and then he finds an opportunity to come back and continue making money.]
[This is the first time I’ve seen such a serious statement on Mo Xuzhi’s Weibo.]
[Where are the people who said they’d eat (——) while doing a handstand if Mo-someone left the circle? Come look, come look!]
[Really left?]
[Friends, I’m going to run two laps downstairs! Too excited!]
[Suspecting it’s fake +1]
[Still can’t believe it easily; probably making a comeback in a few days.]
Mo Xuzhi exited Weibo, sent a few more messages, then put down his phone and started packing his luggage, no longer paying attention to the comments.
After it got dark, Wang Zhifeng came. He somehow guessed that Mo Xuzhi hadn’t eaten and brought him food from the cafeteria. The two chatted for a while, slightly planning the future research direction, and then he left the room.
Mo Xuzhi couldn’t sleep. He stood on the balcony for a while in the night breeze, watching the lights in the student dormitories not far away gradually go out, and seeing the purple-red glow rising from the undulating mountains far away.
He didn’t turn on the light; the room was pitch black. The phone left casually on the table vibrated continuously, making its presence known.
Mo Xuzhi also turned off the vibration.
Now there was no sound at all.
The Jingda campus gradually fell into silence, but the internet became more and more lively.
Netizens were all staying up late to “eat melons.”
Especially the Weibo accounts of Mo Xuzhi and the few people involved with him were a scene of jubilation and clamor.
[Friends! Look at Mo-someone’s profile picture! His little yellow V has disappeared, the certification is gone, he seems to be serious.]
[What was his previous bio? It’s all blank now; I can’t remember what was written before.]
[He didn’t have a bio before either, right? His Weibo just had a name, nothing else.]
[It’s weirdly unaccustomed without that little yellow V; it doesn’t even look like Mo Xuzhi anymore.]
[The company he signed with released a statement saying the contract termination with Mo Xuzhi is real! It’s real!]
[Beat the drums and gongs for a universal celebration! The spring of domestic entertainment is finally here!!]
While netizens were still celebrating the departure of the “big tumor,” a simple yet extraordinary Weibo was posted at the same time.
[Song Zhenrui V: June 15th, Beijing’s Final Echo.]
It was just a very ordinary, even somewhat inexplicable Weibo. In such an atmosphere of nationwide gossip-eating, not many people noticed such an ordinary Weibo.
Only netizens and entertainment marketing accounts who had been following Song Zhenrui smelled an unusual scent.
Director Song, who hadn’t released a movie for several years, should have a new work about to be released.
Every time Song Zhenrui filmed a movie, he was low-key to the extreme. He wouldn’t even reveal a bit of the casting and always started pre-heating only after the filming was finished.
And generally speaking, when he started pre-heating, the movie was almost about to be released, with only a few months in between.
His pre-heating process had formed a well-known set of procedures.
His first step every time was to @ the lead actors and have them talk about their views on a certain era or event, thereby introducing the movie.
His second step was to announce the release date.
However, strangely this time, he skipped the first step and jumped directly to the second.
Someone keenly sensed something was wrong and asked about it.
Song Zhenrui was still online and responded immediately:
[The lead actor no longer uses Weibo, so there’s no one to @, so this step was skipped.]
Someone asked if a new movie was about to be released, and he said yes. Then someone else couldn’t wait and asked when the trailer would be released. He gave a vague time, saying it would be around May.
Mo Xuzhi swallowed two pills and managed to fall asleep at three-thirty, then got up at six. He simply lifted a small hand-held bag, and that was it for preparation.
Wang Zhifeng opened his door at the same time as him.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
The car sent by the institute was already waiting downstairs. Wang Zhifeng and Mo Xuzhi got into the car.
Besides the driver, there was another person in the car. After the four greeted each other, Mo Xuzhi sat aside and listened to Wang Zhifeng and the other two confirming the itinerary.
They were talking about the exchange meeting. Mo Xuzhi was just hitching a ride and didn’t speak. He leaned his head against the window glass and closed his eyes.
He could no longer distinguish whether this was tiredness or numbness from pain.
His mind was groggy, and the lungs in his chest felt like they were filled with something else, unable to function at all. In just this short period of time, a layer of sweat had formed on his body, but because his coat was covering it, no one had noticed yet.
Suddenly, after a brief burst of static, a sweet female voice sounded in the car. The slightly distorted voice rang out:
“Snow has already begun to fall in some areas today, with Rongcheng seeing the most. Citizens have already…”
Mo Xuzhi’s eyes opened slightly, then slowly closed again.