Chapter 184 Feedback and Gossip

Chapter 184: Feedback and Gossip

To match the venue's atmosphere, all three wore red suits, though each had unique styling.

During the red carpet trial, none of them were sold on the outfits at first. Yet under the stage lights, even icy tones would glow warmly—let alone the already vibrant red.

"They look like three big puppies singing for me on stage!"

"Who gave Lu Xu that scarf? The cuteness level doubled! Can't resist spamming heart emojis—so adorable!"

"And... this song sounds way better than I expected."

On this stage, none of the three—Lu Xu, Zheng Xiao, or Shao Yao—were vocal powerhouses. Yet the moment their voices filled the air, the audience could sense their sincerity, their effort to deliver the song well.

This song went viral nationwide with the movie's success, with its passion and depth being the most moving aspects. Despite their vocal limitations, the trio combined their voices, expressions, and gazes to convey their understanding of the song to the audience.

"Sounds great!"

"?? Honestly, Shao Yao's voice is the best, but the three together are just a dream team! Incredible chemistry!"

"+1 +1, and am I the only one who thinks Lu Xu on stage is stupidly handsome? I’m tempted to buy a red suit now, though it’d be a disaster on me."

In fans' memories, Lu Xu's last formal appearance was at the Contention Award ceremony. The black suit he wore then was a bit too serious, though his face still exuded understated elegance. Today’s red, however, made him glow warmly, like a snow-white cub bundled in a red scarf.

"Lu Xu should be on stage way more often. With the right styling, he’s next-level!"

For fans, tonight’s surprise wasn’t just Lu Xu’s styling but also how completely he owned the stage.

Back in his Verse days, Lu Xu wasn’t the strongest singer, but he wasn’t the worst either. Back then, the group mostly did high-energy bangers, which might not have suited his style. Tonight, fans realized—he’s actually quite suited for slower songs.

When performing this song, Lu Xu felt more like he was letting the lyrics tell their story.

After years in Verse and further honing as an actor, his vocal tone and expressiveness had improved significantly.

"He’s really come into his own," Tan Qi murmured, her gaze fixed on the screen, her voice thick with feeling.

In a way, willingly returning to the stage to sing was a sign of that maturity. Since Lu Xu fully transitioned to acting, Tan Qi never imagined she’d hear him sing again.

The current Lu Xu was absolutely glowing.

His hair falling just right, that megawatt smile, and the grounded confidence that comes with real success—on stage, he was like a light source. Tan Qi found it hard to look away.

To those unfamiliar, this Lu Xu might seem untouched by hardship, as if he’d coasted effortlessly to where he was now.

Tan Qi loved this version of him—though she’d loved the earlier one too.

...

The song wasn’t long, just over four minutes. It was just the three of them on stage—no backup—and once they finished, their act for the night was done.

Zheng Xiao wiped sweat from his forehead and said to Shao Yao and Lu Xu, "I'm soaked through."

Lu Xu remained calm, while Shao Yao replied, "I just pretended the audience wasn’t there."

That was his way of calming his nerves.

Still, they’d rehearsed a million times before stepping on stage. No flubbed lines or missed beats—they were certain of that.

"We nailed it," Zheng Xiao exhaled in relief.

The performance was over, and it was time to leave. Since the three of them had come together by car, they naturally headed back together. Once in the car, Zheng Xiao started browsing real-time reactions to their Spring Festival Gala (China’s annual televised New Year’s show) performance online.

As soon as he opened the homepage, the top trending topic was "#ToneDeaf."

Zheng Xiao, who had been lounging in the back seat, immediately sat up straight. "They’re not talking about us, are they?"

Lu Xu and Shao Yao silently picked up their phones as well.

"Look at mine, let’s check together."

After clicking into the "#ToneDeaf" hashtag and scrolling through a dozen or so posts without finding any direct mentions of the three of them, Zheng Xiao quietly relaxed.

Aside from their full names, Zheng Xiao also kept an eye on the abbreviations "zx," "sy," and "lx." Fortunately, there were no mentions of those either.

It had to be said that netizens these days were incredibly creative with nicknames. Terms like "27-head-body"—a meme mocking someone with a disproportionately large head—and "charm-free zone" left even Zheng Xiao, who frequently surfed the internet, utterly baffled.

But… given that all three of them were over 180 cm tall, they probably weren’t the "27-head-body" type, right?

At first, Zheng Xiao didn’t understand what "27-head-body" meant. He had to search online for a while before realizing that while "9-head-body" described a perfect golden ratio, "27-head-body" implied someone’s head was three times the size of a normal person’s—so much so that when the camera zoomed in, only their head was visible.

As for "charm-free zone," it was used to describe a certain star with overwhelming anti-charisma.

Since the "#ToneDeaf" hashtag didn’t involve them, Zheng Xiao began searching their full names instead. To his surprise, the feedback on their performance was far more positive than expected.

"It’s understandable that actors might not have the strongest vocals, but at least they should show effort—remember the lyrics, engage with the audience, and convey emotion. The Mountain Boys Trio’s performance was practically a textbook example."

"Why do some people stay popular for years while others get big-headed after a bit of fame? The answer is right here."

"My favorite performance tonight was the Mountain Boys Trio’s segment. Maybe it’s because I set my expectations really low, but the result was unexpectedly good. Or maybe it’s just because Lu Xu, the golden retriever guy (*puppy*—a fandom nickname for Lu Xu for his cheerful demeanor), hypnotized me."

"LOL, same! I only checked out their stage because of their looks, but the performance was a million times better than I imagined. The puppy and his pack were amazing!"

"Honestly, my standards are rock-bottom—just passably decent. Yet some performances can’t even meet that bar. The only word for them is 'bad.'"

After browsing for a while, the three suddenly realized that their performance had actually been one of the highest-rated segments of the night—at least among the musical acts, they had garnered more attention than any other stars.

One particular moment stood out: during a certain lyric, all three of them had gotten misty-eyed in unison. This scene was widely screenshotted and shared by entertainment accounts.

"From now on, please invite guests based on the Mountain Boys Trio’s standard, okay? Great."

"Such a devotional-level stage presence! AAAAAH, all major networks, take note—these three are guaranteed ratings gold. Pay whatever it takes to book them!"

The TV stations: "..."

Objectively speaking, it wasn’t that the networks didn’t want to invite Lu Xu and his group.

Every major broadcaster had tried to assemble the "Mountain Boys Trio" package deal before—whether for vocal showdown shows or adventure reality TV, everyone knew that booking them would guarantee success. Even if their sky-high fees were involved, the stations were willing to pay.

But on one hand, scheduling was an issue, and on the other, the trio themselves weren’t particularly eager to team up.

At Lu Xu’s level of star power, he had near-total control over his projects, with little interference from his agency.

The networks had made their offers with full sincerity, but if the three weren’t interested, there wasn’t much else they could do.

However, after tonight’s Gala performance and the buzz it generated, the networks couldn’t help but feel salivating all over again.

If the trio could reunite for the Spring Festival Gala, maybe there was still hope for other collaborations?

Even though most agencies were closed for the holidays, the networks discreetly pinged the executives at the trio’s management companies to inquire about their interest in future variety show appearances.

No worries if you don't agree now, but one day you definitely will.

...

As soon as the Spring Festival Gala ratings were released, Xu Wen told Lu Xu that the number of variety show offers he received had doubled.

The pay? That doubled too.

Yet Lu Xu still firmly shook his head: "I'll stick to acting."

Right now, he only has *Night Sky Observations* in the pipeline, and it’s unclear when it will air.

Lu Xu felt that over the past few years, he had been like a diligent old ox, spending most of his time on set. Yet whether it was TV dramas or movies, the release speed far outpaced his filming speed, leaving him feeling like he had no backlog of works waiting to air every year.

He worked so hard—basically hopping from one set to the next—so what gives?

In short, as he kept filming, his backlog kept dwindling.

"If it’s already like this now, doing variety shows would probably mean I won’t have a single backlog left in a year," Lu Xu sighed. "And good scripts are so hard to come by these days."

He was not about to jump into a project on a whim. Whether it was dissatisfaction with the script or co-stars, regret would come too late—better to eliminate unfavorable factors early.

However, since he had worked with many directors and met plenty more through film awards, his chances of landing good scripts had increased significantly compared to before.

Lu Xu had entered the film industry through an invitation for *Deception*, without giving it much thought or prep. In his view, his pretty smooth ride in the industry was purely due to luck.

*Deception*, *Feather of Youth*, and even *Reversal City*—which had the backing of a renowned director—all were all the kind that rarely make bank.

While discussing future work plans with Xu Wen, Xu Wen suddenly asked him, "Did you hear? Liu Rennong is making a new film."

Lu Xu uncrossed his legs: "Go on."

...To some extent, his only gossip sources were Xu Wen and Zheng Xiao. Though he was part of the industry, Lu Xu felt way behind when it came to industry gossip.

Lu Xu had WeChat contacts with two major directors, Mu Lang and Miao Zhi. He suspected they had deeper insights into industry gossip, but he'd never actually ask them—it felt like he’d just get disapproving looks in return.

"Why is he suddenly making a movie?" Lu Xu said. "I thought he was pretty much retired."

"Pressure from public opinion," Xu Wen replied. "With all the rumors online recently, just buying hot searches or hiring marketers won’t be enough to suppress them. He needs a work to restore his reputation. After all, the audience isn’t part of the industry—they won’t cut him that kind of slack."

"Besides, he's mixed up in some shady business. The audience might not have concrete evidence, and the authorities can’t investigate him, but he’s bound to get a warning." Xu Wen looked at Lu Xu. "The rumors about screening arrangements didn’t just affect a few films—they eroded audience trust in the entire industry. Film is a business, not Liu Rennong’s private enterprise. If the audience loses faith, who’s going to watch movies?"

"Details about the film aren’t clear yet, but Liu Rennong hinted that he wants to collaborate with you."

"Me?" Lu Xu pulled a face. "Can’t he find someone else? Why me? Doesn’t his studio have a few actors signed?"

He had absolutely no desire to work with Liu Rennong.

"What if the script is good?"

"Forget it." Lu Xu shrugged. "There are so many actors out there! And so many directors in the industry—I don’t have to work with any specific one."

Honestly, in terms of looks, Liu Rennong ranked high among directors, which also boosted his reputation. Handsome, talented, and mild-mannered—completely different from those directors who loved scolding actors or criticizing the audience.

But this man had serious character issues.

Lu Xu couldn’t stand being in the same room with someone so hypocritical. Even a short film shoot would take at least three to four months, and given Liu Rennong’s "meticulous" approach, it’d probably stretch to six months.