Chapter 223: 223 The Winner Is

Chapter 223: The Winner Is

Lu Xu and the *Dough Figurine* production team didn’t step onto the red carpet until close to evening.

Speculation over whether Lu Xu could win a third Best Actor award at the Contention Award had gradually narrowed down to one key question: would he even attend the red carpet today? Over the past year, Lu Xu had barely appeared at any other film industry events, showing up far less frequently than before.

He barely even posted on Weibo. While there were plenty of photos of him online, most were taken by passersby, with very few coming from official appearances.

In those photos, Lu Xu dressed simply—T-shirts in summer, and trench coats or puffer jackets in fall and winter. Though he never dressed sloppily, his looks never veered into anything unflattering. Still, fans craved seeing him red-carpet-ready and glowing, like he was tonight at the Contention Award.

Whether Lu Xu had arrived could be seen from the shifting crowd on the red carpet—the moment the *Dough Figurine* team stepped onto it, the subdued carpet suddenly buzzed with energy. Every eye turned in unison, following his every move.

A reporter from one outlet captured this moment, quickly snapping a photo and titling it *The King*.

Unless you were there in person, it was hard to grasp just how popular Lu Xu was at that moment. It felt as if he had stepped onto a stage surrounded by thousands, with the entire Contention Award eagerly awaiting his arrival.

“Two Best Actor wins really set him apart,” remarked a reporter from *Film* magazine.

Newcomers looked stiff on the red carpet, while lesser-known veterans naturally struggled to appear at ease. But Lu Xu was different—he’d already won two Best Actor trophies, making him the undisputed star of the night.

“Lu Xu’s fans don’t speak up much online—they’ve all shown up in force.”

“Anyone with this kind of presence wouldn’t have a single regret in life.”

As the reporters marveled, their ears were met with deafening cheers. Wherever Lu Xu passed, roaring cheers erupted, loud enough to drown out everything else.

Most importantly—

Even after a year away from the spotlight, stepping onto a formal occasion always brought the same reaction: awe. He never failed to deliver.

“G Brand is laughing all the way to the bank.”

“Absolutely. Other brands try to poach him every year—even assembling task forces—but none succeed.”

Men’s luxury fashion has never been as loyal a market as women’s, but during Lu Xu’s reign as G Brand’s face, the brand had firmly secured its foothold.

Of course, when G Brand first signed him, they never imagined he’d earn four Contention Award nods in ten years. Even the elitist film world seemed trivial in his presence.

The red carpet was buzzing, and so was the live chat for the Contention Award broadcast. Any actor witnessing this scene would feel nothing short of awe—the entertainment industry had only ever had one Lu Xu, and likely would never see another.

In the past ten, even twenty years, no actor had come close to Lu Xu’s clout.

Box office success, awards… even the prestigious global accolades—he had them all.

“Now it all comes down to whether the Contention Award will give him a third win. If they do, he’ll be the undisputed king of cinema.”

“The committee must know that full well,” one reporter muttered. “Did you go to today’s press conference? They sidestepped the question—several outlets asked.”

“Meaning… they’re not giving it to him?”

“Who knows? It’s their call. If they decide not to, what can anyone do—twist their arms?”

“I think the jury’s stuck. Even hinting at a refusal would spark endless debate. Better to stay silent.”

By the time the reporters finished talking, Lu Xu had completed his walk down the red carpet. The energy instantly drained—so noticeably that everyone felt it. After Lu Xu left, the carpet felt like a ghost town.

…

Returning to the Contention Award, Lu Xu was no stranger to the event—he knew his way around well enough not to need a director’s guidance. On his way to his seat, he exchanged greetings with countless people: directors and actors he had worked with before, as well as unfamiliar faces from within the industry. As he made his way up the stairs, he even spotted someone who surprised him.

For reasons unknown, Zhang Che was also among the guests, though seated toward the back.

Given their past conflicts, Lu Xu naturally didn’t acknowledge him, and both silently looked away.

But this current version of Zhang Che seemed far more hardened than the one in Lu Xu’s memory—it had been quite some time since he last associated him with the term “emo.”

Later, through his agent, Lu Xu learned that after *The Swordsman* flopped, Zhang Che’s acting career had nearly collapsed entirely. He had been forced to start over with minor roles. Eventually, he received support from a rising young director, which spurred him to seriously hone his craft. His demeanor grew steadier, and he became more willing to delve into character development. In the indie film scene, he gradually found his niche.

Of course, his popularity had long faded, and his name no longer appeared among those of rising stars.

In recent projects, Zhang Che had taken on unflattering roles—portraying disfigured thugs, AIDS patients—treading a path few heartthrob actors would dare take.

He began his career in idol dramas, amassing an army of fans drawn to his looks. But once he abandoned his heartthrob persona, those fans naturally drifted away.

“Not a bad turn of events,” Lu Xu mused.

“True,” his agent agreed with a nod. “If the rising star route is closed, there are other roads to take—unless he never wanted to be an actor at all.”

Still, Lu Xu was curious how Zhang Che had evolved from the so-called “emo guy” into the person he now saw. According to Xu Wen, when Zhang Che was nearly blacklisted from the industry, his agency threw him under the bus, making him fully grasp the cutthroat nature of showbiz.

“That agency has too many signed talents. Without Zhang Che, there’ll always be another.”

For Zhang Che, this outcome wasn’t necessarily bad.

Lu Xu vaguely recalled that Zhang Che’s acting had always been middling—not great, but not unwatchable. His biggest flaw was his thirst for accolades, which often led to overacting.

Reflecting further, Lu Xu realized that aside from Zhang Che, most of his former rivals had flamed out in the industry.

But that wasn’t his fault.

Lu Xu considered himself conflict-averse—never one to provoke others, pull diva antics, or mobilize fans against rivals. Typically, unless a star’s talent was irreplaceable, few in the industry would tolerate such behavior.

Unfortunately, Lu Xu was still young, and most of those who clashed with him were fellow young actors who hadn’t yet reached that level of indispensability.

At the Contention Award ceremony, Lu Xu could still spot Zhang Che, but the others were nowhere to be seen.

...

Once the *Dough Figurine* crew settled into their seats, the members of other competing teams wrapped up their mingling and took their places as well.

*Dough Figurine* had landed a prime spot—Lu Xu faintly remembered sitting in the same place during his previous attendance at the Contention Awards.

Beside them sat the *Mountain Peony* team, starring Cao Yi, who was also in the running for Best Actor. Behind them was the *Bricks and Tiles* crew, featuring Pan Shi, another nominee for Best Actor. These two were Lu Xu’s biggest rivals this year. While Lu Xu’s film held greater critical acclaim and impact, both competitors had received more nominations and awards.

Except for that Golden Flame controversy, Lu Xu rarely voiced opinions on award selections—especially since he himself was part of the process.

Still, he always hoped that outside factors could be minimized during judging, allowing performances alone to speak for themselves.

He even disagreed with practices like those of the Oscars and domestic awards, where leads from films not nominated for Best Picture or Best Director faced lower odds of winning.

An actor shining despite a weaker vehicle better demonstrated true skill.

Of course, judging acting in a vacuum wasn’t entirely fair, but Lu Xu believed there must be performances powerful enough to transcend the material.

...

As the ceremony began, Lu Xu remained seated calmly, sharing brief exchanges with director Mu Lang from time to time.

"Got your acceptance speech ready?" Mu Lang asked.

Lu Xu leaned in. "Director, got any inside scoop?"

From what he knew, Director Mu Lang knew Director Liao Yusheng pretty well.

Mu Lang waved a hand. "Nope."

Lu Xu's face fell as he turned away.

His reaction was too obvious—Mu Lang shot him a sideways glance.

Lu Xu really had become more casual over time. But the director actually liked that about him.

The question wasn't trying to hint at anything—he was just thinking back to when *Reversal City* was nominated, when Lu Xu hadn't been half as confident as now.

Though lots of people were doubting *Dough Figurine*, Lu Xu never doubted himself, never thought he didn’t deserve it, and sure didn’t think *Dough Figurine* was unworthy.

That’s what made winning meaningful—it wasn’t just recognition of an actor’s performance, but also of the character they brought to life.

How much Lu Xu had put in, how much the whole *Dough Figurine* crew had sacrificed—unless you were there, you couldn’t even imagine.

"Easy does it," Mu Lang murmured. "Nothing’s decided yet."

Lu Xu gave a slight nod.

The *Dough Figurine* team was running a campaign too. From what Lu Xu knew, Director Mu Lang hadn’t focused on pushing for the Sunset Film Festival Best Actor title—that would come off as pushy, and worse, it would be selling the Contention Award short.

Why should winning at Sunset automatically get him the Contention Award?

That would mean, deep down, seeing the Contention Award as a step below Sunset.

Mu Lang believed since they entered the race for Contention, they should respect it fully—unless the judges pulled something as crazy as the Golden Flame Awards did. But judging by how Golden Flame turned out, Contention probably wouldn’t go that off the rails.

The ceremony rolled on, category after category. Soon came Best Actor and Actress.

Lu Xu and Mu Lang fell silent, both staring straight ahead.

The presenter opened the envelope with painfully slow hands, like someone hit pause. Though clearly intentional, it was driving everyone nuts.

"Who won?"

"Don’t just stand there with that mysterious smile—just say it already!!!"

Luckily, the presenter only dragged it out a moment longer before finally announcing:

"And the winner goes to… Lu Xu, *Dough Figurine*! Congratulations!"

In that instant, the whole place erupted.