Ji Chenjiao and Ling Lie split up. Far away in Country N, Qiu Yubei was still in a coma, and Jiang Hui refused to say more. However, gossip-loving netizens contributed a clue.

[Doesn’t anyone think Luo Manzhai’s rise to fame is weird? Before going on Mystery Sky, she was like a Z‑list nobody, the most unknown guest there. On what basis did she land that resource?]

 [Have some decency, will you? She’s dead and you’re still trash-talking her?]

 [If you don’t like it, scroll on. Her IQ was indeed on another level, but how did she squeeze her way onto that variety show?]

 [I heard she had something to do with those Country N witchcraft things.]

 [Why so shocked? Don’t you know it’s an open secret in showbiz that stars keep little ghosts? She’s hardly the only one.]

 [Maybe some of her rumored boyfriends helped behind the scenes? Wasn’t there talk she had something going on with the young master of Zuiting Group?]

 [Your account’s gone. You can’t just spread that around, you know?]

 [How is that “spreading rumors”? It’s not her only scandal.]

 [Every other rumor flies all over the place, but this one—every time it pops up, it gets stamped down. Doesn’t that say something?]

Staring at these comments, Ji Chenjiao thought: Young master of Zuiting? Who?

He searched the keyword. The screen quickly filled with introductions: Zuiting Group was a domestic business giant whose operations covered real estate, electronics, the internet, entertainment, and many other sectors. There were so many so‑called “young masters” one pair of hands couldn’t count them. There were countless news pieces and gossip about them online, but once he added Luo Manzhai’s name, the results dropped to “0.”

Ji Chenjiao tried adding the names of other actresses. Still “0.”

So Luo Manzhai wasn’t an exception. It was simply that Zuiting did not want the private lives of its heirs exposed.

He called in Shen Qi and asked him to dig thoroughly into Zuiting Group.

Ling Lie pulled up all of “King of Sand Mountain’s” social media accounts. The guy was very active and had already posted two “little essays” about Luo Manzhai’s death. The personal stance between the lines was very clear: he considered her a rare beauty of talent in the industry, someone who won all her praise with a brilliant mind. Looking back at her past work, he wrote, one couldn’t help but be convinced by her personal charm and quick reactions. Someone like her dying was a loss to the entire entertainment circle.

At the end of one essay, “King of Sand Mountain” urged the police to solve the case as soon as possible.

Ling Lie chuckled. “Who are you to prod us?”

“King of Sand Mountain” often appeared on camera during live streams and even posted many photos. He looked decent, young—according to himself, he was only twenty‑six. With a passable face plus filters, his looks could just about compete with small‑time idols in his fans’ eyes.

Reading this far, Ling Lie finally realized: “King of Sand Mountain” hadn’t become popular at first because of any razor‑sharp reviews, but purely because of his face.

There was some information online that was easy to overlook if you weren’t paying attention, and whose truth was uncertain for now—rumor had it that “King of Sand Mountain” initially wanted to be an actor. His looks, while decent among ordinary people, paled completely in an industry full of beautiful men and women. He had worked as an extra, signed up for talent shows, and his family had thrown a lot of money at it. But limited by his own conditions, his star dreams shattered.

In his early days, having been around a number of small‑time artists, he frequently spilled insider gossip on social platforms. At that time, his style wasn’t yet the venomous sharpness of today; he needed to attract fans of those small‑timers.

Once he had a basic fan base, he started posting his own photos and writing film reviews. He did have a knack for running social accounts—more so than for acting, at least. Gradually, he gained niche popularity, and his style shifted toward sarcasm and mockery.

On current platforms, there’s a general rule: to grab more traffic, you criticize; you have to be spicy. When a film comes out, you might not get much traction by analyzing its strengths. But if you latch onto a single point—even one you’ve imagined—and pair it with clever, funny copy, you’ve got your coin.

“Sand King” got a taste for this. From then on, he was part of the standard mocking lineup for all the big releases. Fans loved to watch him roast, and he was one of the rare reviewers who dared to shoot front‑camera selfies while doing it.

In that phase, he became a top‑tier film reviewer in the circle.

Ling Lie only half understood how the industry worked. “And none of these filmmakers plan to have him assassinated?”

In reality, deep‑pocketed investors not only didn’t do that—they cooperated with him. After all, infamous is still famous. Those blockbuster films with star‑studded casts and full‑force promotion wouldn’t be hurt by his roasts; if anything, his criticism made more people watch while cursing.

Later in his search, Ling Lie saw a predictable title on “Sand King’s” review list: Xiling Broken Rain

He leaned closer to the monitor, rewatching the ten‑odd minute review three times.

“Sand King” was merciless toward Xiling Broken Rain. He said it pretended to be an art film while using inhuman dialogue to fool the audience, only knowing how to show sin, as if it had fully dissected the roots of evil, but in truth it was just the creative team’s self‑gratifying fantasy, lacking the ups and downs of a good story. Even the one thing that could be called a plot was mere melodramatic whining without logic. The cows in the small town died—so what? Cows weren’t the only resource there, so why did everyone have to turn on each other and kill? It was something the screenwriter made up with a pat on the head—trash.

At the end, he mocked Xiling Broken Rain’s near‑nonexistent buzz, then lined it up against a few acclaimed films on similar themes, asserting that no one watched Xiling Broken Rain because it was poorly made. Don’t blame the subject matter, and don’t blame audiences for lacking taste—it was the creators themselves who were crooked and mediocre.

The video drew a ton of applause. Looking at the remaining comments, most said: since “Big Sand” said so, it must be a total flop. I haven’t watched it, but I believe “Big Sand.”

“King of Sand Mountain” might not be a star, but in terms of fan influence, he was no weaker than one.

Ling Lie had just watched Xiling Broken Rain not long ago. It truly hadn’t moved him; in his eyes, it had no striking highlights. That might be why it never made it to theaters. In a sense, “Sand King” wasn’t wrong—it was indeed mediocre.

But to say its logic was broken, to claim the screenwriter didn’t understand those small‑town people at all—Ling Lie disagreed. Xiling Broken Rain was a complete, internally consistent story, not as terrible as he claimed. It simply wasn’t good, with killing back and forth, the kind of film one could easily skip.

After watching that review, Ling Lie had a strange feeling but couldn’t quite name it. He spent the entire afternoon watching dozens of reviews by “Sand King” before and after Xiling Broken Rain and finally noticed something wrong.

“Sand King” picked only popular films. Big films have large audiences and lots of fans, which meant plenty of people hated the films or certain actors. Roasting those got him massive traffic. Plus, those films had aggressive PR campaigns; they’d deliberately let well‑known reviewers point out flaws.

At first glance, “Sand King” seemed to be mocking them, but it was actually win‑win: he got traffic; the films gained more fame amidst controversy. Look closely and you could tell which films he truly criticized and which ones he’d been paid to “roast with restraint.”

When those titles were listed, Xiling Broken Rain looked very out of place. It had no traffic for him to leech. The creators were unlikely to pay him to slam it. His critique of this film was completely unrestrained; he even twisted points that weren’t really flaws into ammunition.

There was one more film treated similarly: a small‑budget theatrical release called Green Teapot [青茶缸]. The most vicious part was his sarcasm—laughing that Xiling Broken Rain couldn’t even get a showtime, and that Green Teapot was yanked after three days due to abysmal box office.

Being totally ignored is perhaps the cruelest curse for a filmmaker.

Judging from the reviews alone, “Sand King” seemed equally harsh to all films. But if you read the comments, you’d see the difference: for big films, plenty of people defended and argued back, with positive and negative responses roughly balanced. For Xiling Broken Rain and Green Teapot, which barely had viewers to begin with, his coverage turned their comment sections into wastelands—no praise in sight.

Ling Lie hissed softly. “Tsk…”

He checked on the director and screenwriter of Green Teapot and found they had switched to commercial films. Last year, the director was interviewed and said that while Green Teapot had poor word of mouth back then, he still regarded it as an important work. His later films stood on its shoulders.

The director seemed like a man of feeling. He sighed, “If it weren’t for reality, I’d probably spend my whole life making films like Green Teapot.”

“What makes it special?” Ling Lie asked.

“Special? No, no, I don’t mean it’s special. I made it simply because I liked it.”

Ling Lie lifted his brows, listening attentively.

Facing such an “artsy” young man, the director gradually forgot he was a cop. He said that because he loved it, he went all‑in on making it. From the start, he knew Green Teapot wouldn’t attract attention or rake in big profits like popular films. But he also knew there would be a small but loyal audience. As long as they appreciated it, he would be satisfied.

“These days, what you see in the market are basically big commercial films. But should niche films not exist?” he said. “I don’t think so. Niche films should have their own lane, appreciated by their own audience. They’re cold not necessarily because they’re bad; it’s often because their audience is just that small. How can they compete with blockbusters? Being loved within that tiny group is already success.”

“But you still changed directions,” Ling Lie noted.

The director fell silent for a long time. Ling Lie didn’t push, and watched regret, sorrow, and helplessness cross his face.

“Because I couldn’t hold out. Here—” The director touched his chest with a wry smile. “It was too soft, too weak. I couldn’t withstand that storm.”

“What storm?” Ling Lie asked.

The storm was exactly the one created by “King of Sand Mountain’s” attack on Green Teapot.

From the beginning, the entire creative team had been very clear about what Green Teapot was: it wasn’t meant to compete with the films released at the same time. They would be satisfied just to have it appear on theater screens, then move it to cafés, bookstores, small salons for niche discussions. With funding in place, no one on the team was short of money; as long as the film didn’t lose money, everyone would be happy.

But “Sand King’s” review hit them like a rainstorm, soaking them to the bone and dousing their inner fire.

Ling Lie couldn’t help asking, “Was it really that bad?”

The director smiled faintly and continued. Although these were all films, blockbusters aimed at the masses and tiny niche works like theirs were fundamentally different. Yet critics and viewers insisted on lumping them together: anything without buzz or audience was labeled “badly made.”

“At first, I thought I wouldn’t care about such comments. I overestimated my tolerance—and underestimated the deluge of public spit,” he said. “When one person or ten people say your work is bad, you might ignore them, or get angry and argue back, try to prove them wrong. But when tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands say you’re no good, that you have no heat, no ability—what do you do? You can’t outshout them. No one listens to your explanation. You’re forced to accept that your work must stand in the mass-market arena and compete with blockbusters. If you lose, you’re inferior.”

“I never wanted to compete. I didn’t make Green Teapot to compete. So why was I dragged into that flood?” he went on. “Audiences don’t argue fairly; there’s nowhere to reason. A tougher person might have held on, survived it. But I’m weak here, remember? I couldn’t. I was in agony. I kept asking why I wasn’t as good as others, where the hell I fell short. When I imagined continuing to make niche films for niche audiences, only to face more comparisons and more crushing defeats, I found I couldn’t keep filming.”

“I’m a coward. I chose compromise. I know it’s wrong; I could’ve stuck to what I love. But under the sway of those comments, I kept comparing myself. Success within a small group no longer satisfied me. People follow the crowd—I was assimilated.”

He took out a cigarette, then paused and glanced at Ling Lie. “Mind if I smoke?”

Ling Lie shook his head and requested one, too.

In the curling white smoke, neither spoke. Ling Lie kept watching the director. His features were blurred, slightly distorted by the haze. Through that veil, Ling Lie seemed to see another person: Sun Jing.

Back when Xiling Broken Rain was attacked, had Sun Jing felt the same way?

She, too, had a comfortable background. She had her own money; her husband was a producer in showbiz. She might have been holding onto a childlike love for her craft, only to be ambushed head‑on by “King of Sand Mountain.”

The director stubbed out his cigarette and sighed. “Maybe, if I achieve enough success one day, I won’t have to care about strangers’ attacks. Maybe then I’ll make another film like Green Teapot. Don’t be fooled by my compromise; deep down I still believe some niche things shouldn’t be drowned by the mainstream just because they have few viewers and weak voices. Not every film should be thrown into the same lane and judged solely by box office, losing meaning you’re bad and incompetent. That’s unfair. I can’t change this reality—I can only temporarily go along with it.”

Ling Lie was silent for a while. “Back then, who did you hate most?”

“Hm?” The director looked surprised. “Hate?”

“Did you hate ‘King of Sand Mountain’?” Ling Lie asked.

The director lowered his head. It took him a long time to speak, and when he did, it was on a seemingly unrelated topic. “Officer Ling, do you think someone like me is pathetically fragile? ‘King of Sand Mountain’ has criticized so many films. Why was I the only one who couldn’t cope?”

Ling Lie didn’t answer.

The director shook his head with a bitter smile. “In a heavy rain, many people are moving forward—some in luxury SUVs, some on motorcycles, some under umbrellas, some in raincoats. And some have nothing to shield them at all. All they have are thin clothes and a pair of mud‑covered feet.”

“Then the rain gets worse. Those in cars drive away quickly. Those with protection speed up. Only the one with nothing struggles on and falls into the mud. He can’t get up. He has no car, no rain gear—he was never built to withstand the storm.”

“My Green Teapot was like that,” he continued. “We weren’t without an audience, but they were very few. ‘King of Sand Mountain’s’ review dumped his millions of fans on us. The few viewers defending us got drowned quickly. All you could see online were curses, as if we were utterly worthless. But big films are different; they’re like people sitting in SUVs, with fans to rebut for them.”

“The reviewers like ‘King of Sand Mountain’ know this perfectly well. Right now, what sells is criticism. Audiences don’t like praise; the harsher you are, the more traffic you get. He won’t use the sharpest barbs on blockbusters. But he still needs meanness to feed his traffic, so he picked me—and maybe directors like me. Do you think he doesn’t know what this would do to us? Of course he knows. He just doesn’t care.”

“So here’s my answer to your question—I hated him. I even fell seriously ill and spent six months in therapy because of it,” the director said. “Over those months, I realized something—‘King of Sand Mountain’ is hateful, but the mob who piled on us is even more hateful. They’re a crowd with no independent thought, obsessed with fanning the flames. Other people’s pain is, in their eyes, just a binge‑worthy drama.”

“When you were at your worst, did you ever think about how to get back at them?” Ling Lie asked.

The director nodded. “I wanted them to die. But I couldn’t do it. Crime isn’t that easy. Officer Ling, did something happen to ‘King of Sand Mountain’? Are you suspecting me?”

“No,” Ling Lie said. “I just wanted to take a peek at your mindset.”

He spoke bluntly, but never specified who the “you” included. The director pondered for a moment, then admitted, “To tell you the truth, back then I did have thoughts of lashing out at society. Fortunately, during that darkest time, my wife stayed by my side without leaving. That’s how I made it through and started over.”

Leaving the hotel, Ling Lie walked across an overpass bathed in neon light.

The director of Green Teapot said he was lucky. Sun Jing, without doubt, was the unluckiest among the unlucky.

Not far from that overpass stood a five‑star hotel owned by the Yu Group. In one of its rooms, a door opened. Zhuo Suyi, waiting on the sofa, immediately stood up and said to the person entering, “Mr. Grey Peacock.”