The scene of Xu Shulou leaping from a moving car to save someone was caught on camera. When the video first surfaced online, netizens assumed it was a stunt for some action film, even joking about how exaggerated it looked. Eyewitnesses who insisted it was real were met with skepticism, dismissed as yet another boring publicity stunt—until the police released an official statement. Suddenly, the world seemed to have taken a surreal turn, and the clip quickly became headline news across major media outlets.
Netizens swiftly identified Xu Shulou as the lead actress of the currently trending drama Path of the Immortals. Since Xu Shulou had no official social media accounts, the production team issued a response on her behalf, essentially advising viewers, "Do not attempt this." The internet collectively agreed this was unnecessary—who could possibly replicate such a feat?
The director buried his face in his hands. Who would’ve thought the crew would end up making headlines for something like this?
The person who filmed the incident had likely started recording after noticing the erratic movement of the black car, never expecting to capture Xu Shulou’s daring leap. Viewers of the original, unedited version could clearly hear the filmer’s stunned, expletive-laden reaction in the background.
In the video, the moment the two cars passed each other, Xu Shulou leaped without hesitation, landing perfectly atop the black vehicle.
"How could you even dare? If her aim had been slightly off, she’d have been crushed under the wheels!" Netizens echoed the same bewilderment felt by the crew members who had witnessed it firsthand.
After landing, Xu Shulou seemed to notice someone filming from a passing car. She glanced up, her eyes meeting the camera—a fleeting moment that viewers replayed obsessively.
The world had clearly gone mad. Some quipped, "Is this the true power of a fight choreographer?" sparking confusion among many who then discovered that Xu Shulou was not only the drama’s lead actress but also its fight director.
Curiosity drove even non-viewers to tune into Path of the Immortals. A few days later, the latest episode aired, featuring a moonlit fight scene that left audiences spellbound once again.
Song Ping, a well-known entrepreneur, was soon recognized as one of the drama’s investors.
Netizens were floored. "Since when do investors have to be skilled enough to perform their own stunts? What kind of standards are these?"
"And what’s up with this production team? The lead actress doubles as screenwriter and fight director, and now even the investor moonlights as an actor? Is the crew too broke to hire more people, or do they just believe in multitasking? Can everyone here juggle five jobs at once?"
After the exhilarating fight scene, the story shifted to Xu Shulou, victorious, being gifted a night-blooming cereus by the Old Master of the Xuanwu Tower. Under the moonlight, she cradled the flower, smiled in gratitude, then turned and departed with a sweep of her sleeve. Dressed in ornate robes, her sword strapped to her back, her every gesture—the curve of her smile, the arch of her brow, the flourish of her sleeve—radiated an effortless charm.
She arrived with unyielding presence and left with untamed grace.
How could anyone not be enchanted?
The ethereal atmosphere of the moonlit duel, combined with the viral rescue footage, propelled ratings to new heights. The streaming platform sent representatives to discuss extending the series beyond its original episode count.
With the show’s popularity soaring, more episodes meant more profit.
The original screenwriter seized the opportunity to suggest adding a melodramatic romance subplot. After all, love was an evergreen theme—why not a bittersweet, will-they-won’t-they arc culminating in a happy ending? Or a healing male lead who showered the heroine with sweetness, mending her past wounds? Audiences ate that up, and it could boost ratings even further, humanizing Xu Shulou and deepening viewer empathy.
Bai Roushuang objected. "I don’t understand what you mean by ‘humanizing’ her. To me, she embodies the best of humanity."
"I’m not here to argue," the screenwriter said placatingly. "From a professional standpoint, your portrayal of Xu Shulou’s psyche lacks depth. She’s always so composed. That’s not a bad thing, but the audience needs to see her vulnerability, her helplessness, her moments of tenderness—that’s how they connect."
Bai Roushuang shook her head. "Since when does saving lives and cherishing the world not count as humanity? Only fragility qualifies?"
Xu Shulou’s resilience was forged through trials, her spirit refined to its purest essence. Why cheapen it with contrived displays of weakness?
When Bai Roushuang met her, Xu Shulou had long since left her most desperate days behind. Every smile since had been unburdened. Bai Roushuang refused to dredge up her suffering just for ratings.
"It’s just a suggestion," the screenwriter said, shrugging. "If you hate the idea, at least add a crying scene—let her break down while recounting the fall of her kingdom. Some viewers find flawlessly enlightened protagonists unrealistic. They want to see the struggle. Haven’t you noticed? The highest-rated episodes are always the ones where leads cry or cough up blood. Better ratings mean better sponsors."
Bai Roushuang stood firm. "That would be dishonest."
"I get that you’re attached to this character, even obsessed with making her perfect. But losing a kingdom is traumatic. What’s wrong with letting her lean on someone and shed a few tears? It wouldn’t diminish her." The screenwriter sighed. "Trust me, I know what sells."
It wouldn’t ruin the character—but it wouldn’t be Xu Shulou. Even Bai Roushuang didn’t know the full extent of her past.
"Have you never faced cruelty or injustice?"
"Plenty. But the stories I remember—the ones I share—are the good ones."
Those words, spoken years ago, still lingered. If Xu Shulou wouldn’t confide her sorrows to her closest junior, who would she lean on?
Perhaps there had been a time when Xu Shulou needed a shoulder to cry on. Had she found one, her story might have unfolded differently. Bai Roushuang didn’t deny that adding a sweet, protective love interest would please audiences. But that wasn’t Xu Shulou. She hadn’t risen and stayed standing because of someone else’s support—it was her own unyielding spine that carried her.
The screenwriter was wrong. Bai Roushuang wasn’t chasing perfection. She was chasing truth.
Before Bai Roushuang could reply, the director cut in. "It’s not about her image. Xu Shulou just doesn’t seem like the type to break down. Wouldn’t that feel out of character?"
Exasperated, the screenwriter asked, "Then what kind of person do you think she is?"
The director pondered for a moment: "If she had truly moved on, she wouldn’t cry to vent her emotions to anyone. And if she hadn’t moved on, she wouldn’t just stop at crying to vent."
"..." The screenwriter was momentarily speechless. Bai Roushuang lowered her eyes slightly, masking the emotions in her gaze.
The director continued, "Besides, our job is to faithfully present a story. It’s great if the audience can empathize with the female lead’s experiences, but if they can’t, why force it?"
The screenwriter had nothing left to say and reluctantly proposed, "Actually, I have another idea—to give Xu Shulou an even more impressive background, like being the reincarnation of a goddess from the divine realm."
"No," Bai Roushuang refused outright. "Xu Shulou’s story has always been rooted in the mortal world, not the divine realm. Giving her a lofty background that lets her look down on humanity would only be superfluous."
"Don’t dismiss it so quickly. Hear me out first," the screenwriter insisted. "For example, she could be the beloved daughter of the Heavenly Emperor, a young goddess descending to the mortal world to endure trials. When her true identity is revealed, those who once wronged her would tremble in fear."
Bai Roushuang scoffed, "And then her seven brothers would descend to crush the mortal realm, making sure everyone who bullied her pays the price, right? Wrong genre."
Deep down, she felt a twinge of regret. If only this person had witnessed the past, they’d know that Xu Shulou’s name alone, along with her sword Quexie, was enough to strike fear into the hearts of evildoers across the land. What need was there for some grand divine status?
"These are all the hottest tropes right now," the screenwriter argued, turning to the director. "Are we really going to pass up such a golden opportunity? With the additional episodes, the contract terms are still negotiable—our salaries could double."
The director shook his head. "I haven’t made a proper work in years. I don’t want to ruin the integrity of a story for petty gains."
"..." Petty gains? The screenwriter opened his mouth but held back. After all, the director had the final say on set. With the discussion reaching this point, no matter how unwilling he was, he had to concede.
The debate over adding scenes ended there. Bai Roushuang threw herself back into scriptwriting while filming for the remaining episodes continued at a hectic pace.
While the crew focused on shooting scenes for supporting characters, the trio found some free time and flew on their swords to visit their master.
Elder Changyu had a spacious, well-lit office in the archaeology department of the university. He rarely taught classes, dedicating himself to research and occasionally contributing findings.
Seeing his disciples, he beamed and embraced them. "Long time no see."
A hug and a simple greeting—just like the old days when he emerged from seclusion to find his disciples waiting for him.
In this rapidly changing world, some people and some bonds remained constant.
Song Ping spread his arms and hugged him back. "Master, how’s your research on the Stonehenge coming along?"
"Haven’t quite proven it was aliens yet," Elder Changyu replied, "but you can start compiling your extraterrestrial cookbook in the meantime."
"..."
Xu Shulou leaned against the desk with a smile. "Professor Pei, how’s life as a professor treating you?"
"Suits me well, except for the part where I have to deal with students," Pei Changyu waved a hand. "These students are even more troublesome than you were back then."
Song Ping and Bai Roushuang twitched at the corners of their mouths. If you’re comparing them to senior sister, how many students in the world could possibly measure up?
Xu Shulou had an innate talent for swordsmanship—self-taught and quick to grasp concepts. Song Ping recalled the struggles of being the second disciple of Bright Moon Peak, how their master would often look at him with an expression that screamed, "Oh, so this technique actually needs to be fully explained for the second disciple to understand?" He couldn’t help but hug himself in silent lament. Bai Roushuang also shed a nonexistent tear of sympathy for Elder Changyu’s future students. After all, the first disciple he ever took had set the bar impossibly high.
"Seriously, if you have time, you should come help me with a research project," Elder Changyu tried to recruit Xu Shulou. "Let the other students see that it’s not me setting unrealistic standards."
"Too busy right now. I’m filming a drama," Xu Shulou replied bluntly, never one for formalities with her master.
"I’ve seen the show you’re working on," Elder Changyu said with an amused glance at his disciples. "Quite entertaining."
Song Ping cleared his throat. "Any instructions, Master?"
"Instructions? Tell the investors to allocate more budget to the costume and makeup team. Make sure the actor playing me looks at least half as dashing as I am in real life," Elder Changyu declared shamelessly.
"..."
Just then, someone knocked on the office door. "Old Pei, have you signed that document from yesterday? I need it for my class."
That voice... Xu Shulou turned to look at the door.
"Come in."
The visitor stepped inside and paused at the sight of the group. "You have guests? My apologies for interrupting."
"Let me introduce everyone. This is Professor Su. Since joining the university, he’s almost dethroned me as the most popular professor," Elder Changyu said. "These are my disciples—Xu Shulou, Song Ping, Bai Roushuang."
"Pleasure to meet you." Professor Su was a refined young man who greeted them with a warm handshake. The afternoon sunlight streaming through the window accentuated his gentle features and scholarly aura.
Elder Changyu handed him a document. Seemingly in a hurry for his class, Professor Su took the papers and politely excused himself.
Watching him leave, Elder Changyu sighed softly to his disciples. "Professor Su has been trying to prove the historical authenticity of ancient immortals and heroes. Honestly, I’m often tempted to perform a spell right in front of him."
"He became a professor at such a young age?" Song Ping marveled.
"He’s brilliant—double degrees in ancient literature and archaeology, the youngest Ph.D. holder," Elder Changyu shrugged. "A true prodigy."
Aside from Xu Shulou, only Bai Roushuang recognized his face. She whispered, "Senior sister, aren’t you going to...?"
Xu Shulou smiled. "Let it be."
After visiting their master, the trio strolled around the university campus, each holding an ice cream cone as they took in the scenery. The youthful energy of the students bustling around them made the three "young-looking elders" sigh nostalgically.
On their way back, Bai Roushuang’s phone pinged with a message. She glanced at it, and her expression turned odd.
"What’s wrong?"
"Lu Beichen just messaged me," Bai Roushuang stared at her phone. "We haven’t been in touch for ages."
"What did he say?" Xu Shulou seemed to have a premonition. "Treading the Immortal Path?"
Bai Roushuang made a face. "Exactly. He saw the drama Treading the Immortal Path and found out I’m the screenwriter. He’s asking what’s going on."
Watching her type a reply, Xu Shulou chuckled. "What did you tell him?"
Bai Roushuang raised her phone, showing the chat interface to her senior sister. The latest reply displayed a glaring line of text—"Sweetie, don’t forget to leave a five-star review after reading~"
"..."
