It was like the onset of a stormy day—heavy clouds pressing low over the city, damp wind chilling the air, everything suffocating under unbearable pressure. And then, at last, lightning ripped the sky apart. Thunder rolled in, and a torrential downpour crashed down, drenching everything that had been waiting for release.
Only then did Liang Yan understand what it meant for Weibo’s system to completely crash.
Jiang Mu said it was exactly like two years ago, when she and Lu Lincheng suddenly announced their marriage.
Every major news outlet pushed breaking alerts at once. Her phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with notifications. Liang Yan opened Weibo. The very first trending topic glared at her: “Liang Yan and Lu Lincheng Divorce.” Next to it, the “Explosive” tag glowed red—so red it was almost purple.
She clicked in. The page went blank. She tried again, and again—still nothing.
The system had just collapsed.
She could still recall the comments that had flooded her Weibo before it went down:
[Ahhhhh finally! I knew the unfollow would lead to divorce. crying.jpg]
[Liang Yan, you finally let Lu Lincheng go!]
[Whatever else, thank you, Liang Yan.]
[From now on, don’t cling to him and stir up drama, please.]
[That disgusting leech finally got dumped, hahahahaha.]
[Liang Yan, you’ve got the looks and the acting chops. Focus on your work, don’t get stuck on feelings. Jiayou.]
Lu Lincheng’s comments were even more dazzling:
[Congrats, gege, you’re finally single again. sobbing.jpg]
[Two years… we finally waited it out. We were always here.]
[To celebrate Lincheng tearing off that leech, I’m giving 10,000 yuan each to ten random fans tonight!]
[A clean break, may we both live well—wishing our Lincheng lifelong singlehood and happiness.]
[That bitch Liang Yan finally signed! Gege, you must’ve suffered so much putting up with her.]
…
As Liang Yan’s agent, Jiang Mu’s phone was about to explode. Entertainment reporters bombarded him non-stop with calls, messages, requests for interviews. The constant dinging was maddening. Finally, he snapped and switched his phone to airplane mode.
“Phew.” Jiang Mu exhaled into the sudden silence. “Finally, some peace.”
On the sofa, Liang Yan idly toyed with the fountain pen she’d used to sign the divorce papers earlier. The cap clicked open and shut in her fingers, sharp little snap, snap sounds in the quiet.
She glanced at Jiang Mu and suddenly asked, “Back then… how did I even end up with Lu Lincheng?”
Jiang Mu froze, then gave her a strained look. “Honestly, I don’t really know.”
At the time, his father had fallen ill, and he had to return to his hometown to take care of him. Liang Yan had been alone in Gudong City.
Two months later, when he came back, Liang Yan told him she was married to Lu Lincheng.
And she told him—no, he hadn’t misheard. It wasn’t someone with the same name. It was that Lu Lincheng.
Jiang Mu seemed to hesitate, then, noticing the faint furrow in Liang Yan’s brow, he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
Liang Yan sniffed lightly. “What for?”
“I think… I should tell you the truth.” Jiang Mu drew in a long breath. “One night, while I was back in my hometown, you called me. It was noisy on your end. You were crying, clearly drunk. You said you couldn’t drink anymore, that you had to go home.”
“I’m sorry.” Jiang Mu lowered his head, guilt written across every line of his posture. “I was so far away. I couldn’t do anything.”
The next day he had wanted to rush back immediately, but his father’s condition suddenly worsened. The doctors issued a critical notice.
Listening to Jiang Mu’s account, Liang Yan tried desperately to recall, but her head throbbed dully. “So… that’s why you were so against me auditioning for Zhou Zhibo last time?”
Jiang Mu nodded.
Liang Yan thought back to her meeting with Zhou Zhibo. If he’d really had his way with her that night, his attitude toward her wouldn’t have been what it was. So she ventured a wild guess:
“Do you think maybe that night I got drunk and—lost control—and forced myself on Lu Lincheng? Maybe I even took scandalous photos with him. Then the next day, I threatened him into marriage. He had no choice but to lower himself and marry me. And ever since, he’s been resenting me for robbing him of his purity—that’s why he’s ignored me all this time.”
Jiang Mu lifted his head to look at her.
Liang Yan pressed a hand to her temple, her head pounding.
She didn’t have any scandalous photos of herself with Lu Lincheng.
Not even a wedding photo.
Surely she wouldn’t have done something that shameless… right?
Six hours after Weibo crashed, thanks to programmers working overtime, the platform finally came back online.
News of Lu Lincheng and Liang Yan’s divorce, after being frantically discussed for days, finally began to taper off. Everything seemed to return to its original state—Lu Lincheng was still the unbeatable force among his peers, both in awards and at the box office. The only change was that his profile now carried a line in his bio: ex-wife, Liang Yan.
His fans, now emboldened by his single status, were fiercer than ever and drew in countless new ones.
As for Liang Yan—after her Baidu index briefly skyrocketed with the marriage and divorce announcements, she slipped back into obscurity. The internet’s heat always burns out fast. Soon, most people forgot about her. Even Baidu’s top suggested search linked her name directly to: Liang Yan, Lu Lincheng’s ex-wife.
Her Weibo grew quieter without the daily barrage of divorce fans showing up to demand she “let him go.” Fewer comments, fewer DMs—just a few dozen each day. But the tone was different now:
“Yan Yan, unrivaled beauty!”
“Happy single life, Day X!”
“Day N without Liang Yan posting a selfie—I miss her, miss her, miss her.”
Scrolling through, Liang Yan suddenly asked Jiang Mu, “Do I have a fan group?”
Jiang Mu scratched his head. “You used to. But the numbers were too small. They kept getting attacked by Lu Lincheng’s fans, so eventually it disbanded.”
“Oh.” Liang Yan nodded lightly. Then she said, “Could you help me set up a new one?”
“A new one?” Jiang Mu raised a brow.
She nodded. “Yeah. Surely no Lu Lincheng fans will bother us anymore, right?”
That made sense. Jiang Mu nodded decisively. “Alright.”
The two of them spent the evening setting it up. By the next morning, the “Liang Yan National Support Club” had its official Weibo account. At eight sharp, they posted their very first update:
“Since we’ve forgotten, let’s treat it as a new beginning.
——Liang Yan”
Liang Yan smiled faintly as she reread her post, thinking of the three lost years.
Meanwhile, Jiang Mu added her to the new fan chat group. The membership counter showed just over a hundred people. He immediately changed the group name to: Cool Fans Gathering Spot.
The group chat exploded with excitement.
“Finally found my people!”
When Liang Yan joined, she sent a voice message: “Hello everyone, I’m Liang Yan. Thank you for your support.”
The moment their idol appeared, the group went wild.
“Ahhhh it’s really you, Yan Yan!”
“I love you, Yan Yan!”
“Don’t be afraid, we’ll always be here for you!”
“When does the second episode of On Screen start filming? I can’t wait!”
“Your voice is so nice, can I use it as my ringtone?”
“Any events coming up? I want to pick you up at the airport hehe.”
Liang Yan laughed, chatting happily with them: “The second episode of On Screen starts filming next week.”
“If you want a ringtone, I’ll record another one for you.”
“I’ll be in B City for now. If I get any schedules, I’ll let you know.”
She scrolled up, her eyes catching on the group name: Cool Fans Gathering Spot.
“Wait… what’s with the name ‘Cool Fans’?” she asked, frowning.
Jiang Mu grinned. “That’s your fandom name. Nice ring to it, right?”
“That’s way too tacky.” Liang Yan looked at him in disgust. “Who came up with it? Was it you?”
“Of course not.” Jiang Mu puffed up proudly. “That was you. You came up with it ages ago—and even asked me if it sounded good.”
Liang Yan: “………………”
She gave two dry laughs, staring at the word “Liangfen” (Cold Jelly) and wanting to smack her younger self. What kind of ridiculous name was that? No wonder she’d ended up so “cold” herself—even her fandom name was icy.
“You’re thinking of changing it?” Jiang Mu asked. “Honestly, I never thought ‘Liangfen’ was great either. But hey, we could always go with Liangpi or Liangmian—Cold Noodles, Cold Skin. Not too bad, right?”
Liang Yan decided this uncultured man wasn’t worth her breath. Instead, she racked her brains over her own name, determined that her fandom name had to be bold, powerful, classy, and memorable. She scratched her head until it almost hurt, and then—finally—she had a flash of inspiration.
She quickly renamed the fan group and told Jiang Mu to take a look.
Jiang Mu glanced at it, then his eyes went wide:
User Liang Yan has changed “Cool Fans Gathering Spot” to—
“Wolf Fang Gathering Spot.”
Liang Yan grinned, baring a sharp little canine tooth.
The floppy, jelly-like Liangfen was a thing of the past.
The fierce Wolf Fang was the future.
***