The Academic God Becomes an Internet Sensation After Joining a Dating Show - Chapter 69 - Moon

Wang Zhan didn’t quite catch it. “Huh?”

“Charter a plane,” Shen Xuzhi repeated, his tone firm. “Send Qing Lin back.”

For a moment, Wang Zhan froze. Then he jolted upright. “Ah—oh, oh! Got it, got it! I’ll make the arrangements right away.”

Shen Xuzhi turned back to Qing Lin, his voice steady and commanding. “We’re heading to the airport now. Don’t worry—you’ll be in Hangzhou tonight.”

A nearby staff member grew anxious. “Shen Laoshi, are you leaving too?!”

Shen Xuzhi gave him a look.

The staff member’s voice faltered, pleading. “Shen Laoshi, you can’t go back. Seriously—if you leave as well, the whole show will fall into chaos.”

“That’s right, Shen Laoshi, you can’t leave now.”

“Yes, Shen Laoshi…” murmured others from the production crew, one after another.

It was true—Qing Lin could slip away quietly under the guise of the show’s suspension, hidden from the spotlight. But if Shen Xuzhi left with him, the situation would instantly explode, drawing in swarms of fans and media.

“It’s fine, Mr. Shen. I can return on my own,” Qing Lin said, his tone restrained. “I’ve already troubled you too much.”

His expression was cold, distant. His frame was far too thin, his bones stark beneath his skin, giving him an air of fragile resolve.

The afternoon heat pressed down on him—heavy, languid, suffocating like a rising tide.

Qing Lin pulled on a mask and cap, then followed Wang Zhan to the airport. They slipped past reporters and staff carefully, hurrying straight back toward Hangzhou.

He walked too quickly—perhaps it was his frayed nerves tightening around him like a wire—for it wasn’t until he settled into his seat on the plane that he realized he was still clutching the bouquet of roses.

Pink and white roses, each stem standing upright, bound tightly together by his own hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our aircraft has arrived at Hangzhou Airport. For your safety, please remain seated until the seatbelt sign has been turned off…”

Rain lashed against the airplane window. Beyond the glass, Hangzhou was drenched in a summer downpour. Lightning carved through the clouds, and thunder rolled low and heavy, shaking the storm-filled night.

After disembarking, Wang Zhan called him. “Linlin, things were too rushed today, so no one’s here to pick you up. But don’t worry, I’ve already arranged for Xu-ge’s car to get you. It might be a bit late, though, so just—”

“Thanks, Wang-ge but it’s alright.” Qing Lin stepped outside the terminal. “I can just take a taxi myself.”

“No, no, no, that won’t do!” Wang Zhan protested in alarm. “If Xu-ge finds out I didn’t take care of you properly, he’s going to scold me!”

“Staying at the airport too long isn’t good either,” Qing Lin answered calmly. “Besides… I want to go on my own.”

Listening to his voice—steady, almost untouched by panic—Wang Zhan couldn’t help but admire the boy’s composure.

But where was he planning to go?

Qing Lin hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of the rental apartment.

The rain had fogged the car windows, blurring the streetlights into hazy golden streaks.

When the taxi pulled to a stop, Qing Lin leapt out, sprinting across the uneven pavement of the old residential block. Puddles mirrored the dim yellow lamps, the light fractured into eerie fragments beneath his hurried footsteps.

He charged up the stairwell, his breath ragged, and froze.

The light in his apartment was on.

His heart skipped a beat.

Without hesitation, he kicked the door open.

Inside, Qing Baihu stood rooted to the spot, caught mid-act. He had been rifling through drawers, papers spilling from his hands to scatter across the floor. The apartment reeked of damp filth, the tiles marked with smeared, muddy footprints.

“What are you doing?” Qing Lin’s voice was sharp as ice.

“Xiao Lin! Why are you back?” Qing Baihu stammered, startled. The papers slipped from his grip, fluttering down like dead leaves. “Weren’t you supposed to be… on that TV program? How did you—”

“I asked you,” Qing Lin cut him off, his tone colder, “what are you doing?”

“I… I just missed you, so I came by to see you.” Qing Baihu forced a laugh, but guilt weighed down his words. “I heard you got into the entertainment industry, hooked up with some filthy rich guy. Dad’s been a little short on money, so I thought I’d ask you for a loan.”

Qing Lin’s eyes didn’t waver. “Have you already forgotten what I told you before?”

Dropping all pretense, Qing Baihu turned back to rummaging through the cabinet. “Hey, aren’t celebrities supposed to be rolling in it? Your boyfriend’s filthy rich too, right? Then why the hell are you living in a dump like this?”

“Get out.”

Qing Lin’s voice was low, his expression dark, his gaze frigid.

“What kind of attitude is that?” Qing Baihu whirled on him, his fleshy face twisted in rage. “I raised you all these years, and now you tell me to get lost? Oh, feeling high and mighty now, are we? Forgot where you came from?”

A cruel sneer curled his lips. “And you—snaring that rich man Shen Xuzhi. Quite the climb, huh?”

Then his eyes fell on a sheet of paper. He picked it up and squinted at the text.

“…Contract couple?” he read aloud.

Qing Lin froze, his fists tightening at his sides.

“Hah!” Qing Baihu’s laughter exploded, coarse and vicious. “So that’s what it is! Just a contract! An act! I knew it. How could the two of you ever be real?”

He leered, waving the paper like a weapon. “There’s no way he’d ever like you.”

“Shut up!” Qing Lin’s teeth ground together, his chest rising and falling in fury. Shadows swelled in his eyes as his voice broke out in a roar.

“Struck a nerve, did I?” Qing Baihu taunted, savoring his reaction. “Don’t tell me—you actually fell for him?”

The words had barely left his mouth when a blur of movement cut the air.

Qing Lin’s fist connected squarely with Qing Baihu’s cheek, the impact cracking like thunder. His face remained pale and icy, but his knuckles burned with the force of the blow.

Qing Baihu was stunned into silence.

He stared in disbelief, his face swelling where the fist had landed. “You hit me?”

Qing Lin’s expression twisted with fury. Without a word, his fist came down again, striking hard and merciless.

His knee drove into the man’s gut with a dull thud, sending Qing Baihu crashing into the coffee table. A teapot shattered against the ground, shards scattering across the floor with a sharp crash.

The storm outside raged in violent bursts, lightning flashing in tandem with the chaos inside.

Father and son grappled on the floor, Qing Baihu’s guttural curses filling the air like poison.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! What could that star possibly see in you, huh?! You worthless bastard—no money, no connections! Ungrateful little shit! I’m the one who brought you into this world, and this is how you repay me? You should’ve rotted in that orphanage!”

He spat his words like venom, lips curling with cruel delight. “You really think he liked you? Ridiculous! He was just playing around, and you believed it? The moment he sees what you really are, he’ll throw you away without a second thought!”

Qing Lin’s vision went red. His strength turned savage as he seized Qing Baihu by the throat, slamming him back down against the floorboards.

He couldn’t bear to hear another word. His breath came ragged, veins standing out along his neck as his bloodied face was caught half in shadow, half in the faint light spilling through the window.

The bouquet of roses had toppled over in the scuffle, petals scattering, stems bent and broken across the filthy floor.

By the time the landlord arrived, Qing Baihu had already been driven off, his curses fading into the storm outside.

The building seemed swallowed by darkness. The stairwell reeked of damp summer air, heavy with mildew and filth. Only the porch light flickered faintly, casting a pale glow over the open doorway.

Inside, the room was in ruins. The furniture lay overturned, muddy footprints smeared across the floorboards. Water stains darkened the tiles, and broken shards glittered faintly among the wreckage.

Qing Lin stood in the middle of it all, his thin frame bowed under the silence. His sharp bones made his shoulders look painfully narrow beneath his torn clothes.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. His head hung low, strands of hair concealing his eyes.

The landlord, ready to storm in with harsh words, froze at the sight. Something in the boy’s hollow stillness made his anger shrivel into unease.

After a long moment, Qing Lin bent down. Wordlessly, he gathered the roses one by one from the floor. Petals stuck to his fingertips, stained faintly with blood.

His expression remained blank, unreadable, but the split at the corner of his mouth and the dirt clinging to his torn sleeves spoke of what had happened.

He pressed the battered bouquet tightly against his chest, brushed past the speechless landlord, and stepped into the stairwell.

His footsteps echoed dully as he descended.

___________________________________________________________________________

Outside, the storm had passed, leaving only silence. The deserted residential block was still, the empty streets slick with rainwater.

After the rain, the air grew heavy, the pressure sinking lower, the alley thick with a suffocating dampness.

Qing Lin dragged his weary body forward, clutching the flowers, wandering aimlessly through the narrow street.

Qing Baihu had come looking for him—undoubtedly for money. If he had found the contract, then he must have taken the card and passbook as well. That money had been meant for the orphanage; Qing Lin had been sending funds there for years.

For him to come pounding on the door like that, he must have had someone behind him—or perhaps he was simply desperate, with nowhere left to turn but here.

But today was not supposed to be like this.

Qing Lin stopped in his tracks and lifted his head.

The storm clouds had thinned, revealing a clearing sky.

Where could he go now?

Lowering his gaze, a hollow emptiness spread through him. He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to think clearly, to piece his composure back together.

But when he raised his head again, someone stood at the far end of the alley.

Shen Xuzhi.

At some point, he had arrived, waiting there as though he had been standing guard all along.

Qing Lin’s breath caught. The sight of him unraveled everything he had tried to hold together.

Shen Xuzhi had been on the phone, searching anxiously, but the moment his eyes fell on Qing Lin, his furrowed brows eased, relief softening his features.

He ran toward him, heartache written plainly in his gaze at the disheveled, battered figure before him.

Just one look.

The strength Qing Lin had carried for so long—the quiet endurance, the walls he had built—collapsed in an instant. Hurt surged up like a flood, clogging his chest, stinging at the bridge of his nose until he could hardly breathe.

“I meant to bring you flowers.”

The ends of his damp hair clung to his cheeks, his face marked with traces of injury, his eyes red as if rouged against pale skin. His voice trembled—whether from the weight of his hurt, or the exhaustion of holding back everything else, he could not tell.

What he held now was no longer a rose, but a bare stem, withered and broken. Only a few petals remained, clinging stubbornly.

He gripped it tightly, almost desperately.

Qing Lin hesitated, ashamed to offer something so incomplete, afraid it might seem careless. Yet he could not bear to withhold it either—not when his heart was laid so bare.

He wanted to cry.

Shen Xuzhi reached out and took the stem, his fingertips brushing Qing Lin’s trembling hand.

The petals were gone, scattered, leaving only the lonely stalk.

Shen Xuzhi lifted it high, holding it against the sky, and the moon slid into its hollow—settling softly as though blooming within it.

The rose had become a moonflower, radiant and whole.

“I can comfort you.” Shen Xuzhi closed the distance, bending down to lift Qing Lin’s chin gently before pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“Thank you for giving me the moon.”