Chapter 243 Lu Er, You’ve Really Gone Love-Brained, Haven’t You?

Half a month later, on a Monday afternoon, Weibo’s servers experienced a minor crash.

At exactly 1:00 PM, Lu Er’s Weibo account posted a long message.

No preview, no buildup—it arrived quietly, without a sound.

“To all the fans who have supported me:

As I write this, I’ve just finished filming my final scene.

Standing under the lights on set, looking at everything around me—both familiar and unfamiliar—I suddenly felt that it’s time to say goodbye.

I entered this industry for personal reasons. At the time, I only wanted someone very important to see me.

The entertainment industry is a magical place. It gave me applause, flowers, and the spotlight—but also pressure, misunderstandings, and countless sleepless nights.

I’m grateful to every director, screenwriter, actor, and staff member I’ve worked with. Grateful for every role I’ve been given, and every experience along the way.

Most of all, I’m grateful to every fan. It’s your love that brought me this far.

But now, I want to try a different way of living.

It’s not because I’m tired of it, nor because I’m running away. It’s simply that I feel my life has reached a turning point.

I want more time with my family. I want to explore new possibilities. I want to watch the sunrise and sunset with the person I love, somewhere quieter.

So, I’m officially announcing: I will be leaving the entertainment industry and returning to an ordinary life.

Thank you all for your understanding and support.

Lastly, I’ll end with a line I really like:

Life is not a track—it’s a wilderness.

And I… want to run toward my own wilderness now.”

The words were simple, without ornate phrasing, but between the lines was a sense of relief and sincerity.

The accompanying photo showed his back as he rested on set—still in costume, facing away from the camera, the glow of the setting sun resting on his shoulders.

The moment the post went live, Weibo exploded.

The hashtag #LuErRetires shot to the top of the trending list at rocket speed, followed by a deep red explosive.

Within minutes, the comment section surpassed 100,000 posts.

【What’s going on?】

【He just won Best Actor and now he’s retiring? Is this a joke?】

【Noooo! I just became a fan!!!】

【I understand and support all of Lu Er’s decisions—as long as he’s happy】

【Watching sunrises and sunsets with someone he loves… is this for love?】

【Does this mean we’ll never see him act again? ugly crying】

【Is this for Doctor Song?】

【No matter what, thank you for all the roles you’ve given us. Wishing you a bright future】

More related hashtags kept appearing on the trending board:

#ReasonForLuErRetiring #LuErImportantPerson #LuErWilderness #LuErFinalScene

Media outlets and marketing accounts reposted frantically, flooding the internet with speculation and analysis.

And the person at the center of it all was currently sitting in a private room on the top floor of Yuelai Hotel, calmly scrolling through his phone, watching the storm he had stirred.

“Tsk, the imagination of netizens these days is really something.”

Lu Er took a sip of tea and shook his head. “They’ve even come up with stories about me being blacklisted by capital or secretly getting married overseas. If they wrote novels on Tomato, they’d definitely go viral.”

Sitting across from him, Ye Qingge rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Do you know how many people can’t even get on the trending list? Meanwhile, one post from you crashes the server. The Weibo programmers must hate you right now.”

Lu Er grinned. “Should I post another message to apologize to them?”

“Cut it out.”

Ye Qingge sighed, then looked at him seriously. “So, you’ve really decided? No regrets?”

Lu Er set his phone down, his expression turning solemn. “I’ve decided. And I’ll never regret it.”

She fell silent for a few seconds, then raised her teacup. “Then I wish you a bright future.”

“Though I do think it’s a pity. There aren’t many male actors in this industry who don’t take advantage of female co-stars. With you gone, it’s a loss for the actresses.”

Her words were blunt, making Lu Er laugh. “Sister Qingge, you make me sound like some rare species.”

Her tone remained serious. “I’ve worked with so many male actors. The number who can keep a respectful distance from actresses and avoid ambiguous behavior—you can count them on one hand.”

“I’m not saying you’re some saint. But just having that sense of boundaries makes you incredibly rare in this industry.”

Lu Er felt a little embarrassed by the praise, his smile softening. “Maybe it’s because I have someone I like. Gotta uphold my moral standards.”

Ye Qingge raised an eyebrow. “So you’re retiring for Doctor Song?”

“Partly.”

Lu Er admitted it openly. “But not entirely. Mostly, I just want to live a different kind of life.”

Just then, the private room door was pushed open.

Yan Huaijin and Gu Jinzhou walked in one after the other.

Yan Huaijin wore a simple black sweater and casual pants, his demeanor steady and composed.

Gu Jinzhou, on the other hand, was dressed in trendy streetwear, his hair dyed flaxen gray, multiple earrings lining his ears—clearly someone not to be messed with.

“Well, well—is this the farewell dinner for the top star Lu?”

Gu Jinzhou teased as soon as he walked in. “Pretty sudden, huh? What made you lose your mind and quit the industry?”

Lu Er was speechless. “That mouth of yours—can’t you say something nice for once?”

Yan Huaijin sat down across from Ye Qingge, greeting her before exchanging a few polite words.

Then he looked at Lu Er, his gaze complicated. “You just won Best Actor. You’re at the peak of your rise. It’s a pity to give it all up now.”

“Even if you want to retire, you could at least wait until you win Best Actor at the highest level. Otherwise, you’ll have too many regrets.”

Lu Er smiled and poured him a cup of tea. “Teacher Yan, thank you for your concern. But I feel my life is already complete. I have no regrets.”

He looked at the three of them, his eyes clear and resolute. “Winning the top award is important—but to me, it’s not essential.”

“I’ve already won many meaningful awards over the years. I’ve had my moments in the spotlight—that’s enough. If I miss someone more important just to chase a trophy, that would be my greatest regret.”

His voice softened. “In this line of work, once you join a production, you disappear for months. After filming every day, you’re so exhausted you just want to sleep—you don’t even have the energy for a video call.”

“And if there’s even a hint of a scandal, you have to worry about whether the other person will misunderstand. Finally meet once, and the next day you’re apart again… over time, it’s just too exhausting.”

And most of that burden had fallen on Song Jingmo.

“I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to wake up every morning with the person I love by my side. Eat together, take walks together, do the most ordinary things together.”

“When he needs me, I want to be there immediately—not stuck behind a screen saying I’m filming.”

The room fell silent.

Ye Qingge lowered her head and sipped her tea. Yan Huaijin seemed thoughtful. Gu Jinzhou wore a complicated expression.

After a long moment, Gu Jinzhou spoke, his tone full of obvious disdain:

“So, for a man, you’re giving up the career you’ve worked so hard for all these years?”

Thinking of the online rumors, he blurted out—

“Lu Er… you’ve really gone completely love-brained, haven’t you?”