York Desimon, a Parisian, was the head of the overseas production department at Pathé Films and also the vice president of ARP—the Association of Authors, Directors, and Producers. In France, his name carried real weight.
Desimon was tall and sturdy, with a well-maintained build. He wore white-rimmed glasses that made him look elegant and refined—or at least that's how he presented himself before his wife and kids.
At that moment, he was enjoying a vacation at Jiuhua Resort in Beijing, soaking in the hot springs. When he stepped out of the steam room, he noticed seven missed calls on his phone—five from Pathé's current president and two from his allies inside the company.
By rank of importance, he called the president, Mr. Macdonald, first. The moment the line connected, Desimon didn't even get the chance to explain why he hadn't answered before a cold, clipped voice came through.
"You're off Red and Flame. Stop producing it. Come back to France immediately."
Desimon froze. What the hell? As the overseas production head, he was supposed to oversee this France–China co-production. If not him, then who?
"Mr. Macdonald, what do you mean? I—" he began, irritation creeping into his tone, but Macdonald cut him off sharply.
"The board is meeting to decide whether to terminate your employment, Mr. Desimon. If you know what's good for you, you'll come back right away."
That only made him angrier. "Mr. Macdonald, I joined the company at twenty-three. I've worked here thirty-four years. I've been part of every major decision in that time. How could the company even think of firing me?!"
His words practically screamed Pathé can't function without me. And honestly, his fury made sense—he'd been eyeing the CEO seat next.
A quick aside: People online often fantasize about domineering CEOs falling in love, but in reality, the "president" position is usually second to the CEO. The idea of a "president" being the ultimate power is mostly an illusion, since most CEOs double as presidents anyway.
"Why can we fire you?" Macdonald's tone turned biting. "That's a brilliant question, Mr. Desimon—easily the best one I've heard today. It's so good I almost want to applaud."
His voice was laced with restrained fury, like magma boiling beneath an icy spring.
"Because of your production in China, China Film has just informed us they're freezing the film import deal.
Because of your production in China, three major fashion exhibitions have been forcibly shut down for 'venue issues'. Dior and Givenchy's head designers are calling nonstop, demanding answers.
Because of your production in China, a draft of the Minor Protection Act for Performing Arts Works has been submitted to the National People's Congress.
And because of your production in China, the permit for Adele's concert was suddenly held back. Vivenda Group wants me to explain why."
Macdonald fired off each accusation like a bullet, leaving Desimon completely dazed. "Holy Mary Mother of God, what does any of this have to do with me?!"
Everyone knew that China Film was the only channel for foreign movie imports. Usually, they focused on Hollywood, but in recent years, they'd started bringing in French films too. As France's biggest studio, Pathé typically got one or two slots per year—not much, but still valuable.
But if that deal went south, how was that his fault? He'd never even met anyone from China Film!
And those luxury fashion shows? The concerts? He didn't even have the authority to meddle in that kind of thing.
Still, when he heard Macdonald mention that Minor Protection Act, a tiny chill crept up his spine. "Could it be…? No, impossible." He immediately dismissed the thought.
You don't survive three decades in the industry by being stupid. Desimon wasn't dumb—just corrupt. Whether in Paris or abroad, he always investigated the background of every boy he took interest in. He wasn't reckless.
To influence fashion, music, and film at the same time, even pushing the government to draft a new bill... whoever could do that must've had terrifying pull in the entertainment industry.
Desimon's gut twisted. "Who the hell did I piss off? Some kind of crown prince?" He took a steadying breath. "Mr. Macdonald, I don't understand what you're talking about."
"You don't understand?" Macdonald's voice trembled slightly. He'd tried to stay calm—he really had—but his phone hadn't stopped ringing for two days straight. He'd sat through four board meetings in a row, and each time, he was the one getting chewed out. Even for a studio as big as Pathé, pressure from Dior and Vivenda was too much to bear.
Honestly, the fact that he was still speaking this calmly showed impressive restraint. But when Desimon threw that clueless question back at him, Macdonald finally snapped.
"Did you want to 'have dinner and talk astrology' with young Georges again?" he barked. "I told you before—control your urges! Desire is the devil. It'll devour your reason, your family, your fortune, your status—everything you have!"
"Desimon, you're finished." Then Macdonald hung up.
Desimon just stood there, numb. Georges? He remembered the boy—Georges Yuan—the child actor playing the male lead's younger version in Red and Flame. The first time he saw the kid, he'd been mesmerized. The boy's skin was pale, his lips red, his features delicate. His eyes had that slight downward tilt at the corners, with curved lower lashes that gave him that "puppy-eyed" innocence the internet loved to gush over. It made the darkness in Desimon's heart stir uncontrollably.
He'd quietly used his network to check the kid's background. The parents ran a small factory, making a modest living. Perfect. Easy to control. So he'd started hinting things, making suggestive offers. But to his surprise, the parents refused every time. In frustration, he'd escalated from hinting to threatening.
"Can someone please tell me what the hell happened? Since when did Georges's family have this kind of backing?" he muttered. "Even the CEO of China Film couldn't pull strings like this."
Suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind. He quickly called back one of his allies—the same one who'd tried to reach him earlier. That man had attended yesterday's emergency meeting and would know something.
And from that call, Desimon finally got the answer he'd been dreading.
The child actor, Georges Yuan, was the godbrother of Chinese superstar Chu Zhi. Everything Pathé was suffering through right now was because of that one man—the godbrother who decided to fight back.
"Chu Zhi…?" Desimon whispered. Of course, he knew that name. Who in the entertainment world didn't? The man was famous across the globe. But no matter how popular a celebrity was, fame didn't equal power. Even if Chu Zhi held a dozen honorary positions, his real job was still just "actor." How could an actor cause this much chaos?
"I can fix this. I'm sure I can fix this," Desimon muttered, trying to convince himself as he began calling every contact he had.
But pride—Pride, the first of the Seven Deadly Sins—was exactly what blinded him. He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Because Chu Zhi's "real job" wasn't just being a celebrity. He was a symbol—a benchmark, a national icon. And when someone like that decided to do the right thing, nothing could stop him.
The situation was already beyond repair. If Pathé refused to fire Desimon, China Film would permanently suspend all French film imports. ARP, the Association of Authors, Directors, and Producers, moved even faster—they expelled him immediately.
Their statement was brief and brutal:
"Due to personal conduct resulting in substantial harm to the collective interests of all members, Mr. York Desimon is hereby removed from the association."
For context—last year, Welcome to the North 3 earned 460 million RMB in China alone, netting over 21 million euros in revenue for France. That was real money.
Desimon tried reaching out to a so-called ally, Dominique, the deputy chairman of France's National Centre for Cinema (CNC)—essentially the man in charge of all film affairs in France. Dominique had the authority to negotiate with China Film and maybe smooth things over.
To his credit, Dominique really did try. Even in such a tight situation, he worked to prioritize and resolve the crisis step by step.
But one scandal led to another—"pull one weed, and the dirt comes with it." Before long, Dominique himself was accused by his own twenty-something godson of sexual assault and attempted rape.
And before Desimon's plane even landed back in Paris, the Pathé board had already dismissed him. The external pressure was too much for them to handle.
By the time the news broke in France, the entertainment industry was in complete turmoil.
In less than three days, Desimon was dismissed from Pathé, expelled from ARP, and investigated by French authorities. Every fashion magazine and entertainment paper ran his story. Once his private scandals surfaced, public outrage hit like a storm.
The police found more than a dozen victims—young men from modeling agencies and minor acting schools. Most were too afraid to come forward until now.
And just like that, one of France's most powerful men in cinema became a symbol of disgrace.
The French media, of course, didn't dare mention Chu Zhi's name at first. They called him "an unnamed Chinese star" or "the foreign artist indirectly involved." But by the fifth day, it was impossible to hide. Too many journalists had traced the link to Red and Flame.
When Le Monde finally printed the headline "The Butterfly from the East—A Song That Shook Paris", the public knew exactly who they meant.
Chu Zhi himself didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
The only thing he did was post one photo on Weibo: a quiet, empty recording studio. The caption read, "Everything echoes somewhere."
No hashtags. No anger. Just calm silence. Yet everyone who saw it felt the weight behind it.
That's how he fights.
Unlike Desimon, Chu Zhi didn't move through backdoors or whisper to connections. His influence wasn't built on manipulation—it came from sheer presence. Every project he touched turned to gold. Every cause he supported became a movement.
To the world, he wasn't just an entertainer anymore. He was becoming something else—something larger.
A few days later, he arrived in Los Angeles for his next concert tour stop. The venue was packed to the brim, lights flooding the stage like dawn breaking through the night.
When he appeared, the crowd erupted. The cheers didn't fade for several minutes. Fans from the US, Korea, Japan, France, and China filled the arena, waving banners that spelled out his name in a dozen languages.
Chu Zhi stepped up to the mic, his usual gentle smile still on his face.
"Thank you for being here," he said in English, voice steady but soft. "It's been… a noisy week. So tonight, let's just sing."
The band struck the opening chords of Heaven's Garden. The melody rose slowly, then burst open—warm, clear, and brilliant.
During the chorus, the big screens showed waves of messages flooding in from around the world:
"Justice speaks in its own way."
"For Georges."
"Proud of you, Chu."
Tens of thousands of voices sang with him, word for word.
In the control booth, his manager Zhuan Zhu wiped at his eyes and muttered, "Godfather of showbiz, huh? If he's not that, then no one is."
At that moment, even Hollywood executives watching from the VIP section couldn't help but feel humbled. They'd seen countless stars rise and fall, but this—this was different.
Because Chu Zhi didn't just stand at the top of the entertainment world. He defined it.