Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 67

After sending Wang Xi off, Ran Lin messaged Lu Yiyao but knew the latter would likely be busy filming during the day, so after sending the message, he continued to immerse himself in the script of the little fighter’s world.

In <Chronicles of Winter> the male lead, also known as Xiao Shitou, begins as a curious, kind, and mischievous boy with a spirit of rebellion. But as the story progresses, especially during the part where they ascend to the heavens to destroy the Northern Divine Spring, he emerges as defiant and fully spirited.

Confronting the “Northern Imperial Liquor Officer”, who accused them of committing an unforgivable sin warranting eternal damnation, Xiao Shitou’s single question rendered him powerless.

He asked if the Emperor of the North could live without drinking sweet dandelion wine.

The Emperor of the North doesn’t rely on this drink to live; he just enjoys it. But the Liquor Officer couldn’t answer because the question itself was a great disrespect towards the Emperor of the North. Any answer, whether yes or no, would be a taboo against the heavenly rules.

Then, for every question Xiao Shitou posed, he would raise the flame-tempered iron hammer, forged in the fires for a hundred years, and smash a part of the wine pool wall.

By the end of the interrogation, the Sweet Elixir Wine Pool was left in ruins.

Ran Lin felt exhilarated reading it, but he couldn’t quite solidify the image of “Xiao Shitou” in his mind. The character alternated between a mischievous youth and a stern warrior, tall and slender at times and broad and muscular at others. No matter how much he tried to fit himself into the image, he couldn’t align his reflection with that of “Xiao Shitou”. Even if he forced his image onto the character, they never seemed to fully merge, like watching a 3D movie without the glasses, with severe double vision.

Understanding a character is crucial for embodying them. If he couldn’t see himself as the character, the portrayal would feel off.

Ran Lin knew he had just received the script and shouldn’t rush things, but knowing didn’t equal restraint. Fitting oneself into a character is almost an instinct for actors. While Ran Lin could relate to the curious and mischievous aspects of Xiao Shitou in the village, he couldn’t imagine himself battling it out in the heavens. This sort of combative energy seemed more fitting for Gu Jie…

No, if it were Gu Jie, he wouldn’t interrogate the Liquor Officer sentence by sentence; he’d likely gesture towards his brothers and say, “Why waste words? Just smash it!”

For some reason, Ran Lin found himself suddenly thinking of this buddy. Perhaps it was because the group chat was dissolved recently, and he had been somewhat concerned about Gu Jie’s reaction. However, there seemed to be no particular response from Gu Jie, leaving the matter hanging in the air and periodically resurfacing in his mind.

That’s how it goes; if you don’t think about it, it’s gone, but once you do, especially without distractions, you can’t help but want to get to the bottom of it. And the “Gu Jie version” of Xiao Shitou in his mind was stubbornly persistent, engrossed in a brawl.

Setting the script aside, Ran Lin decided to message Xia Xinran—[Are you busy?]

No response*.

*Like a stone dropped into the sea (石沉大海) Idiom referring to a situation where something or someone disappears without a trace or any feedback, just like how a stone thrown in the sea leaves no traces once it sinks.

The clear message was that Xia Xinran was indeed busy.

Ran Lin then took his phone back to his bedroom, planning to take a short nap to relax after the long period of intense script reading while waiting for a reply.

Unexpectedly, he fell asleep.

At 3:30 p.m. in early July, the sun was scorching, but his bedroom was a comfortable 26°C thanks to the air conditioning. Ran Lin dreamt of revisiting history, back to the episode of Drifting Stories in Sanya, where they celebrated Xia Xinran’s birthday at Lu Yiyao’s villa. Everything was as he remembered until the production crew called it a day early.

The game of Truth or Dare hadn’t even started when the crew left them alone. The remaining five continued playing, spinning the bottle for questions. When it was Lu Yiyao’s turn, Zhang Beichen asked, “What is your relationship with Ran Lin?” Lu Yiyao refused to answer and chose a dare instead. Zhang Beichen’s dare was for Lu Yiyao and Ran Lin to spend fifteen minutes together in a wardrobe.

Dream Ran Lin seemed to have hopped right into it. As the wardrobe door closed, they were surrounded by darkness and hanging clothes, their breaths intertwining as the temperature rose. Finally, unable to hold back, Lu Yiyao began to unbutton his shirt. Ran Lin held his breath, completely acquiescing, but as Lu Yiyao was halfway through, his phone suddenly rang—

Ding-dong.

Ran Lin grabbed his hand, stopping him from continuing, and mentioned his WeChat notification. Lu Yiyao dismissed it, saying that at such a moment, who would care about WeChat, and he should just focus on him.

Ran Lin tried to heed his words, but—

Ding-dong.

Ding-dong.

Ding-dong.

Ding-dong.

The persistent sound of WeChat notifications seemed like a death knell, echoing right next to his ear… Huh?

Ran Lin gradually opened his eyes, disoriented for a few seconds before realizing—he knew such a perfect moment of solitude had to be a dream!

Fumbling beside the pillow, he finally found his phone, yawned, and managed to focus on the screen—

Xia Xinran—[Done being busy.]

Xia Xinran—[Perfect timing. I was just looking for someone to chat with. 😂]

Xia Xinran—[?]

Xia Xinran—[Aren’t you free lately? Hello?]

Xia Xinran—[Anyone who knocks and runs isn’t human! 😠😠😠]

Ran Lin knew if he didn’t reply soon, Xia Xinran might actually call. Just the previous day, he had told Xia Xinran he would be homebound for a while.

Ran Lin—[I’m here, just fell asleep.]

Xia Xinran—[You’re living the life…]

Ran Lin—[I wish I was busier. 😔]

Xia Xinran—[I just recorded a super boring show. Seriously, I don’t think even divine post-production can save it. It was painfully awkward.]

Ran Lin—[🧸]

Xia Xinran—[What did you want?]

Ran Lin—[Has Gu Jie reacted at all since you disbanded the WeChat group?]

Xia Xinran—[Yes, I told him to figure it out himself, and he quickly guessed it was about Zhang Beichen hijacking your role.]

Ran Lin—[……]

Xia Xinran—[Err, I suppose I didn’t tell you?]

Ran Lin—[Yes!]

Xia Xinran—[I’ve been really busy lately and a bit disoriented. 😳 😳]

Ran Lin, seeing those two shy, blushing faces in the message, could tell that Xia Xinran was embarrassed, a sign that he was feeling guilty whenever he tried to act cute.

Xia Xinran—[Let’s do this instead. When we find the time, the three of us should go out for a meal together, meet up in person.]

Ran Lin was surprised by Xia Xinran’s suggestion and immediately asked—[Do you two have time?]

Xia Xinran—[No problem on Gu Jie’s end. He’s been pushing aside any work he can recently and is just preparing for his film, so as long as I can make time, it’s good.]

Ran Lin—[So, can the Great Star Xia make time?]

Xia Xinran—[For meeting you guys, I’d come even if it meant breaking a contract. 🤷]

Ran Lin—[I should screenshot this and send it to your agent.]

Xia Xinran—[……]

Xia Xinran—[Alright, I’ll let you know once the time and place are set. Wait for my message.]

Before Ran Lin could send an “OK” emoji, a video call request from Lu Yiyao popped up on WeChat, startling him. He hurriedly answered and soon, a handsome face appeared on the screen, likely from a hotel room given the background.

But it was only 4:30 p.m. now.

“Did you get the script?” Lu Yiyao’s face lit up with a smile, his voice turning soft and gentle as soon as he saw Ran Lin.

“Yes, Xi Jie brought it over at noon.” Ran Lin turned over from lying on his back to his side, dropping the phone next to him on the bed—a fallen phone capturing the image of its equally fallen owner in a harmonious setting.

With his cheek squished against the pillow, puffing up his lips slightly, Lu Yiyao found his frustration from the afternoon melting away.

He almost understood Ran Lin’s urge to kiss the screen every time; he felt the same now.

However, Ran Lin didn’t share his comfort and directly voiced his confusion. “Why are you back in the hotel so early?”

Lu Yiyao originally initiated the video call to inquire about the script Ran Lin had received. However, unexpectedly, he ended up being the one receiving concern, which made him somewhat regret making the call so early; perhaps he should have waited until it was dark.

“Don’t think about dodging the question,” Ran Lin pressed, seeing Lu Yiyao hesitating to speak, knowing there was something wrong. “What’s the matter, not going smoothly?”

Giving up resistance, Lu Yiyao confessed, “The acting is more challenging than I anticipated. The director wasn’t satisfied with my performance and decided to shoot others’ scenes first, telling me to go back and rest to find the right feeling.”

Ran Lin didn’t like to see Lu Yiyao helpless; he always felt Lu Yiyao should be confidently facing any situation. This made him even more concerned than his inability to connect with the character in the script.

By the timeline, Lu Yiyao had only flown to Xiamen yesterday to join the set, likely just in time for the opening ceremony and costume fitting. Today would be the first actual day of filming. It’s perfectly normal to struggle with finding the right feel on the first day, especially considering Lu Yiyao is playing a complex character with dissociative identity disorder.

<Split Moon> was the film Lu Yiyao was currently shooting. Unlike typical dissociative identity disorder films, this one didn’t aim for sensationalism or involve crime and murder. Instead, it used a realistic and ordinary perspective, treating the condition with respect, portraying real cases of people with the disorder and their relationships with their families and society.

Some patients in the film recover fully and rejoin society, some battle their own minds for life, and others, like Lu Yiyao’s character, have exceptional artistic talent but ultimately fall apart due to emotional sensitivity and pressures from family and self, leading to additional personalities.

The director was Xin Zihai, who was known for his deep humanitarian concern in his films, and <Split Moon> was no exception. However, he was also known for his high demands on actors. Lu Yiyao mentioned that the director chose him as a compromise between artistic integrity and commercial viability. The role required an actor with the depth of a seasoned actor but the youthfulness to be believable—a difficult combination to find, especially someone who could also draw a significant audience.

“Did the director give any specific feedback on what’s not working?” Ran Lin suddenly asked.

“Yeah, he did,” Lu Yiyao admitted. “He said I was overacting—too fierce—not really like someone with dissociative identity disorder, but more like someone with mania.”

Ran Lin, who had never played such a complex role, suggested, “Maybe you could assign a small, unique gesture to each personality? Something subtle, like tapping your fingers or changing how you drink from a cup.”

“I got scolded for that.”

“Huh?”

“We have a good understanding. I tried adding a gesture of touching my fingers, but the director said it was too contrived and deliberate.”

“……”

Both sides fell silent.

Ran Lin felt a little embarrassed listening to the sound of the air conditioning.

Lu Yiyao chuckled lightly. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll think about it myself tonight.”

“If it were me…” Ran Lin seemed to think of something and spoke again. “When the personality switches, the clothes will change too.”

Lu Yiyao: “Hmm?”

Ran Lin brought his phone a bit closer and said earnestly, “Objectively, when you switch personalities, you don’t change your style. But for that personality, the moment it awakens, it feels completely renewed. So if I were acting, I would assume my entire style has changed, treating this personality as a new character, not considering its relationship with other personalities or how many similarities or differences there are. That way, the acting will be more relaxed. If you’re always worried about how to show the differences, the performance will become forced.”

Lu Yiyao looked at him thoughtfully and didn’t speak.

After Ran Lin finished speaking, he felt he might have said too much. He glanced at Lu Yiyao, a bit embarrassed. “Just a suggestion.”

“If only you could come visit me on set,” Lu Yiyao said wistfully.

Ran Lin felt a mix of sweetness and sourness in his heart.

Of course, he wanted to go, but they both knew that it wasn’t possible.

“My spirit is with you,” Ran Lin said playfully. “If you miss me, just look up into the sky.”

Lu Yiyao was fantasizing about a romantic set visit when his partner’s words took him to a horror movie set. “It would be scary if I actually saw something!”

Ran Lin couldn’t help but laugh. Just as he was about to add something more, Lu Yiyao spoke first. “Okay, enough about me. How’s the script for the movie going?”

“It’s quite something,” Ran Lin said excitedly, but then his excitement faded. “But I still need to figure the character out.”

Lu Yiyao felt they were truly a pair of Mandarin ducks.

He didn’t feel qualified to advise others, only managing to say, “Entering the emotions of any new character takes time.”

Ran Lin sighed. “Mine is different from yours. Yours is about technique, a matter of craft. Mine is because the character feels too different from me, more a matter of consciousness.”

Lu Yiyao didn’t see it as a problem. “Fang Xian was also very different from your personality at first.”

“That’s not like this time…” Ran Lin started to say but then noticed the wording Lu Yiyao used and asked, puzzled. “At first?”

Lu Yiyao nodded. “Yeah, at first.”

Ran Lin tilted his head, frowning in confusion. Fang Xian’s character was consistent from beginning to end, even becoming more extreme later on. It didn’t make sense that the early part of the character would feel more different…

“Fang Xian didn’t change. You did.” Lu Yiyao’s gaze seemed to pierce through Ran Lin’s thoughts. “Haven’t you noticed that after acting in <Sword of Fallen Flowers> some of Fang Xian’s traits have merged into your personality?”

Ran Lin was puzzled. “Like what?”

Lu Yiyao listed off, “Confidence, carefree, occasionally a bit flamboyant. But because of your own personality, your flamboyance is more measured and cuter than Fang Xian’s.”

Ran Lin: “…”

Lu Yiyao suddenly noticed the screen had gone dark. “What’s wrong?”

From the other end of the phone, only his voice could be heard. “I covered the camera.”

Lu Yiyao: “Why?”

Ran Lin: “To calm down.”

Lu Yiyao: “…”

Finally, when the heat on his face had subsided and he no longer felt like a cooked tomato, Ran Lin cautiously moved his finger away from the front camera and looked at his patiently waiting partner seriously, asking, “Shouldn’t a good relationship make both parties promote and progress together?”

After a few seconds of thought, Lu Yiyao agreed. “Right.”

Ran Lin nodded, his face rubbing against the pillow, making a rustling sound.

Lu Yiyao, involuntarily envious of the pillow, then saw Ran Lin say helplessly, “Then how can I progress if you keep praising me like this?”

Lu Yiyao: “I’m not praising. I’m stating facts.”

Ran Lin: “……”

Lu Yiyao: “You might as well be happy about it. It’s tough to hold it in, and it pains me to see you like this.”

He’s definitely doing it on purpose!!!

Looking at the screen that had gone dark again, Lu Yiyao felt aggrieved. Nowadays, one couldn’t even speak the truth; where was the justice in that?

But thinking back to Ran Lin’s blushing face before the screen went black, he felt a particular sense of achievement and was determined to continue speaking his mind in their relationship.

However, as much as he enjoyed teasing, Lu Yiyao still remembered the task at hand, feeling it was about time to get back on topic, and gently called out to the other side, “Are we still talking about <Chronicles of Winter>?”

Mentioning the script, Ran Lin immediately switched back to work mode, reappearing on the screen with a furrowed brow and an unimposing threat in his tone. “From now on, no interruptions.”

Lu Yiyao quickly leaned forward and planted a kiss on the small mouth on the screen, feeling refreshed and satisfied. “I promise to cooperate.”

Ran Lin gave him a blank look, not very sincere, and then proceeded to tell the story from beginning to end.

Naturally, Lu Yiyao didn’t have time to read novels like <Chronicles of Winter> but after hearing Ran Lin describe the script, he felt it might be okay. Regarding Ran Lin’s character concerns, he also felt it wasn’t too bad. “Xiao Shitou is clever and mischievous, quite like you.”

Ran Lin glanced at him. “I’m very well-behaved, okay?”

Lu Yiyao smirked. “Then you still don’t understand yourself well enough.”

Ran Lin: “…How about you continue to praise me.”

Lu Yiyao: “No, you said we should encourage each other to progress.”

Left without a retort, Ran Lin fell silent.

Lu Yiyao stopped teasing him, becoming serious and reflecting on what Ran Lin had previously said, understanding roughly. “The later stage Xiao Shitou really is unstoppable. For such a character, the actor must be wild.”

“Yeah.” Ran Lin was troubled by this. “Leading a group of buddies to the Ninth Heaven, full throttle, love it or hate it.”

“Have you ever been in a fight?” Lu Yiyao suddenly asked.

Ran Lin was stunned and, after thinking for a while, asked, “Does kindergarten count?”

Lu Yiyao didn’t answer, but “Are you kidding me?” was clearly written all over his face.

Ran Lin pursed his lips and shook his head.

“What about arguments?” Lu Yiyao asked as a fallback.

Ran Lin really felt like he was dredging up his entire memory, but in the end, he could only shake his head helplessly.

Lu Yiyao confirmed that his lover was definitely a pacifist.

“But we might argue in the future,” Ran Lin suddenly said in a low voice, with a bit of a bitter smile.

Lu Yiyao’s heart suddenly felt heavy, and he immediately asked, “What do you mean?”

Ran Lin paused, a flash of regret in his eyes, and then said, “Let’s not talk about that now. Let’s continue discussing Xiao Shitou.”

“I have all night to talk to you.” Lu Yiyao’s voice deepened as he firmly looked at him. “So, I want to hear what you were saying just now.”

Sometimes Lu Yiyao was easy to talk to. A kiss could lead him astray.

But sometimes he was difficult, insistent on understanding and discussing until everything was clear, firmly holding on until the end.

After a moment’s thought, Ran Lin looked up, deciding to break the mood if he had to, acknowledging that some things can’t be ignored just because they’re unspoken. Sooner or later, they’d have to be faced. “I haven’t come out to my family yet, so no matter how I think about the future, an inevitable conflict awaits.”

As expected, Lu Yiyao fell silent.

The quiet atmosphere made Ran Lin a bit uncomfortable. Half complaining and half regretting, he murmured, “I said we shouldn’t talk about it yet, but you insisted.”

“I haven’t come out to my family either,” Lu Yiyao suddenly said.

“Of course, I know.” Ran Lin waited so long for this response and couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve never liked guys before.”

“So it’s perfect.” Lu Yiyao flashed a bright smile. “I’ll support you in your battle first, then you can support me in mine.”

Ran Lin: “Why are you supporting me first?”

Lu Yiyao: “The battle might be more intense in my home.”

Ran Lin: “How intense will it be?”

Lu Yiyao: “Unpredictable.”

Ran Lin: “…Are we sure we want to continue this?”

Lu Yiyao: “Of course, I haven’t even started eating yet.”

Ran Lin: “… Can’t your pursuit be more noble and righteous?”

Lu Yiyao looked at him with a smile, slowly saying, “A philosopher once said the bright side of love is to show others, the vulgar side is for one’s own enjoyment.”

Ran Lin leaned closer to the screen, staring into his eyes. “Is this philosopher surnamed Lu?”

Lu Yiyao sighed sentimentally, seemingly proud. “How did I pick such a smart and handsome person out of the vast crowd.”

Ran Lin: “…”

When someone unabashedly praises you to death, they’re truly invincible.

Ran Lin internally raised the white flag of surrender in his mind.

The smile on the screen was bright and fearless, shining with the audacity to fight against anything and everything.

Watching quietly, Ran Lin suddenly felt that coming out might not be such a big deal after all.

Ever since he realized he liked boys, whether to come clean to his family and how to approach them about it had always been a heavy burden on Ran Lin’s heart. He wanted to move that weight, but doing so was truly daunting, as it required more impulse and strength than he had alone.

So, he chose to selectively forget, pretending that the weight didn’t exist at all.

It wasn’t until he was with Lu Yiyao that the desire to move that weight resurfaced bit by bit.

Although he might not act now, it seemed like he was ready to put it on the agenda.

While Ran Lin watched him, Lu Yiyao was watching him back. He had always heard Huo Yuntao say that when two people really like each other, they could talk about anything for a long time. But what if they didn’t talk at all, just looked at each other or did their own thing, and still didn’t feel awkward, only comfortable and at ease?

He found that what Huo Yuntao said was all true.

He and Ran Lin could talk about acting and characters as passionately as if they were at a symposium of literary workers, or they could talk about feelings and the future, evoking endless dreams and expectations. And now, without talking, just being quiet together, he felt a special peace and comfort.

The tranquil atmosphere always leads one to reflect on past events. Even some details that had been blurred and forgotten would suddenly become clear again.

In the silence, Lu Yiyao suddenly asked, “Do you know what I was thinking when we took that photo at the airport before the reporters recognized you?”

The sudden question left Ran Lin momentarily stunned, blinking to gather his thoughts before replying, “To quickly take the photo and leave?”

Lu Yiyao shook his head.

Ran Lin couldn’t figure it out and stared at him, all ears.

Lu Yiyao gently curved his lips, whispering, “This kid is quite good-looking.”

……

The video call lasted for two hours, and by the end, Ran Lin’s arms were sore.

But strangely, he felt full of energy.

He didn’t know that Lu Yiyao, on the other end, felt the same.

So that night, the two actors, in their respective cities of Beijing and Xiamen, held their scripts and diligently worked on them, with the determination that only through utmost effort can they thrive.

—The best love is when we both become better versions of ourselves.

……

Half a month quietly passed, and Lu Yiyao’s work was progressing well, while Ran Lin was finally going to audition.

The mid-July heat in Beijing felt like it could set the city on fire, but the air conditioning at the audition site was on full blast, making Ran Lin feel a blast of cold air as he and Wang Xi entered.

There were no other actors on site. Ran Lin couldn’t tell if it was because their times didn’t overlap or if it was only him auditioning that day.

The director, surnamed Huang, was in his forties and had been directing fantasy blockbusters in recent years, yet he was dressed simply in a T-shirt and shorts, wearing glasses, slightly overweight, and seemed kind and gentle.

The person sitting next to him was unknown to Ran Lin, also around forty, slightly younger than the director, dressed in a polo shirt and casual pants, looking a bit more business-like. It was probably the producer—after all, Lu Yiyao had already gathered some inside information from Peng Jingyu, so having an insider really did feel good.

“Director Huang, Producer Li,” Wang Xi greeted them warmly as soon as she entered the door, obviously familiar with both.

Both men stood up, treating Wang Xi with courtesy, especially Producer Li, who was all smiles and full of praises for both Wang Xi and Ran Lin after shaking hands.

From Producer Li’s attitude, Ran Lin could infer what the high-level executive who hand-picked him thought.

Ran Lin couldn’t help but wish for a chance to meet them, thinking they must be a real fan of Fang Xian and hoping to turn them into a die-hard fan of his own with a good conversation.

About five or six minutes later, the audition finally began, consisting of three scenes: Xiao Shitou revealing the truth about the Great Sage Temple to the villagers; Xiao Shitou holding the injured “Bell” and shedding his first tear since birth, which heals Bell’s wounds; and Xiao Shitou angrily rebuking the Emperor of the North.

Ran Lin was thoroughly familiar with the lines for all three scenes, having rehearsed them repeatedly in front of a mirror at home, so he confidently walked to the center of the room, took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and began performing!

The youthful beauty of a man in his twenties morphed under Ran Lin’s delivery and gestures, presenting a natural sense of adolescence. The incredulity of discovering the truth for the first time, the earnest and heartfelt words, and the anxious defensiveness when doubted were all portrayed with precision and depth.

“…I will prove it to you all!”

With that line, the first scene ended.

The frustrated look on Ran Lin’s face gradually faded as he looked up at the director and producer, his gaze carrying an uncertain inquiry. Almost the moment their eyes met, the producer nodded in apparent approval, warming Ran Lin’s heart and giving him the feeling for the first time that the investors were on his side.

In contrast, Director Huang was more inscrutable. As Ran Lin looked at him, he gave little away, his gaze deep, as if he wasn’t even receiving Ran Lin’s look but pondering other matters.

Although the producer had the final say, they still needed to respect the director’s expertise. So, with Director Huang not speaking, the producer also refrained from commenting.

Just as the atmosphere was about to turn cold, Director Huang finally said, “Next scene.”

Ran Lin breathed a sigh of relief.

The second scene was Xiao Shitou shedding a tear while holding the injured “Bell”. Bell is Xiao Shitou’s pet and companion, a fantastical little creature with wings, saved by Xiao Shitou in childhood and living with him ever since. So this character would ultimately be created by the computer graphics team, meaning there wouldn’t actually be a little creature to interact with during filming.

As the director announced the next scene, Ran Lin immediately knelt on one knee, cradling his arms as if holding little Bell, biting his lip and furrowing his brow in preparation, only to hear the director say, “Use this.”

Ran Lin looked up reflexively and saw a green cartoon frog plushie had appeared on the director’s table.

“You have many scenes with Bell in the script,” the director explained patiently. “You can’t always be holding or interacting with thin air. Acting with and without a prop makes a difference in the subtle details, and it’s also easier to lose focus with your eyes. So, most of the time, you’ll need to act with such a plushie.”

Ran Lin had some experience with green screen in <Sword of Fallen Flowers>, but those were mainly for post-production of the environment or creating effects like flying darts, and he interacted with real actors for his scenes, not plushies. So, he hadn’t considered this aspect in his home rehearsals.

But he knew Director Huang was right; once inside the green studio, not just Bell but many other post-production elements, like treasures and props, would require acting against various substitutes.

With this in mind, Ran Lin hesitated no more. He picked up the plushie and returned to the center of the room, still kneeling on one knee, tenderly holding the green frog plushie, pretending it was his injured pet companion…

But, trying to cry while looking into those bulging eyes was really hard!

The room was silent, and Wang Xi’s nerves began to tense. Ran Lin had been holding the little green frog in a half-squat, half-kneel for two or three minutes now, still without any movement or emotion, continuously preparing without starting his performance.

Wang Xi couldn’t help but glance at Director Huang with a sense of frustration, thinking, ‘If you think it’s so easy, you try crying while holding a green frog.’

But Director Huang didn’t notice the agent’s glance; his entire attention was on Ran Lin, understanding that if a mere plushie could disconcert the young actor this much, then they really needed to discuss further with the investors.

Being the preferred choice was one thing, but it didn’t mean they could be careless, especially if the investors cared about box office results.

In the audition space, Ran Lin, still gazing down at the “green Bell”, felt his eyes grow sore, thinking his face might be even greener than the plushie in his arms. No tears came, but sweat did, even in the chilling air of the air-conditioned room.

‘Teacher Lu’, Ran Lin called softly in his heart, borrowing strength. Slowly blinking, the soreness eased, and the vision of the green frog gradually turned into Lu Yiyao’s face, the face that often filled his phone screen, so close that even the hairs were invisible—his lover’s face.

If it wasn’t Bell blocking the harm but Lu Yiyao having to leave him for some reason…

“Bell!”

The desperate cry came abruptly, startling Wang Xi but not enough to laugh, as the pain in the voice was too evident, heart-wrenchingly clear.

After the shout, Ran Lin’s voice softened, filled with extreme sadness and choked tenderness.

Whatever he was saying no longer registered to Wang Xi; she was just feeling moved by Ran Lin’s emotion, so much so that even the green frog plushie didn’t seem funny anymore, as if it really had life…

“Don’t leave me.”

As he uttered these words, Ran Lin slowly lifted his head, a single clear tear rolling down his cheek.

……

Thousands of kilometers away on Gulangyu Island, Teacher Lu suddenly shivered.

Having just finished a scene, he was resting in a wicker chair when he looked up into the sky and almost thought he saw his lover’s drifting figure.

Lu Yiyao suspected he was bewitched by longing.

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