Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

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

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Chapter 80

The premiere press conference of <Chronicles of Winter> barely made any splash online because from the night of the press conference until June 3^rd, when the drama officially aired simultaneously on two satellite TV channels, the internet was flooded with the names of Han Ze, Cui Yanyan, and Xiao Tianyu.

Xiao Tianyu had been filming in the far northwest for the past year and had long been out of sight. It was said that the filming conditions there were very harsh, with daily wind and sand; it was also said that Xiao Tianyu was in a bad mood after learning about the incident, speaking little to those around him except for acting; and it was rumored that Xiao Tianyu sent a message privately the next day of the incident, unilaterally breaking up with Cui Yanyan. In short, countless rumors flew about, but Xiao Tianyu, as the cuckolded party, remained silent.

He probably hadn’t even logged onto Weibo because netizens could still find many of his low-key, cryptic, but love-filled posts, occasionally even referring to a “wife”, clearly headed toward marriage. Now, looking back, it made people feel even more sympathy.

The more they sympathized with Xiao Tianyu, naturally, the more they resented Cui Yanyan for cheating despite having a boyfriend and the indiscreet Han Ze.

More importantly, the video’s imagery was too impactful. Probably thinking they were in a blind spot of the underground parking lot’s surveillance, the two didn’t avoid much, with kissing and touching, entangling for several minutes before finally entering the elevator together.

However, the angle chosen by the paparazzo was very professional. Although the distance was somewhat far, all the actions of the two were clearly captured. The video even added subtitles explaining the filming date as two days ago and the location as Han Ze’s underground parking lot.

The two returning together to the man’s home late at night left little to the imagination, and the video didn’t need to spell it out, as dedicated paparazzi camped out all night and finally captured Cui Yanyan leaving Han Ze’s place in the early morning.

The evidence was complete, leaving no room for the parties involved to wriggle out of it.

Both Cui Yanyan’s and Han Ze’s social media became a massive scene of fans jumping ship.

The reason for Cui Yanyan’s fan loss was clear—while love is free, cheating is intolerable. Even without escalating it to a moral critique, just days ago, she was celebrating her boyfriend’s birthday on Weibo, and then she was caught kissing someone else, a stark contrast that made such a fickle idol hard to support.

The reasons for Han Ze’s fan loss were more diverse—firstly, if it was true love, it might be excusable to fight for love if both are single, but engaging in a heated affair knowing the other party hasn’t broken up with their boyfriend should be morally condemned; secondly, if it wasn’t true love but just a fling, it was even more shameful, leaving no room for redemption; thirdly, the sordid scene in the underground parking lot completely destroyed the warm man persona he had built up, and nothing hurts more than realizing you’ve been supporting a fake idol.

The waves of ridicule, fan abandonment, and mockery continued unabated, and like Xiao Tianyu, both Han Ze and Cui Yanyan remained silent.

It’s understandable that Han Ze wouldn’t respond, as his primary concern was his crumbling public image. Regardless of whether his relationship with Cui Yanyan was true love or whether Cui Yanyan had broken up with Xiao Tianyu, nothing could whitewash him now. But Cui Yanyan’s silence was intriguing.

Typically, she should have immediately issued a statement clarifying that she had already broken up with Xiao Tianyu. If they hadn’t coordinated privately and she was worried about being contradicted by Xiao Tianyu, then her management should have quietly smeared Xiao Tianyu, creating a narrative that he wasn’t such a good man either, diverting attention and blurring the original nature of the incident.

But Cui Yanyan made no move.

Perhaps she still had feelings for Xiao Tianyu and didn’t want to drag him down at this point, or maybe Xiao Tianyu had some leverage over her, and making a fuss would only make things worse.

In any case, the armchair analysts had a field day, while fellow artists of Han Ze and Cui Yanyan remained conspicuously silent on the matter—no one wanted to get burned at this point.

Only Han Ze’s official fan club posted on Weibo—[Please focus more on his works and keep away from his private life.]

But it was immediately countered with—[When you were promoting your daily life to build your persona and gather fans, why didn’t you say to keep away from private lives? Either you should have never sold your persona and always relied on your works to speak for you—there are many such talented artists in the entertainment industry. But you took shortcuts to gain fans, and when problems arise, you blame the fans for focusing too much on their personal lives and not on the works. That’s very double standard.]

Due to the heavy mockery, the fan club later deleted the post, replacing it with a still of Han Ze from <Chronicles of Winter> and a bland inspirational quote.

In fact, “no response” is also a public relations strategy. Although somewhat passive, in situations prone to “the more you explain, the worse it gets”, not responding often leads to the public’s frustrated feeling of punching cotton. Over time, the fervor dies down.

However, the effect of “no response” requires time to ferment, and neither Han Ze nor Cui Yanyan had that kind of time—as the buzz was just about to decline, the drama version of <Chronicles of Winter> officially premiered.

On June 3^rd, due to Qi Luoluo’s emotional breakdown after being NG’d repeatedly by the director, leading to tears on set, the director, feeling helpless, had to wrap up early.

Saying it was early, but by the time Ran Lin returned to the hotel, it was almost 8:30 p.m.—due to the serious delays in filming, wrapping up at midnight had become the default schedule.

The first thing Ran Lin did upon returning to his room was turn on the TV to the channel airing <Chronicles of Winter>.

The scandal in the underground parking lot was unexpected for Ran Lin, and it was only after asking Wang Xi that he learned it was likely a maneuver by the movie version’s backers.

The incident was a massive blow to Han Ze. If the drama version of <Chronicles of Winter> didn’t excel, then Han Ze might never recover.

When he switched to the channel, the first episode of <Chronicles of Winter> had just finished airing, and it was now in the only commercial break between the two episodes.

Catching the only commercial break by chance, Ran Lin didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wondered if he and the drama version of <Chronicles of Winter> were simply not fated, as from the beginning to now, he had continuously missed it.

Having the drama version’s contract snatched away by Han Ze felt like a distant memory now, with so many other things happening afterward, like losing <Mint Green> to Zhang Beichen, getting the movie version of <Chronicles of Winter>, and even serendipitously landing <Dyeing Fire>. Now, even the movie version of <Chronicles of Winter> had finished filming, while the drama version, the original cause of all the fuss, had just started airing.

It felt like time had looped, with the end point returning to the beginning.

Honestly, Ran Lin was quite curious about the outcome of the drama version. Without any particular bias or emotion, he was simply curious, even if none of Han Ze’s messy incidents had occurred. He would have turned on the TV to see what the project he missed had turned into.

Finally, the commercial ended, and the theme song started.

The drama version’s opening was quite beautifully done, not using any songs but pure music with an ancient charm. Paired with the edited clips from the drama and attractive font design, the overall feel was naturally fresh and even a bit ethereal.

Finally, the words “Episode Two” appeared slowly with the ending notes of the theme song.

Then the screen shifted, and the main drama began.

“Xiao Shitou—”

A call, melodious and rich in emotion, full of innocence and liveliness. But the expression on the face of “Ah Jin” who appeared on the screen, was gentler than lively, causing a slight dissonance with the voice.

Ran Lin immediately recognized that it wasn’t Cui Yanyan’s original voice but was dubbed by a voice actor.

Before he could ponder further, the camera gradually zoomed out to show Ah Jin running excitedly towards the cave she and Xiao Shitou often played in, holding some sweet dandelions she had secretly plucked.

In the original novel, the surrounding mountains of the village should be listless under the scorching sun, with even the leaves curled from the heat. But the drama’s mountains, due to overly bright color correction, appeared lush and vibrant, quite the opposite of the intended depiction.

Soon, the scene switched inside the cave, where Han Ze’s Xiao Shitou was fiddling with the “sweet dandelions” he had previously plucked, exploring the secrets of the herb that the village had cultivated for generations. This was a secret activity between him and Ah Jin.

Although Han Ze’s appearance wasn’t exactly youthful, he was still handsome and proud, looking like someone who would contend with the heavens.

After watching the episode, although it was different from Ran Lin’s imagined <Chronicles of Winter>, besides the overly bright coloring and some crude special effects in larger scenes, it wasn’t too bad. Perhaps because he was thoroughly familiar with the original story, it didn’t strike him as stunning but merely adequate.

By the end of the closing song, Ran Lin scrolled through the comments on the episode on Weibo, finding them overwhelmingly critical.

Some critiques were specific to the drama—

[Mediocre script, acting, visuals, and cheap special effects = dropping the show.]

[If you’ve chosen actors around 25, don’t try to make them act like they’re 15. Trying to look younger is really awkward.]

[It has all the shortcomings typical of domestic fantasy dramas—not terrible, but somewhat boring, which is worse than being hilariously bad, as at least that could provide meme material.]

[I just want to ask the post-production team: What’s with the obsession with color correction? Can’t the visuals be fresh and elegant instead of garishly colorful?]

[Although I know the plot hasn’t unfolded in the first two episodes, is the pacing too slow? I really don’t feel like continuing.]

Others combined their comments with the previous negative impressions, sparing no mercy—

[Fans, don’t call for focusing on the work and staying away from personal lives when the work itself is not up to par!]

[How many people, like me, can’t continue watching Han Ze and Cui Yanyan pretend to be childhood sweethearts of pure innocence?]

[No, I just can’t. Every time they appear together, I’m reminded of the underground parking lot scandal.]

[There are actually people following this drama? I don’t even want to watch it.]

[Those pairing Xiao Shitou and Ah Jing as perfect; have you considered Xiao Tianyu’s feelings? 😔]

Whether it was specific critiques or overall reviews, the comments were mostly from casual viewers, with fans seemingly rare. It’s unclear if this was because most had already jumped ship or they were keeping a low profile during this controversial time, silently supporting.

Ran Lin exited Weibo, not quite sure what to feel; it was a mix of emotions, some complex, some reflective.

Staring blankly at the TV commercials, his stomach suddenly protested with a grumble.

Ran Lin came back to his senses, realizing he hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

These days, with the hectic schedule bringing him back to the hotel at midnight, his dinners usually consisted of quickly nibbling on some bread or, more often, skipping it altogether.

Today, with some rare free time and it being only 9:40 p.m., Ran Lin decided to go out for a proper hot meal.

Within minutes, Ran Lin was ready and leaving his room.

Just as he closed the door and turned around, he heard another door opening down the hallway. Instinctively looking over, he saw Gu Jie stepping out from a room, closing the door behind him.

From a distance, Ran Lin couldn’t make out Gu Jie’s expression, but the sound of the door closing wasn’t small; in the enclosed corridor, it was clearly audible and lingered for a while.

It wasn’t exactly a door slam, but it wasn’t a gentle close either—more of a slightly forceful shut.

Ran Lin stood frozen, unsure whether to call out to his friend, as the room Gu Jie had just exited was Qi Luoluo’s.

“Ran Lin?” Gu Jie was the first to notice him and immediately walked over.

As Gu Jie approached, Ran Lin could see he was dressed in casual shorts and a tank top, just the relaxed attire he usually wore after wrapping up for the day, but his mood seemed agitated, with a lingering trace of irritation between his brows.

Well, that settled any hesitation about greeting him. Ran Lin offered a sheepish smile. “Have you eaten yet?”

Gu Jie naturally nodded. “I ate when I got back.”

“Oh.” Ran Lin felt a bit disappointed. “I was planning to go out for something to eat and thought if you hadn’t, we could go together.”

“I’ve already eaten, but I can still go out for a snack,” Gu Jie said without hesitation, scratching his head. “I was actually thinking of going out for a walk anyway.”

Without waiting for Ran Lin to respond, he slung an arm around Ran Lin’s neck and casually strolled toward the elevator.

Although Ran Lin’s body followed his friend’s pace, his mind was somewhat in a whirl.

Gu Jie didn’t seem to be acting like a guilty thief; he didn’t even ask, “When did you come out?” which was in line with his typically straightforward nature. But the way he closed the door, not too gently nor too forcefully, along with his tone and demeanor at the moment, seemed to radiate an air of annoyance rather than one of being in a good mood.

As Gu Jie released him and pressed the elevator button, Ran Lin shook his head, telling himself not to overthink, and decided to directly ask Gu Jie what was going on once they got to a suitable place for conversation. He figured the answer might come faster that way.

But as clear as he was about this, his brain had other ideas. Watching the elevator numbers descend, Ran Lin couldn’t help but wonder what exactly was going on between Gu Jie and Qi Luoluo.

The past few days of filming had been the same, aside from Qi Luoluo’s consistent NGs as the queen of retakes. If there was anything different today, it was that the continuous days of shooting pressure had mounted on everyone, leading to today’s NGs. The director got a bit impatient, and Qi Luoluo even broke down in tears on the spot, but ultimately, the director didn’t lose his temper and just decided to wrap up early.

Was Gu Jie specifically going to comfort Qi Luoluo?

That didn’t seem like something Gu Jie would typically do.

And if it was indeed comfort, why did Gu Jie emerge looking annoyed? It didn’t make sense.

Unable to figure it out, Ran Lin felt frustrated. He had been too engrossed in the alternate world of Weibo lately, so much so that he was completely oblivious to the subtle changes happening in the real world around him.

As the elevator reached the ground floor and the doors slid open, Ran Lin finally shut down his “detective mode” and stopped his wild speculations.

It was nearly 10 p.m.—not too late but not too early either. The two found a small eatery nearby and ordered a few dishes. Ran Lin went for a bowl of noodles, and Gu Jie opted for a beer.

The eatery was small but bustling. Most customers chose to sit outside at the outdoor tables for their late-night meals, while Ran Lin and Gu Jie opted for the only private room available. After ordering, once the waiter left and the door closed behind him, turning on the air conditioning isolated all the heat and noise outside.

Soon, the temperature in the small room dropped to a comfortable coolness, but the atmosphere, much like the temperature, was slightly chilly.

Gu Jie stared at the empty table, seemingly lost in thought, and judging from his pursed lips, it probably wasn’t something pleasant.

Ran Lin, propping his chin with his hand, hesitated for a long time before gently speaking up. “I saw you coming out of Qi Luoluo’s room just now.”

Gu Jie looked up in surprise, asking reflexively. “You saw that?”

His friend’s question was too sincere, causing Ran Lin to doubt for a moment. He repeatedly recalled the scene before confirming he hadn’t mistaken, then looked back at his friend with disbelief. “When you looked up, wasn’t I right there? Of course, I saw it.”

Gu Jie exhaled a long sigh of relief, as if unloading a great burden. “I was worried about whether I should tell you. If I don’t, it feels suffocating, but talking about it feels like gossiping, which isn’t very manly.”

Desire for gossip is universal, but Gu Jie’s last half-sentence made Ran Lin slightly ashamed of his own curiosity.

Finally, getting serious, Ran Lin said, “If you want to tell it, I’ll keep quiet and listen, and I promise not to spread it. If you don’t want to talk about it, we’ll pretend it never happened.”

Gu Jie rolled his eyes. “After all that, you’re just going to leave me hanging? Are you trying to suffocate me to death?”

Ran Lin laughed, about to speak, when the waiter entered with their order, setting down the beer, noodles, and dishes in one go.

Gu Jie couldn’t be bothered to fetch a bottle opener and used his chopsticks to pry open the bottle cap, pouring himself a full glass and drinking half of it in one gulp, the cool liquid refreshing him.

Once the waiter had left and the door was closed again, Ran Lin slurped up a mouthful of noodles, then looked at Gu Jie with an “I’m all ears” expression.

Gu Jie put down his glass, not touching the food, furrowing his brow as if thinking about how to start.

Ran Lin continued eating his noodles, patiently waiting.

Gu Jie wasn’t particularly eloquent, especially compared to many other artists in the entertainment industry; he was more about blunt truths. Plus, his thoughts were simple, without too many twists and turns, so in his early years, he often fell into traps laid by journalists. Eventually, he learned to keep quiet when in doubt, gradually decreasing the frequency of his gaffes.

But with friends, Gu Jie had fewer reservations. The hesitation to speak now was purely because the matter at hand was somewhat delicate…

“She called me over,” Gu Jie finally began, “saying she wanted to go over some scenes from the day that couldn’t be shot due to NGs.”

“And you went?” Ran Lin couldn’t predict what happened next but had a bad feeling.

“She asked for help with rehearsing, and I couldn’t refuse,” Gu Jie stated matter-of-factly. “It’s just lending a hand, and if it helps her performance, leading to a successful shoot tomorrow, that’s good for the entire crew.”

Ran Lin sighed helplessly. “But did you consider how it would look to go to a female actor’s room late at night if someone saw you?”

“Of course, I considered it,” Gu Jie said. “Which is why I planned to keep the door open the entire time.”

Ran Lin frowned. “Then why did I hear the door closing?”

Gu Jie explained, “Because later in the rehearsal, she suddenly closed the door.”

“……” Ran Lin’s mind raced with all sorts of unsuitable-for-children scenarios.

Ignoring his friend’s ambiguous silence, Gu Jie massaged his aching head and continued, “After she closed the door, she started crying, saying how serious and hardworking she is in acting, how many of the NGs could have been okayed, and that the director’s demands were too harsh…”

Ran Lin guessed the gist. “So she was hoping you would talk to the director on her behalf?”

Gu Jie corrected him, “She was crying and trying to snuggle into my arms while saying all that.”

“……” Ran Lin had anticipated the ending, but not the process.

“If she was genuinely crying, really feeling unappreciated and unjust, I could have comforted her as a brother,” Gu Jie expressed his frustration. “But she wasn’t. She was crying, and at the same time…”

Ran Lin leaned in eagerly, his ears practically antennas.

Alas, his friend skipped over the details and concluded, “Anyway, I felt her intentions weren’t pure, so I just left.”

Ran Lin tilted his head in thought and said, “Strictly speaking, you were harassed, but at least you didn’t suffer much. Don’t be upset about it.”

“I’m not upset about that. I’m a grown man; what harm could I have suffered?” Gu Jie responded, “I’m frustrated because if she knows there’s a problem with her acting, she should work on it and overcome it through diligence, not resort to underhanded tactics.”

Ran Lin nodded, understanding Gu Jie’s feelings now. They were the ones who had the most scenes with Qi Luoluo, so they knew best what she was like.

After more than ten days of working together, Qi Luoluo’s constant NGs had been a stumbling block, and while she seemed receptive to criticism, she never seemed to improve. The director repeatedly pointed out the same issues, yet she would repeat the same mistakes in different scenes the next day, indicating a lack of effort on her part. If she had put in even a little effort, the difference would have been noticeable. Just as Gu Jie said, diligence can compensate for deficiencies.

With this new development and having to continue acting opposite her tomorrow, Gu Jie’s frustration was understandable.

“Let’s not think about it anymore.” Gu Jie finished his half cup of remaining beer and poured a second one, clinking it against Ran Lin’s bowl of noodles in a toast-like gesture before downing it in one gulp.

Seeing his usually carefree friend so troubled, Ran Lin couldn’t help but feel concerned.

The next day, on the set of <Dyeing Fire>, Ran Lin’s concerns were realized.

Qi Luoluo continued her streak of NGs, and today, Gu Jie joined her in the struggle.

Gu Jie’s personality was such that it was obvious when something was bothering him, and the excess thoughts also interfered with his performance. After the director called “cut” a few times, sensing something amiss, he pulled Gu Jie aside for a private talk outside the shooting area.

The crew, crammed in the rental house’s “living room”, looked at each other, puzzled at why the usually consistent Gu Jie was suddenly making as many mistakes as Qi Luoluo.

The makeup artist took the opportunity to touch up Qi Luoluo’s makeup, carefully blotting the sweat from her forehead before reapplying powder.

Ran Lin’s side was much simpler; a quick wipe of sweat was all he needed, as he was practically half in makeup.

As the crew enjoyed a rare break, chatting in small groups, Ran Lin headed to the “bedroom”, where a just-retouched Qi Luoluo was taking refuge from the heat in the air-conditioned room.

“It’s pretty hot today,” Ran Lin said as he entered, attempting to strike up a casual conversation.

“Yeah.” The girl smiled back at him, neither too intimately nor too distantly, just friendly.

Ran Lin finally realized what felt odd about Qi Luoluo from the night before. The Qi Luoluo he knew was always quite natural and comfortable, so the girl Gu Jie described didn’t seem to fit with the “Qi Luoluo” he knew.

But perhaps he hadn’t really understood her, Ran Lin thought, because ever since Qi Luoluo joined the crew, Han Ze’s side had been restless, so aside from focusing on acting, his remaining attention was diverted there, leaving no room for deeper interactions with Qi Luoluo.

“I’ve been holding back the progress of the crew.” Qi Luoluo suddenly spoke up in a low, disheartened voice. “Ran Ge, you must be mad at me too.”

Ran Lin involuntarily frowned. He wasn’t expecting Qi Luoluo to bring up this sensitive topic, and then there was…

“Why ‘too’?” He followed up on her wording.

Qi Luoluo looked up with a touch of sadness in her delicately arched brows. “Because Gu Ge is already mad at me, and today he deliberately NG’d.”

The word “deliberately” surprised Ran Lin, as Gu Jie was the least likely to do such a thing. But what intrigued him more was her use of the term “mad”.

She clearly knew why Gu Jie was upset but mentioning it to a “third party” like him seemed risky.

“Why would Gu Jie be mad at you?” Ran Lin still asked.

Qi Luoluo looked at him puzzledly, saying, “Didn’t I just say it? Because I’ve been holding back the progress of the crew.”

Ran Lin blinked, taken aback, before realizing Qi Luoluo wasn’t admitting to anything about harassing Gu Jie the previous night.

On one hand, he berated himself for jumping to conclusions, and on the other, he was amazed at Qi Luoluo’s composure. Perhaps she thought he and Gu Jie weren’t close enough for Gu Jie to tell him about the incident, so she was utterly composed now.

“Ran Ge?” Qi Luoluo blinked in confusion. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Oh,” Ran Lin snapped back to reality and said, “I was thinking about the script.”

“You’re really good at acting,” Qi Luoluo said earnestly, then glanced cautiously towards the door as if ensuring it was safe, before whispering, “Actually, I’ve always thought you should be the male lead. Compared to your acting, Gu Ge is still lacking.”

“……” Ran Lin was at a loss for words.

“Don’t tell Gu Ge what I said, okay?” Qi Luoluo playfully stuck out her tongue, looking playful and cute.

But Ran Lin couldn’t appreciate her charm objectively anymore. His feelings were indescribably mixed.

After making an excuse to end the conversation, Ran Lin returned to the “living room” and buried himself in the script for a long time. Just as he was settling down, the director and Gu Jie returned, announcing a change in the shooting schedule. Due to Gu Jie’s poor condition, they wouldn’t shoot interior scenes today but would instead switch to exterior long shots, which required little dialogue or acting, just the presence of the actors.

When the decision was announced, Director He’s expression was unreadable, as usual.

But Ran Lin felt a storm brewing behind his eyes, unsure of what exactly had transpired between him and Gu Jie.

As for Gu Jie, he was visibly downcast, likely upset about his lack of focus. After all, he was someone who would rather work through the night than delay the progress of the crew.

As the director commanded, the crew had to move, so everyone headed to the outskirts of Wuhan to shoot some long shots and back views. However, none of these scenes required Jiang Xiaoxiao’s appearance, so when the crew headed out to the suburbs, the director asked Qi Luoluo to return to the hotel first.

By 7 p.m., Ran Lin followed the crew’s car back to the hotel and saw that Gu Jie was still in low spirits. He tried to take him out for dinner and drinks, but his friend declined.

“I don’t feel like going out today,” Gu Jie refused simply.

Ran Lin sighed and considerately asked, “So do you want to stay alone in the room, or would you like some company to chat with?” Implying he was fine with either, whether Gu Jie wanted to be alone or needed someone to talk to, he was ready to oblige.

Gu Jie chose neither but proposed option C instead.

So, ten minutes later, Ran Lin was timing him, watching how many push-ups he could do in a minute. It was more about Gu Jie venting his frustration than exercising, from yesterday’s “accident” to today’s NG. For someone who usually goes about life carefree, these setbacks were troubling.

After a round of push-ups, Gu Jie’s muscles seemed even more defined.

Ran Lin pondered whether he should also start working out more seriously while casually asking, “What did you and Director He talk about for so long, and why did it lead to changing to outdoor scenes?”

Gu Jie despairingly replied, “It wasn’t talking; it was more like intense interrogation.”

Ran Lin swallowed hard. “Did the director… hit you?”

“Almost,” Gu Jie said, defeated, wiping his face with the hem of his tank top, “if I didn’t tell the truth.”

Despite always finding Director He to be a good-tempered person, Ran Lin realized that perhaps the director was less polite with Gu Jie, possibly due to their familiarity and the director’s direct nature. If he was set on clarifying something, cornering Gu Jie and pressuring him was a possibility, especially given Gu Jie’s unusual behavior today.

The only actress had already been a letdown, and with the male lead acting out of character, the director was probably desperate to resolve the issues, preferring clarity over leaving things unsettled.

“So the director now knows about Qi Luoluo seeking you out?” Ran Lin didn’t really need to ask to confirm.

Sure enough, Gu Jie nodded helplessly.

They discussed what Gu Jie intended to do about it, as Qi Luoluo hadn’t really done anything offensive, and he had already rejected her. But he hadn’t expected to be so off today that the director noticed something was amiss.

“I know you’re feeling conflicted,” Ran Lin pointed out, “like you’ve snitched, right?”

Gu Jie looked up in surprise. “Exactly!”

Ran Lin sighed and analyzed, “The core issue is the serious delay in shooting progress. The director and the producer are worried about it. Even if it wasn’t for the issue between you and Qi Luoluo, her NGs would have eventually brought up other problems. The shooting can’t go on like this.”

Before Gu Jie could respond, his phone rang. After a brief “hello,” the conversation was mostly from the other side. It ended quickly, and Gu Jie hung up.

Ran Lin raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

Gu Jie straightforwardly replied, “Director He has called Qi Luoluo for a talk.”

Perhaps due to the shadow left by Gu Jie’s incident, Ran Lin’s first reaction was, “Called to his own room? Just the two of them?”

“No,” Gu Jie said. “Director He’s assistant was also there.”

Ran Lin realized belatedly that his worries were completely unnecessary.

After all, Director He had been in the entertainment industry for so many years. He wasn’t just any individual but a truly sage figure, having experienced more pitfalls than they had trodden paths. By now, he was well-guarded and invulnerable.

“Hold on.” Ran Lin suddenly remembered something. “Who called you?”

“My assistant,” Gu Jie said.

Ran Lin frowned. “Why would your assistant keep an eye on every move of Director He?”

“I asked him to,” Gu Jie replied, placing his phone back on the table. “I had a feeling that Director He would take some action today.”

Ran Lin prodded, “Then guess what Director He might say to Qi Luoluo.”

Gu Jie responded with a frustrated tone, “If I could read his mind, I would be the director…”

The two chatted desultorily until they were too tired to continue and didn’t come to any conclusive result, eventually going to sleep.

The next day, they both woke up to a notification—the crew was halting production for a day. The notice was sent to a WeChat group, meaning every crew member received it, and it wasn’t just a blunt announcement of a halt but rather a tactful explanation of the reason—the need to find a new actress to play Jiang Xiaoxiao.

This tactful approach didn’t outright say the crew had terminated the contract with Qi Luoluo but given the size of the crew and their awareness of the shooting conditions over the past few days, it wasn’t just about the delayed schedule. It was also about the quality of the scenes that barely made it through, which were not up to the director’s high standards. Everyone could see that even the scenes that were passed were reluctantly approved, and those that couldn’t pass were far from even being marginally acceptable. Director He was famous for his pursuit of quality, leading to private discussions about a potential change in cast. Now that it had happened, it wasn’t surprising.

However, the director didn’t have the power to directly fire the actress. Everyone had to adhere to the contract and terminating the contract with Qi Luoluo meant paying a penalty fee. Nevertheless, the director and producer decided to go through with it, likely seeing it as a lesser of two evils. They probably reasoned that finding a reliable new actress would only push back the wrap-up date by a month or so, which was preferable to facing an impossible situation at the end.

On June 5^th, all members of the <Dyeing Fire> crew were idly in the hotel, and most of them felt that the “one-day halt” was optimistic. If finding a suitable emergency replacement actress was that easy, the director wouldn’t have been so distressed initially, resorting to casting a newcomer recommended by an acquaintance.

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