Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

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

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Chapter 69

Xia Xinran wasn’t a man who always did what he said, but Gu Jie was. When Xia Xinran, full from eating until late into the night, wanted to go home and sleep, he was ruthlessly obstructed by Gu Jie.

After declaring it an all-nighter, they agreed not to stop until the first rays of dawn broke through the clouds and lit up the sky. Throughout the night, Xia Xinran, hugging Ran Lin, repeatedly asked why he had agreed to dine out with this person.

Ran Lin, sipping on sour plum soup, was neither tired nor sleepy, but rather content.

As the sun rose, Gu Jie, true to his word, arranged for a driver to send everyone home in his formidable Land Rover.

As for the “letter of severance of relations with the Gu family” Xia Xinran had written on a napkin at 3 a.m., no one knew where it ended up; no one remembered it anymore.

When the car first stopped at Xia Xinran’s place, he, barely able to keep his eyes open, reminded them, “Remember, next time the spicy hot pot is on me!”

Despite the initial rounds of drinking, the three of them had mostly stuck to non-alcoholic beverages throughout the night, so aside from fatigue, they were all sober.

After Xia Xinran was dropped off and the car started up again, Ran Lin suddenly remembered something important and asked Gu Jie, “When you recommend me to Director He, does the director need to see clips of my performance? My team has made a highlight reel of my performances. I can send it to you if needed.”

After saying everything in one breath, Ran Lin realized it was inappropriate. After all, helping was a favor, not an obligation. Gu Jie’s willingness to make introductions was already meaningful. His words seemed overly concerned and eager, likely adding pressure to Gu Jie. Moreover, his words were unfiltered and direct, spoken as soon as they came to mind…

“No need.” Gu Jie flatly refused. “Whatever your team made for you will surely be only the best parts. Even if I take it, Director He won’t watch it.”

Ran Lin looked at his friend’s disdainful face and suddenly realized his attitude was overly polite.

Feeling complicated, he suddenly felt a heavy pat on his shoulder, then heard Gu Jie continue, “What era are we in now? A simple online search will turn up all your videos. Director He will definitely observe you from all angles. He even has an account on Station B.”

Ran Lin, mouth agape, doubted his ears. “That’s… trendy?”

“A ghost edit video can open new perspectives for observing an actor,” Gu Jie explained. “That’s his exact words.”

Ran Lin was filled with emotion. “No wonder he became a famous director…”

Gu Jie stretched his arms out, resting them on the backseat, leaned back, and sighed as if enlightened. “So… without experiencing hardships, how can you see a rainbow~~ No one can succeed easily~~”

It was an old song, but when Gu Jie hummed it, it still carried an invigorating, motivational feel.

Ran Lin suddenly realized that Gu Jie’s attitude was exactly the kind of equanimity he had always strived for. Simple, pure, direct; ready to wait a year for a good script, willing to curse at a director who rewrote a script he’d memorized, and helping a friend with whom he wasn’t particularly close.

It wasn’t a choice made after weighing gains and losses; it was just his character.

With the power of a role model, when it was time to get off at his home, Ran Lin had no more hesitations and began to treat Gu Jie like a brother. “Say some good words about me in front of the director, you hear?”

Gu Jie, with a “you-don’t-need-to-tell-me-that” look, still cautioned, “Even if I say good things, if you don’t catch Director He’s eye, don’t blame me.”

Ran Lin smiled, recalling the enticing food descriptions Gu Jie had made at the hotpot party and immediately promised, “Whether it works out or not, I’ll treat you to authentic Inner Mongolian roasted lamb leg, crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, a taste that lingers!”

“Remembered, huh… I knew you had more conscience than that guy,” Gu Jie said, clenching his fist and thumping his chest twice. “Leave it to me and wait for the victorious news!”

Ran Lin mimicked the gesture, thumping his chest twice and suddenly feeling like he had joined some secret brotherhood.

After returning home, Ran Lin fell asleep almost immediately and didn’t wake up until two in the afternoon. Feeling rejuvenated, he went online to search for information about the film <Dyeing Fire>.

[A story of the praying mantis stalking a cicada, while oriole follows*.]

*Idiom refers to while coveting the gains ahead, one should be aware of the dangers behind.

Ran Lin looked at the movie synopsis that only had one sentence after searching it and almost wanted to drop the mouse.

Director He, you might as well work for the secret service!

As for the cast, other than Gu Jie’s confirmed participation, there were guesses about every young actor you could name on Weibo, with marketers betting on who would be cast, including rumors that Director He might use a completely inexperienced newcomer.

Compared to that, at least the information Gu Jie shared had some substance. In the movie, Gu Jie plays a film cop, and he thinks Ran Lin would suit the role of a young man just released from prison, who at eighteen had followed the wrong crowd and got incarcerated for robbery. Now, six years later, he’s released at the start of the film at twenty-four.

As for the relationship between the film cop and this young man, since the new script was still up in the air, even Gu Jie wasn’t sure. But in the old script, the young man was described as thin, with pale skin hinting at green, living in a daze, and listless.

Ran Lin didn’t know why Gu Jie thought he fit this young man’s character, but he didn’t dare to ask too much for fear of upsetting matters.

A day passed after that.

The good news came on August 13^th, the day Ran Lin was shooting an advertisement for the web game of <Sword of Fallen Flowers>.

He was in a magnificent costume, dueling with Tang Xiaoyu, who was clad in a moonlight white robe, both enjoying the swordplay. After the scene, they stood side by side, forcefully delivering the ad’s catchphrase to the camera—

“The most romantic sentiment, the fiercest martial world, Sword of Fallen Flowers, waiting for you to battle!”

The director was satisfied and declared it a wrap for the half-day shoot.

Tang Xiaoyu couldn’t wait to take off his makeup as he started to remove the large, bright green jade pendant hanging in front of his chest while walking back to the makeup room. He complained about the rough and shoddy work of the costume and makeup department and realized. “No wonder ‘Elder Brother’ didn’t come to shoot. It’s really a bit embarrassing.”

Ran Lin looked forward to the future. “It will also be blasted on various online platform ads.”

Tang Xiaoyu lamented, “My gentle and jade-like Xu Chongfei, ruined…”

As Ran Lin sympathized with him, Liu Wanwan caught up, offering a constantly vibrating phone, saying, “Ran Ge, you’ve got a call.”

Seeing “Gu Jie” on the caller ID, Ran Lin had a very auspicious premonition.

……

Wang Xi didn’t stay with Ran Lin to finish shooting the web game advertisement that day. Instead, after escorting him to the set and exchanging pleasantries with the director, she hurriedly returned to Dream Without Limits.

After confronting Han Ze, she had been incredibly busy for two consecutive days with various pre-scheduled meetings and activities, such as meeting with producers, directors, or networking with potential investors who might not be immediately useful but could be valuable in the future. Her schedule was packed, so she hadn’t had the chance to report her intention to change agents to the company.

Of course, she was also being cautious.

Even though Han Ze’s work had been mediocre in the past two years, he was still considered the top star of Dream Without Limits. Proposing to change agents as an artist of his stature would undoubtedly lead to criticism, and she needed time to prepare a persuasive explanation for the higher-ups.

Today, having finally found some free time and prepared her rationale, she left Ran Lin and returned to Dream Without Limits. She had already informed the boss the previous afternoon, so upon her return, she went straight to the boss’ office, who was waiting for her, which seemed like a good sign.

Everything seemed optimistic.

Before she could speak, the boss said, “Han Ze told me.”

Wang Xi had calculated everything, but she didn’t anticipate that Han Ze would act first, underestimating his shrewdness. Facts prove even the dumbest person can have moments of clarity, especially when they’re up to no good.

With the boss already spoken, Wang Xi didn’t need to say anything. She just sat there, bracing for the inevitable scolding.

When Han Ze got ruthless, he didn’t show any mercy at all. He even shared the intimate details of their initial romance with the boss, though he twisted the story to portray it as “his youthful naivety against her calculated scheming”. He piled on accusations of her inability to separate personal from professional matters, poor leadership, and more, blaming her for all the mishaps and setbacks in his career over the past two years, dumping all the blame onto her in one go.

Wang Xi wasn’t surprised by Han Ze’s betrayal or the boss’ full-blown rant. After all, if she couldn’t manage her relationship with the artists well, even she admitted that her management of Han Ze was a failure from a career standpoint.

So, she pretended to listen attentively to the boss’s scolding while actually checking if the curtains in the office were drawn.

Unfortunately, they weren’t.

This wasn’t a well-soundproofed office, and with the clear glass windows, the boss seemed determined to spare her no dignity. Wang Xi was surprised, but when the boss almost finished his rant and suggested they didn’t need to look for another agent within the company for Han Ze because he had already found a suitable one who would soon join Dream Without Limits brokerage team and become her new colleague, she realized the root of today’s drama.

It seemed the company had been contemplating removing her from her position even before discussing it with them.

If she was right, this “new colleague” would either take over her role or work alongside her at an equal level, effectively changing the leadership dynamics within the agent department.

Indeed, a too dominant subordinate isn’t often favored by leaders.

Wang Xi thought back and realized she had indeed turned down many high-paying but low-quality projects for Han Ze. She had done her best for him, but from the company’s profit-first perspective, dissatisfaction was inevitable.

As the boss softened his tone after mentioning the new agent, it was clear he was using a mix of intimidation and kindness, a common tactic for those in power. Wang Xi inwardly scoffed, but outwardly nodded earnestly.

The boss seemed pleased with her reaction, probably surprised by her compliance, and quickly concluded the meeting, allowing her to leave.

Wang Xi was surprised herself with her calmness; in the past, she would never have imagined being so composed, recalling times when she even slammed tables during arguments. But now, she understood that acting on impulse is easy; the hard part is enduring and staying focused on the goal.

Ran Lin’s career was just beginning to shine, and she didn’t want to abandon it midway.

As she walked out of the office, all her colleagues pretended to be busy, but she knew they were all watching her, listening for any signs of her reaction.

Taking a deep breath, she walked out with her head held high, her heels clicking assertively on the floor. Just then, her phone rang from her bag. Stopping briefly, she quickly answered while continuing to walk, “Hello?”

It was Ran Lin on the line.

Just two minutes ago, he had become her only partner.

Strangely, just seeing his name on the display brought her comfort, as if a refreshing rain had fallen.

“Xi Jie…” The voice on the other end seemed to be holding back something.

Wang Xi tensed up, thinking she couldn’t afford any more surprises, when Ran Lin shared, “Director He from <Dyeing Fire> has invited me to dinner!”

Wang Xi had reached the elevator and was pressing the button while asking, “What fire? Which Director He?”

“The one who directed <Eliminating a Good Man>, He Guan, Director He. His new movie <Dyeing Fire> needs to recast a few actors due to scheduling issues, and he wants to see me!”

She could hear the suppressed excitement in his voice.

As the elevator arrived and the doors opened slowly, Wang Xi stood still and asked, “Did Director He contact you personally?”

“No,” Ran Lin answered honestly. “A friend helped me make the connection.”

As the elevator doors closed and it continued down without her, Wang Xi watched the floor numbers blinking and quietly said, “When did you get such a wide network?”

There was a moment of hesitation on the other end of the phone before Ran Lin asked, “Xi Jie, are you happy or not about this? Can you give me some direction first?”

Wang Xi’s lips, previously pursed in a straight line, slowly relaxed into a softer expression, though her voice remained calm. “Which male lead are we talking about?”

“Either male lead one or two,” Ran Lin replied, swallowing nervously. “It depends on how the script is revised. If it’s a double lead, then male lead one. If not, then male lead two.”

Wang Xi: “And who is the confirmed male lead one?”

Ran Lin: “Gu Jie.”

Wang Xi: “Oh, he’s the one who made the connection for you.”

Ran Lin: “…Xi Jie, you could be a detective.”

Unable to suppress her smile any longer, Wang Xi pressed the elevator button again and exhaled slowly, “Shooting Director He’s films is notoriously tough. Can you handle it?”

“The hardship is fine,” Ran Lin paused before adding, “but the pay is a bit low. Xi Jie, can you handle it?”

“I can,” Wang Xi laughed without mirth. “But the company will probably have a headache.”

Ran Lin’s voice grew troubled. “Then what should we do…”

Wang Xi thought to offer him a plaque with “worrying needlessly” written on it. “What to do is for me to consider. But the premise of considering it is that you actually get the role first, right?”

Ran Lin: “……”

Wang Xi: “What’s wrong?”

Ran Lin: “That’s a bit harsh.”

Wang Xi: “Instead of feeling hurt, you’d better hurry up and rewatch all of Director He’s previous films. Watch them again, and then a third time. The most lovable people in the world are die-hard fans, understand?!”

Ran Lin: “Understood!”

Wang Xi could imagine Ran Lin’s silly grin just from his voice. As she was about to step into the elevator, her phone rang again.

The notorious “signal killer” elevator of the office building seemed to suggest to Wang Xi that perhaps she should take the stairs. Turning to the stairwell, she carefully descended in her high heels, phone in hand. “Yeah… I’m listening… go ahead…”

She had barely gone down one flight when she stopped in her tracks.

The call was from the movie adaptation of <Chronicles of Winter>—Ran Lin had been confirmed for the lead role, and the contract was already drafted and ready to be sent over.

This was one of the most efficient and decisive production teams Wang Xi had ever dealt with. She felt it wasn’t her luck but Ran Lin’s.

After hanging up, she breezed down to the first floor, stepping out into the harsh August sun. But instead of feeling overwhelmed by the heat, Wang Xi felt a sense of clarity and brightness.

Standing in the sunlight, she tried to recall which senior executive at the company had suggested transferring Ran Lin from Kang Hui to her care. She couldn’t remember who it was, only sure that it wasn’t the one who had scolded her that day.

Resigned, she visualized the executive as a shadowy figure with bright eyes in her mind and sincerely thanked them—

Thank you.

……

Ran Lin knew that due to continuous script revisions and repeated schedule delays, Director He was anxious to finalize the cast, but he didn’t expect it to be so urgent.

“Are you free tomorrow? Director He said he’d book a flight over if you’re available.” Gu Jie always got straight to the point, making every word count when discussing business.

It took Ran Lin a couple of seconds to digest the information. “Tomorrow might not work; I have a full day of scheduled appearances. Also, isn’t Director He in Beijing?”

“He’s in Wuhan,” Gu Jie explained. “Overseeing script revisions and scouting filming locations.”

“How about the day after tomorrow?” Ran Lin felt awkward delaying any further, especially since the director was willing to fly out to meet him.

“That’s fine, just don’t change your mind. And…” Gu Jie paused before continuing honestly, “He’s not coming just to see you. Others have recommended actors to him too; he’s planning to meet with everyone in one trip.”

Ran Lin suddenly understood and felt more at ease. “That makes more sense. It would be too much of an honor if he was coming just to see me.”

Gu Jie didn’t expect such a reaction and laughed. “Right, a role is only valuable when there’s competition. Good luck.”

Ran Lin was determined to give it his all, but he also wanted to use his resources wisely. “How did you impress Director He initially?”

Usually straightforward, Gu Jie hesitated this time. After a long pause, he admitted, “My experience might not be applicable to you.”

Ran Lin did not force others against their will, but long after the call ended, he still imagined Gu Jie shattering the audition table with a single palm, Director He clapping stiffly at the table collapsed in two, and finally, with a grit of his teeth, deciding “It’s you!”

The next day, Ran Lin spent his entire day fulfilling scheduled appearances, but whenever he had a moment, he’d watch Director He’s previous films on his phone. He had seen most of them before, but this time he focused on rewatching the director’s most classic and personally satisfying works. He delved deep into the films, studying the style, narrative structure, emotional exploration, and underlying messages.

He avoided film reviews and relied on his own understanding.

Recently, he hadn’t been in touch much with Lu Yiyao due to the latter’s hectic filming schedule. The last time they spoke, Lu Yiyao was excited about how immersed he was in his role, using methods Ran Lin had suggested and finding his own approaches. He hoped to maintain this momentum and not be a fleeting sensation.

Ran Lin could hear his excitement and tension.

Lu Yiyao may not be obsessed with acting, but he was the type of person who, when doing something, wants to do it to his satisfaction, especially when encountering difficulties, there was no second path other than “overcoming” them. Therefore, breaking through bottlenecks and finding the right feeling brought him a sense of achievement after surmounting the challenges.

Ran Lin was happy for him and understood the state of being deeply immersed in a role, so he tried not to disturb him lately.

If he could secure the role in <Dyeing Fire>, likely the contract for <Chronicles of Winter> would also be signed by then. Just after speaking with Wang Xi, his agent returned with good news: not only was he confirmed for <Chronicles of Winter>, but the contract was also ready to be signed soon if there were no issues with the terms.

Thinking about sharing two pieces of good news at once made Ran Lin quite proud, almost ready to boast to Lu Yiyao.

Outside the car window, the night deepened. Liu Wanwan watched Ran Lin, just finished with his schedule, holding his phone and watching a somber, realistic tragedy, yet smiling sweetly. She unconsciously moved a bit further towards the car door.

Her phone vibrated again. Frowning, Liu Wanwan opened WeChat and replied—[Tired, don’t want to chat.]

The other side persisted—[Don’t go, I’m still on set. Probably will be shooting till late night. Keep me company?]

Liu Wanwan was exasperated—[Why should I stay up with you?]

The other person justified—[Your boss and my boss are friends; we should maintain a good interaction too.]

Liu Wanwan—[Talk to me when you’re as handsome as your boss!]

The other side—[You can’t judge someone by their appearance! 🫴*]

*It’s actually Erkang’s hand gesture.

Liu Wanwan’s lips curved into a smile at the picture, but she resolved not to reply. Otherwise, the conversation would never end.

This colleague named “Li Tong” seemed to always find something to chat about with her, and before Liu Wanwan realized it, they had become quite familiar. Especially lately, Li Tong complained about the inhuman schedule of the <Split Moon> crew, starting work earlier than chickens and finishing later, with him suffering alongside his boss.

Liu Wanwan, feeling sorry for him, occasionally engaged in these little chats.

Neither Ran Lin nor Lu Yiyao knew that their assistants had started talking. One was preoccupied with meeting a director the next day, while the other was diligently working on set.

The next day was overcast with intermittent rain.

As soon as Ran Lin stepped out of the car, the wind almost snatched his hat away, but thankfully, the driver stopped right under the sign of “Authentic Inner Mongolian Roast Whole Lamb”, allowing him to quickly enter the restaurant without being exposed to the pre-rain winds for too long.

After he mentioned the name of the private room, a waitress immediately led him inside. However, she recognized him just a few steps in, gasped in excitement, and repeatedly expressed her fondness for his portrayal of Xu Chongfei. Ran Lin nodded continuously, hiding his dismay and agreeing, “Yes, Xu Chongfei is quite popular.”

They reached the door of the private room, and the waitress, now less excited, considerately opened the door for him. As Ran Lin entered, he felt the cool air—the air conditioning was quite strong.

Inside the spacious room sat only two people: one, his friend, beaming and energetic, dressed as if ready for a martial arts practice, and the other, casually dressed in a round-neck sweatshirt and loose shorts with a fisherman’s hat beside him—undoubtedly Director He.

Due to Gu Jie’s insistence that the day be informal, like a friends’ gathering rather than work, and the director’s preference to chat with actors, Ran Lin didn’t bring along Wang Xi.

Knowing Director He’s temperament, Wang Xi didn’t insist but reminded Ran Lin to perform well.

At that moment, Gu Jie stood up and warmly invited, “Come, have a seat.”

However, Director He remained still, not even turning to look, his gaze fixed on the teacup in front of him, exuding an inviolable majesty.

Ran Lin swallowed nervously and attempted to greet, “Director He…” but the director seemed absorbed, not responding.

Ran Lin sat down with Gu Jie, but his gaze still rested on Director He, realizing that just as Gu Jie had described, the director seemed to have entered a mysterious realm incomprehensible to others, automatically shielding himself from all external disturbances and focusing solely on his inner world.

“Have the dishes been ordered?” Ran Lin whispered.

Gu Jie nodded. “Don’t worry. All the dishes I ordered are classics.”

Ran Lin, amused yet slightly confused, wondered if Gu Jie misunderstood his question.

“By the way,” Gu Jie, remembering something, whispered, “About the lower pay for the film, there’s no issue with your agency, right? If everything goes well but you back out due to the pay, it’ll be a disaster for me. Director He would be furious.”

Ran Lin understood Gu Jie’s concerns.

As an artist signed with a company, unlike those who own their studios, he didn’t have much say in choosing scripts. The company took seventy percent of the film’s earnings, so when it came to spending a few months filming, whether earning one million or ten million, the company’s choice was obvious and without hesitation.

At such times, Ran Lin felt it was better not to be too famous. “I’ve already informed my agent. It’s all good. No eager investors are trying to throw money at me yet.”

Gu Jie laughed, about to pour a glass of water for Ran Lin, when suddenly he noticed Director He looked up, quickly patting Ran Lin on the shoulder.

Ran Lin, catching the cue, turned and met Director He’s gaze, standing up respectfully and greeting, “Director He.”

He Guan was a tall and burly man with a square face, a crew cut, deep eye sockets, a slightly hooked nose, and a chin adorned with stubble, presenting a very formidable and fierce appearance.

“Sit down quickly. No need for such formalities.” Director He finally ended his contemplation and gestured hastily.

Despite his rugged appearance, He Guan’s voice was surprisingly easygoing. Even without a smile, his facial features seemed relaxed, lacking the pretentious depth or sternness common among many directors.

“Today is just a casual chat. Don’t be nervous. If you’re nervous, you won’t be yourself, and then today’s meal will be wasted.” Director He was straightforward, addressing the purpose of the meeting without overemphasizing it, maintaining a comfortable balance.

Ran Lin didn’t know what to say for a moment, just staring at the genial, smiling director, finding him quite marvelous.

Director He, unflinchingly, let the young actor observe him, and after a while, asked with interest, “Noticed anything?”

Ran Lin, snapping back to reality and a bit embarrassed, honestly replied, “You feel completely different from the atmosphere of your films.”

“Many people say that,” Director He watched him quietly, continuing, “But I still want to hear your thoughts.”

Ran Lin tilted his head, thought for a moment, then tactfully said, “No matter the subject or story of your films or the group they focus on, be it the lower class or the middle class, they all tend to be… gloomy and harsh. But you, in person, are especially bright and cheerful, not at all like that.”

“Gloomy, harsh…” He Guan mulled over these words, then suddenly looked at Ran Lin. “Don’t be polite with me. Can you be more direct?”

Ran Lin glanced at Gu Jie subconsciously.

Gu Jie, instead of hinting, said, “Don’t worry. Speak freely. Director He likes straightforward people.”

Ran Lin always felt one day Gu Jie would lead him into trouble. But seeing his friend’s open expression, and Director He’s similar demeanor, he suspected they might have bonded over their personalities and decided to be frank. “Pessimistic. Even if the ending is happy, it leaves one feeling hopeless and suffocated. It’s particularly bleak.”

Bang!

Director He slammed the table, startling Ran Lin. Amid the echo of the table slam, Director He burst into hearty laughter. “Gu Jie, I like your friend!”

Gu Jie, smugly, replied, “I never recommend someone blindly!”

Both men’s confidence enlivened the atmosphere.

Ran Lin unconsciously swallowed, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two men, feeling an anxious trepidation that, after this meal, he might be coerced into something daunting by the pair.

Just then, the waiter, perhaps timing it perfectly, brought over three roasted lamb legs, one in front of each person, creating a striking visual impact.

Just as Ran Lin thought they were about to feast, the waiter brought over a pot of fragrant tea. Unlike the complimentary tea, this was specially ordered and of high quality.

Noticing Ran Lin’s confusion, Director He smiled kindly. “Drinking can lead to trouble, so today let’s eat well and drink tea heartily.”

Ran Lin suddenly felt an urge to slam the table and shout himself—he was growing fond of this capricious director who played by his own rules!

The scent of the tea mingled with the aroma of the meat. Without any formalities or toasts, Director He simply commanded, “Eat.”

“Actually, a person’s understanding and perception change with age,” Director He began as they ate. “No director’s style stays the same forever, which is why I’ve been revising the script repeatedly. The screenwriter is an old friend, too accustomed to my style and prone to falling back into old patterns, but this time I wanted to do something less bleak.”

Ran Lin was surprised to hear Director He was challenging himself. “Something optimistic…uplifting?”

“Not exactly,” the director replied seriously. “This time, I’m not planning to imbue my personal feelings. I’ll let the camera follow an objective documentary style, avoiding judgment on the characters or events in the film, leaving right and wrong for the audience to decide, striving for the stark ‘harshness’ you mentioned earlier.”

Ran Lin thought to himself that bleakness and harshness aren’t mutually exclusive; in fact, his previous films were just that—a harsh style of bleakness. But he hesitated to discourage the director’s enthusiastic explanation. Changes might be real, and only the director might understand them. He couldn’t comprehend everything in just one meal.

He looked at Gu Jie, hoping to glean some insight from his partner to better understand Director He’s profound theories. But when he turned, he found his friend fully engaged in a battle with the stubborn lamb leg.

With a sigh of despair, Ran Lin turned back to his own thoughts. After a moment, he was ready to share his views, excitedly looked up, but then hesitated and held back his words.

Perhaps growing impatient waiting for Ran Lin to speak, Director He also focused on his meal, determined to conquer the lamb leg.

Ran Lin looked left, then right, and after a long moment of mixed feelings, he too threw himself into eating!

---

Kinky Thoughts:

I know the author is trying to whitewash Wang Xi and give her redemption, but like common now. It’s completely unethical to date your artist, and given that age gap and her position in power, it’s absolutely conceivable she took advantage of Han Ze (regardless of how he’s portrayed in the novel).

For such a supposedly competent and smart woman, she sure dug herself a lot of pits.

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<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

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

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Chapter 68

By the time Ran Lin was auditioning for the last scene, Wang Xi received a message from a friend. This friend had some connections with Shengshi Media; although not employed there, they often interacted and knew some insiders. So ever since the producer changed their attitude and invited Ran Lin to audition, Wang Xi had asked this friend to investigate the reasons behind it.

Wang Xi feared encountering another Ding Kai.

Even now, Wang Xi didn’t fully understand the ins and outs of the <Mint Green> incident. Despite inquiring through friends, they couldn’t unearth much. Zhang Beichen had surely pulled some strings, but ultimately, Ding Kai had the final say. So when they were stood up at the last minute, Wang Xi couldn’t help but feel played by Ding Kai.

Being played was the least of it; she was just relieved Ding Kai hadn’t set them up intentionally.

Wang Xi definitely didn’t want to experience the same thing a second time, knowing not everyone was as easy to move on as Ding Kai.

Fortunately, the replying friend said it was genuinely because the higher-ups at Shengshi Media really appreciated Ran Lin’s performance in <Sword of Fallen Flowers>. Moreover, Ran Lin’s career wasn’t focused on being a popularity-based idol but more on being an actor, which aligned with the executives’ intention not to turn <Chronicles of Winter> into a fan-driven movie. Additionally, Ran Lin was young enough and had a strong youthful vibe, fitting the character of “Xiao Shitou” well, making him an almost natural choice.

Wang Xi’s heart, suspended for half a month, finally settled down.

She turned off her phone screen and looked up at the audition area, where Ran Lin had just finished berating the Emperor of the North. His anger hadn’t subsided yet; his face was flushed red with rage, his chest heaving dramatically, and his eyes seemed to spit fire.

As Wang Xi watched Ran Lin, the producer and director were also observing him.

Ran Lin’s aura was unyielding; they too were caught up in the emotional rollercoaster of his lines, unable to detach themselves immediately.

The producer, who had initially been entertained, now furrowed his brow, unable to feel as upbeat. When Ran Lin was denouncing the Emperor of the North, he practically directed all his emotions at them, almost making them and Director Huang stand-ins for the Sage. The producer felt he was being scolded, so he intellectually observed but was emotionally involved—such was the actor’s influence.

Director Huang’s expression remained unchanged, but he knew inside he was somewhat relieved. It was not easy in recent years for a candidate recommended by investors to meet a director’s aesthetic and artistic standards—not even needing full marks, just passing was enough. This was especially true for commercial films like his, requiring more compromises, needing to please investors without tarnishing his own reputation, which sometimes made things quite challenging.

“Pretty good.” Director Huang finally broke the silence, allowing the stagnant air in the room to circulate once more. He stood up and walked over to Ran Lin, picking up the green frog plushie from the ground, looking at it for a couple of seconds, then asking Ran Lin. “Shall I take it back, or do you want to keep it as a souvenir?”

The forty-something-year-old man asked this with a hint of mischief, which oddly fit the whimsicality of conjuring up the frog plushie earlier.

Ran Lin snatched the plushie without hesitation. His actions was exaggerated but his voice was light. “Not as a souvenir…”

Director Huang raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

Ran Lin grinned. “I’ll take it home and keep practicing with it.”

Director Huang laughed, half-jokingly saying, “The role might not necessarily go to you.”

“Then consider it an improvement in my professional skills.” Ran Lin clutched the frog plushie tightly to his chest. “A craft can never weigh you down.”

Director Huang gave him an approving glance, turned, and joined the conversation between Wang Xi and the producer, who had gathered to talk.

It was just some pleasantries. After all, the production team wouldn’t announce on the spot whether they’d use him or not. Even if they had an idea, they’d maintain formalities, as stars can easily get carried away. Wang Xi, understanding the etiquette, steered clear of the core issue, expressing her gratitude in a hundred different ways.

Ran Lin’s task was to audition. In such a setting, networking wasn’t his job, so holding the green-eyed frog, he was as well-behaved as the neighbor’s kid.

With a good start and a successful finish, Wang Xi left the audition site with Ran Lin, almost beaming.

Ran Lin was also feeling sunny inside. Big productions, something he’d never dared to dream of before, were now literally falling into his lap. Although, compared to <Mint Green>, a so-called fantasy blockbuster like <Chronicles of Winter> might be more contentious in terms of depth and artistic quality, being able to star in such a production was an acknowledgment of his status as an artist.

According to the contract with Dream Without Limits, it had been exactly four years since he debuted.

Once, Ran Lin thought he might switch careers after his contract expired, but life’s twists and turns had other plans.

Back in the van, Liu Wanwan, full of anticipation, asked, “Xi Jie, how did it go?”

Normally, this wouldn’t be an assistant’s concern, but Ran Lin had only one assistant, and over time, the boundaries between work and friendship blurred. Wang Xi knew she genuinely cared and wouldn’t gossip, so she replied, “It went smoothly. It looks promising.”

Liu Wanwan’s face lit up. “That’s great!”

Seeing her open mouth, Ran Lin, feeling mischievous, suddenly pushed the frog plushie toward her face.

Liu Wanwan yelped, nearly hitting the roof of the car before realizing it was a plushie and laughed. “An audition souvenir?”

“It’s not a souvenir.” Ran Lin shook the big-eyed frog. “This is Bell, my most loyal partner. I’ll have to act with it every day on set!”

“…….” Liu Wanwan leaned back, distancing herself from the “green Bell”, then took a deep breath to calm herself down. Indeed, acting was a high-tech profession.

Wang Xi watched the two of them finish their banter and gave Liu Wanwan a look.

Liu Wanwan understood and shook off the image of the green demon from her mind, digging out the schedule Wang Xi had asked her to print and handing it to Ran Lin. “Ran Ge, this is your schedule for August.”

The schedule was simple, a calendar-like grid with thirty-one days, each cell marked with a date in the upper left corner and the day’s appointments or events in the center. If there was nothing scheduled, it remained blank.

Ran Lin thought he would see an entirely empty schedule, but to his surprise, it was half full.

[8.4 Premiere of the movie <Autumn of Ink and Water>]

[8.5 <Miya – Who’s Your Leading Lady> audition event appearance]

[8.10 Premiere celebration of the TV series <White Coffee>]

[8.13 Advertisement shoot for <Sword of Fallen Flowers> online game]

[8.14…]

“I’m actually… quite busy?” Ran Lin felt a surge of excitement as he read through the schedule.

“You’re really busy.” Wang Xi found his clueless demeanor amusing, though such opportunities were rare. “Students are on summer break, full of energy. The market is booming.”

Ran Lin understood.

Indeed, the summer season is always the golden time for TV shows, movies, and variety programs.

He scrolled down the schedule, but as soon as he got to the third item, he paused—<White Coffee> was a TV series Han Ze had filmed last year. It seemed it was now post-produced and ready for broadcast.

Perhaps knowing their awkward relationship, Wang Xi had almost never arranged activities that would make them cross paths since the drama version of <Chronicles of Winter>. This time Han Ze had a TV series going on air, and whether it could reignite his popularity depended on this. It was likely the company wanted his fellow junior to help boost the buzz.

Ran Lin instinctively looked up at Wang Xi, who was sitting in the front passenger seat, waiting for his reaction. Their eyes met.

“What’s up?” Wang Xi asked naturally.

“Oh, nothing.” Ran Lin quickly looked back down, but his mind was full of questions.

The Cartier watch Wang Xi always wore on her left wrist was gone.

When she had taken it off, he wasn’t sure. He only noticed it when he looked up, and her wrist was bare.

Was it just a simple choice not to wear it anymore, or was there an issue with the watchband, or perhaps something had changed in her personal life?

Geniuses who can deduce the truth at a glance mostly exist in novels, with a few scattered around in real life, but Ran Lin was definitely not one of them.

Not wanting to overthink, Ran Lin gave up and continued scrolling through his schedule, only to stop again at the fourth item.

It took him a while to remember that when he signed the contract for the TV series, it included an endorsement for the game. Costume dramas and fantasy series typically have corresponding online games, so production companies usually package the endorsement when signing the actors. For the artists, it’s just about shooting an advertisement and saying a few lines, then leaving the rest to the game’s marketing team for distribution.

But <Sword of Fallen Flowers> wasn’t just about him, the second male lead…

“Xi Jie.” Ran Lin tried to hide his glee, keeping a neutral face as he asked, “For the online game ad, am I shooting it alone?”

“Not really.” Wang Xi thought back to the document she received yesterday. “I remember there’s a scene with a partner. I’ll send you the ad script tonight.”

“Oh…” Ran Lin could no longer hide his anticipation.

Wang Xi saw right through him and smiled lightly. “Meeting an acquaintance. Happy, right?”

Ran Lin let his emotions flow freely, the more forthright, the less suspicious. “Yes!”

“I might not be around much, but I’ve heard,” Wang Xi said confidently, “you and Tang Xiaoyu get along very well.”

Ran Lin quickly reined in his unrestrained joy. “Tang…Little Fish?”

“Yes.” Wang Xi frowned slightly at her artist’s unexpected reaction. “Who else? Lu Yiyao? He wouldn’t sign up for this kind of endorsement.”

Ran Lin slowly came back to reality.

Right, with Lu Yiyao’s popularity, saying lines like “Pick up equipment and pets easily, let Fallen Flowers take you flying” would be somewhat beneath him.

Wang Xi misinterpreted Ran Lin’s slightly downcast look, thinking he was envious of Lu Yiyao’s autonomy, and said, “If <Chronicles of Winter> sweeps the box office, your value and status will rise, and in the future, we can demand various amendments when signing contracts.”

Ran Lin nodded, going along with the conversation.

On the last evening of July, a torrential downpour turned the sky as dark as midnight. Raindrops beat fiercely against the window, initially forming a curtain of water and later pattering like tiny steel beads, almost threatening to shatter the glass.

Ran Lin took shelter in his small apartment, cooling off with the air conditioner, munching on watermelon, and practicing with the little frog plushie while reading the script. He was engrossed in a scene where Xiao Shitou and his childhood friend Ah Jin experienced the first flutters of young love…

Then his phone rang.

Xia Xinran—[Meeting with Gu Jie, August 10th, 6 PM, XX Street, Shuzhai, Wenshu Monastery.]

Shuzhai is a hotpot restaurant opened by an artist within the circle. Among many artists involved in the catering industry, it is considered to be flourishing, with each new branch becoming popular as soon as it opens. It shows a trend of gradually withdrawing from the entertainment industry to focus exclusively on the catering business.

Ran Lin looked at the message, and all feelings of first love evaporated, replaced by visions of bubbling hotpot and spicy aromas.

But August 10th?

Ran Lin pulled out the photographed schedule, a bit troubled.

[I have to appear at Han Ze’s TV series premiere celebration that evening. 😭]—Ran Lin typed out the message, feeling the tantalizing scent of the hotpot drifting further away.

Xia Xinran—[What time does it end?]

Ran Lin—[Around 10 or 11 p.m.?]

Xia Xinran—[No problem, we’ll wait for you. It’s an all-night hotpot party 🥳]

Ran Lin—[…Did you and Gu Jie discuss this fancy plan? 😓]

Xia Xinran—[He’s free. His new movie script just got overhauled and rewritten, so he’s got plenty of time. 🤣]

For the sake of not capsizing the friendship boat, Ran Lin decided to destroy the conversation with Xia Xinran after reading.

……

<Autumn of Ink and Water> was a film by Su Mu, a typical art film. However, the producers, seeking to create a buzz, hosted a premiere resembling that of a blockbuster commercial film, inviting nearly half of the entertainment industry’s celebrities.

Xia Xinran attended, but Ran Lin barely spoke to him. Following the staff’s arrangement, everyone quickly took their seats, and soon, the premiere began amid the host’s modulating voice.

Ran Lin sat in the audience, barely able to see Su Mu’s face on stage. Yet, as various segments concluded and the film began, Su Mu’s features became clear on screen.

Every move he made was charismatic. Even a slight glance seemed to carry a myriad of emotions and words, captivating and entrancing the audience.

Ran Lin thought the Su Mu he saw at the Republic party that night was attractive enough, but it was nothing compared to his presence on camera. It seemed Su Mu was born for acting.

Ran Lin watched with respect, imagining himself reaching such heights one day.

Just days after the premiere, it was time for the first broadcast celebration of <White Coffee>. While one was a lead actor and the other was merely making a supportive appearance, both being Wang Xi’s artists, they set off together for the celebration.

That afternoon, Ran Lin arrived at the company and, with the stylist’s help, donned a sharp suit and a sleek hairstyle. He then waited in the lounge.

Han Ze, having taken leave from the drama team, arrived around four in the afternoon and immediately headed for the makeup room. Ran Lin expected to see his colleague only when they shared a car, but Han Ze, finished with styling, entered the lounge unexpectedly.

“Been waiting long?”

Han Ze, in a black suit, looked dashing and full of presence. But what really surprised Ran Lin was his tone of voice, which was hundreds of times more pleasant than usual.

Ran Lin suspected that Han Ze’s suit had a “doubling friendliness” attribute.

“No,” Ran Lin replied politely, standing up to chat. “I just finished myself.”

Han Ze nodded, sitting naturally on the nearby sofa, and casually asked, “What have you been busy with lately?”

Unsure if Han Ze knew about his audition for the film version of <Chronicles of Winter>, Ran Lin cautiously replied, “I wish I was busy; it’s the idleness that’s disheartening.”

Han Ze seemed unsurprised by the answer, his eyes carrying a hint of pleasure. He said soothingly, “It’s a pity about <Mint Green>, but the decision to go with Zhang Beichen is understandable, given his fame and popularity…” He then hastily amended, realizing his words might be inappropriate. “I don’t mean anything by that. I’m just saying that opportunities will come. Don’t worry too much.”

The corners of Ran Lin’s mouth twitched as he smiled weakly, but his mind was clear.

First, Han Ze was unaware of the <Chronicles of Winter> film; second, Han Ze’s amiability stemmed from a realization that Ran Lin was no longer a threat, a notion that relaxed and pleased him.

Han Ze’s thought process and behavior were predictable—annoying yet laughable.

Realizing this, Ran Lin couldn’t bring himself to be upset.

When Wang Xi learned that both Han Ze and Ran Lin were in the lounge, she hurried over. Fortunately, Han Ze didn’t make any foolish remarks. Upon entering, the atmosphere seemed pleasant.

“The car’s ready. Let’s go,” Wang Xi said calmly.

Ran Lin stood and headed out first, with Han Ze following. After a few steps, Han Ze casually checked his watch, pretending to look at the time.

Ran Lin had his back turned, so he didn’t notice and hadn’t paid attention to Han Ze’s watch during their conversation.

But Wang Xi, facing Han Ze, noticed and nearly choked with frustration.

Since visiting the drama set, she had maintained a strictly professional attitude toward Han Ze, thinking her message was clear. However, Han Ze seemed to interpret her demeanor as petulance and had resorted to wearing the watch she had given him—a desperate gesture.

When she first gifted Han Ze the watch, Wang Xi made her intentions clear—it was meant to be worn. To avoid any misconceptions, she wouldn’t wear the female counterpart publicly.

Han Ze, however, had dismissively suggested she wear it instead, deeming the style too effeminate for him and expressing concerns about being typecast with a particular brand, which might deter other endorsements.

Wang Xi was shocked at Han Ze’s unrealistic self-perception.

His worries, especially about endorsements, were naively presumptuous. Given Han Ze’s status and prospects, it would be a long shot for a prestigious watch brand to approach him even in a decade. His concern about impacting potential endorsements was as baseless as an ant worrying about tripping an elephant.

Nevertheless, she had come to accept the situation.

Since Ran Lin had been present during the purchase, she impulsively asked Han Ze to wear the watch, only to realize after his refusal that perhaps it was for the best.

From then on, she wore the watch herself. Even though Han Ze never wore it, every time she checked the time, it brought a sweet reminiscence.

She had since disposed of the watch, out of sight and out of mind, ready to move on. Yet, now Han Ze was wearing it.

Wang Xi had encountered many simple-minded people but never thought she’d fall for one.

If she had a time machine, she’d go back and advise her past self to get an eye check before falling in love.

As Ran Lin had already walked several meters away, Wang Xi caught up to Han Ze and, walking side by side, softly commanded, “Take off the watch.”

Han Ze, with a tinge of sadness and resentment, muttered, “What are you upset about? I’ve already lowered myself so much.”

Wang Xi held back her frustration until they were in the car, remaining silent.

Due to Ran Lin’s presence, Han Ze restrained himself.

Ran Lin sensed the tension in the air but, considering his previous speculations about the pair’s relationship, assumed it fit the scenario of “lovers quarreling”. He kept his distance to avoid getting involved, eagerly anticipating the upcoming meal of mandarin duck hotpot.

At 11:10 p.m., just as Ran Lin arrived at Shuzhai, Wang Xi, having dropped Han Ze off at his apartment, confronted him right in the entrance without even entering the house.

“I’ll say this once, I’m not being petulant. We’re broken up.” Wang Xi’s voice was calm, more of an announcement than an expression of sorrow.

Han Ze was stunned, never imagining those words coming from Wang Xi. He had thought that if a breakup were to happen, it would be because he grew tired and weary of this “old hag”.

“Is this some kind of reverse psychology?” Han Ze’s displeasure was evident in his nearly explosive tone. “What are you so upset about?”

Wang Xi frowned slightly, wanting him to lower his voice, but then figured it was better to just end things swiftly.

She took out her phone, found several photos, and held them up to Han Ze. The photos, taken at night, showed the brightly lit window of a restaurant’s private room. Through the half-open curtains, one could see Han Ze sitting by the window, kissing a woman on his lap, surrounded by laughing friends—almost all young actors from the drama version of <Chronicles of Winter>.

“It’s fine to have fun,” Wang Xi said, knowing he had seen the photos clearly, and put her phone away. “Just remember to close the curtains next time.”

Han Ze’s face was a mix of emotions.

Wang Xi waited patiently for him to respond. His first question was, “Were these taken by paparazzi?”

His concern was not guilt or remorse for cheating but worry about the scandal damaging his “nice guy” image.

Wang Xi had held onto a last bit of hope that he might care about her feelings. However, she realized that the most embarrassing thing in the world is unrequited love.

“The photos were sent to the company this morning. They had to pay to get them back. Thanks to you, I got a severe scolding.” Wang Xi’s mocking gaze scrutinized him.

Han Ze kept his composure, secretly relieved.

Wang Xi saw right through him, feeling indifferent. “I won’t hinder your search for true love, and you don’t need to worry about me seeking revenge. Starting today, we’ll strictly be artist and agent. I’ll still work hard to get you good resources…”

“No need.” Han Ze cut her off, his face devoid of any feigned tenderness, adopting a strictly professional tone. “Just focus on taking good care of Ran Lin. Hopefully, he’s not useless.”

Wang Xi’s eyes flickered with a bad premonition but refused to believe it.

Han Ze seemed to smile, then suddenly softened his voice. “I want to change agents.”

Wang Xi took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. “Do you remember how many years I’ve managed you?”

“I know it was you who brought me from obscurity to where I am today,” Han Ze acknowledged. “But we both know that my acting career has been stagnant, even regressing, from last year to this. I can’t say it’s all your fault, but I feel a change of agent devoted solely to me would be better.”

Wang Xi forced a smile. “So you think your career’s stagnation is because I’m distracted by Ran Lin?”

“Various reasons.” Han Ze shrugged, implying the topic wasn’t worth discussing further. “Anyway, our relationship isn’t suitable for continued collaboration. You might be fine, but I’m not, so either you apply to the company or I will. It’s better for everyone to make the change sooner.”

Wang Xi, realizing something, nodded. “Alright. Would you prefer a female agent then?”

Han Ze smiled. “We’re broken up. No need to be bitter, Xi Jie.”

A pang hit Wang Xi’s heart, but she maintained her composure, her last bit of pride. “Do you know I was a top agent at Pentium Times?”

Han Ze tilted his head, his tone mocking. “Then why did you leave and not Yao Hong? Have you ever managed anyone more famous than Lu Yiyao?”

Wang Xi stared at him, not daring to look away, as if doing so would mean defeat.

Han Ze crossed his arms, allowing her gaze.

This relationship—if it could be called that—had always been dominated by Han Ze, and he was not afraid of Wang Xi.

“I’ll convey your request to the company.” In the end, that was all Wang Xi could say.

Han Ze felt triumphant, feeling fresh and invigorated.

He had been dissatisfied with Wang Xi for a while, believing he deserved a broader horizon. Everyone thought Wang Xi was responsible for his rise, but he felt she held him back. If he had followed Yao Hong, he might already be more famous than Lu Yiyao.

……

Ran Lin had dined at other Shuzhai branches before, so when he arrived at the one Xia Xinran had suggested, he thought he was at the wrong place.

Other Shuzhai restaurants were unmistakably Sichuan hotpot places from a distance, but this one looked more like a literary bookstore than a hotpot restaurant. If not for the scent of Sichuan peppercorns wafting from the entrance, he might have called Xia Xinran to confirm the location.

Compared to other branches, this one had fewer customers and, due to its décor, didn’t have a large hall with tables lined up. Instead, each table was partially concealed, resembling a coffee house.

However, there’s no quiet way to enjoy hotpot, so even though other customers were obscured, the lively laughter and banter were constant.

The private rooms here were uniquely named after local features: Wenshu Monastery, Wide and Narrow Alley, Du Fu Thatched Cottage, and the largest one, accommodating 25 to 30 people, named after the Leshan Giant Buddha.

Ran Lin followed the waiter into the “Wenshu Monastery” private room and saw Gu Jie and Xia Xinran already drinking, each with a glass of draft beer and nothing else on the table except for a dish of boiled peanuts and edamame. The center of the table featured a desolate and forlorn stove.

As the waiter left and the door closed, Xia Xinran slammed his beer down, got up, and hugged Ran Lin like a koala. “Finally, you’re here! We’ve been starving!”

Ran Lin removed his mask, slightly puzzled. “I thought we were having an all-night hot pot party. You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Xia Xinran looked up at him with a face full of loyalty. “That wouldn’t be right. We’re brothers!”

Touched, Ran Lin was about to respond when Gu Jie stood up, unable to stand the sentimentality any longer. “Now you’re brothers, huh? Who was crying about ordering just now?”

“I was. I was going to order first and wait for Ran Lin to come straight up!” Xia Xinran’s voice was righteous, but his guilty pause gave him away.

Ran Lin, unable to hold back his laughter, grabbed Xia Xinran off him and went around the table for a real hug with Gu Jie.

Gu Jie hugged him back tightly. “Long time, no see.”

Ran Lin felt the sincerity of his friend—so much so that he was almost breathless.

The friendship felt as fresh as if they had just finished filming a variety show yesterday.

Gu Jie looked slightly paler than the last time they met, perhaps from avoiding reckless sunbathing. He wore a healthy wheat color, looking clean and pleasant to the eye.

In the still-sweltering August heat, Gu Jie wore an army green vest and camouflage pants. With a few streaks of paint on his face and a gun in hand, he could be ready for jungle warfare.

As Ran Lin appraised Gu Jie, Gu Jie also looked him over, laughing more and more. “You don’t need to dress up in a suit for hot pot.”

Ran Lin, slightly irritated, removed his suit and opened up the collar and cuffs of his printed shirt. Only after rolling up his sleeves did he feel relaxed. “I came straight from a premiere celebration. Cut me some slack.”

“And we told you about the all-night party,” Xia Xinran said, pretending to be sympathetic. “You could have changed. We wouldn’t have minded… Hey, right, put the spicy pot on his side, and the mild one on mine.”

Ran Lin realized he had no say in the matter of hot pot flavors.

As the hot pot base arrived, various dishes were laid out on the table: lamb, beef, yellow throat, shrimp paste, bamboo shoots, tofu skin, greens, black fungus, glass noodles…

Ran Lin, noticing Xia Xinran’s complete absorption in the dishes, quietly asked Gu Jie, “Did he order all this?”

Gu Jie closed his eyes, shaking his head with a “you’re so naive” expression, and finally said, “This is just a part of what he ordered.”

When the food filled the six-person round table and the waiter suggested bringing a cart, Ran Lin understood the full meaning of the statement.

Xia Xinran justified it. “It’s an all-night party. We have to eat till morning!”

As they started drinking draft beer, Ran Lin learned that Gu Jie and Xia Xinran had rescheduled for him, finally setting the time for 8 p.m. Both arrived on time, thus making three hours pass with just two beers and a dish of snacks.

This is what friendship is all about!

Without a word, Ran Lin downed a whole glass of draft beer.

Gu Jie and Xia Xinran were stunned.

After finishing, Ran Lin slammed the glass down with a loud bang.

Gu Jie and Xia Xinran applauded in unison.

Ran Lin wiped his mouth nonchalantly. “Another round…”

Gu Jie: “Hey, take it easy.”

Xia Xinran: “We’re not the sponsors. Why are you doing this?”

Ran Lin: “Another round… How about some chilled plum juice?”

Gu and Xia: “Can you breathe a little?”

The friends’ gathering was all about comfort and joy, so for the rest of the hot pot party, Xia Xinran and Gu Jie drank beer, and Ran Lin had plum juice. Gu Jie needed the spicy pot for some zest in his too-relaxed life, Xia Xinran stuck to the mild pot due to acne, and Ran Lin enjoyed a bit of both, fostering unity and happiness.

During the meal, the owner, also a fellow artist and friend of Xia Xinran, came over to greet them. After sending the owner off, the three resumed their chat. The previous topic forgotten, Xia Xinran started a new one. “Ran Lin, you said you were dying of boredom last time. How come you’re suddenly busy this month?”

“It wasn’t sudden. It was early July when we talked. My agent only showed me next month’s schedule in mid-July, and it wasn’t even full. Today just happened to be busy,” Ran Lin explained.

“Oh.” Xia Xinran nodded, then caught a keyword from earlier. “Audition?”

Ran Lin realized he hadn’t yet told Xia Xinran and quickly said, “I auditioned for the film version of <Chronicles of Winter>. No results yet.”

Xia Xinran’s eyes widened in indignation. “Why didn’t you share such good news!”

Before Ran Lin could reply, Gu Jie rolled his eyes. “What are you, his mom? Does he have to report everything to you?”

Xia Xinran sulked, poking his chopsticks into a meatball and chewing vigorously without making any sounds. He looked quite pitiful and aggrieved.

Trying to hold back laughter, Ran Lin looked at Gu Jie.

Gu Jie, exasperated, scooped various goodies from the mild pot into Xia Xinran’s bowl. “Here, eat up…”

Touched by Xia Xinran’s forlorn look, Ran Lin quickly shared the details about the film version of <Chronicles of Winter>.

Initially pretending not to care, Xia Xinran was engrossed by the end, declaring, “That means you’re set for the role!”

“Let’s hope so,” Ran Lin said sincerely.

Gu Jie listened quietly and then asked, “When does it start filming?”

“Next January,” Ran Lin recalled Wang Xi mentioning.

Gu Jie put down his chopsticks, took a big gulp of draft beer, then sighed heavily, clearly frustrated. “The film I signed up for last January might not even start shooting, yet you’re already set to shoot this January.”

“Movie?” Ran Lin remembered Xia Xinran mentioning that Gu Jie’s new film script had some issues.

Delays in projects due to various reasons are common, and for celebrities, rescheduling an already busy calendar is troublesome. Popular artists can’t always accommodate changes and may need to be replaced.

“Yes, Director He’s new film,” Xia Xinran answered, seeing his friend still downcast. “It was supposed to start shooting this November, then moved to January next year, and now the script is being rewritten, hoping to shoot by April.”

He Guan was a master director known for his realism and focus on the underdog. His movies might not always be blockbusters, but they’re critically acclaimed, often winning domestic awards and being recognized at international A-list festivals. His least-acclaimed film still ranks highly among domestic movies.

Directors like him have their convictions. For instance, He Guan insists on controlling everything from the script to the casting, preferring financiers just to provide funding. If financiers wish to interfere, he’d rather they withdraw their investment. Many famous and affluent stars vie for a role in his films, not just for the awards they might win but also to elevate their artistic stature. However, this insistence can lead to delays due to continuous script rewrites or other production issues.

But this time, it wasn’t about revising the script; it was about rewriting it…

Ran Lin patted Gu Jie’s shoulder, offering his sympathy.

Xia Xinran sighed, empathizing with Gu Jie. “After finishing filming in Dalian, he didn’t dare to take on any other projects, just waiting for <Dyeing Fire>. Now, half a year’s gone to waste.”

Ran Lin thoughtfully added, “For a Director He’s film, it’s worth the wait.”

The previously disheartened Gu Jie perked up at these encouraging words, sitting up straight as if bolstered by camaraderie. He asked Ran Lin, “You think it’s worth it too?”

Ran Lin nodded earnestly. “A good play is worth waiting for.”

Gu Jie downed half a glass of draft beer, feeling refreshed.

Xia Xinran, looking at his two friends, felt rather pedestrian by comparison but pointed out. “Not all the signed actors can afford to keep their schedules open like you.”

“Of course, they can’t. Those with full schedules can’t delay.” Gu Jie shrugged. “Several leading roles have left, including one of the male leads. What was supposed to be a double male lead is now just me.”

“Waiting is fine, but waiting indefinitely is a headache.” Xia Xinran worried. “What if it’s not ready by April?”

Gu Jie replied firmly, “Then I’ll confront the director.”

Ran Lin laughed and passed him a cup of sour plum drink to “cool down”.

Gu Jie drank it in one gulp, savoring the sweet and sour relief. Just as he was about to ask for more, he caught sight of Ran Lin’s expression and had a sudden inspiration. “When does your <Chronicles of Winter> shoot?”

Caught off guard, Ran Lin replied, “It’s not confirmed for me yet, as I haven’t been given a contract, but my agent mentioned it might start at the end of March.”

“That’s perfect,” Gu Jie exclaimed. “With <Dyeing Fire> now set for April, I think May is more realistic. The other male lead left, but if you’re interested despite the lower pay, I could recommend you. He Guan is busy supervising the script rewrite and desperately seeking actors.”

“Are your recommendations effective?” Xia Xinran asked skeptically.

“In this world, no one can deter He Guan’s decisions,” Gu Jie responded. “But I do think Ran Lin suits the role. Of course, the final decision is yours, as the pay might be a bit low.”

As Gu Jie spoke, he looked at Ran Lin.

Xia Xinran also followed suit and looked over.

As the focus shifted to him, Ran Lin kept his mouth half-open in a daze.

Gu Jie swallowed hard and said, “I was just saying. If you’re interested, I’ll help you connect. If not…”

“I am!” Ran Lin grasped Gu Jie’s hand firmly, his eyes blazing. “I really am!”

Just the thought of having the opportunity to work with such a director, to learn and compete in acting under his guidance, filled Ran Lin with ecstatic excitement.

Gu Jie, startled by the sudden enthusiasm, stiffly nodded after a moment. “I can feel that.”

Ran Lin released his hand, stood up without a word, grabbed Xia Xinran’s draft beer, and clinked it against Gu Jie’s glass before downing it in one go.

Finally, he showed the empty glass to Gu Jie, flashing a bright smile. “Brothers don’t need to thank each other. It’s all in the drink.”

Xia Xinran subtly shifted back, pressing closer to the chair for more security.

‘That was close,’ he thought, relieved he hadn’t challenged Ran Lin to a drinking game… He seemed to have befriended a true master of drink!

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

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

---

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.

---

<<< || Table of Contents || >>>

Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

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

---

Chapter 66

Wang Xi thought that after mentioning the opportunity for the film version of <Chronicles of Winter> Ran Lin would be ecstatic. However, after waiting for a while, there was no response from the other end of the phone.

Confused and worried he might have misunderstood, Wang Xi elaborated, “Although the original novel itself isn’t very popular, the main investors are very optimistic about this project. It’s definitely going to be a well-funded commercial blockbuster. Of course, I know these so-called Eastern fantasies might not be critically acclaimed, but according to current plans, the release is scheduled for New Year’s Day the year after next. With good promotion, the box office and popularity are guaranteed. Moreover, participating in such a big production is a testament to your status…”

“It’s not those things I’m worried about.” The artist interrupted her softly over the phone, his voice tinged with happiness but covered with a layer of concern. “Such a big-budget film offering me an audition is more than I can hope for, and I appreciate it. But… Han Ze is already filming the series version. If I play in the movie version, what happens when the two sides collide?”

Ran Lin’s question was indirect, but Wang Xi understood clearly.

They were both artists from the same company. If the series and the movie version clashed, or if their fans clashed, how would he and Han Ze cope?

And as their mutual agent, if both sides competed in reputation, acting, and popularity, what would she do?

When Wang Xi took over Ran Lin’s economic work, she thought he was intelligent, but after working together until now, she realized it was more about his heart.

Ran Lin wasn’t looking for an easy way out. Wang Xi could sense his determination; he wasn’t afraid. What he always cared about was the situation and feelings of those around him.

“Let’s talk about you first.” Wang Xi didn’t directly answer but instead asked, “If you’ve already taken this role, what would you do?”

“I’d do my utmost to perform well, and then…” Ran Lin paused before adding, “Let my performance do the talking.”

Wang Xi asked meaningfully, “Would you be content even if you lose?”

Ran Lin replied even more profoundly, “If I lose fair and square, I’ll accept it wholeheartedly.”

Wang Xi slightly raised her eyebrows. If she wasn’t mistaken, Ran Lin was formally challenging her, making her personal feelings very clear. No one should pretend to misunderstand.

Ran Lin was also a bit nervous on the other end of the phone. Normally, such unnecessary hints wouldn’t be necessary, as Wang Xi’s bias was clear, and pointing it out might only increase the tension. But today’s Wang Xi felt different to him, whether in her tone of voice or her overall demeanor, indicating it might be worth sharing some heartfelt thoughts. Moreover, Wang Xi calling to tell him about the audition opportunity for the film version of <Chronicles of Winter> showed her attitude as an agent, so Ran Lin, impulsively, spoke his true thoughts.

But along with his candid feelings, Ran Lin also felt genuine gratitude. “Xi Jie, I’m really happy for this audition opportunity. Thank you.”

In the brief silence, Wang Xi was rapidly organizing her thoughts, trying to find the right words to assure Ran Lin without explicitly mentioning her relationship with Han Ze that she was committed to being a fair and dedicated agent.

Before she could frame her thoughts gracefully, Ran Lin withdrew the implied accusation and extended an olive branch.

Wang Xi felt the entire atmosphere change. The brain that was buzzing with thoughts went silent, with only her steady heartbeat remaining.

Wang Xi heard herself saying, “There’s no need to worry about what others will do. Everyone should just do their part and let the audience and the market decide the rest.”

Ran Lin finally felt at ease, his voice relaxing into a smile. “Okay.”

After discussing a bit more about the audition opportunity, Wang Xi asked before hanging up, “Who did you learn this from?”

Ran Lin was taken aback. “Hm?”

Wang Xi, slightly annoyed but amused, said, “Pricking before offering candy.”

Ran Lin proudly replied, “Self-taught.”

After ending the call, Ran Lin, still holding his hoverboard, hurried back upstairs. He hadn’t even caught his breath when he eagerly sent a message to Lu Yiyao to share the good news—[I’m going to audition for the movie version of <Chronicles of Winter>! 🕺 💐 ❤️]

After sending it, Ran Lin realized that Lu Yiyao was due to fly to Xiamen the next day to start shooting a new film and was probably busy packing. He should have waited until he got the script to say anything.

But when it came to good news, his hands acted faster than his brain.

Ran Lin slapped his own hand, feeling that he indeed wasn’t someone to handle big tasks.

In the mix of excitement and self-reproach, with joy still taking up most of his emotions, Lu Yiyao’s reply came—[The movie version? The one that Yao Star invested in?]

The sudden mention of the company name made Ran Lin pause for a moment, remembering that during the Republic party, he had met Young Master Peng from the Youth Gang, whose family business was part of the investment.

At that time, Peng Jingyu had mentioned their company’s small investment in passing, but they hadn’t delved deep into the topic, and it had faded from his memory.

He didn’t expect Lu Yiyao to remember it so clearly.

[Yes, that’s the one.]

But Lu Yiyao’s reminder made Ran Lin ponder if Peng Jingyu might have helped in the background. He quickly added another message—[Xi Jie said when she contacted the producer through her connections, the response was perfunctory, and they barely talked. She thought it was a no-go, but today, suddenly, they invited me to audition with an enthusiastic attitude. Do you think Peng Jingyu could have helped?]

Lu Yiyao—[Hard to say. I’ll ask.]

Ran Lin—[No need. You’re not that close. It’s not worth troubling you to lose face over something like this. I’ll ask Xi Jie to check. If it’s true, I definitely need to thank him properly. Even if it’s not, since he’s one of the investors, it won’t hurt to establish a good relationship 🤭.]

Lu Yiyao—[No need to make it complicated. I’ll just ask directly. He’s sitting right across from me.]

Lu Yiyao—[Picture]

Ran Lin—[…Did he not mind you taking such an unflattering photo of him?]

Lu Yiyao—[He doesn’t know. I told him I was taking a selfie.]

Ran Lin—[Good job.]

Wait, that’s not the point!

Isn’t Lu Yiyao not that close to Peng Jingyu? Why are they meeting alone the night before he goes on set?!

Lu Yiyao—[Picture]

Lu Yiyao—[Lao Huo is also here. Look, here’s the proof. It’s a business gathering, all above board.]

Ran Lin—[Even if you didn’t send the photo, I would have believed you. 👉👈]

Lu Yiyao—[Then perhaps the jealousy I just sensed was my imagination. ❤️]

Ran Lin was left speechless, his emotions a complex mix.

Nowadays, Lu Yiyao had progressed beyond the initial stage of “only speaking sweet nothings” to a middle stage of “sweet nothings with teasing”. Ran Lin himself hadn’t kept up with his lover’s pace, so in their ten WeChat exchanges, he found himself outwitted nine times, and the remaining time, he’d end up playfully tackled to the ground… Err, he shouldn’t dwell too much on that; it could lead to distracting thoughts.

……

Today’s gathering was indeed something Lu Yiyao had specifically requested Huo Yuntao to arrange.

Since their last heart-to-heart about his future career direction, Lu Yiyao had been seriously considering feasible plans. Changing careers is different from merely wanting to change. For starters, he still had commitments to two movies, a TV series, and several endorsements—all officially contracted and not something he could just drop because he wanted to shift careers.

But fulfilling these commitments wouldn’t stop him from preparing for the future. The first step was, naturally, to expand his network and understand more about the industry’s rules and how to play the game.

Setting up a company is easy; you just need the capital for registration. But truly excelling in business involves a lot of knowledge.

Even though Lu Yiyao had spent years in the entertainment industry, the perspective of an artist and that of a businessman in the industry are fundamentally different. Lu Yiyao had to make the most of his free time to observe, ponder, and learn.

Of course, he couldn’t tell Peng Jingyu this. When Huo Yuntao made the arrangement, it was just a casual mention that he was back in town, so he wanted to catch up with friends.

Aside from Huo Yuntao, nobody else knew about Lu Yiyao’s plans to change careers. He hadn’t even told Yao Hong. Not that he intended to keep it a secret from her, but she had been dealing with some family issues recently and was quite stressed. Lu Yiyao didn’t want to add to her worries. Changing careers wasn’t an overnight decision anyway; it could wait another half a month or so.

Peng Jingyu was busy, Lu Yiyao was busy, but currently, Huo Yuntao had some free time. After some coordination, they finally fixed the gathering for the night before Lu Yiyao was to join the set.

Peng Jingyu gladly accepted the invitation.

Interestingly, Lu Yiyao hadn’t interacted much with him at the previous party, but he had a surprisingly good impression of Peng Jingyu. After some thought, it boiled down to the old saying—love me, love my dog. He had a pretty good impression of Ran Lin, so by association, Lu Yiyao, who seemed to have a good relationship with Ran Lin, benefited in his eyes.

Moreover, Lu Yiyao and Huo Yuntao were as close as brothers, and making a friend like him seemed advantageous.

The gathering was at a private restaurant Huo Yuntao chose, located in a prime commercial area yet secluded and peaceful. Without Huo Yuntao’s direction, Peng Jingyu would never have known such a place existed.

The decor was simple and elegant, creating a calm environment with few patrons—the perfect setting to unwind.

In this relaxed atmosphere, the three enjoyed good food, wine, and conversation. Naturally, their topics revolved around the entertainment industry. When Peng Jingyu offered insights, Lu Yiyao listened earnestly, engaging in the discussion and often shifting from the perspective of an artist to a broader, more strategic view of the industry.

Initially, Huo Yuntao was just a listener, but as the conversation unfolded, he too joined in, drawing from his experience beginning to handle corporate affairs. Although not in the entertainment sector, the cross-discipline discussion of capital operations was relevant, turning the three “businessmen” into an enthusiastic trio reminiscing about the youthful days of industry tycoons. It was during this spirited conversation that Ran Lin’s message arrived.

Peng Jingyu paused mid-conversation to watch Lu Yiyao pick up his phone and exchange messages with the person on the other end. Lu Yiyao’s expression was calm, that of someone casually texting, but a closer look revealed a smile in his eyes, not just of amusement but also of sweet indulgence.

Peng Jingyu watched silently, almost certain Lu Yiyao was engaged in a secret romance. But just as he took a sip of wine, Lu Yiyao looked up, his eyes filled with gratitude. “For the <Chronicles of Winter> matter, Ran Lin says thank you.”

The unexpected mention of an unexpected person and the mysterious thanks left Peng Jingyu momentarily stunned, forgetting his current action and maintaining the bewildered posture of a wine glass at his lips for a long while.

Fortunately, Huo Yuntao broke the silence, though not addressing Peng Jingyu directly—

“Message from Ran Lin?”

Lu Yiyao nodded naturally towards his friend.

He and Ran Lin were “friends”, something he didn’t need to hide in front of Peng Jingyu, and Huo Yuntao understood this well. Their seamless cooperation hinted at their deep understanding of each other.

However, Huo Yuntao was genuinely curious about the matter itself. “<Chronicles of Winter>… the TV series you mentioned Ran Lin lost? Hasn’t it started filming yet? Did he manage to get it back? What does that have to do with Jingyu?”

Young Master Huo’s rapid-fire questioning snapped Peng Jingyu back to reality.

Just regaining his composure, he heard Lu Yiyao methodically answer each question. “It’s not the series he lost, but the movie version of the same story. Yao Star is also investing. Ran Lin just got an audition opportunity. He was merely letting me know, but when he learned I was dining with Mr. Peng, he asked me to convey his thanks.”

With that, Lu Yiyao’s gaze shifted from his friend back to Peng Jingyu, his eyes still carrying traces of appreciation.

Now Peng Jingyu understood and, feeling a bit guilty for how he responded to the sincere thanks.

“There might be a bit of a misunderstanding here…” Peng Jingyu finally remembered to put his wine glass back on the table before speaking carefully. “First of all, of course, congratulations to Ran Lin for this audition opportunity. But as for <Chronicles of Winter> Yao Star’s investment is so negligible that we virtually have no say in the casting…”

Lu Yiyao understood.

Actually, when Peng Jingyu showed a bewildered face as if saying “what’s going on”, Lu Yiyao already had a hunch that Peng Jingyu wasn’t involved. But the more this was the case, the more important it was to express gratitude upfront. People who feel they’ve undeservedly received thanks often feel a sense of guilt…

Haa. Li Yiyao sighed in his heart. He was too cunning.

However, this didn’t stop him from continuing to be courteous. “I see. There might have been a misunderstanding, but still, thank you for the thought. If there’s any chance you might influence things in the future for Ran Lin, please keep an eye out for him.”

“Of course.” Peng Jingyu finally found a moment to feel vindicated, almost obligingly. “Even without your and Yuntao’s relationship, I consider myself friends with Ran Lin. If I can help, I certainly will!”

Huo Yuntao coughed lightly, his voice laced with irony. “You just finished saying how little you invested and how pitifully small your say is…”

Peng Jingyu turned sharply, glaring at him.

Huo Yuntao met his gaze with a brilliant smile, clinking his glass against the one on the table and self-punishingly downed his drink.

Peng Jingyu, frustrated but out of options since the other party had already self-penalized, couldn’t help but feel a shadow cast over his circle of friends knowing Huo Yuntao would be rooted in the domestic scene forever.

“Speaking of which.” Lu Yiyao returned to the main topic as the two stopped their bickering. “If it’s not from your side, whose idea might it be? It’s quite a challenging opportunity for Ran Lin given his current standing.”

Peng Jingyu thought for a while but couldn’t figure it out, so he decided to take action. “Let me check for you.”

That was what Lu Yiyao was waiting for—his eyes gleaming with “gratitude.”

Peng Jingyu felt a surge of mission-driven energy and began scrolling through his phone contacts, determined to find answers for Lu Yiyao.

Huo Yuntao watched, filled with complex emotions. Even Lu Yiyao, with his straightforward demeanor, had learned to play the game. It’s not actors winning Oscars that one should fear, but actors doing business—their astute minds and extraordinary acting skills make them formidable forces in the business world!

As Peng Jingyu stepped aside to make a call, Lu Yiyao took the opportunity to reply to Ran Lin’s message—[It seems Peng Jingyu isn’t involved, but he’s asking around to see what’s happening.]

Ran Lin’s phone was clearly close at hand, as he replied quickly—[Big productions seeking me for auditions, popular actors helping me uncover mysteries, and even the son of a film company CEO is making inquiries on my behalf. I feel like I can cover the sky with one hand now. So powerful! 😎]

Lu Yiyao couldn’t help but laugh and longed to hug and ruffle him.

He wanted to tell Ran Lin that this wasn’t real power. True power means you get to pick and choose scripts and roles freely. No one cuts you off, and just your involvement guarantees success. That’s real power.

But before he could finish typing, he deleted the text.

Throughout their relationship, Ran Lin had shared every aspect of his life but never once asked for help in the real sense, like introducing roles or negotiating opportunities. Even with limited influence and connections, Lu Yiyao had Yao Hong and Huo Yuntao.

From the day he and Ran Lin got together, their resources could have been shared. This is how many couples and partners in the industry operate, sharing resources and interests, often resulting in greater combined effect.

Naturally, he and Ran Lin couldn’t publicly operate like this, but privately, it seemed natural to support each other as much as possible. But Ran Lin had never asked.

Lu Yiyao believed Ran Lin never even considered these things. Ran Lin’s affection for him was pure and had nothing to do with his status, fame, family, friends, or anything else.

Yet the more this was the case, the more Lu Yiyao wanted to give him better things, and the more he realized he wasn’t doing enough.

Peng Jingyu returned to his seat after the call, with Lu Yiyao and Huo Yuntao eagerly awaiting the answer, not catching the “seeking praise” signals.

The room fell into an awkward silence.

Peng Jingyu, feeling hopeless, cleared his throat and relayed the news he just got. “The major investor for this film is Shengshi Media. Apparently, one of their executives just finished watching <Sword of Fallen Flowers> and specifically requested Ran Lin.”

“So if they specifically requested him, is the audition just a formality?” Huo Yuntao eagerly asked, curious about the outcome.

“Not exactly. Given the large investment, they can’t just make decisions impulsively. So they’ll probably send a producer to supervise the audition. As long as Ran Lin performs OK, it should be his for the taking.” Peng Jingyu added, as if remembering something, “After <Sword of Fallen Flowers>, Ran Lin’s popularity and reputation have been quite good. It’s rare to find someone with both looks and talent, so the investor might also be considering that. After all, you know how it is with fantasy epics—they’re prone to criticism. If the actors can hold their own, it can somewhat redeem the film’s reputation.”

Lu Yiyao got the gist of it.

No wonder Ran Lin said the producer’s attitude changed drastically; before, Ran Lin might not have even been considered. After the higher-ups expressed interest, they hastily contacted Wang Xi, making the interaction seem abrupt from her perspective.

Even though he didn’t help much, knowing that Ran Lin secured the opportunity himself, Lu Yiyao felt proud, almost wanting to parade him around the world and let everyone know how brilliant Ran Lin is when he acts.

Despite not getting the expected praise, Peng Jingyu endured it.

But the two at the table, one as enthusiastic as Ran Lin’s agent and the other seemingly content for no clear reason, perplexed him.

If he didn’t know they were friends, Peng Jingyu would definitely mistake them for die-hard fans of Ran Lin!

……

[Chosen for me?!!]

[Yes, your performance in <Sword of Fallen Flowers> wasn’t just noticeable; it was stunning. The executive immediately told the producer after watching it that <Chronicles of Winter> must have you.]

Ran Lin looked at the message he just received, pondering for a long time before asking—[Is this what Peng Jingyu said, or is it your own imagination?]

Lu Yiyao—[The latter.]

Ran Lin—[Then there’s no need to make it sound so convincing!]

Lu Yiyao—[But that must be the actual scenario because I can’t imagine any other possibility.]

Ran Lin—[That’s because you like me!]

Lu Yiyao—[Yes.]

A critical hit.

And completely unexpected.

Ran Lin curled up on the couch, rolling around like a Chihuahua, accidentally tumbling to the floor, dazed for a moment before grinning again.

Ran Lin—[I’ll do my best in the audition.]

Lu Yiyao—[I’ll celebrate with you once you sign the contract.]

Ran Lin—[How will we celebrate? 🤩]

Lu Yiyao—[With my body. ❤️]

Ran Lin was speechless.

Who’s celebrating for whom?

……

Wang Xi said the script would arrive in three days, but in reality, it was handed to Ran Lin in just two.

When Wang Xi brought the script over, Ran Lin was following a recipe from a food blogger to make tomato and beef stew. The blogger described it as very simple, practically a beginner’s dish, but Ran Lin spent the entire morning cooking it. When Wang Xi arrived, he had just turned off the stove.

As she entered, Wang Xi was immediately greeted with the aroma of the dish, surprised and inquiring, “You cooked?”

Ran Lin sheepishly explained, “I was idle anyway, and I can’t always order takeout…”

Wang Xi didn’t say anything further, simply switching to slippers, inwardly lamenting that “idle anyway” seemed to undermine her confidence as an agent.

Unfortunately, Ran Lin’s statement was also a fact.

“Tomato beef stew?” Wang Xi identified the dish as soon as she entered the living room, even before sitting down.

Ran Lin was surprised that his agent’s “acute sense of smell” wasn’t limited to work.

Knowing she guessed right, though a bit of a mood killer, Wang Xi reminded, “Occasional indulgence is fine, but you can’t eat like this regularly. A slightly rounder face is very noticeable on camera.”

Ran Lin couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t worry, even if you want me to eat it all the time, I wouldn’t agree. It’s too much trouble to make. The blogger even said it was simple, deceiving my feelings.”

Wang Xi sighed, sharing kitchen woes with her artist for once. “Remember, any dish with meat as the main ingredient is a ‘hard dish’, and it’s bound to be troublesome.”

Ran Lin seemed to sense the “kitchen novice” vibes from her and teasingly asked, “Can you cook, Xi Jie?”

Caught off guard, Wang Xi hesitated, cautiously admitting, “I can… a little.”

Ran Lin: “Such as?”

Wang Xi: “Fried eggs.”

Ran Lin chuckled. “Well, that’s also a meat dish.”

Seizing the opportune moment, Ran Lin invited Wang Xi to stay for lunch. Wang Xi, not in a rush, agreed.

They devoured the tomato beef stew, and at one point, Ran Lin suspected Wang Xi’s earlier “round face” caution was just a strategy to make him hesitate so she could grab more for herself.

“What a lucky girl she will be, whoever ends up with you,” Wang Xi remarked after a satisfying meal.

Ran Lin poured two glasses of water, one for himself and one for Wang Xi, who was already sitting on the couch, and then sat beside her with a long sigh. “Indeed, how fortunate.”

Wang Xi found his reaction amusing and asked, “What are you secretly pleased about?”

Ran Lin looked at her with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “Am I?”

“You are.” Wang Xi pointed at his eyes. “Full of pride. It’s all here.”

No longer arguing, Ran Lin adopted a mischievous demeanor that said he loved being praised.

Wang Xi then got down to business, picking up the script from the coffee table. “Let’s take a look.”

Ran Lin was eager to dive in but had to honor the culinary traditions first. Food always comes first.

It took Ran Lin an hour to skim through the script. Wang Xi waited silently, playing with her phone.

This quietness wasn’t tedious, thanks to the numerous plants in Ran Lin’s living room that filled the air with a faint aroma of grass, creating a pleasant stillness.

The movie script wasn’t lengthy, but in an hour, Ran Lin managed only a basic read-through, focusing on character designs, the overall style of the film, and the main plot outline.

However, the more he read, the more surprised he was—the movie and the TV series seemed to adopt entirely different styles.

The original novel of <Chronicles of Winter> wasn’t particularly remarkable, belonging to the more common genre of fantasy romance, with some elements reminiscent of martial arts novels. Mixed together, it became a commercial novel that touched a bit of everything but mastered none, failing to create anything substantially new.

It offered a pleasurable read, but once done, it was done, so its fame largely relied on the publisher’s marketing efforts.

However, even with such efforts, the novel’s inherent mediocrity set a limit to its reach, eventually forming a certain fan base without really breaking through.

The TV series script followed the main storyline without significant changes, deleting some non-essential plot points from the novel and adding some original scenes believed to be exciting and appealing to the audience. The overall alteration wasn’t drastic; it adhered to the novel’s storyline. Hence, when Ran Lin finished reading the script and revisited the original novel, he found the transition smooth, as the story was almost entirely spoiled, albeit with a different flavor.

However, having read both the original novel and the TV script, Ran Lin felt a sense of surprise upon encountering the film script.

This surprise wasn’t due to an exceptionally dazzling story but rather because the movie script was more concise compared to the slightly chaotic TV version. It didn’t try to cram the entire book into a 120-minute slot, which would only lead to a superficial glimpse of each segment.

Instead, the film script focused on the first third of the original novel but thoughtfully reworked it. The plot and emotional logic were clear, with deeper development and more nuanced emotional layers. Parts of the original that were vague or glossed over received substantial supplementation and originality in the script, rendering the final story cohesive and rich, with well-rounded characters.

In domestic fantasy blockbusters, where special effects often take precedence, clearly narrating a complete story is already half the battle.

Yes, fantasy.

Both the original novel and the TV script leaned towards a romantic fantasy genre, but the film script introduced a darker, more authentic magical fantasy style while maintaining the protagonist as a graceful youth. This contrast made the rebellious young hero seem like a refreshing current.

<Chronicles of Winter> is so named because the story begins in a village that only knows summer, where the male lead is born and becomes awakened. But at the one-third mark of the story, he brings a bout of snow and a few days of harsh winter to the village that has known only scorching summers for centuries. He leaves the village, embarking on a broader and more perilous journey with his childhood sweetheart—all of which has virtually nothing to do with “winter”.

When Ran Lin read the original novel, he didn’t find this part particularly thrilling. The story was just beginning, backgrounds needed to be laid out, the worldview established, and both protagonists were still naive. The real trials and tribulations hadn’t even started; it was merely a simple account of the male lead ascending to the heavens due to a fortunate encounter and humbly requesting the “Emperor of the North” to bestow snow upon his village, awakening his powers in the process. And that was it.

This was barely the prelude of the entire story, not even enough to be considered a significant turning point.

However, the film script precisely chose this segment.

Ran Lin wasn’t sure if the filmmakers intended to produce sequels or if both the screenwriter and the financiers felt this part had the most room for adaptation. Regardless, what was inconspicuous in the original became vivid and full of life here, with moments of exhilaration and tearful tenderness, solid background, and humorous details, climaxing in entertaining and impressive revelations.

In the script, the village’s perpetual summer is taken for granted by generations of villagers. To them, the world doesn’t have four seasons but just one: summer. The constant high temperatures result in short lifespans, with the oldest living only to fifty. As if cursed, nothing grows in the land except for a medicinal herb—sweet dandelion. This herb is harvested twice a year, and every April and October, the villagers offer all the harvested herbs to the “Great Sage Temple”. For three days, no one is allowed near the temple, and after three days, all the herbs disappear, leaving behind five bags of seeds, four of which are sweet dandelion seeds, and one is grain.

According to the village elders, the herbs are taken by the “Great Sage”, while the bag of grain seeds is his reward. The remaining four bags of sweet dandelion seeds are the villagers’ “task” for the latter half of the year.

Aside from sweet dandelion, only the grain seeds left by the Great Sage yield crops, serving as the villagers’ sole lifeline. For centuries, they’ve been caught in a cycle of cultivation, harvest, offering, and re-cultivation, living and dying in this perpetual motion.

Some villagers have thought of fleeing, but they’re surrounded by steep mountains and treacherous rivers. Those who attempt to leave either disappear without a trace or are found dead in the wilderness. Perhaps some have succeeded, but no one has returned to tell the tale.

Until one day, two teenagers playing by a cliff rescued a scholar who had accidentally fallen. The scholar told them it was strange for their village to only have summer when other places experienced all four seasons.

The villagers accused the scholar of spreading false teachings and bound him to offer to the Great Sage Temple, hoping the deity wouldn’t curse the whole village. The scholar was tied up in the temple for three days, with no one daring to approach. Only the teenagers secretly brought him food and water. After three days, the Great Sage never appeared, but the scholar was still lively, so the villagers released him, deeming that perhaps the Great Sage didn’t find him worthy of death.

The scholar stayed in the village, attempting to find a way out while telling the teenagers about the outside world. Gradually, the boy grew increasingly skeptical about village life. Finally, on the day of the harvest offering in October, he hid in the temple, determined to see the Great Sage, who came to collect the herbs.

Instead of the Great Sage, two heavenly soldiers arrived to collect the herbs. Perhaps in the heavens, they were the lowest of the low, but here, they mocked and looked down upon the villagers with disdain.

During their conversation, the boy learned that sweet dandelions were the favorite ingredient for brewing wine by the “Emperor of the North” in the heavens, and the grass could only grow in the mortal realm. Hence, the Emperor of the North chose this place centuries ago as a dedicated cultivation area for the grass. To easily control the villagers to cultivate the grass generation after generation, he erected mountains and rivers around the village, effectively isolating it from the outside world.

The villagers, willing to cultivate the grass and offer it to the Great Sage life after life, were seen as foolish and as insignificant as ants.

Enraged, the boy made a noise, alerting the soldiers, who then tried to kill him. At the critical moment, the boy’s power awakened, driving the soldiers back to the heavens, leaving him unconscious for three days and nights.

Upon awakening, the boy was both puzzled about his newfound powers and determined to seek justice for the village. Eventually, he and friends he met in the mountains ascended to the heavens, destroyed the “Northern Divine Spring” used to brew sweet dandelion wine after a fierce battle, and cleverly coerced the Emperor of the North into leveling the mountains and opening the paths, bringing back the lost spring, autumn, and winter to the village. He also unraveled the mystery of his powers and lineage.

At the end of the script, the village experiences its first severe winter in centuries. Despite the howling winds and heavy snow sealing off the village, every household is filled with smoke and laughter, looking forward to the melting of the auspicious snow next year, the revival of the land, and the commencement of their own days.

“How is it?” Seeing Ran Lin close the script, Wang Xi put down her phone and asked curiously.

She had read the script before delivering it to Ran Lin, but she still wanted to hear his thoughts.

Ran Lin looked up at his agent, still feeling the thrill of vowing to confront the Emperor of the North, and said, “When I read the <Chronicles of Winter> script last time, I thought I was a knight-errant. But now, I realize that what I’m going to play is actually…”

Wang Xi: “A hero?”

Ran Lin shook his head with a smile, but his gaze grew more determined. “A fighter.”

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