In the blink of an eye, half a month passed, and the summer heat intensified even more.
Wen Chaosheng wore a pure white short-sleeved shirt with his faded single-shoulder bag slung over his back. He paced back and forth outside the elevator on the first floor.
He kept his head down, carefully deliberating over the social phrases he might need.
Suddenly, a surprised voice called out. “Chaosheng?”
“…”
Wen Chaosheng’s train of thought shattered. He turned to see the newcomer, his mind briefly thrown off balance.
The man had an exceptional presence, his features carrying an innate beauty—especially those naturally fox-like eyes, effortlessly captivating.
Wen Chaosheng nervously adjusted his black-framed glasses. He hadn’t expected to encounter the man himself before even heading upstairs. “Jinzhao, long time no see.”
Jian Jinzhao hurried over. “I almost thought I’d misidentified you. Yeah, long time no see.”
Their fates had intertwined during a movie shoot.
Wen Chaosheng’s second self-written and self-directed short film, Flower Moon, had starred Jian Jinzhao.
They had each other’s WeChat, but over the years, their busy schedules left them exchanging only holiday greetings.
Jian Jinzhao had sailed smoothly through the entertainment industry lately, scooping up major awards. A few years earlier, he had cofounded a film company with friends, which had ballooned into a powerhouse in no time.
Yet for some reason, a month ago, he had stepped down from the top management of that company and launched Whale Shadow Media from scratch.
Two days prior, Wen Chaosheng had spotted Jian Jinzhao’s WeChat Moments and learned he was busy rounding up scripts, new talent, and artist teams.
That was why Wen Chaosheng had mustered his courage to bring the Rotten Mud script here.
Jian Jinzhao eyed the hesitant Wen Chaosheng and seemed to guess his intent. “Did you come specifically for me? What’s going on?”
Wen Chaosheng clutched his bag strap, masking his anxiety. “I heard you started a new film company. Thought I’d try my luck and see if I could meet you.”
Jian Jinzhao, sharp as ever, smiled openly. “Come on, let’s head upstairs and chat somewhere quieter.”
“Okay.”
…
Five minutes later, in Whale Shadow’s reception room.
Jian Jinzhao leafed through the script Wen Chaosheng had brought, cutting straight to it. “You want me to invest?”
“Yes.”
Wen Chaosheng held his breath ever so slightly as he laid out the situation. “Jinzhao, I’ve refined this script for a solid four years. I’ve got the filming permit, and the crew is nearly assembled. But the original backer pulled out last minute, and I… I really had no choice.”
The deal with Script Box Media had collapsed. Worse, Fu Yangguang had quietly sabotaged them behind the scenes.
Last week, Wen Chaosheng had finally lined up a promising new actor. Fu Yangguang got wind of it somehow and had his people swoop in the next day with better offers.
Song Ting’s hunt for new investors had hit dead end after dead end, rejection after rejection.
The project was already in pre-production—money bleeding out from every direction.
Wen Chaosheng didn’t want to dump all the financial burden on Song Ting. He glanced at Jian Jinzhao across the table. “Want to take a look at the script? It’s a suspense thriller with dual male leads.”
He paused for two beats, his voice softening. “Of course, if you think it’s no good, I won’t push it on you…”
Jian Jinzhao caught the insecurity in Wen Chaosheng’s tone and encouraged him with a smile. “Anything polished by Director Wen? How could it be bad?”
Wen Chaosheng gave a wry smile. “Don’t butter me up.”
He came from the arthouse scene, never dipping into the commercial flicks dominating the market now. His old award buzz barely registered anymore.
No wonder investors kept passing, dubbing the script “no box-office prospects.”
“Not buttering you up—I mean it.”
To Jian Jinzhao, Wen Chaosheng wasn’t just talented and capable; the man had given him his big break.
Back when Jian Jinzhao was a green rookie, Wen Chaosheng had fought to cast him in Flower Moon, guiding him on set to build and embody the role. That’s what made the film a hit.
Jian Jinzhao didn’t dive into the script right away. He trusted Wen Chaosheng implicitly.
“Whale Shadow is brand new and starving for solid projects. Chaosheng, I’ll invest. And I’d like to come on as producer.”
“For the exact amount, I’ll need to review the script first. That cool?”
Director and producer roles meshed fine.
Compared to Fu Yangguang’s sudden lion-sized demands, Wen Chaosheng far preferred partnering with Jian Jinzhao, someone he’d worked with before.
But another matter sprang to mind. “Jinzhao, actually… I have one non-negotiable condition.”
Jian Jinzhao read him like a book and chuckled. “Got it. Script and shoot details are all yours—no meddling from me.”
He’d witnessed Wen Chaosheng’s command as a director, his iron grip on quality and sky-high standards.
As the saying goes, “stick to your own trade.” Collaborating meant mutual trust and handling your lane.
Wen Chaosheng hadn’t expected such quick buy-in; the boulder in his chest finally dropped. “Thank you.”
“With dual male leads, got your actors lined up?”
“Nope. I want open casting, but haven’t kicked it off yet.”
Wen Chaosheng shook his head. Tension gone, he took the initiative. “Jinzhao, fame doesn’t matter to me—just fit for the role. Any actors you’d recommend?”
Recommend meaning fair auditions, not shoehorning.
Something crossed Jian Jinzhao’s mind, prompting a brief laugh.
Under Wen Chaosheng’s gaze, he laid it out plainly. “Chaosheng, truth be told, starting this company and backing the script? Yeah, I’ve got skin in the game to spotlight my talent. But rubber-stamping would be sloppy. Here’s the deal: open casting—”
“But with Whale Shadow investing, bump up audition slots for my artists. Let ’em try out.”
“You decide if they fit, Director. Deal?”
Fair ask, preserving Wen Chaosheng’s full casting say.
Wen Chaosheng nodded gratefully. “Deal.”
…
Jian Jinzhao and Whale Shadow’s execs moved faster than Wen Chaosheng imagined. Under a week, and the first investment tranche hit.
Wen Chaosheng wasted no time, launching round one of open auditions.
Whale Shadow newbie Yu Yan shone in tryouts. His look nailed the script’s “younger brother Fang Jing” to a T; he locked it quick.
The “older brother Yao Yi” slot? Two, three batches of actors, and Wen Chaosheng still sensed a gap—no decision.
The casting director pored over profiles, brow furrowed deep. “Director Wen, third batch already. No one’s clicked?”
Wen Chaosheng shook his head.
The “brother” demanded guile, world-weariness, dominance—more than the “little brother.”
Green rookies lacked mileage; seasoned C-listers’ looks missed the mark.
A-listers? Snubbed the indie gig or schedules clashed.
Casting director rifled the thick audition roster. “Fang Yanzhou seems solid. Years in the game, decent chops, fair quote, team plays nice.”
So far, Fang Yanzhou ticked most boxes.
But Wen Chaosheng found his soft vibe overwhelming, missing that buried edge the “brother” required.
Song Ting, advising from the side, agreed on Fang Yanzhou and tossed out, “Xiao Sheng, you still holding out for Xi Zhui?”
Casting director hadn’t known, blurted the obvious. “Wait, Teacher Xi’s level? He’s swimming in big-director offers. Our crew?”
“…”
No malice meant, but it stung.
Wen Chaosheng blanked for two seconds, truthful. “Nah. His team shot down my invite email ages ago.”
Right.
Their worlds no longer aligned. Pure delusion on his part.
Wen Chaosheng masked the bitterness in his eyes, sidestepping. “I’ll check with Jinzhao, see if he’d act. No dice by next Wednesday? Reach out to Fang Yanzhou’s team.”
“Got it.”
…
The heat still bared its fangs and claws. In Guangzhou, the set shed hummed with cooling fans on blast.
Xi Zhui clutched a wrap party bouquet, striding out steadily. Staff he passed showered congrats. “Teacher Xi, happy wrap!”
“Brother Xi, you killed it—happy wrap.”
“Thanks.”
Xi Zhui nodded politely each time.
In his private lounge, his gentle smile finally ebbed. Smile-free, the keen edge in his brows and eyes sharpened into view.
He passed the bouquet to his assistant for storage, snagged smokes and lighter from the assistant’s bag, hit the window. Click—the flame flared, igniting a cigarette fast.
Xi Zhui drew deep, nicotine dulling his pounding nerves.
Door creaked open behind. Three seconds tops, agent Wen Hui piped up. “Wrapped five minutes and you’re lighting up?”
Assistant Xiao Chao jumped in. “Sister Hui, Brother Xi’s been grinding hard. Finally wrapped—let him have the one.”
Truth was, Xi Zhui had no real habit; smokes were rare.
Only killer crunch time did he indulge to unwind strung-out nerves.
This wrapped film’s wartime hero hauled era-spanning grudges—a month’s grim scenes had wrung him dry.
Xi Zhui blew smoke, turning to agent and assistant. “Phone?”
Assistant Xiao Chao beamed, handing it. “Topped off the charge. Here.”
Xi Zhui’s other quirk: to sink into roles, he shunned phones on set, dodging distractions.
He pocketed the phone, unopened. “Sister Hui, flights set?”
“Yep. Post-Monday magazine in Haishi City, 9 PM direct to Milan same night.” Wen Hui clocked his weariness. “Your call—you’re off till year-end.”
Years of back-to-back films, holidays a myth. Xi Zhui never uttered “tired.”
Last month, he’d taken the initiative to request a long vacation after the movie wrapped. Considering his stockpile of unreleased films, magazine features, and other upcoming exposures, the team had approved it without hesitation.
Xiao Chao, his assistant, chimed in offhandedly. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Brother Xi take such a long break. Why Italy, of all places?”
“…”
Xi Zhui acted as if he hadn’t heard. He flicked his cigarette ash into the nearby trash can. “Nothing big going on in the industry lately, right?”
Wen Hui spoke up. “Actually, there is one thing.”
“Oh?”
“Jian Jinzhao had a falling out with his old agency. He left Jing Ye and started his own company.”
There were no true secrets in the entertainment world. Agents swapped intel all the time.
The moment Xi Zhui heard Jian Jinzhao’s name, something flickered in his eyes. But the figure who surfaced in his mind wasn’t Jian Jinzhao—it was someone else connected to him.
Wen Hui added casually, “Jian Jinzhao also invested in a new movie recently. It’s called Rotten Mud. They’ve been holding open casting calls. Oh, and the director—you’d definitely recognize the name.”
“Who?”
“Wen Chaosheng.”
“…”
The pad of Xi Zhui’s finger suddenly clamped down hard on his cigarette. His fatigued thoughts jolted into sharp clarity.
Before he could respond, his assistant jumped in. “Hey, no wonder Rotten Mud sounded so familiar. Didn’t their team send Brother Xi an invitation email not long ago?”
Xi Zhui frowned on instinct, his tone turning sharp. “What invitation email?”
“You know, the casting invite for Rotten Mud.”
The assistant flinched under Xi Zhui’s unusually intense stare and answered honestly. “I saw the screenshot Xiao Lan and the others posted in the work group. It was one of those recent script pitches for you, but it didn’t seem like any major production.”
Xi Zhui had clinched the Film Emperor award at the start of the year. The industry was overflowing with collaboration offers.
Top-tier scripts and powerhouse crews always came through personal connections to Wen Hui. Only low-budget outfits, shoestring investments, or up-and-coming directors resorted to the standard work inbox.
Wen Hui confirmed it. “Didn’t you say no new projects under any circumstances? Xiao Lan and the others screened them, cleared it with me, and we rejected every film slated to start shooting in the next six months.”
“…”
Xi Zhui pulled out his phone and opened WeChat. He tapped into the work group and scrolled rapidly upward.
There it was. Amid a screenshot of his crammed inbox, the Rotten Mud invitation stood out. The sender’s address was a scrambled string of English initials—and it began with “wen.”
The cigarette had burned down to the filter, searing his fingertip. Xi Zhui forgot to school his features. A flash of complicated emotion crossed his face.
Wen Hui picked up on his strangeness. “What’s wrong? You seem out of it.”
Xi Zhui ground out the glowing ember with force. Beneath his clothes, his chest heaved dramatically.
He didn’t dare bring up the name truly burning in his mind. Instead, he circled around it. “Jian Jinzhao invested in this film?”
Wen Hui nodded. “Yeah, I think he’s serving as producer.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when Xi Zhui cut in decisively. “Xiao Chao, book the earliest flight back to Haishi City tomorrow.”
“Huh?”
The assistant blinked in confusion. Wen Hui looked equally taken aback.
They already had tickets for a flight back to Haishi City tomorrow evening. Why the sudden urgency to leave earlier? What difference did a few hours make?
“Book it now.”
Xi Zhui had no time for explanations. Clutching his phone, he strode out. “I need to make a call.”
