Chapter 43

Xi Zhui cradled a modified, exquisite ecological tank in both hands. Half of it was filled with crystal-clear water, while the other half featured a raised platform blanketed in lush greenery. At that moment, a turtle lounged leisurely on the flat expanse of moss.

The little fellow stayed snug in its comfort zone, tilting its head fearlessly to peer through the glass at its surroundings.

“This is…”

Wen Chaosheng drew in a sharp, incredulous breath. He already knew the answer in his heart.

Xi Zhui set the hefty tank down on the bar counter and stared at the turtle. “He’s grown a full size larger, and the patterns on his shell have deepened. Can’t recognize him?”

“…”

A mist gathered in Wen Chaosheng’s eyes. He reached out to touch the turtle’s cold, hard shell. “Kuai Kuai?”

Perhaps because it had been so long since smelling Wen Chaosheng’s scent, Kuai Kuai’s instincts kicked in, and it abruptly retreated into its shell.

Wen Chaosheng hastily pulled his hand back and glanced involuntarily at Xi Zhui. “You’ve taken such good care of him. He’s grown so much bigger—and fatter, too.”

“Mm.”

Xi Zhui gave a curt reply, saying nothing about the time and money he’d poured into the turtle over the years. He scooped Kuai Kuai out of the tank and placed him directly into Wen Chaosheng’s palm.

“Your pet. Back to his original owner.”

After wrapping up the previous film’s shoot in Guangzhou, Xi Zhui had arranged professional pet transport and hired a dedicated caretaker. Nearly two days late, he’d brought Kuai Kuai back from Guangzhou to the pond in the backyard of his Haishi City villa.

Today, he’d specially instructed Xiao Chao to hire someone to fish the turtle out of the pond and rush him over to Heng City posthaste.

“I…”

Wen Chaosheng’s palm sank under the weight, and the hollow ache in his heart filled with a precious sense of recovery.

He gazed at the turtle, now considerably larger than his palm, then looked at Xi Zhui with a hint of apology. “Why don’t you keep raising him? He must depend on you by now.”

“No.”

Xi Zhui refused outright, feigning indifference. “Truth be told, I never wanted to keep him that badly. I just couldn’t bring myself to abandon a living creature. Now that you’re back in the country, figure out how to care for him yourself. Don’t trouble me anymore.”

Wen Chaosheng hesitated, words caught in his throat.

On paper, Kuai Kuai was indeed his pet turtle. There was no reason to keep burdening Xi Zhui with him.

But in terms of actual caregiving, Xi Zhui was the turtle’s true master now.

As they spoke, Kuai Kuai finally poked his head out from his shell.

Wen Chaosheng cupped him carefully, staring into the little guy’s eyes from a cautious distance in a silent standoff.

“Alright. If you ever change your mind and want him back, I’ll return him.”

“No plans for that.” Xi Zhui shot down the idea of a return on the spot, one eyebrow arched. “You two are kindred spirits. Better suited to live together.”

“…”

Wen Chaosheng was at a loss for words.

Several seconds passed before he remembered another little creature. “What about Black Boss? Is he still…”

His question trailed off midway.

Pets’ lives were always so much shorter and more fragile than humans’. He dreaded hearing the answer he feared most.

Xi Zhui read his unspoken worry and cut straight to it. “He’s not dead. That silly bird’s too noisy from dawn till dusk. Didn’t bring him this time.”

Wen Chaosheng’s heart, which had been in his throat, finally settled. “Oh. Good.”

He extended a fingertip and gently stroked Kuai Kuai’s little head. The turtle didn’t pull away this time.

“He’s not afraid of me anymore.”

Surprise lit Wen Chaosheng’s face. He glanced instinctively at Xi Zhui.

A soft smile finally warmed the corners of his eyes and the curve of his brows, easing the exhaustion from his features.

“…”

Xi Zhui stared for a moment, his own lips curving upward.

But he snapped out of it quickly and averted his gaze. “I’ll head out first. Do what you want with the takeout sushi. I already fed Kuai Kuai today. I’ll drop off his food and supplies tomorrow.”

Only then did Wen Chaosheng realize how late it had gotten. He nodded. “Okay.”

Xi Zhui eyed the turtle, who’d become so hardy and low-maintenance over the past two years, and used him as an excuse. “If he develops any health issues down the line, feel free to contact me.”

Wen Chaosheng assumed Xi Zhui doubted his ability to care for a turtle. He nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

He would take good care of him.

He might not be great at looking after himself, but he was determined to keep Kuai Kuai healthy and thriving.

Xi Zhui said nothing more and headed for the door.

Wen Chaosheng, still cradling Kuai Kuai, unconsciously took two steps after him—until the door clicked shut, severing any chance of pursuit.

He stood frozen in place, a pang of reluctance in his heart mingled with unexpected relief.

Since returning to the country, this was the first time he’d felt free of that stifling tension in Xi Zhui’s presence. It was also their first truly calm interaction in ages.

The sudden thaw was half due to Xi Zhui’s concession earlier—and half thanks to the little guy in his palm.

Wen Chaosheng lifted Kuai Kuai to eye level and murmured, “Kuai Kuai, it’s been a long time. Thank you.”

These years, I’ve missed him. And I’ve missed you, too.

…

Wen Chaosheng set Kuai Kuai down on the desk, letting him crawl around at his leisurely pace out of curiosity. He went to wash his hands briefly before carrying the well-sealed bag of takeout sushi to the table.

He wasn’t hungry—not really—but the thought that this was a meal from Xi Zhui made it impossible to discard.

Wen Chaosheng opened the bag and peered inside.

Tuna sushi and sweet shrimp—both his old favorites.

“…”

He froze. His nose stung uncontrollably as those two phrases echoed inescapably in his mind:

“The things you liked before don’t mean you still like them now.”

“Wen Chaosheng, it’s been almost six years. People change.”

Xi Zhui had admitted his morning words were laced with irritation, but that didn’t make them any less true.

He hadn’t even accepted the sugar cake Wen Chaosheng bought him. He no longer had feelings for him. All that remained was their professional director-actor relationship.

The sushi was probably just Xi Zhui’s way of smoothing over their awkwardly rigid working dynamic. He always handled outsiders with such poise and propriety.

“…”

Emotions were mischievous demons, always surfacing in the dead of night.

Wen Chaosheng closed his eyes, accustomed to it by now. After a long silence, he coaxed himself. “It’s fine.”

He picked up a piece of tuna sushi and took a small, savoring bite. The fresh sweetness mingled with a hint of bitterness.

Oblivious—or pretending to be—Wen Chaosheng swallowed it down and kept coaxing himself. “Really, it’s fine.”

It’s fine.

His tastes hadn’t changed. Neither had his heart. No matter how many years passed, he would always adore Xi Zhui.

Perhaps catching the aroma of fish, Kuai Kuai ambled over to the edge of the container. His little head bobbed as he eyed the food, clearly eager for a taste.

“No, Kuai Kuai. Not this time.”

Wen Chaosheng passed up a perfect bonding moment with his pet and jealously guarded his meal. “Little Turtle can’t have any of this.”

“…”

Kuai Kuai retreated into his shell, looking distinctly sulky.

Wen Chaosheng tapped gently on his back and apologized warmly. “Sorry, Baby. I really can’t share.”

This was from Xi Zhui. No one else could touch it.

He’d eat every last bite tonight, even if it stuffed him to bursting.

…

The crew had granted two days off before principal photography to let the actors make final adjustments.

But for director Wen Chaosheng, it backfired. He couldn’t relax at all. His anxiety mounted with every passing hour, peaking on the first day of shooting.

They’d scheduled the opening ceremony in Heng City’s Old City District, with the site already cordoned off to keep out onlookers.

By eight o’clock, Wen Chaosheng was already perched rigidly on the sofa in the main creators’ lounge.

He wore the crew’s standard opening-ceremony polo shirt. His script was rolled tightly in his hand, fingertips absently tracing the edges of the pages in a bid to soothe his unease and racing heart.

This was Jian Jinzhao’s first film as producer and investor after founding his new company. The industry buzz around Rotten Mud was intense.

To feed the public’s curiosity, Whale Shadow had made the ceremony a grand affair—inviting numerous media outlets and scheduling post-ceremony interviews.

Wen Chaosheng had “vanished” for far too long. He knew he was now a fringe figure in the industry.

He dreaded the criticism and skepticism. But what terrified him most was the chance someone might ask where he’d been all these years—and why he’d abruptly abandoned his directing career.

Some things he couldn’t answer. Some he didn’t dare reveal.

A brief knock interrupted his spiraling thoughts.

He looked up slowly to find Xi Zhui stepping inside. The man had also changed into the crew’s opening-ceremony shirt and looked strikingly handsome in it.

Their eyes met across the room. Xi Zhui immediately saw through Wen Chaosheng’s anxiety.

He sank onto the sofa opposite. “That nervous?”

Wen Chaosheng licked his lips. “Yeah. A little.”

A faint tremor betrayed him in the uptick of his voice. “…I’m afraid I’ll botch the media questions.”

For someone with social anxiety, facing a barrage of scrutiny from crowds and cameras in public was pure mental torment.

Xi Zhui knew his nature well. He considered for a moment before replying. “Most of the press today is here for Jin Zhao. He’ll manage the flow. Worst case, I step in.”

“Don’t sweat saying the wrong thing. Just stonewall any questions you don’t want to answer.”

If any reporters gave Wen Chaosheng a hard time, he’d handle it—and deal with them afterward.

Wen Chaosheng felt a measure of calm at that. “Really?”

Xi Zhui met the fleeting trust and reliance in his eyes, his tone softening unconsciously. “Really.”

The door swung open again. Jian Jinzhao, the producer, finally made his appearance on launch day.

He greeted Xi Zhui on the diagonal sofa first, then settled beside Wen Chaosheng and cut right to it. “Nervous?”

Fresh from Xi Zhui’s reassurance, Wen Chaosheng replied, “I’m okay.”

Jian Jinzhao saw through the situation but said nothing about it. He simply patted Wen Chaosheng on the shoulder, offering support in his own way. “Chaosheng, you have to believe in your script and your abilities. You can also trust my judgment when it comes to selecting and investing in projects.”

Yu Yan, who had been waiting outside the lounge, walked in and leaned silently against the door.

Jian Jinzhao met the gaze of his own artist, then glanced at Xi Zhui—the other lead actor—and continued confidently to Wen Chaosheng. “And you especially have to believe in—”

“The male lead we picked together.”

“…”

Yes.

This was the script he had polished for four long years. It was also the first commercial film he had promised Xi Zhui.

Wen Chaosheng drew in a deep breath. “Yeah. I believe it.”

At this point, he had no choice but to believe in himself. He had to believe in Xi Zhui. And above all, he had to believe in everyone who was about to pour their hearts into this film alongside him.

…

The opening ceremony went off without a hitch. The follow-up interview session unfolded exactly as Xi Zhui had anticipated.

The reporters’ questions zeroed in on Jian Jinzhao. He commanded the room with effortless authority, deftly quashing their voracious—and at times overly prying—curiosity in just a few exchanges. He steered every topic squarely back to the film itself.

Xi Zhui, now elevated to the status of Film Emperor, brought his own wealth of experience in handling the press. He smoothly helped keep the proceedings in check, propping up the entire event. During the Q&A, he went out of his way to ensure every key member of the cast and crew got their moment in the spotlight.

Halfway through the interview, Xi Zhui wrapped up his answer to one reporter and casually nodded toward another, based on his media badge. “Starlight Entertainment, you’re up.”

He was a slender young man who appeared utterly harmless at first glance.

He accepted the microphone from the staffer with a smile, but the glance he directed at Wen Chaosheng suddenly sharpened into something piercing. “Hello, Director Wen. During the preparation phase for the film Rotten Mud, did Director Wen Chunshen or Teacher Song Xuelan offer you any special guidance?”

“…”

The mention of his long-estranged parents caused a flicker of shadow to cross Wen Chaosheng’s eyes.

The reporter pressed on. “After all these years, this is your first time helming a commercial production. Are you aiming for awards again? Do you have any projections for the film’s box office performance?”

Back in the day, Wen Chaosheng had burst onto the scene with Contour and Flower Moon. Some had marveled in admiration; others had seethed with envy. Plenty more had whispered accusations of nepotism, insisting his accolades came through back channels. Only his abrupt disappearance from the public eye had allowed those varied voices to fade beneath fresher scandals.

These two questions seemed innocuous on the surface, but they brimmed with malice, laced with insidious traps.

If Wen Chaosheng invoked his parents, opportunists would slap the “riding coattails” label on him once more. Expressing award ambitions would invite predictions of “backdoor deals ahead.”

Yet denying any such hopes would undermine Jian Jinzhao, Xi Zhui, and the rest of the team. After all, Rotten Mud boasted a substantial budget and a powerhouse lineup.

“…”

Sweat prickled faintly in Wen Chaosheng’s palms. He steadied his voice as best he could. “Thank you for your question. Rotten Mud is an original script I developed entirely on my own over many years. Moving forward, I’ll pour everything into bringing this story to life on screen.”

“As for awards…”

Wen Chaosheng paused for a deliberate two seconds, sidestepping the snare with flawless precision. “The market will render its verdict once the film releases. And audiences will judge it by their own standards.”

Xi Zhui caught Wen Chaosheng’s response and exhaled inwardly in relief.

The gaze he turned on the Starlight reporter hardened into ice, his voice dropping to a low chill. “That’s all for now, reporter. You can have a seat.”

“…”

The entertainment scribe itched to follow up, but Xi Zhui’s stare sent an unbidden tremor through his chest. Chagrined, he sank back into his chair, choking down the barbed follow-up that had been poised on his lips.

The invited press corps consisted mainly of grizzled industry vets. Plenty in the room had covered Xi Zhui before and knew him for a performer who usually extended plenty of grace.

But sharp observers could tell at a glance: Xi Zhui was irked this time, plainly shielding Wen Chaosheng. One by one, they shelved their scheming impulses, careful not to hurl any more barbed queries his way.

At last, the interview concluded without further drama.

Wen Chaosheng trailed the group back to the backstage lounge, exhaling at last as if a great weight had lifted.

Xi Zhui fell into step beside him. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

Wen Chaosheng dipped his head in a slight nod.

The reporters had couched their questions with enough wiggle room. Worst of all, the one he dreaded most hadn’t arisen.

In the next instant, his backpack buzzed with an incoming call. He rummaged for his phone. The moment he glimpsed the WeChat caller ID, his expression drained of color.

Xi Zhui clocked the abrupt tension coiling through Wen Chaosheng and leaned in without thinking. “What is it? Who’s—”

Calling?

Wen Chaosheng cut him off before he could finish. “It’s nothing.”

He clapped the phone to his chest in haste, awkwardly concealing the screen. “I’ll just step out for a minute.”