Jiang Shunnian froze for a moment, looking over in bewilderment. He asked politely and mildly, “Hello, do you know me?”
The author, Mingxia, was a bit emotional. She took a deep breath to steady herself before replying, “I’m a huge fan of yours. My writing buddy—and I mean my friend I co-write with—loves you too. But then you suddenly left the industry, and we never heard from you again. We’ve always wondered about you. This drama is based on my novel, and I never expected you’d take a role in it. What character are you playing?”
Her book had gotten lucky to be adapted, but she didn’t have much say in the production. She couldn’t snag her idol a major role.
“What a coincidence,” Jiang Shunnian said, equally surprised. He smiled and answered, “Zhou Wenqi.”
“Of all roles,” Mingxia said with some regret. She shouldn’t have been such a hands-off manager back then.
But she quickly perked up. Her idol was starring in her drama—it felt like fate. “I don’t have much fame; this is the only book I’ve sold. But my friend is a big deal now; she’s sold tons. I remember she based one character on you. When you left the industry, she specifically told them to cut that character from the adaptation—no one else could play it. I’ll tell her the good news right now!”
She spoke fast and furiously, with lightning execution. Jiang Shunnian couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
Once the call connected, she summed it up in a few sentences. On the other end was a young woman with a crisp voice, squealing “Ahhh!” and demanding to talk to Jiang Shunnian directly.
He took the phone and was hit with a torrent of words, her tone trembling with excitement: “Teacher Jiang, I’ve been your fan forever. You rascal, why’d you quit the industry? Don’t you care about fans like us who adore you? I told my writing buddy I’d write novels to support you, and I finally did it. Teacher Jiang, you free now? Let’s meet in person. Her drama’s wrapping up soon, but we can add you. If we’re quick, three or four days to shoot your parts!”
“Sure, I’m free now,” Jiang Shunnian said. He hadn’t expected his return to showbiz to go this smoothly—stumbling into another role by accident.
The girl hopped in a cab right away. They met at a coffee shop in Film City.
The other girl was about Jiang Shunnian’s height, with a neat short haircut and sharp, heroic features. Spotting him, she lit up with excitement. “Teacher Jiang, you look even better in person than on screen! I’m Song Qingran, but you can call me Ran Qing—my pen name.”
Jiang Shunnian smiled and shook her hand, then signed an autograph for her.
Once Ran Qing and Mingxia sat down, they launched into why they’d become fans of Jiang Shunnian.
Four years ago, he’d starred in an ancient drama about the end of a dynasty. Natural disasters ravaged the land, the people starved, and the inept emperor’s rule invited foreign invaders. The nation teetered on collapse.
Then the emperor was assassinated, and the five-year-old crown prince was hastily enthroned—but the enemy was already at the gates.
Jiang Shunnian played the crown prince’s tutor, Zuo Qingheng. When the city fell, he leaped from the towering walls with the young emperor in his arms, choosing death over surrender.
He captured Zuo Qingheng’s scholarly pride to the bone, his flowing azure robes reaping tears from countless viewers.
That leap went viral, remixed with epic BGMs in fan edits. His fans surged by the tens of thousands daily.
Ran Qing and Mingxia had stan’d him because of that drama.
Reminiscing brought a touch of nostalgia to Jiang Shunnian, but the two women were straightforward types—no dwelling. Ran Qing pulled out her script directly.
Unlike Mingxia, Ran Qing was also the screenwriter, giving her real pull. Plus, this was a male-oriented political intrigue novel. The role she’d crafted for him was a frail strategist—ethereal as a fallen immortal, brilliantly talented, advising the male lead with few but stunning appearances. In the end, the lead emperor ascended the throne but grew wary of the strategist’s secrets and plotted his death—only for the strategist to burn himself up first and vanish in the flames.
“I wrote this role with you in mind, Teacher Jiang. But right after, you quit,” Ran Qing said, gazing at him without resentment—just regret.
“I’m sorry. Some things happened back then,” Jiang Shunnian replied. Looking back, quitting was his only path unless he bent.
He’d deleted all his apps, tuned out the industry’s drama, never considering how his fans might grieve his sudden disappearance.
“It’s fine. We’re just happy you’re back,” Mingxia said, the more outgoing and bubbly one. “Teacher Jiang, have you wrapped your scenes here? When can you join Ran Qing’s crew?”
Ran Qing watched him expectantly too.
Jiang Shunnian’s scenes on Starlight Bestowed on You had all wrapped. He was only sticking around to coach Lin Weiyu and Yu Yanchen. He could join now if needed.
Ran Qing wasn’t short on cash; she’d invested in her own adaptation—unlike Mingxia. Adding the strategist role would just mean extra spending, no big deal.
But splitting from Yu Yanchen meant finding someone else for Nono.
He’d need an assistant, but his workload wasn’t huge yet, and finding the right fit wasn’t easy.
So Jiang Shunnian asked Ran Qing, “I’m raising my kid on my own right now. If I join, can I bring him? I promise he’ll be good.”
Ran Qing gasped. “Teacher Jiang, you have a kid?! Boy or girl? Does he look like you? Pics?”
They weren’t obsessive idol fans—just admirers of his looks and talent, career and face stans. Hearing about his child didn’t disappoint them.
Jiang Shunnian pulled up photos of Jiang Yunnuo. Mingxia’s eyes turned to stars. “Wow, Teacher Jiang, your son’s gorgeous! Debut? I’ll be his first mom fan!”
Ran Qing adored him too. “Teacher Jiang, I’ve got kid-wrangling experience. Hand the little guy over to me.”
“Thanks.”
Talks went swimmingly. Ran Qing would revise the script overnight, reshoot some scenes, build sets—about half a month total.
They could draft the contract now.
Parting ways, Ran Qing told Jiang Shunnian to lose more weight… Sickly strategist meant reed-thin.
He’d already dropped ten pounds: “…” Fine. Actors sacrificed for the role.
Yu Yanchen was thrilled Jiang Shunnian landed new work and wanted to celebrate. But hearing about more dieting, he stifled a laugh and clapped his shoulder. “Brother, tough break.”
Jiang Shunnian sighed, hugging his son for comfort.
In the following days, he stayed with the Starlight crew. Lin Weiyu’s acting soared, even pushing Director Lu Hanwen to his peak. While coaching, Jiang Shunnian leveled up too—memorizing the new script, chatting roles with Ran Qing, writing a character bio. He was swamped.
Half a month later, Jiang Shunnian left the Starlight Bestowed on You crew for the Nine Heavens Palace one.
Jiang Yunnuo beamed for his dad. He knew this was Dad’s passion.
Film City in S City was massive; most Nine Heavens Palace shoots were there, though a few needed exteriors.
But after joining, everyone gave Jiang Shunnian the cold shoulder.
For one, he had no fame. For two, his addition meant rewrites and reshoots.
Plus, the strategist was magnetic—if he nailed it and the drama blew up, he’d snag a slice.
But Ran Qing called the shots; even director and producer were her relatives.
She was his fan, so they only gossiped behind backs, greeting him warmly as “Teacher Jiang” to her face.
Jiang Shunnian didn’t mind. Showbiz was cutthroat, actors a dime a dozen—few broke out. He just wanted to deliver, honoring Ran Qing’s faith.
First up: costume fitting photos. Ancient garb took ages—three or four hours easy.
Ran Qing volunteered for Nono duty, feeding him homemade snacks from their auntie. Nono perched on her lap, chomping a treat clutched in both hands, eyes glued to his dad. Adorably fixated.
Even Ran Qing, not big on kids, melted.
A total angel baby.
Jiang Shunnian had dieted like mad these two weeks—down to 113 pounds. A breeze could topple him.
Good thing his frame was slimmer than most guys, or he’d look gaunt.
The makeup artist fussed over him for over two hours. Then, the novel’s demonic genius, peerlessly beautiful Lan Xuewei, materialized before everyone.
He wore a moonlit-azure scholar’s robe embroidered with bamboo, edged in pure white fox fur at the collar. It made his skin ghostly pale, nearly translucent. Chronic coughs painted his lips vivid crimson. His eyes were pools of molten ink, features exquisitely otherworldly—like a blade that could slice with beauty alone.
No one could look away.
Ran Qing clutched Nono’s pudgy hand in thrill. “Nono, I knew only your dad could pull off Lan Xuewei! This is exactly the vibe! Waaah, Nono-baby, I’m so moved!”
Jiang Yunnuo stared blankly at his dad. Dad’s amazing. So pretty!
That night, Ran Qing posted Lan Xuewei’s fitting photo on her socials with the caption: Myriad windsweats pale before you—Lan Xuewei.
With her million fans, the role had hooked readers early. When the adaptation axed him, fans shrugged.
No one in the industry could do it justice.
Then she found the perfect fit.
The post exploded. The drama’s official account reposted, rocketing it to trending.
[Ahhh, Lan Xuewei, my Lan Xuewei! Too gorgeous, I’m drooling!]
[Someone come, the emperor graces Lan Beauty tonight!]
[Huh, no actor name? Ran Qing babe, one minute—gimme all the tea on Lan Beauty.]
The next morning, Shen Lingyi—who’d been vetting matches for her son—saw the photo.
Her eyes lit up. What a looker. No name? She’d dig—who was he, and would he date her boy?
