Chapter 8: Plucking Feathers · 8

Qin Baiyan looked at him with probing eyes.

It was as if he were trying to discern something more from the proposal.

Min Fan met his gaze steadily, his own eyes gleaming brightly.

“Do you dare?”

“Even if you fly so far that no one can find you, I can still call OAC to bring you back. I’ve read all the emergency protocols.”

Qin Baiyan’s pupils contracted slightly, and he agreed in a low voice.

What was there not to dare?

By the time the two of them drove out, the world outside was a clear night, cloudless for miles around.

The radio was playing one of Qin Baiyan’s old songs from his debut days, “Never Had.”

Not to mention the flying feathers and surging winds pulsing through his bloodline—even Min Fan himself yearned to shoot straight into the clouds, to fly as far as he possibly could.

He wanted to chase after the stars and moon, to cleave through the wind like a falcon and indulge his true nature to the fullest.

Qin Baiyan asked, “Thought it over?”

“I’ll wait right here for you. If you don’t show up after two hours, I’ll contact OAC.”

“Fine.”

The man draped the long blanket over himself, bundling up in the back seat of the car.

He watched Min Fan’s retreating back through the window, letting out a helpless chuckle of a sigh.

Utterly lawless.

When the white falcon was lifted out of the car, it immediately caught the scent of the night wind sweeping in from the open wilderness.

A deep thirst buried in its bloodline flared to life in an instant. It stretched its neck and unleashed a long, piercing cry, as though pursuing the faint traces of its kin on the breeze.

The young man hoisted it high overhead and said softly, “Fly.”

The moment his grip loosened, the haidongqing rocketed skyward like an arrow slicing through the air, hurtling unbound toward the full moon.

No more cramped dressing rooms, living rooms too tight to turn around in, hotel suites cluttered with obstacles everywhere.

Tonight, he had this starry night all to himself—no limits, no end in sight.

Its wings could stretch to their utmost, soaring and wheeling effortlessly in the deep embrace of the air currents. Even at altitudes above five thousand meters, where the air grew thin, it moved with complete ease.

He was a haidongqing born for vast wild skies, the cherished child of cold winds and boundless blue.

Min Fan tilted his head back to watch, but soon the white falcon dwindled to a distant speck of light against the starry night.

His eyesight had its limits; after a little while, he could no longer track it at all.

The suburbs were frigid. Min Fan fetched the blanket and leaned against the car to wait.

That blanket had been wrapped around Qin Baiyan countless times. It was washed and dried regularly, but it still carried the inevitable trace of the man’s scent.

Low and profound, lingering without end.

Min Fan leaned down for a sniff, then pulled it tighter around himself.

He didn’t bother with his phone while waiting. Instead, he let his mind go blank, staring up at the night sky.

The endless cycle of schedules and schmoozing had worn on for so long that tonight felt like the first time he’d truly broken free of his cage, breathing in the raw taste of freedom amid the wilds.

With no city lights to pollute the view, only the car’s headlights pierced the darkness—like the sole gleam in an ocean of ink-black night.

And because of that, the stars in the clear sky shone with exceptional clarity, wheeling overhead like distant flocks of birds.

Lost in a daze, Min Fan couldn’t help wondering what kind of bird he’d turn into if his own rare bloodline ever awakened like Qin Baiyan’s.

He had a fine voice and loved to dance, hated being tied down—maybe a skylark, or something bright like a little sun.

Sensing a shift, he straightened up and spotted a white dot arrowing toward him against the moonlight.

Min Fan folded the blanket neatly at once, wrapping it thickly around his right arm. “Snow Fluff!” he called.

The snow-pale haidongqing streaked in and executed a sharp, flawless landing.

“Only twenty minutes,” Min Fan said with a laugh. “Still early. Go fly some more?”

The haidongqing cocked its head at him, as if asking whether he really meant it.

“Yeah, it’s fine. The breeze feels great out here.” His voice was gentle. “Off you go.”

Qin Baiyan trilled softly, then beat his wings and soared away once more.

Tonight, at last, his human side and his primal nature were in harmony.

The one who yearned to soar was him. The one who was refined and poised was him.

His human aspect and his haidongqing aspect began to blend and complement each other in perfect silence, forming the whole that was truly him.

Qin Baiyan had once fought tooth and nail against the awakening of his bloodline.

Back then, he hadn’t reached out to OAC. All he knew was that everything inside him was changing, slipping out of control.

If that perilous state had shattered, he might have ended up a gibbering lunatic crawling the streets—or simply another missing person, vanished without a trace.

He had no idea what he’d become, only that he craved raw meat and dizzying heights with a frenzy that wouldn’t quit—even standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows on the twenty-fourth floor.

Jump. The urge was like a seed constantly straining to burst its bonds.

Jump, then unfurl his wings and glide high on the wind.

He chalked it up to some hidden affliction and carried on with his glad-handing under pressure that would drive anyone mad, all without a murmur.

Until one person caught him solidly and grinned with a taunting dare: You willing to bet on it?

A full hour and more passed before the midnight flight finally wound down.

Back inside the car, Qin Baiyan toweled off the damp ends of his hair and felt the faint chill of frost on his skin.

“When you went out to fly it, I was checking my phone,” Min Fan said as he turned the steering wheel. “It’s only ten degrees tonight, but a Haidongqing can easily soar above twenty thousand feet. Its feathers can withstand temperatures from negative twenty to negative thirty degrees.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror, his voice softening a touch.

“Your eyelashes have frost on them too.”

Qin Baiyan lowered his gaze to wipe them away.

The man’s collar wasn’t fully fastened, revealing the deep line of his chest, where beads of dew had formed from the melting frost.

Frost dusted his heavy brows and lashes alike, lending him an ethereal quality—half fairy, half demon.

“Eyes on the road,” Qin Baiyan said.

Min Fan pulled his gaze away but offered no denial.

When they returned to the hotel, everywhere was still quiet and serene.

No one knew their secret.

Nor did anyone know of the wild wind sweeping across the open fields, carrying the scent of grass.

After the opening ceremony, it was time for makeup and the first shots.

As they burned incense, people from different regions naturally clustered into separate groups.

One bunch from the Beijing Circle, another from the Shanghai Circle, and yet another from the Hong Kong Circle.

Deputy director Xu Guoqiang spotted Qin Baiyan leading the incense offering and couldn’t hide his grumble.

“Letting him act? Yeah, that’ll work.”

It was all the same shtick—endlessly profound and enigmatic. Total poser.

When he caught sight of Min Fan, a cold sneer escaped despite his best efforts.

“Traffic star era, huh? Any hack can snag the male lead’s sidekick.”

Xu Guoqiang wielded the casting power for the mid- and low-tier actors, holding their careers in his grip.

But every core role had been greenlit by the chief director himself. Not a drop of graft for Xu.

Countless actors had vied for Min Fan’s spot, and plenty could act rings around him.

Sourly, the deputy director raked his eyes over the young man’s back from head to toe.

This was the kind of idol the kids went nuts for these days?

He wasn’t even as good as the fifth-string nobodies under Xu’s thumb—at least they hadn’t gone under the knife.

Qin Baiyan rarely stuck his nose in other people’s business, but before shooting, he slipped into Min Fan’s makeup room early.

“I actually had a suggestion a while back,” he said, eyeing Min Fan. “We weren’t close enough then to bring it up.”

“You can’t look too good.”

Min Fan trusted him.

He knew full well the company had low expectations for his acting chops.

In this age of blockbuster dramas, viewership and buzz could be bought outright, with fans ready to defend anything blindly.

By industry standards now, showing up on time, nailing lines without double-booking gigs—that counted as professional. Throw in a coach, and you were beyond reproach.

But strip away the looks, and the character would hug the role tighter, demanding real performance to sell it.

Seeing no pushback, Qin Baiyan scooted his chair closer. He flipped through the script notes, murmuring pointers.

Disheveled wasn’t enough.

A programmer battling Parkinson’s poured most of his energy into fighting the symptoms. His spirit had to droop, his whole vibe laced with sickness.

The current wig was still too tidy.

The makeup artist blinked in surprise but followed their lead, teasing the hair into dry, unkempt chaos and using scissors for deliberate uneven patches.

The clothes were too pristine, so they added coffee stains and frayed wear.

Compared to the elegant, pale youth from moments ago, this Chen Zhuan was already three-tenths immersed.

He looked like some bottom-rung programmer from Hong Kong, yanked in off the street on a whim—clearly distinct from Min Fan.

“Still not enough,” Qin Baiyan murmured.

“Your movements are clumsy, attacks hit often. You need scattered little wounds to cue the audience.”

“More crucially, the eyes. The mental state.”

“Min, think back to when you had a fever. Make your gaze duller.”

“Shed your poise. Stoop a bit. Avoid eye contact, and your lips…”

Qin Baiyan frowned. “His lip color’s too healthy.”

Min Fan arched a brow faintly.

The makeup artist fetched some dark yellow pigment and tested a pallid shade on his lips, then used tissue paper to mimic dry, cracked bleeding.

He rose and took a few experimental steps.

“Like this?”

Qin Baiyan pressed down on Min Fan’s instinctively squared shoulders. “Hunch more.”

It was as if Min Fan had been crammed into the role’s very skin.

He could sense this body wasn’t his own anymore.

Bit by bit, he adjusted to the awkward posture, the coffee reek, the hazy vision sketched in the script.

He slipped back into Chen Zhuan’s world.

That young man accustomed to the dull ache in rainy nights, to being treated like thin air by everyone around him.

The makeup artist let out a sigh. “Whoa, the pretty boy’s turned into a spud. Total waste!”

Director Xiao Buchuan pushed the curtain aside and stepped in. His eyes locked on Min Fan, then flicked to Qin Baiyan on reflex.

He caught himself at once.

“Fresh start, Old Qin. You’re taking a newbie under your wing?”

“Just him,” Qin Baiyan said. “Let me introduce my brother—practically family.”

Min Fan managed a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

The overly intimate distance from before was shattered clean by that one sentence, leaving both of them to breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

With the lighting and props all in place, the first scene kicked off with Chen Zhuan’s solo act.

As Parkinson’s wracked his body, he cracked the backend system in real time, hacking through permissions to plunge even deeper into danger.

Hacker tales were a dime a dozen these days, but the seizure blew up the expected rhythm.

Chen Zhuan seemed to be pleading under his breath—don’t hit now, just hold off a little longer—before his body convulsed violently.

For several minutes, he couldn’t control his breathing. His fingers, even his upper arms, felt like faulty wiring, while fine beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.

The sweat made him look filthy and ragged, but he had no chance to wipe it away.

His keystrokes kept getting interrupted by the relentless tremors he couldn’t suppress.

The rhythm yanked back and forth, his ragged breaths leaving everyone holding theirs.

Then, in the next instant, half of Hong Kong plunged into pitch-black silence, cries of alarm erupting from countless throats.

“Cut!” Xiao Buchuan called through his megaphone. “That’s a wrap on this one. Moving on.”

Min Fan had just been helped to his feet from the cramped bedroom cluttered with junk. “No need for a safety take?”

“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” Xiao Buchuan said. “You pulled it off. Your boss is even buying me dinner—told me not to be too harsh.”

“Better to be strict,” Min Fan replied. “I always give it my all.”

The old director clapped him hard on the shoulder.

During the break in the holding area, someone nearby had their phone blasting on speaker, garish AI voices drifting over from afar.

[Who’d believe it? My dad turned into a snake right in front of me—one second we’re snuggled on the bed watching TV, he’s bundled in the quilt and barely gets two words out before he just shrinks down!]

[Those clickbait accounts are getting wilder with their hooks now. Claiming their family turned into birds or snakes? They should just write novels if they’ve got the time.]

[Whole internet’s snapping up these alpaca fleece blankets! Silky smooth, ultra-soft, perfect for petting—you need one too!]

Min Fan rapped his forehead, trying to shoo the noise away.

He nursed his black coffee as he rose slowly, the air feeling oppressively damp and chill.

If he weren’t on set, he’d probably have soaked in a bath by now and burrowed under the covers to game.

He wandered over to Qin Baiyan’s off-camera spot to watch the big shot in a classic forced-checkmate scene.

The shareholders had banded together in a scheme to drag the top dog from his throne.

But he just laughed it off, letting the panicked shouts from the phone calls turn the tables completely.

Qin Baiyan rose unhurriedly, his lines flowing smooth and steady—like a blade dipped in blood, its edge invisible but the metallic tang unmistakable.

Standing off-set, Min Fan’s heart skipped a beat.

He’d watched Qin Baiyan’s movies countless times.

Debuting at seventeen, now twenty-eight, he’d started with singing and dancing before sweeping the three major film awards.

A prodigy with a string of hits, earning universal awe and acclaim.

Min Fan had been hooked since junior high, catching every one he could.

The grainy old theaters back then were worlds away from this live immersion.

He’d never imagined this man crashing into his makeup room one day—or transforming into a long-feathered, razor-beaked Haidongqing.

It was easy to forget the blinding radiance that clung to him.

Sharper than any falcon, colder than the midnight wind.

Alone, Qin Baiyan commanded the entire set, young and old alike. His words fell deliberate and slow, like stones on a Go board.

One after another, locking everyone into an inescapable trap.

Unthinkingly, Min Fan pressed his palm to his throat.

He’d sat through plenty of acting classes, but nothing like this sheer command.

On camera or off, anyone who heard that monologue found their focus—and their emotions—seized and pulled along in a daze.

The whole scene wrapped, and Xiao Buchuan was grinning so wide his leg bounced with glee. He’d barely needed to direct.

“Another take?” the old man hollered.

“Yeah.”

“You heard him,” Xiao Buchuan waved his hand. “Crew, reset—let’s run it again!”

They hustled straight through till nine at night before calling it.

A few foreign actors rounded up a party crowd, with plenty of young guys and gals tagging along for drinks and dancing.

Min Fan turned down the invites and swung by the restaurant.

He kept it light: one egg, a plate of salad.

Circled back, grabbed another egg.

Circled again, snagged a third.

When he caught himself drifting back toward the boiled eggs, he had to laugh.

Alright, three’s plenty. Back to it.

Lately, cramming new stuff had been frying his brain—body was just craving that lecithin fix, huh.

He turned—and nearly bowled right into Qin Baiyan.

“Speak of the devil,” Min Fan said. “You were incredible today. I watched the whole thing.”

Qin Baiyan didn’t reply, just eyed his plate.

“Hand out.”

Min Fan glanced up and opened his palm. Something heavy dropped into it.

Three freshly boiled quail eggs tumbled into his palm, still warm to the touch.

His fingertips grazed the edges of the other’s fingers for a fleeting moment, but neither pulled away.

“Not quite appropriate, is it?” The young man chuckled.

The man simply gazed at him, his voice calm and even.

“You taught me that.”