《The Disloyal Minister》 was an ancient political intrigue drama. The Ninth Prince, played by Jiang Sheli, was the most important villain throughout the entire story. Though he wasn’t the male lead, his screen time was no lighter than the lead’s.
Zhu Huai played a pure courtesan named Late Return by Jiang Sheli’s side—utterly loyal to the prince, deeply and devotedly in love. In the end, during an assassination, the enemy took him hostage to threaten the Ninth Prince, and he was shot dead by the prince he so adored.
Zhu Huai had fallen from the clouds. Though he could no longer be called an idol, he was working hard to transition into an actor. However, his current persona wasn’t really suited for taking on such a worldly role. But the company wouldn’t care about such details. What they wanted was the gimmick of “acting opposite Jiang Sheli” to use as a pretext for lining up more commercials for him. His personal contract with the company had half a year left. Zhu Huai found staying with this company nauseating, and the company also knew he wouldn’t renew. Since leaving him idle was a waste anyway, they might as well squeeze out his last bit of value in these six months.
Zhu Huai didn’t mind.
He’d been blazing hot for two years, then fallen through the earth’s crust into obscurity for two and a half. For nearly a year of that, he hadn’t had a single job. Showing his face on camera was nothing but a delusion. His treatment was no different from being shelved. After paying a huge penalty, he could barely afford food. Later, when the public backlash quieted down some, he managed to pick up a few jobs—all small resources no one else wanted. He’d long since lost the leverage to choose his work. He’d even worked as an extra.
Late Return was one of the few on-camera opportunities he’d fought for himself. Though it was a worldly role with little screen time that wouldn’t survive many episodes, if played well, this tragic character could win people over.
By the time Zhu Huai arrived at the location, Jiang Sheli was already seated in the pavilion where they’d be shooting, his posture proud, his demeanor cold and clear.
Even people who didn’t follow the entertainment industry were no strangers to the name Jiang Sheli. From the eighty-year-old to the three-year-old, pretty much everyone had seen his work. He’d gotten bored of winning domestic awards. When he brought home the International Best Actor trophy the year before last, the domestic media went insane, celebrating for an entire week with praise that never repeated once.
From the moment Jiang Sheli stepped into the entertainment industry at fifteen, that rare face had swiftly imprinted itself on audiences’ minds. After his first leading drama aired, his fame skyrocketed. The white-clad youth lying in a pool of blood at the finale pierced deep into viewers’ hearts, and the name “Jiang Sheli” spread through every street and alley. His advertisements were everywhere. That era had no concept of “traffic,” but the year he debuted was called the “Year of Jiang Sheli.” You could imagine just how explosive his popularity was.
The year Zhu Huai was finishing elementary school, twenty-year-old Jiang Sheli released his first album. It swept every music chart and resounded through the streets. Sales made his agency grin from ear to ear. Girls in the classroom could be heard humming those familiar tunes at any time. His figure had long since seeped into the lives of ordinary people.
The darling of the heavens.
No wonder Jiang fans mocked him back then for not knowing his place. His little resume wasn’t even qualified to carry Jiang Sheli’s shoes.
Zhu Huai looked at Jiang Sheli. He wore a luxurious, resplendent ink-black costume, its fabric printed with intricate dark patterns. The cuffs and hem were embroidered with complex gold thread, shimmering with a unique luster at every movement. This outfit reportedly took over a month to make.
At the moment, Jiang Sheli held a script in his left hand and a pen in his right, jotting notes now and then. The way he gripped the pen, thumb against index finger, accentuated his long fingers and clearly defined knuckles.
On either side of him sat a man and a woman. The woman wore exquisite makeup, with classic peach-blossom eyes and red lips pressed into a just-right curve—neither ingratiating nor off-putting. She was the currently popular young actress and the female lead of this drama, Lou Lixiao.
The man on the left was someone Zhu Huai knew all too well—his former teammate, SYA captain Liu Qi, who played the male lead.
Liu Qi was a handsome single-eyelid type. He always gave people a sharp, disdainful impression when he looked at them. Right now, those eyes carried caution as he smiled and said something to Jiang Sheli.
Jiang Sheli’s expression was indifferent. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Zhu Huai stepped forward and greeted him properly. “Hello, Brother Jiang. I’m here to run lines with you.”
The youth’s crisp, clear voice reached their ears, and both people in the pavilion turned to look.
Zhu Huai also smiled at Lou Lixiao. “Sister Lou.”
Lou Lixiao smiled back. Her gaze swept over him, then meaningfully at Liu Qi, and finally at Jiang Sheli. She said nothing.
Zhu Huai looked at Liu Qi. All of his previous warmth dropped away, his gaze turning cold. He only gave a nod, without saying a word.
Liu Qi’s expression turned somewhat ugly.
Jiang Sheli lifted his gaze from the script and raised his head—
His handsome face still carried light makeup. Long brows swept into his temples, deep-set eyes held too much—like ocean whirlpools; if you weren’t careful, you’d sink right in. His face wasn’t harsh, more on the youthful side. At first glance, he seemed warm and bright. But after years of crawling through the entertainment industry and having founded his own studio as boss, he was under thirty yet had already groomed several Best Newcomers and a TV King. No one dared truly underestimate him.
With a single glance from him, Zhu Huai couldn’t help but straighten his back.
Jiang Sheli carefully studied the young face before him.
The youth was extremely good-looking, with skin that glowed white, tall stature, and long legs. Even in a loose trench coat, his narrow waist was visible. His features were gentle, especially those eyes—when he looked at you, they seemed to shine.
Born to eat the entertainment industry’s rice, he assessed silently.
Early spring was still chilly, and a light rain had set in, dropping the temperature further. A gust of wind made Zhu Huai shiver uncontrollably.
Jiang Sheli shifted farther in, freeing up half of the short stool he sat on, and nodded at Zhu Huai. “Come sit and talk.”
Zhu Huai glanced around. The other two stools in the pavilion were already taken by the male and female leads, leaving only the spot Jiang Sheli had vacated. So he sat down as instructed—though he only perched on the edge of the stool, leaving a palm’s width of space between them.
The slight anxiety in his heart settled. Jiang Sheli was far gentler than he looked, and didn’t seem to have any grudge toward him.
Liu Qi’s expression was complicated. When he’d come in earlier, he’d wanted to naturally sit next to Jiang Sheli, but the movie emperor had refused him without so much as a courtesy. He looked at the wide gap between himself and Jiang Sheli, then at the palm’s width gap on the other side. His face darkened further.
“I won’t disturb you, Brother Jiang.” Seeing that they had business, Lou Lixiao quickly stood up, behaving considerate and thoughtful. “See you at the dinner tonight.”
Jiang Sheli nodded, polite but distant.
Zhu Huai and Jiang Sheli finished their scene rehearsal, and Liu Qi’s scene came next, so he stayed to run lines together.
Liu Qi suddenly spoke to Zhu Huai. “You’re young, and this is your first time acting. There must be plenty of things you don’t understand, right?”
Zhu Huai gave him a blank look and didn’t respond.
He truly had no good feelings for Liu Qi. As much respect as he’d had for this captain two years ago, that’s exactly how much disgust he felt now.
Seeing Zhu Huai ignore him, Liu Qi turned to Jiang Sheli again. “Little Huai has been living a hard life since our group disbanded. If Little Huai does anything poorly or inconsiderately, I hope Brother Jiang will…”
Without even lifting his eyes, Jiang Sheli coldly interrupted. “The rain is getting heavier. We need to get our scene done.”
Liu Qi’s fawning smile froze, hanging awkwardly on his face.
Zhu Huai knew what Liu Qi was thinking. With a villain like him who “destroyed SYA” around, Liu Qi simply wanted to perform the persona of a magnanimous ex-captain in front of the movie emperor. He never expected Jiang Sheli wouldn’t buy it.
But Zhu Huai felt that wasn’t the reason at all. The intuition was too strange. He looked at Jiang Sheli in confusion, only to find Jiang Sheli looking back at him. “Zhu Huai.”
“Hello.” Zhu Huai raised a polite smile. “First time meeting. Please guide me.”
The corner of Jiang Sheli’s mouth seemed to lift slightly, barely noticeable. Then he said out of nowhere, “I remember you. You lost to me in the Weibo poll two years ago.”
Zhu Huai froze for a moment, not expecting Jiang Sheli to bring that up on his own. Liu Qi, standing to the side, couldn’t help the gloating smile on his face. Zhu Huai quickly recovered and admitted generously, “Yes. My fans caused you trouble back then.”
Jiang Sheli’s smile became more pronounced. “Honestly, you’re the only one who had trouble. I bear some responsibility for that matter too. Since we’re able to work together, it must be fate. Let’s have a meal together sometime.”
Zhu Huai hadn’t expected Jiang Sheli to invite him. Surprise showed on his face. He opened his mouth, then suppressed the words he’d originally meant to say, and smiled instead. “Okay, I’m free anytime.”
He’d originally wanted to say that the two of them had actually met two years ago—at his most helpless and terrified moment.
But clearly, Jiang Sheli had forgotten.
Liu Qi didn’t get to see the gunpowder between the two that he’d hoped for; instead he watched Zhu Huai get invited to dinner. He could barely maintain his composed facade.
He swallowed his resentment and reminded, “Brother Jiang, the rain is getting heavier.”
