Chapter 6

Even back in his hotel room, Zhu Huai was still in a daze.

He stared unblinkingly at the newly added contact.

Jiang Sheli’s avatar was a smiling cat. It was hard to imagine such an aloof person using such a soft, adorable avatar.

Just like that… he’d added Jiang Sheli??

Holy sht.

He’d actually added Jiang Sheli!!

Zhu Huai examined the smiling cat over and over. After quite a while, he carefully sent a message.

It Is Zhu Not Pig: Meow?

Jiang Sheli came out of the shower. The room’s AC was on high. He wore only a towel around his waist, revealing a lean, powerful upper body and abs. Years of constant training hadn’t made his muscles look rough or intimidating; the lines were refined and fluid, radiating sheer pheromones with every motion of drying his hair.

Once, a magazine had commissioned him for a set of male-beauty photos, some with his upper body bare, some with his shirt half open. That issue immediately sold out, and the reprint of over thirty thousand copies was gone without a single one left—a legend in this era of declining print media.

Jiang Sheli didn’t think anything of it. It was just work. But the magazine’s boss wept with gratitude and insisted, no matter what, on treating Jiang Sheli to a meal.

The phone by the bed vibrated. He picked it up casually.

【The other party retracted a message】

It Is Zhu Not Pig: Sorry, wrong send!

JSL: Still awake?

The moment he received Jiang Sheli’s reply, Zhu Huai was so startled he nearly threw his phone in a parabola.

After sending the first message, he’d snapped back to reality and hurriedly retracted it. He’d just sent “wrong send” when Jiang Sheli replied. Who knew whether he’d seen the first one.

Zhu Huai felt a bit guilty.

It Is Zhu Not Pig: Can’t sleep. Reading the script.

JSL: Which scene are you reading?

It Is Zhu Not Pig: Brother Jiang, aren’t you sleeping yet?

JSL: In a bit. I’ll run some lines with you.

He’d meant “I’ll sleep in a while.” He just happened to be free to run lines. That was the original meaning—not specially accompanying him.

Got it!

Zhu Huai pointed his phone at the open script and sent a photo over.

The script was densely covered with notes, showing Zhu Huai had put real effort into dissecting the character. But he had no professional training and zero acting foundation. No matter how sincere his efforts, he couldn’t grasp the essentials.

Jiang Sheli sent a voice call over.

Zhu Huai took a few seconds to react, then hurriedly pressed accept.

“Brother…Jiang?”

“Mm.” A concise male voice came through the receiver. “Say your lines.”

Zhu Huai discovered that Jiang Sheli, when it came to work, was as brief as possible—never a wasted word.

The scene had the Third Prince entrusting Late Return with a secret letter to deliver to the Ninth Prince, with a specific instruction: if the prince wasn’t in his study, just leave it on the desk.

Late Return wasn’t stupid. If there was really a secret letter, why would it be entrusted to him? He declined directly.

Zhu Huai looked down at the script and recited stiffly, line by line. “Third Prince, this servant is but an ant at the Ninth Prince’s side. That study is not somewhere I may tread. It would be best if the Third Prince delivered it to the Ninth Prince personally.”

Jiang Sheli’s utterly emotionless voice came through. “What do you think?”

Even though Jiang Sheli couldn’t see him, shame still rose on Zhu Huai’s face. “No… not good.”

“Very not good.” Jiang Sheli didn’t mince words at all. “Even reading from a textbook requires rise and fall, pause and flow. Do you know how to read from a textbook?”

Zhu Huai’s shame deepened. His breathing grew even lighter.

“Third Prince.” From the voice call came Jiang Sheli’s voice, three parts smiling, seven parts troubled, speaking low: “This servant is but an ant at the Ninth Prince’s side. That study is not somewhere I may tread—” His voice shifted abruptly, careful yet firm: “It would be best if the Third Prince delivered it to the Ninth Prince personally.”

Zhu Huai’s hand, holding the phone, clenched.

The cold, distant Jiang Sheli was gone. The person speaking to him was Late Return—the cautious, timid one who kept only the Ninth Prince in his heart. Because he cared only for the prince, he would never allow even a single possibility of harm to befall him.

“Your turn.” Jiang Sheli’s tone returned to normal.

Zhu Huai snapped to attention, savored the rhythm of Jiang Sheli’s delivery, and repeated it. Then he carefully waited for Jiang Sheli’s critique.

“You…” Jiang Sheli seemed to be choosing his words. A sword seemed to hang over Zhu Huai’s head while he waited for the next sentence.

“The flavor is coming through. You have a bit of talent. It’s a pity the effort isn’t enough—you haven’t carefully pondered how to merge into the character.”

Zhu Huai understood. Acting required both talent and hard work. This wasn’t a bowl of rice everyone could eat. In the entertainment industry, geniuses like Jiang Sheli were as rare as phoenix feathers.

His own talent was lacking, so he had to rely on post-natal effort.

Jiang Sheli: “Who am I?”

What direction is this going?

Zhu Huai answered, puzzled, “Jiang Sheli?”

Jiang Sheli: “Right now, I am the Ninth Prince.”

Zhu Huai: “…”

On the other end, Jiang Sheli continued, “And you are Late Return, not a spectator. You love me, revere me, devote yourself to me completely because you want to—not because the scene requires you to act that way. Don’t be so constrained. Don’t be afraid of breaking character.”

“You are not the idol Zhu Huai. You are my Late Return.”

You are my Late Return.

Zhu Huai blushed instantly.

He suspected the movie emperor was flirting with him, but he had no evidence.

Zhu Huai coughed awkwardly and tried, “Then I’ll try once more?”

“Mm.”

Zhu Huai threw himself into the role. He became Late Return, his heart and eyes filled only with his Ninth Prince—humble and small, all of his courage given to the prince.

He recited the lines again.

After he finished, a few seconds of silence hung in the call.

Zhu Huai was a little nervous and couldn’t help asking, “How was it?”

Jiang Sheli gave a light laugh. His voice came through the speaker, low and deep, inexplicably making one’s heart tingle. He praised, “Much better.”

Zhu Huai laughed along, his back relaxing, and his tone went lazy. “Brother Jiang.”

“Mm.”

Zhu Huai lay on the hotel’s white bed, hugging a soft pillow, and asked, “Why did you come to the stairwell tonight?”

“I was passing by. Heard sounds from the stairs and went to take a look.” Jiang Sheli’s tone was as normal as ever. Then, as if remembering something, he added, “Good thing I came.”

Zhu Huai paused.

Jiang Sheli was too good to him. A movie emperor who had won domestic and international gold awards until his hands were soft—teaching this newcomer acting personally, reaching out to help again and again with ginger soup, a makeup artist, and now this.

He couldn’t help asking the question buried in his heart for a long time. “Why are you so good to me?”

The question sounded a little presumptuous, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think the movie emperor had fallen for him.

Rustling sounds came from the other end—the friction of fabric, as if changing clothes.

Jiang Sheli’s voice followed. “Compensation. For not standing up and doing something for you back then. I’m sorry.”

Zhu Huai was startled. He hadn’t expected that answer. His head shook so fast it nearly flew off. Realizing Jiang Sheli couldn’t see him, he said quickly, “It’s not your fault! What fan bases don’t fight in this circle? My fans said terrible things to you too. I should be the one apologizing.”

“It’s different.”

“How is it different?”

You got cursed at, and I got cursed at. What’s the difference?

“You got it worse.”

Zhu Huai: “…”

So being weaker makes me right?

“I don’t think that’s a reason!” Zhu Huai’s tone was serious. “You absolutely don’t need to feel guilty about the fan thing. If you’re being good to me because of it, I can’t accept it. Besides, you personally did nothing wrong.”

Finally, with utmost emphasis: “You don’t need to take any responsibility for this at all!”

Jiang Sheli: “Enough.”

Zhu Huai: “……..”

He was going to die.

Movie Emperor Jiang, I’m begging you. Don’t go radiating that damnable charm of yours. I’m just a mortal—I can’t withstand it!

Invisible flirting was the most lethal of all.

The movie emperor was too dangerous tonight. Zhu Huai felt himself about to have another episode.

In the end, he sighed and asked carefully, with a hint of nervousness, “Brother Jiang, can I learn acting from you?”

Jiang Sheli didn’t agree immediately. Instead he asked, “Do you like acting?”

“I don’t know.” Zhu Huai told the truth. “You know what my situation is. Acting is a path I have to take, for a meal.”

He didn’t know what Jiang Sheli thought of that answer, but he didn’t want to lie to him or fabricate some passionate, inspiring dream.

“Then do you like being an idol?”

Zhu Huai thought about it carefully. The two peak years had been hard and stressful, but every time he stood on stage singing and dancing, he felt joy from the bottom of his heart, as if he had endless enthusiasm.

“Yes. I love the stage.”

Only then did Jiang Sheli answer his request. “Alright. Start learning.”

The two chatted on and off for more than half an hour. Only when Jiang Sheli brought up that he had an early scene the next morning did they hang up.

Looking at the call record of nearly an hour on his phone, Zhu Huai felt quite unsatisfied.

–

The filming progressed at a steady pace. When Zhu Huai wasn’t shooting, he watched from the side, holding a little notebook to record the moments he found brilliant.

The scene Jiang Sheli taught him hand-by-hand only had one NG, and it was because after Zhu Huai delivered his lines, Liu Qi actually froze and failed to pick up.

The second take passed in one go. Even Shen Peiping gave a look of approval. “Not bad. Improvement.”

Zhu Huai was in a great mood all day, until that evening, when several people came over while he was memorizing lines in a corner.

It was the male actor who had mocked him at the dinner, plus a few extras. A group stood right beside him.

One extra was chatting with the male actor. “…It’s on hot search. Brother Qi is the first one in a while. Awesome!”

The male actor looked straight ahead but deliberately raised his voice. “Brother Qi is outstanding and hardworking. Of course he earned Brother Jiang’s recognition. No matter how much someone’s eyeballs stick to the movie emperor, it’s useless.”

Weibo? Liu Qi? Zhu Huai looked at the speaking extra, confused. The male actor happened to glance over, and their eyes collided.

The other’s gaze blatantly radiated pride and disdain, chin raised high.

Zhu Huai calmly pulled out his phone in front of them and opened Weibo. The fourth item on hot search was—

#Jiang Sheli Follows Liu Qi# [Hot]

Zhu Huai tapped in and looked for a while, understanding.

Jiang Sheli managed his own Weibo. Apart from close collaborators and friends, he basically didn’t follow anyone else. In previous years, he’d follow some actors from the same crew, but since founding his studio, he rarely followed newcomers. With fast-food stars ruling the past two years, none had caught his eye.

According to statistics, Liu Qi was the first new-generation artist Jiang Sheli had followed in recent years.

In the comments, Liu Qi’s fans were celebrating like New Year: “Gege is amazing! Real gold shines wherever it goes!” “Thank you for the recognition, Movie Emperor Jiang! Liu Qi will definitely keep working hard!” “Liu Qi and Jiang Sheli’s new collaboration 《The Disloyal Minister》 is currently filming—stay tuned!”

Among them were those who couldn’t be comfortable without stirring trouble, dragging out the SYA members for a spin. The other members were quickly scooped up by their fans and left alone. Only Zhu Huai reaped a full harvest—all of it hate.

Zhu Huai scrolled for a while. After exiting, he watched the tag climb from [Hot] to [Boiling], surging to number one.

Though Weibo’s comments had never been friendly to him, Zhu Huai still came to look often. Jiang Sheli had been in his follow list for a long time.

He tapped into Jiang Sheli’s Weibo. The mark in the lower-left corner was still “Following.”

Not mutual.

Zhu Huai stared at it for a while, then turned off his phone.

He no longer felt like memorizing lines. Ignoring the male actor’s sneering from the side, he turned and left the set for the hotel.

Just as he reached the hotel lobby, his phone vibrated frantically. It was Little Nan.

The moment he connected, Little Nan’s voice came shrieking through as if it would tear the phone apart—

“Brother!”

“You’re on hot search!”

Zhu Huai, who had closed Weibo less than ten minutes ago: ?

“Are you sure it’s me?”

“Movie Emperor Jiang followed you!!”

?!

“He also liked your Weibo post!!”

?!

“And commented!!”

?!!!