Zhu Huai had just exited the game when a call came in on his phone. His eyes softened at the caller ID.
He found a quiet spot and answered. “Mom.”
“Huaihuai.” His mother’s gentle voice came through. “Are you busy right now?”
“Not yet, but I’m about to shoot soon. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. I just wanted to ask if you’re free this weekend. Your father Qi’s birthday is coming up.”
Zhu Huai went “Ah,” suddenly remembering that his stepfather’s birthday was indeed around these days. He’d been so busy lately that he hadn’t thought of it. He agreed readily. “No problem. My scenes are almost done. I can make time.”
His mother relaxed, then hesitated and asked, “Are you in contact with Xingyu…”
Zhu Huai frowned slightly. “No. Why bring him up?”
Hearing the displeasure in his tone, his mother quickly explained, “It’s just that Old Qi is turning the full fifty this year. He did raise Xingyu for over a decade, after all. If Xingyu could come for a meal, he’d be very happy…”
“Mom.” Zhu Huai interrupted helplessly. “The moment he found out his real father was the CEO of Meng Corporation, he followed his biological mother and abandoned his foster father. How much affection do you expect him to have for Dad Qi?”
His mother was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “I know that too… but he was raised as a real son. Even if he won’t come for a meal, a phone call would be nice.”
Zhu Huai stopped his mother’s wishful thinking. “We both eat the entertainment industry’s rice, but we truly have no contact. Also, did you discuss this with Dad Qi?”
His mother didn’t speak. A male voice vaguely came through from the other end. “Why bother Huaihuai? He finally has a drama to film. Don’t delay him.”
His mother said, “It’s your birthday, isn’t it?” After a pause, she added, “I wanted to ask him to see if Xingyu has time.”
Father Qi was taken aback for a moment. “…Both children are busy. Don’t call.”
Zhu Huai heard all of this and let out a faint sigh.
Zhu Huai’s biological father was a piece of garbage, indulging in every kind of vice—drinking, gambling, whoring.
From his earliest memories, the man’s fists had never stopped. They landed on him or on his mother. Drunk, he was even worse—he’d pick up a stool and hurl it. At such times, his mother would desperately shove him into a room and lock it, then bear the man’s fury alone outside. Through the wall, he could clearly hear his mother’s miserable cries, the man’s brutal curses, and the sounds of things shattering.
The wounds on his and his mother’s bodies never healed. New injuries piled on old ones; there wasn’t a single good spot left.
He was too young, and his mother couldn’t run with him. She had married far from home. Her natal family favored sons over daughters—a married daughter was like spilled water. They’d stopped caring for her long ago. Even if she ran, she had nowhere to go.
The turning point of his life was the year he graduated from elementary school. He accidentally spilled a drop of water on the table, and the man kicked him in the chest, sending him to the hospital.
At the time, Zhu Huai thought: endure. Endure until you’re capable, and then you can take Mom and run.
He didn’t know how long he’d have to endure. He was only ten years old, yet he already saw no light ahead.
His mother finally couldn’t take it anymore. She called the police, fought desperately for days, and finally obtained a divorce. But the mother and son took nothing with them. After the police left, his biological father came after them. They were nearly beaten to death.
Then they met Qi Baojia, who rescued them.
Qi Baojia had also just divorced. His ex-wife had cuckolded him. The son he had labored to raise for twelve years belonged to another man. When the child’s real father arrived in a Porsche to pick up the mother and son, this honest man had still been haggling with a customer over a few yuan of cab fare.
Their divorce had gone through fast. He’d held the divorce certificate in his hand for a long time without coming to his senses. Yesterday the house had been full of laughter and warmth; today he was suddenly alone.
Qi Baojia treated Zhu Huai with the utmost sincerity, supporting this son without blood through high school and university. Zhu Huai truly respected and loved him. Consequently, he naturally had no favorable feelings for Meng Xingyu.
Qi Baojia had once brought gifts to secretly visit the son he’d raised for twelve years, but he was chased off before he could even get through the main gate. The son, now the young master of the Meng family, hadn’t even shown his face.
Zhu Huai knew this and disliked Meng Xingyu all the more.
Both he and Meng Xingyu knew each other’s identities. Being in the same circle, they inevitably ran into each other, but they were only nodding acquaintances—they’d exchanged barely two words, let alone contact information.
Zhu Huai was unwilling to deal with Meng Xingyu; Meng Xingyu disdained dealing with him.
But Dad Qi still cherished those dozen years of affection.
Zhu Huai conceded. “I’ll find a chance to ask him. But I can’t guarantee he’ll agree.”
His mother sighed in relief, her voice full of heartache. “I’m putting you in a difficult position.”
The two chatted a while longer, mostly his mother fussing about taking care of himself and not overworking. Zhu Huai listened patiently, responding now and then.
When he hung up, the door in front of him suddenly opened, and he nearly walked into a wall of a man.
Zhu Huai steadied himself and smiled in greeting. “Brother Jiang.”
Jiang Sheli wore dark martial robes, his hair tied high with a black ribbon, his face handsome, brow and eyes sharp as blades.
These were the costumes for today’s fight scene—the one where the Ninth Prince is assassinated.
A bit of despondence settled over Zhu Huai’s heart. This was also his last scene.
Jiang Sheli nodded in acknowledgment and said, “Excuse me.”
Only then did Zhu Huai realize he was blocking the entrance to Jiang Sheli’s green room. As Jiang Sheli was about to step out, Zhu Huai rubbed his nose sheepishly and moved aside. “Sorry.”
But Jiang Sheli didn’t hurry to leave. He looked him over and asked, “Aren’t you getting your makeup done?”
Zhu Huai said, “Going now.”
Jiang Sheli nodded knowingly and said flatly, “Good luck.”
Zhu Huai froze for half a second. Realizing it was encouragement, he smiled. “Thank you.”
Watching Jiang Sheli’s retreating figure, the inexplicable despondence in Zhu Huai’s heart grew sharper.
Zhu Huai’s new makeup was finished quickly. Today’s costume was similar to Jiang Sheli’s—a dark set of martial robes with hair bound high. Zhu Huai’s face, though pretty, wasn’t feminine. The makeup artist deliberately made his brows sharper. When he wasn’t smiling, he looked like a cold martial artist; but the moment he smiled, the effect broke—the dimples in his cheeks gave him a lovable air, like a naive young noble.
The new look was eye-catching. Several young actresses ran over blushing to take photos with him, then left clutching their hearts.
The director was explaining the scene to the actor playing the Ninth Prince’s assassin. Jiang Sheli held a bow and arrow in his hand, practicing his release angle. As he turned, he happened to see the youth busy taking photos on the side.
Unlike his usual languid, alluring looks, the form-fitting martial robes perfectly outlined the youth’s narrow waist and long legs. He was striking a cool pose as requested by the actresses, looking very handsome.
Jiang Sheli’s eyes deepened for a moment.
After finishing photos with the last actress, Zhu Huai’s cheeks were slightly flushed. It had been a long time since he’d been surrounded by girls like this; he felt a little unaccustomed.
He took out his script, intending to go over the last few lines once more, when he saw Jiang Sheli walking toward him. Uncontrollably, a brilliant smile spread across his face.
Jiang Sheli’s steps faltered. But only for half a second. Then he continued, walking up to Zhu Huai and stopping in front of him.
Zhu Huai said happily, “Brother Jiang.”
Jiang Sheli held a feathered arrow in his hand, the pad of his index finger pressing against the arrowhead, and lightly poked it toward Zhu Huai’s chest. “Got you.”
Zhu Huai’s heart skipped a beat.
His final scene consisted of being shot to death by the Ninth Prince with an arrow. “Got you” wasn’t wrong.
But Zhu Huai’s heart had lost its rhythm.
Seeing him frozen in place, Jiang Sheli’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. “Did it hurt?”
With that, he reached out as if to check his chest.
“No! No!” Zhu Huai jumped away nervously, his voice rising guiltily, drawing everyone’s eyes. His face flushed as he said, mortified, “It doesn’t hurt.”
The arrowhead was pressed by Jiang Sheli’s finger. If anyone should hurt, it would be Jiang Sheli.
Jiang Sheli’s rejected hand hung in midair for a few seconds, then dropped as if nothing had happened. He nodded. “That’s good.”
The director was already calling for preparation. Zhu Huai fled.
The Ninth Prince set out with his family on an outing. On the way home, they were ambushed. Though numerous, the assassins were no match for the Ninth Prince’s elite cavalry, and gradually they lost ground.
In the chaos, an assassin seized the unguarded Late Return and took him hostage, threatening the Ninth Prince to make way for their escape.
This was a scene that heavily tested emotion—precisely Zhu Huai’s weak spot. He had secretly practiced many times using the methods Jiang Sheli taught, and it had shown some effect.
Letting the assassin go was impossible. The Ninth Prince was a man without mercy. Why would he release a latent threat for a mere pure courtesan?
The moment the Ninth Prince raised his bow toward him, disbelief and despair flooded Late Return’s eyes. But more than anything, there was grief and bleakness.
He should have known all along. The prince harbored great ambitions, his heart set on the realm. How could he spare even a sliver of attention for personal affection?
Zhu Huai’s first take wasn’t good. He wanted too badly to convey the emotion and came on too strong instead.
Before the retake, he instinctively looked at Jiang Sheli, as if he could draw some reassurance from him.
Jiang Sheli met Zhu Huai’s eyes. The youth probably hadn’t even noticed the plea within them.
But Jiang Sheli didn’t extend a helping hand this time. Being too dependent on being led into a scene was no good. In the future, Zhu Huai would join other crews, and Jiang Sheli couldn’t count on coincidence to always land him in the same production.
In fact, 《The Disloyal Minister》 was his last television drama. From now on, his focus would shift to the big screen and behind-the-scenes work. If not for repaying the favor he owed Shen Peiping from before, he wouldn’t have joined this drama at all.
But fortunately, it was because of this that he could make up a little of his guilt toward Zhu Huai.
Jiang Sheli’s eyes were calm as water, his light brown pupils steady and deep, like aged wine, mellow and full-bodied.
After a few seconds of eye contact, Zhu Huai couldn’t help looking away, then raised a hand to touch his burning ear.
On the second take, Zhu Huai restrained himself a bit more, but it was still missing a certain flavor. Though Shen Peiping didn’t demand much from actors without professional training, Zhu Huai’s last two scenes had been good, which had raised expectations. He asked for another take.
Zhu Huai adjusted his emotions and looked up at Jiang Sheli standing across from him. That was the spot where Jiang Sheli would raise his arm, draw the bow, and end Late Return’s life.
“《The Disloyal Minister》, Scene 15, Shot 3, Take 3. Action——”
Everything went smoothly. When the Ninth Prince’s arrow struck him, Zhu Huai conveyed the character very well. As the camera pushed in, Shen Peiping saw through the monitor the flash of startled bewilderment in Zhu Huai’s eyes as he fell to the ground. Combined with Late Return’s tragic identity, it resonated more than pure disbelief.
“Congratulations on wrapping—”
Zhu Huai got up from the ground, politely thanking those who congratulated him, but his gaze couldn’t help drifting toward Jiang Sheli.
In that last exchange, Jiang Sheli’s expression had actually carried a trace of reluctance, which had stunned him. Only after it ended did he realize Jiang Sheli was guiding his performance again.
Shen Jingjing walked over and handed him a wrapped bouquet, her face a mix of joy and sorrow. “Cub, congratulations on wrapping.”
“Thank you.” Zhu Huai took the flowers and teased her, “Call me Brother.”
Shen Jingjing said reluctantly, “After this parting, who knows how long until I can see you again.”
Zhu Huai opened his camera. “Want a photo?”
“Yes, yes!” Shen Jingjing’s sorrow instantly washed away as she happily posed.
They had just taken the photo when a staff member ran over and said to Zhu Huai, “Brother Zhu, there are fans visiting the set. Want to go?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Zhu Huai’s eyes. He confirmed, “Me?”
The staff member nodded. “Yeah. They’re holding a support banner with your name and kept asking if they could see you. I said I’d come ask.”
A strange feeling welled up in Zhu Huai’s heart. He hadn’t had fans come to visit in a long time. Maybe Shen Jingjing’s group was all the fans he had left. He felt a bit unaccustomed.
“Alright, thank you. I’ll go see.”
