Luo Ding pulled off his sleep mask and rolled his eyes. He sighed and turned his head, annoyed. “Can you guys keep it down?”
He had just finished four events in a row and was about to catch a flight. Exhausted beyond measure, he was trying to nap, but the crying nearby was making it impossible to sleep.
At the nearby table, Duan Xiubo was holding a tablet, with Wu Fangyuan and Gu Yaxing sitting on either side of him, having pulled up chairs. Mi Rui was standing behind them, all engrossed in the TV.
The crying was coming from Gu Yaxing.
Mi Rui was the first to defend himself: “It wasn’t me! I’m not crying!” It was just a TV show, and everyone knew it was fake. He’d learned how to control his emotions after all these years. Sure, his eyes were a little red, but tears? No way. That would be weak.
Wu Fangyuan, on the other hand, had his brows knitted together, his nose was red, and he quickly averted his gaze to avoid crying at the critical moment. He knew Mi Rui would mock him mercilessly if he did.
Duan Xiubo’s face was solemn, and although there were no visible tears or red eyes, his expression was definitely not a happy one.
In contrast, Gu Yaxing was the purest of them all. He had nearly used up all the tissues on the table. He had started crying when Fuzhu bid farewell to Li Shimin on the city wall and hadn’t stopped since. Now, as Li Shimin eagerly awaited his reunion with Fuzhu, Gu was sobbing uncontrollably, tears and snot flowing together in a disgusting mess.
“How could it be so tragic…” Gu Yaxing said between sobs. “It’s turned into a full-blown tearjerker…”
Luo Ding was speechless. He knew Gu was emotional, but he hadn’t expected him to be this sensitive.
Fearing Gu might continue crying, since the upcoming scene would show Li Shimin returning to the palace only to find Fuzhu missing, Luo Ding called out to Duan Xiubo: “Duan-ge!”
Duan Xiubo looked up.
“Turn it off. Stop watching,” Luo Ding said, nodding toward Gu Yaxing. “He’s making so much noise I can’t sleep. Enough already.”
Duan Xiubo furrowed his brow, glanced at Gu Yaxing, and then mercilessly ordered, “No more watching. Leave.”
As he reached out to push Gu Yaxing away, his expression remained conflicted. “Why does this plot feel so off to me?” It wasn’t that there were plot holes—this drama had stayed remarkably true to the original. But something didn’t sit right with him.
Gu Yaxing wailed as he was dragged away, and Mi Rui took his place in the chair. Duan Xiubo replayed the farewell scene on the city wall a few more times before realization struck.
It was the atmosphere!
There shouldn’t be this kind of vibe between a king and his subject! The way their eyes met during the farewell, the physical contact, and the soft, lingering look Li Shimin gave as he boarded his carriage. Even later, when he looked at the silk pouches on his journey, his expression was way too tender.
Was this really just a king and his servant?!
Having been in the fan world for a while, Duan Xiubo’s CP (couple pairing) radar was sharp. He immediately picked up on something he didn’t like.
Feeling uneasy, he logged onto Weibo and found that the world had already been overtaken by the “dark side.”
Most of Luo Ding’s fans didn’t only ship (pair romantically) Luo with Duan Xiubo. They shipped Luo first and foremost, with Duan merely being an accessory. Now, with a new character showing obvious chemistry with Luo, countless fans had jumped ship.
His timeline was full of drama, moralizing, and passive-aggressive posts. Old CP fans couldn’t accept the new pairing and were calling on others to stay loyal. However, the tide had turned with the airing of *Tang Legend*, and things didn’t look good. Fuzhu and Li Shimin’s interactions were dripping with chemistry. Some of the camera angles had clearly been set up deliberately. The two characters really did seem to have a bit of an ambiguous vibe.
In the original novel, there were already hints of this. Some outspoken historians had even suggested that Li Shimin might have been enamored with Fuzhu’s beauty. While they ultimately praised Fuzhu, the notion of a romantic connection had spread among readers.
With that context, every interaction between the two characters felt charged with “mutual affection and conflict.”
In the show, this “mutual affection and conflict” was brought to life by Wu Yuan and Luo Ding to perfection.
Both were handsome, and so the visual appeal was undeniable. Luo Ding, in particular, loved adding subtle nuances to his expressions. His eyes would constantly change to reflect his character’s emotions—softening at times, becoming resolute at others, and occasionally even flickering with uncertainty. Under the camera’s keen eye, those looks almost seemed to hold a hint of deep affection. Their characters shared many scenes together. As the emperor, Li Shimin’s tolerance of Fuzhu’s arrogance was already questionable. In the first dozen episodes, it seemed like they were just gradually bridging the gap between them. But by the time Fuzhu bid farewell, it was as if an unspoken barrier had been broken.
Kneeling, helping each other up, farewells, longing looks…
At the end of the day, though, it all came down to their faces.
When someone is attractive, even ordinary actions seem extraordinary.
Frustrated, Duan Xiubo angrily unfollowed several accounts that usually interacted with him but had now jumped ship. He realized that being involved in fandoms required a heart of steel. Watching the Duan-Luo fans despair over losing new fans, he clenched his jaw. Then, with a determined look, he threw down his tablet and marched over to Luo Ding.
Gu Yaxing had finally stopped crying, and Luo Ding had just sighed in relief when Duan Xiubo suddenly started acting up. Puzzled, Luo Ding asked, “What are you doing?”
Duan Xiubo pressed him down, took a deep breath, and leaned close to Luo Ding’s face, snapping a selfie of the two of them. He stared at the picture for a long time, finding it too deliberate.
“Mi Rui!” he shouted for his all-purpose manager.
Mi Rui appeared with a twitch of his lips.
Duan Xiubo handed him the phone. “Take a picture.”
“A picture of what?” Mi Rui was confused.
“Take a picture of me and Luo Xiaoding! I’ll pose, and you snap the shutter when I tell you. Find a spot with good lighting!”
Duan Xiubo gave orders confidently, then smiled as he adjusted his posture. He met Luo Ding’s bewildered gaze and patted his head. “Just go with it.”
Go with what?
Luo Ding was completely confused as he watched Duan Xiubo rearrange pillows and blankets, switching poses while shouting, “Take it! Take it!” After a while, Duan finally settled on a picture of him sitting at the edge of the sofa, talking to Luo Ding with a smile.
Both of them looked relaxed and close, with Duan Xiubo’s eyes soft, one hand resting on the thin blanket provided by the lounge, and the other holding a neck pillow in mid-air as if explaining something to Luo Ding.
“Perfect!” Duan Xiubo nodded. “Post it from your account. Say something about Luo Ding being tired and resting in the lounge, and how we were chatting. Then mention we’re heading back to the set of *Blade* for filming.”
Mi Rui was silent for a moment. “What’s the point of this?”
“It’s promotion,” Duan Xiubo replied righteously. “Just post it already. Why so many questions?”
Unable to deal with him anymore, Mi Rui rolled his eyes and left. Duan Xiubo, satisfied, sat back to check his social media feed. Sure enough, the fans had started going wild over the airport photo. Mi Rui’s post was flooded with comments asking for more pictures, with fans wailing about how sweet the daily interactions were.
Duan Xiubo spotted a comment from a fan with over 10,000 followers, who wrote, “The show is always fictional. Who cares about Fuzhu and Li Shimin? When the TV drama buzz dies down, that’s the end of it. But real life is what counts. Duan-Luo will always reign supreme!”
Duan Xiubo took a deep breath and mentally gave the fan five “likes” in admiration. Actually, he gave them five more. A total of thirty-two likes in his heart.
The fans who had jumped ship started coming back, drawn by the sugar (sweet moments). Duan Xiubo felt like a genius.
Luo Ding had felt a bit conflicted ever since Duan Xiubo had come to take the photo. He had a vague sense of what Duan’s intention was. By now, he had grown more accustomed to the idea of having CP fans, and Gu Yaxing and Wu Fangyuan often teased him about it. After the TV drama aired, he and Wu Yuan’s fan-paired ship had blown up. When Luo Ding saw those comments, his first thought was that Duan Xiubo would definitely be angry.
Strangely, despite the fact that they both had CP fans, his interactions with Duan Xiubo had only become more natural, while meeting Wu Yuan’s gaze at public events had started to feel awkward.
All those comments about them being a perfect match or having a love-hate relationship, with fans chanting for the emperor to “claim” the tsundere Fuzhu, weren’t any louder than the cries of Duan-Luo fans demanding they get together or else love doesn’t exist. Yet it felt like being caught in a middle-school romance rumor, where classmates paired you up with someone you hadn’t even thought about romantically. It made seeing the other person uncomfortable, and they both started pulling away.
At least the friendship hadn’t changed. After all, they were adults. No one would give up a friend over some external gossip.
Feeling uneasy about same-sex romance rumors wasn’t unusual. But the contrast made things feel a bit… off.
At least, Luo Ding had been wondering lately why he didn’t feel that same discomfort with Duan Xiubo. He couldn’t pinpoint when it started, but gradually, he’d stopped putting up any defenses around Duan. His trust in him had clearly grown. Just now, when Duan had come to take a picture, his first thought had simply been, “Duan’s being silly again.” He didn’t reject the idea or ask too many questions. He just let him take the picture and post it, without even considering whether the photo might affect him.
Duan Xiubo happily went back to watching TV, his expression warming like ice melting in the sun. However, instead of rewatching *Tang Legend*, he switched to a disaster documentary, ignoring the fact that everyone around him wanted to keep watching the drama. Since Luo Ding’s scenes were done, what was the point?
Returning to the film set felt like a lifetime ago after the brief break.
The large studio, the complex props and set designs, and the diverse crew with different skin and hair colors all quickly helped Luo Ding refocus.
As he worked, he couldn’t help but think about the roles he had been taking lately. In *The Hidden Dragon*, Prince Guangling died. In *Tang Legend*, Fuzhu died. And now, in *Blade Warrior*, Alfred wouldn’t have a good ending either. Even in Pan Yiming’s music video, his character didn’t meet a happy end. Was this… unlucky?
All these roles seemed to end in death.
Maybe it was time to consider a lighter, more cheerful role next? He didn’t want to keep playing characters who seemed doomed to die every time he appeared on screen. It was more frustrating than being typecast as a comedic or tragic actor.
After winning the Best Supporting Actor award at the domestic film festival, many people in the *Blade* crew had already heard the news. For someone so new to the film industry to grab the Best Supporting Actor title right off the bat was almost unheard of. Supporting roles were often harder to distinguish, as a well-written lead would naturally dominate the screen. If the supporting role outshone the lead, it wasn’t always seen as a good thing. Winning the Best Supporting Actor award could mean you either complemented the lead well or overshadowed them, and it ultimately depended on the judges’ personal tastes.
*The Hidden Dragon* had taken home the Best Supporting Actor and Best Film awards at the Huaxia Film Festival. Duan Xiubo and Yuan Bing were just there for the red carpet, as their reputations were already well-established. Competing with younger domestic actors for awards wasn’t really their focus anymore. But before the film’s release, the hottest topic of conversation had been Luo Ding.
His rising fame thanks to *Tang Legend* would undoubtedly boost the film’s box office performance. With his newfound Best Supporting Actor title, Huo Xie shifted a significant portion of the film’s marketing to focus on Luo Ding.
Since The Hidden Dragon wasn’t limited to domestic screenings, international media began picking up on the news about the film’s lead actors.
***
Though Luo Ding had been busy traveling for work back in China, Duan Xiubo had made sure his diet stayed balanced. As a result, Luo hadn’t lost any weight. In fact, squeezing into the small suit of armor was a bit of a struggle this time.
Emma was beside him, fiddling with her hair. She had straightened her naturally curly locks, turning her golden hair into a platinum sheet that flowed smoothly down her back, now much longer than before.
She was dressed in the elven queen’s long white robe, embroidered with green vines, similar to the patterns painted on Luo Ding’s back. The designs gave off an ethereal, forest-like vibe.
Emma smiled and said, “You should eat more. Your arms are skinnier than mine. You don’t seem to diet, and you don’t work out as much as I do, yet you don’t gain any weight. It’s enough to make someone jealous—people will start poisoning your food.”
The earlier “seduction” incident didn’t seem to have made things awkward between them. When Luo Ding returned to the set, their interactions remained the same, with no signs of discomfort.
Luo Ding sighed. “You’re already plenty thin.”
“If I can’t fit into a size-zero dress, I’d die,” Emma replied, then asked, “I feel like you and Duan have gotten much closer since you came back from China. Did something happen while you were there?”
Luo Ding was taken aback. “Really? I think you’re imagining things.”
“Xiao Ding!” Duan Xiubo’s voice suddenly called from outside. Luo Ding turned around and answered, only to see Duan burst through the door, his gleaming golden armor polished to perfection.
He was holding his helmet and talking as he walked in: “Why aren’t you in your own tent? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
Luo Ding took the helmet from his arms and set it on the table. “What do you need?”
“We should go over our lines,” Duan replied, dragging a chair closer. “We still have the running scene and the hug later. I’m struggling to get into the mood.”
With a tired expression, Duan draped himself over Luo Ding’s shoulders and spoke in a low, dramatic voice. “I really don’t want to shoot this scene.”
The set was already prepared. This scene involved Alfred dying in Austin’s arms.
Luo Ding was also worried about whether he could fully immerse himself in the emotions needed for the scene. But seeing Duan like this, he put his own concerns aside and ruffled his hair. “Stop messing around. Sooner or later, we have to get it done.”
He began flipping through his script, only to notice Emma’s amused expression. He froze for a moment.
It was only then that Duan seemed to realize someone else was in the room. He greeted Emma with a smile: “Oh, Emma, you’re here. Good morning.”
Emma turned back with a shrug. “You can pretend I’m not here. I don’t mind.”
—
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