“Your dad is a jerk.”
Yu Chanjuan’s response was blunt and coarse. On the other end of the phone, she was giving instructions to hotel staff, telling them not to use carnations in the birthday banquet decorations but to replace them with bright red roses. At the same time, she casually badmouthed her ex-husband, without any concern for hurting her son’s feelings. “What’s so strange about it? If it weren’t for you, I’d want to have more kids too. Your dad, even at his age, can still easily have a child, right? As long as he has money, there are plenty of women throwing themselves at him like flies.”
She paused, her tone becoming hesitant. “What about Xiaobo… how does he feel about all this?”
“I can’t really tell.” Despite his years of business experience, Yu Shaotian found it completely useless when it came to reading Duan Xiubo. He couldn’t glean any deeper insights from the calm and collected expression on his brother’s face. But deep down, he sensed that Duan wasn’t as indifferent to their father remarrying and having more kids as he appeared to be.
After a long silence, Yu Chanjuan cautiously asked, “And the rest? My birthday is less than two weeks away. Is he coming?”
Yu Shaotian didn’t know how to respond. In the end, he softened Duan Xiubo’s outright refusal, removing any harsh language that would draw clear boundaries between the two, and replaced it with excuses about being too busy with work. In short, the answer remained the same: he definitely wasn’t going to be there.
After reporting back, he knew his mother’s mood wouldn’t be good, so he hurriedly wrapped up the conversation and hung up.
After putting down the phone, Yu Chanjuan slowly walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. This was the largest and most luxurious resort hotel in the city, located halfway up a mountain, covering over a thousand acres. Unsurprisingly, the cost was high—the cheapest afternoon tea started in the four-digit range. From the window, she could see the elegantly carved outdoor swimming pool, seemingly suspended in midair, and the towering buildings of the city in the distance.
Every year, her birthday banquets were like this: a dazzling affair with well-dressed guests from all walks of life, and Yu Shaotian by her side, hosting people of prominence.
Opulence and decorum. Since she took over the company after the divorce, she had slowly gotten used to this life of constant social whirl.
But as she aged and gained more life experience, there were moments, late at night, when she would wake up feeling as if a part of her heart had been hollowed out. That emptiness had been there so long that she neither dared nor wanted to touch it anymore. Over time, she forgot it was even there.
Should I go see that child?
She glanced at the newspaper on the nearby magazine rack. The front page of the color-printed weekly featured a photo of Duan Xiubo and Luo Ding smiling at each other. Yu Chanjuan fell into a deep reverie.
*****
Now that Luo Ding was receiving offers from film crews, he no longer had to knock on doors, begging for auditions. However, there weren’t many good scripts being offered to him. After much deliberation, he found three projects he liked, none of which were big productions.
One was a comedy, lighthearted and fun from start to finish. The script was solid, with no major flaws, and some of the jokes genuinely made Luo Ding smile. It was set to start filming after April, aiming for a Lunar New Year release, which meant the box office would likely do well during the holiday season.
The second was a cop-and-robber movie, centered around a diamond heist. The director had a good reputation, not quite as famous as Huo Xie, but his work was solid. While the cops were portrayed heroically, and there was some camaraderie between the characters, the plot felt a bit cliché, though safe. Luo Ding hesitated because his character would once again die halfway through the movie, even though it was the second-most important role after the lead.
So far, all three of his previous works had ended with his character dying early (including Pan Yiming’s music video). Luo Ding’s fanbase, especially the “motherly” fans, had grown used to this. After the heat from “Crouching Dragon” died down, his fans started turning this into a running joke, with many lighting virtual candles for him, hoping he would get a role where he could live a bit longer. Although Luo Ding knew they were joking, he couldn’t help but take it to heart.
Besides, characters that die midway through are often supporting roles. Though he had won the Best Supporting Actor award, he didn’t plan to stay in that lane forever.
However, it seemed that the award had caused some confusion, because despite his rising fame, very few scripts were offering him lead roles.
That’s when the third script caught his eye.
The budget wasn’t high, and the director, Tang Rui, was known for his artistic style. He’d been making films for many years, and Luo Ding had heard of him before. In the industry, Tang Rui’s films were always well-received critically, even if they didn’t always do well at the box office.
People like Tang Rui didn’t attract much sponsorship. Years ago, Xu Zhen was the same, chasing artistic integrity at the cost of commercial success. While Xu did win many awards, the majority of viewers weren’t interested in such highbrow content. Going to the movies is supposed to be an entertaining experience, after all. If people wanted intellectual stimulation, they could just read a book. So when they’re looking for family-friendly fun or an escape, watching a movie that’s too deep and philosophical just ruins the vibe. As a result, poor box office performance and constant losses plagued Xu Zhen, a problem that only began to improve after he incorporated more commercial elements into his films.
But those early art films laid a strong foundation, helping Xu Zhen’s later commercial films find great success. His trophies and accolades silenced anyone who tried to belittle him for chasing box office success. Now, seeing Tang Rui’s shift, it seemed like he was also preparing for a transition. After all, Tang had already won numerous awards, both domestically and internationally. In terms of seniority, he was well-respected in the industry and had worked with many top-tier stars. Back in Luo Ding’s previous life, Tang Rui had sent multiple invitations to Cao Dingkun, but Cao had always turned them down, being more focused on making money rather than winning awards. But this new script seemed different from anything Luo Ding had seen before. It had clearly evolved.
The story revolves around the transformation of male models in the fashion industry.
The protagonist, Song Yuan, a fresh college graduate, naively jumps into the modeling world, brimming with confidence. Having been praised for his looks his whole life, he believes that his appearance alone will lead him to stardom. But as soon as he enters a modeling agency, he hits one wall after another, quickly realizing that the fashion industry isn’t as glamorous as he had imagined.
Modeling agencies cast a wide net but only keep the best. After a short training period, they choose the top trainees from a group of forty, typically only keeping one star pupil. Song Yuan meets and befriends another aspiring model, Lu Yiyang. The two bond over their shared uncertainty about the future, but their struggles within the industry make them want to give up several times. By chance, Song Yuan meets Chi Yong, the top male model in the agency. Chi is cold and unfriendly, doesn’t get along with others, and seems to dislike Song Yuan, often mocking him for his lack of talent. Song Yuan, out of spite, grits his teeth and perseveres through the hardships.
However, Song Yuan’s journey remains rough. He refuses to partake in shady backdoor deals, doesn’t excel at socializing, and even gets into a physical altercation when an investor harasses Lu Yiyang. Meanwhile, other trainees start finding their way to success through networking and business connections, leaving Song Yuan and Lu Yiyang struggling on the fringes of the industry.
Song Yuan begins to waver. For the first time, when Chi Yong mocks him again, he doesn’t fight back but instead shows vulnerability.
Chi Yong ultimately encourages him, in his usual harsh manner, sharing his own struggles. The animosity between the two slowly melts away.
But just as Song Yuan regains his motivation to push forward, Lu Yiyang betrays him, spiking his water with a laxative during a critical elimination round. When confronted, Lu confesses tearfully, explaining that he feared being eliminated because Song Yuan was far more talented. He wanted more time to learn and grow before being cut.
Though hurt, Song Yuan pushes through and emerges victorious. Thanks to his integrity during the training period, he catches the eye of a prestigious agent—Chi Yong’s agent, no less—and earns a spot on an international runway alongside Chi Yong.
Due to budget constraints, the film only has one truly glamorous scene at the end, saving costs elsewhere. However, the various dramatic twists and conflicts make the story highly engaging. Tang Rui’s years of artistic experience ensured that the cinematography and visual effects would be top-notch, so Luo Ding wasn’t worried about the film looking cheap. Moreover, Song Yuan’s character arc—starting off as weak but growing stronger—was appealing.
Luo Ding leaned toward this script. It met most of his criteria, although he had concerns about the small budget and whether the final product would meet his expectations.
His new album had already selected six songs, with the rest still in production. Since it was a full-length album, the production cycle would be longer. Gu Yaxing spared no expense, aiming for perfection. By the time the album was ready for release, it would likely be around the time of “Blade Warrior III”‘s global premiere. Gu Yaxing planned for the album to launch worldwide, hoping to leverage Luo Ding’s growing popularity in Europe and America to boost sales.
As Luo Ding worked through his schedule, practicing melodies and preparing for future projects, he decided to visit Tang Rui’s studio before his day off.
Tang Rui was somewhat surprised by his arrival. As one of the few directors who had completed formal education, Tang’s scholarly pride kept his excitement from showing clearly, but his actions were genuine, not neglectful in the slightest. Luo Ding didn’t act like a big star either.
This film certainly couldn’t offer the kind of high salaries that big productions did, but when Luo Ding asked about the film’s production quality, Tang Rui confidently revealed his plan. With decades of friendships and admiration from his peers, many of Tang’s supporters were eager to help him with this transition project. Props, sets, even luxury fashion sponsors weren’t an issue—there were people ready and willing to provide everything. As a result, most of the film’s budget would go toward paying the actors. With so many friends lending a hand, Tang Rui had no reason to worry.
Luo Ding felt reassured.
“What about the other actors?” he asked. After all, the skill level of his co-stars was crucial. Even if he was confident in his own performance, a terrible supporting cast could ruin the whole movie.
Tang Rui hesitated before answering, “Most of the roles have already been cast, except for Chi Yong. We haven’t finalized an actor for that part yet. But the main roles already have candidates.”
“And who’s playing Lu Yiyang, my character’s main rival?”
“We’re tentatively considering Su Shengbai for that role.”
“Who?” Luo Ding thought he misheard.
Just then, a knock came at the door, and the assistant’s clear voice came through. “Director Tang, Mr. Su is here.”
“Speak of the devil,” Tang Rui laughed, then called out, “Let him in.” He turned back to Luo Ding, “You two can discuss the details of your collaboration. You’re both around the same age and already know each other, so I’m sure you’ll get along well.”
Luo Ding gave a cryptic smile. Was this director unaware of the gossip in the industry? Anyone with half an ear to the grapevine would know that he and Su Shengbai were anything but friends.
As Su Shengbai walked in and locked eyes with Luo Ding, he froze in his tracks.
“Luo Ding?” He seemed shocked at first, then glanced at Tang Rui before awkwardly stammering, “What a coincidence, huh?”
“No coincidence at all,” Tang Rui said with a smile, gesturing for him to sit beside Luo Ding. “It looks like there’s a chance for you two to work together again. Come on, Su, have a seat.”
As Tang Rui left to deal with something, the room fell silent.
Luo Ding had already made up his mind to take the role, but seeing Su Shengbai again made him waver.
After hearing which role Su Shengbai was playing, the atmosphere grew tense. In reality, Su Shengbai’s recent actions closely mirrored those of Lu Yiyang in the film. At a critical moment, he had ruthlessly betrayed Luo Ding. Now, reenacting that betrayal on screen would undoubtedly weigh heavily on Su’s conscience.
Meanwhile, Luo Ding had no desire to reconnect with this man. Betrayal was something Su Shengbai had mastered over two lifetimes. Luo Ding had once been forced to tolerate it; now, he had no reason to play nice.
The tension thickened, and it was clear who should feel guilty.
Su Shengbai, thinking Luo Ding might be reminiscing about their old group’s breakup, grew visibly uncomfortable. He really wanted this job, as he had lost a lot of offers after his company had pushed too many projects on him before. Despite the low pay, this film offered significant screen time, and a well-acted villain could win over the audience. He wasn’t short on money, but without steady exposure or solid work to back him up, his fame would soon fade. The situation with “The Assassin” had become a mess, and he couldn’t afford to let his career die with it.
Luo Ding landing a role in this film was not good news for him.
After a long silence, Su Shengbai finally muttered, “It’s been a while.”
Just those few words instantly solidified Luo Ding’s resolve.
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