Hearing a knock on the door, Luo Ding put down his dumbbells, grabbed a towel from the table, and wiped the sweat from his face. He opened the door to find Duan Xiubo standing there, looking as calm as ever.
With a smile, Duan Xiubo glanced around the corridor, noticing no one else in sight. Without hesitation, he slipped through the gap in the door and into the room.
The temporary hotel they were staying at during the shoot wasn’t big, but it was clean and well-kept. Luo Ding’s rising star status ensured that the production crew treated him well, just like Duan Xiubo, with each of them having their own suite. The bed in his room was large, possibly the best in this small hotel—almost presidential suite-level.
Duan Xiubo threw himself onto the bed immediately, kicked off his shoes, and sat cross-legged, eyes fixated on Luo Ding. Luo Ding stared back at him in silence for a moment. “What are you doing?”
Duan’s gaze flicked to the dumbbells and then back to Luo Ding, who was wearing only a tank top after his workout. His frame was slender, but his muscles were tight and well-defined, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, forming the perfect V-shape. The tank top couldn’t cover everything, and his pale skin was highlighted by the lines of his muscles, making him look anything but weak. His sharp collarbones seemed deep enough to hold drops of sweat.
“I came to…,” Duan pondered over the last word, “…play.”
“You’re nuts.” Luo Ding casually lifted the dumbbells a few times, his arm muscles instantly becoming more pronounced as sweat trickled down his skin, soaking the thin fabric of his tank top. The white cotton turned semi-transparent, vaguely revealing the two…
Duan quickly averted his gaze, pressing his face into the bed, not daring to look anymore. When Luo Ding went to shower, the sound of running water almost drove Duan mad, but thankfully, the hotel’s conservative design spared him from a repeat of the torture he’d endured back in Milan.
Luo Ding came out in a bathrobe, still drying his hair with a towel, making small talk, “No one saw you in the hallway, right?”
Duan, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from the V-neck of Luo Ding’s robe, swallowed and shook his head.
Sitting on the bed, Luo Ding naturally handed the towel to Duan, who then took it and began gently drying Luo Ding’s hair. As his fingers combed through the strands, soft and damp from the shower, they clung to his hand as though reluctant to part. What started as a simple act of drying hair became something more. Duan’s movements grew more delicate, while Luo Ding, feeling no need to move, spaced out, his mind wandering to the recent filming days.
He sighed, “Why are you, at your age, still acting like a kid, picking on Su Shengbai?”
Every time they had a scene together, Duan’s performance seemed extra energetic, his presence overshadowing Su Shengbai to the point of non-existence. At first, Luo Ding didn’t think much of it, but after several instances, it was too coincidental to ignore. Every scene was like that. Now, Su Shengbai avoided Duan whenever possible, having likely realized that Duan didn’t like him. Luo Ding watched from the sidelines, feeling a bit helpless. He had some idea why Duan disliked Su Shengbai.
Duan paused for a moment, then answered slowly, “What? You feel bad for him?”
“It’s not that,” Luo Ding said, exasperated, turning halfway to grasp Duan’s hand. “But is it really worth it? You’ve built such a good reputation over the years, and if the crew catches wind of this, they’ll just say you’re bullying a newcomer. Why give them more ammunition?”
Duan looked at him seriously. “I—don’t—care—”
He really couldn’t stand Su Shengbai, a grown man who constantly acted weak and fragile. Outwardly, Su Shengbai smiled at everyone, but when they were shooting, he always found ways to get physically close to Luo Ding, lingering around him after takes. Duan had seen through that kind of coquettish behavior long ago, after experiencing it with countless stepmothers growing up. But Luo Ding, either oblivious or simply uninterested, didn’t seem to notice Su Shengbai’s games. To Duan’s sharp eyes, though, every little trick was crystal clear.
Anyone who tried to steal Luo Ding from him was an enemy!
As Duan continued to dry Luo Ding’s hair, he thought to himself: all this hair is mine! This person is mine, and Su Shengbai has no part in it!
The entire crew called Luo Ding either “Little Luo” or “Brother Luo,” but Su Shengbai insisted on calling him “A-Ding,” a name so rustic and out of place that it annoyed Duan to no end.
Luo Ding’s concern was mainly for the impact on Duan’s reputation among the crew, but he knew Duan wasn’t completely irrational. Off-camera, Duan was civil enough to Su Shengbai, and it was only in front of the camera that he stole the spotlight. The director seemed to appreciate Duan’s stellar performances, and even though Su Shengbai was overshadowed in every scene, the director never once suggested a retake for Su Shengbai’s sake. After all, the entire crew treated Duan like a god, more carefully than they even treated the director. No one would think twice about this small flaw, much less attribute it to a personal grudge.
As for sympathy or pity, Luo Ding had none to spare for Su Shengbai.
Luo Ding’s words seemed to spark something in Duan, and after a moment of silence, he leaned in for a kiss. Luo Ding saw the insecurity in Duan’s eyes, so for once, he took the initiative.
The hair dryer was in the bedside drawer, but neither of them bothered to fetch it. Luo Ding knelt over Duan, his knees on either side of Duan’s body, as Duan’s arms wrapped around his waist. Luo Ding cradled Duan Damao’s head, his fingers gently massaging the rough roots of his hair. Their tongues entwined, and because of their position, Luo Ding towered over him.
He liked being the one in control.
Duan Xiubo didn’t mind being kissed like this. Any lingering unease from Luo Ding’s earlier defense of Su Shengbai quickly faded into a happy haze. The waist he held was lean yet strong, and his hands almost entirely encircled it. Impatiently, Duan began fumbling to find a way to slip his hands under the robe.
Luo Ding, amused by Duan’s eagerness, was about to refuse when the doorbell rang, shattering the moment.
Luo Ding paused, about to get up, but Duan held him down, lips still pressed to his. “Ignore it…”
Luo Ding gently stroked Duan’s head, soothing him. “Don’t be silly, it might be something important from the crew.”
Duan Damao stiffened, his expression instantly souring, but despite his reluctance, he released Luo Ding and helped straighten his robe.
Luo Ding hesitated for a moment as he peered through the peephole, debating whether to open the door. But after considering how long the person had been ringing the bell, it was clear they knew he was inside. Avoiding them would only make things worse.
Su Shengbai stood outside, head lowered. When he looked up and saw Luo Ding dressed like that, he froze.
The broad shoulders, narrow waist, damp hair, and the way the bathrobe clung to his body—all of it was completely different from the Luo Ding he remembered.
Su Shengbai glanced behind him, relieved to find no one there. In a low voice, he asked, “Why’d you come to the door like that…?”
“Is there something you need?” Luo Ding cut to the chase.
“…I…” Su Shengbai lowered his head further. He had come to complain about Duan Xiubo’s treatment of him. No one in the crew wanted to cross Duan, and Su Shengbai needed an ally. If not, what was the point of being in this movie? Among the rising stars, his acting skills were already considered quite good. But he couldn’t compare to Duan’s years of experience and natural talent.
This wasn’t a conversation to have at the door. “Can I come in?” he asked softly, craning his neck to peek inside the room.
Then his eyes widened in shock.
Duan Xiubo was leaning casually against the entrance, a thick script in hand. When their eyes met, Duan waved at him with a bright smile. “Hi! Here to rehearse with Little Luo? You’ll have to wait. I’ve got him booked for now.”
Su Shengbai, already pale, seemed to turn even whiter. Duan was always so polite and friendly in private, yet his on-camera treatment was the exact opposite. Su Shengbai couldn’t figure out what Duan’s real intentions were.
He glanced at Luo Ding, who stood expressionless by the door, and then back at Duan Xiubo, whose sunny smile sent chills down his spine. Whatever hope Su Shengbai had was gone.
*******
Luo Ding’s new album was scheduled for release in July. He had already finished recording the songs in March and April, so now it was mostly dance rehearsals and shooting the music videos.
There were ten songs in total, three of which were dance tracks. It wasn’t too challenging, as the choreography was fairly similar across the songs, and with post-production editing, as long as Luo Ding nailed the key moves, everything would look great. Out of the three dance tracks, he only needed to master one for live performances during album promotions.
During the time Luo Ding was on set filming, Gu Yaxing and the rest of the team were hard at work as well.
Thanks to the groundwork laid by the previous EP, news of Luo Ding’s upcoming album release caused quite a stir as soon as it was announced. With Luo Ding’s rising popularity, his work naturally drew more attention, separating him from the average artist. Public interest in Luo Ding had grown so much that media outlets were now eager to report on him, turning his every move into free publicity. The general sentiment was one of high anticipation for the new album.
This time, Gu Yaxing had learned his lesson and wasn’t ignoring Luo Ding’s growing overseas fanbase. The new album featured more international elements, including one entirely in English. Gu Yaxing was also making connections with Luo Ding’s fan communities across different countries, aiming to break into the European and American markets. With *Blade Warrior III* set to release in mid-June, regardless of whether Luo Ding became a household name in the West, July would undoubtedly mark his highest point of international recognition to date.
Gu Yaxing wanted everything to be perfect, not just for Luo Ding, but to prove a point.
To show everyone just how capable they were.
While attending promotional events, Luo Ding had heard snippets about the buzz surrounding his album. Gu Yaxing’s ambition this time surprised him, as it didn’t quite fit the man’s usual soft, easygoing personality. Luo Ding, as one of his artists, had often managed to rein him in. But now it seemed like Gu Yaxing was casting his net far and wide, like a rabbit forced into a corner and ready to bite back.
When Luo Ding described Gu Yaxing this way, Wu Fangyuan laughed himself silly for the entire afternoon, and Luo Ding half-worried he’d be foolish enough to repeat the comment to Gu Yaxing himself.
After attending two events, Luo Ding leaned back in the car, feeling a bit drained. Wu Fangyuan’s voice echoed softly in the background.
“Assassin has sent you a second invitation. This film is strange. They were supposed to start filming last year, but it got pushed to April, and then delayed again. Now it’s already June, and they’re casting for several roles, including the lead.”
“The lead?” Luo Ding asked, eyes half-closed.
“Yeah, the male lead, second lead, third lead, and even a guest role.”
Luo Ding was surprised. So many roles were open? He had originally thought the production was almost ready to go when he was involved, and the first invitation sent to Yaxing Studio had only included a few minor roles. Now they were casting the lead, which meant something must have gone wrong within the production.
Thinking of the film he had once invested so much in, Luo Ding sighed.
He had worked so hard, only to create something for others to benefit from. And the ones who inherited it didn’t even cherish it, tearing it apart at the seams, with each repair only making it worse.
A convoy of vehicles followed behind them, carrying the director and almost all the main cast as they rushed from one promotional event to the next, heading towards the premiere.
The decision to release *Blade Warrior III* in June had caught Luo Ding off guard. He had expected the film to aim for a prime August or September release, but it seemed Carmen Clovis wasn’t overly concerned with timing. June and July were still good months, and a significant portion of the film’s promotional efforts were directed at the Chinese market, indicating the producers were banking on a strong reception there.
In recent years, China’s box office numbers had grown impressively, and the audience was generally easy to please. As long as a film made it to the theaters, it was unlikely to lose money. With a production of this scale, everyone wanted a slice of that growing pie. The fact that the movie featured two popular Chinese faces only added to the anticipation. After the New York premiere, the next stop was the Chinese premiere, followed by a European tour.
The atmosphere at foreign premieres was always different. The audience was predominantly Western, with barely an Asian face in sight, mostly blonde women and young men whose ages were hard to gauge. Luo Ding vividly remembered his first time attending a foreign premiere in his previous life, where the sea of Western faces had been overwhelming. Despite the West’s vocal rejection of racial discrimination, there was still an undercurrent of subtle bias. Throughout the entire event, he had mostly been left on the sidelines, unnoticed.
But this time, things were very different.
When Duan Xiubo took the stage, the crowd’s cheers were deafening, nearly shaking the roof. Luo Ding worried for a moment that his own reception would be underwhelming by comparison, but the moment he stepped onto the stage, a chorus of cheers greeted him.
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