There was hardly any time for a break as one project followed another: music, dance, TV dramas, and movies. Ever since Luo Ding’s rise to fame, his name had been steadily and frequently making headlines.
First, he gained a massive following on the internet, primarily composed of young, energetic fans, but also collected a fair number of detractors. While his haters accused him of being a mere internet sensation, Luo Ding proved them wrong with real projects. His albums’ sales solidified his position in the music industry, his TV drama performances helped him gain public recognition, and his roles in films, especially his work in Hollywood, elevated his value even more.
Each step Luo Ding took was carefully planned and executed, almost as if he had a top-notch team guiding him from behind the scenes. It seemed like no one else in the entertainment industry had been as fortunate as him.
Not long ago, he was just an unknown artist making sporadic appearances on variety shows. Although fans now look back on those appearances with affection, the truth is that Luo Ding had none of the natural talent that someone like Duan Xiubo possessed. Duan rose to fame based on his skills and luck, while in the eyes of most, Luo Ding’s success was largely due to luck and the intervention of external forces.
Luck, however, is a quality that incites jealousy in others.
From his first television drama Tang Legend, Luo Ding landed major productions one after another. Before he even had time to fully establish himself in the TV world, he transitioned into film and collaborated with none other than Duan Xiubo, the most uniquely positioned male actor in China. After that, he seized the opportunity to break into Hollywood. Look at the artists he’s worked with since his rise to fame—Pan Yiming, Yuan Bing, Duan Xiubo, and Wu Yuan—these actors, even without counting the directors, were all untouchable figures in their respective fields.
With praise inevitably comes criticism.
Many in the entertainment industry disliked Luo Ding, even though most had never interacted with him. Their dislike didn’t need any real reason—just one excuse sufficed: he was famous.
His fame meant that he was blocking the path for newcomers. It meant he was stealing the spotlight from those around him. Fame guaranteed he would always be the focus of media attention, whether he intended to be or not.
Jealousy is one of the most primal and uncontrollable emotions. Even without knowing Luo Ding personally, many people, including those whose names he wouldn’t even recognize, harbored deep resentment against him.
Luo Ding had long grown used to the insults online. Wu Fangyuan, Gu Yaxing, and even Duan Xiubo seemed overly concerned about such negativity, trying to shield him from the harsher criticism, fearing it would affect his mood.
But Luo Ding wasn’t as fragile as they thought. While the storm of unfounded accusations seemed fierce to the inexperienced staff at Yaxing Studios, for Luo Ding, it was nothing more than a drizzle. He had weathered worse in his previous life when he slowly worked his way up, facing no shortage of doubts and skepticism. Having dealt with harsh criticism from his younger days—being told he lacked talent, had no singing voice, or didn’t know how to behave—his mental fortitude was long established. Even as he aged, criticisms about his declining looks or voice didn’t faze him. His fragile mentality had been left far behind.
The fan culture in this life, though, still puzzled him to no end.
Strangely enough, very few fans were simply celebrating his role, and even fewer were showing off their enthusiasm. Most of the comments on the production’s social media pages sounded like this:
“Luo Xiaoding is still young, his acting can’t possibly match someone as experienced as Cao Dingkun. Please, everyone, be understanding.”
“Luo Xiaoding, remember to learn from your seniors!”
“Director Xu isn’t in good health, make sure you listen and follow the script, or else I’m unfollowing you! (Just kidding.)”
“Good luck with the film! Wishing Director Xu a speedy recovery, and hoping everything goes smoothly for the cast and crew. (Luo Xiaoding, keep going!)”
Their method of celebrating Luo Ding’s new movie role was quite unique. The day the news broke, three trucks loaded with rice headed to the mountains as part of a charitable donation effort. Various fan stations and forums launched an unprecedented fundraising campaign, with several leading fans putting in large sums to hire trucks. Everyone contributed eagerly, and within a few days, they had collected an astonishing amount of books, school supplies, and brand-new children’s clothing.
This type of charity support was common in the more mature Korean entertainment scene, but it was still rare in China. Luo Ding’s fan base had managed to avoid the toxic behavior of other fan groups, opting instead to highlight the positive.
The domestic media, keen to latch onto a good example, reported the donation event on CCTV news, which created a significant buzz.
Most viewers of the news were older people, unfamiliar with the world of celebrity fandom. But before they even had a chance to understand what fan culture was, Luo Ding had already made a remarkably positive impression on them. This helped blunt the impact of any future negative rumors and online attacks. Official channels always have more influence than the public, and once the national media had shown favor, smart outlets would refrain from running negative pieces.
Luo Ding casually opened a post titled “Working as an Entertainment Assistant for Years: Let’s Talk About Some Celebrities I’ve Worked With.” The first name mentioned was Luo Ding himself, and the poster accused him of throwing tantrums on set, arriving late, and having special privileges that protected him from criticism, even from directors.
The accusations were presented in a detailed and believable way, but Luo Ding couldn’t help but smile as he read through them.
The commenters weren’t so easily fooled, though. The thread was quickly filled with demands for “Pics or it didn’t happen!” Others, who had actually interacted with Luo Ding, jumped into the discussion, arguing that the Luo Ding they knew was nothing like the person described in the post. Soon, the original poster disappeared, and the thread was abandoned. Not long after, the entire post was locked.
How many of these have popped up already? Luo Ding put down his phone and rubbed his forehead, letting out a long sigh.
Duan Xiubo’s voice came from behind him, “What are you doing, Luo Ding?”
Luo Ding kept his face calm as he placed his phone face down and replied nonchalantly, “Nothing much. Where did you go?”
Duan Xiubo, noticing the phone, immediately grabbed it and unlocked it to check Luo Ding’s browsing history. But Luo Ding had already deleted it, so Duan found nothing, and he let out a sigh of relief.
Distracted by Luo Ding’s question, Duan grinned as he sat down beside him. “Director Tang said if today’s shooting goes smoothly, he’ll treat us to drinks at a bar. No one seems to be against it. If you don’t feel like going, I can tell him privately.”
*Supermodel* was nearing the end of its production, and they were currently waiting backstage while the crew adjusted the lights on the runway.
Though actors always look forward to wrapping up a project, Luo Ding mostly felt a sense of loss as the end drew near.
His mood had been off recently, so maybe going to a noisy place would be a good distraction. Luo Ding sighed, “It’s fine, a bar is a bar. No need to make special arrangements for me.”
Duan Xiubo frowned slightly, repeating, “It’s going to be really loud and chaotic—probably a type of place you’re not used to.”
Luo Ding laughed, tugging playfully at Duan’s ear. “Don’t worry about it.”
Duan Xiubo bent down to meet his eyes, and as soon as Luo Ding tugged his ear, a smile lit up his face. He reached out to lightly pull on Luo Ding’s ear in return, but, not wanting to hurt him, it ended up more like a gentle rub.
He pocketed Luo Ding’s phone, and with nothing else to do, Luo Ding picked up a nearby magazine to flip through. Opening it to the inner pages, he saw a photo of himself, shirtless, facing away from the camera while interacting with Duan Xiubo. Luo Ding froze, then flipped to the cover—*Fashion* magazine.
Running his fingers nostalgically over the glossy page, Luo Ding remembered that when they shot this magazine spread, he and Duan Xiubo were still in the ambiguous stage of their relationship. He had been avoiding things, while Duan’s attitude was unclear. Who would have thought they’d end up here?
He smiled, feeling his earlier bad mood lift completely.
Once the room quieted down, he became acutely aware of a pair of eyes watching him, following his every move. Though the gaze wasn’t hostile, it was unsettling.
Luo Ding suddenly raised his head in the direction of the gaze and found himself locking eyes with Su Shengbai, who stood frozen in the corner, caught off guard.
Luo Ding’s brow furrowed.
Su Shengbai hesitated for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do. Seeing that Luo Ding had glanced at him only briefly before looking away, Su Shengbai gritted his teeth and walked over.
“Luo Ding,” he called softly.
Luo Ding turned a page in the magazine. “Hm?”
Su Shengbai’s quiet approach didn’t deter him from staying on his feet. “I saw the news about you taking the lead in The Assassin.”
“Hm.”
“…Didn’t you say you weren’t going to take it?”
Luo Ding lifted his head to look at him, his expression openly displaying irritation. “What exactly do you want to ask?”
Su Shengbai bit his lip, clenching his fists but saying nothing.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. His emotions were too complicated, and when someone is overwhelmed by conflicting feelings, it’s hard to find the right words. This past year had been a disaster, almost completely draining Su Shengbai’s positivity, as if fate itself had grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head into a wall, leaving him bloodied and without a way out.
Everything Su Shengbai had done had been for *The Assassin*. Cao Dingkun was dead, Xu Zhen hated him, and despite everything he had done to secure the investment, no one remembered his efforts. The casting call had failed, and while he ran around assisting Xu Zhen, he had missed other acting opportunities. To make matters worse, Xu Zhen, that lunatic, had even threatened him with murder to force him out of the production.
Why didn’t Xu Zhen just die?
Now, the rumors surrounding Su Shengbai were running wild, and the fact that he had been cut from the cast list for *The Assassin* was attracting as much attention as Luo Ding taking on the lead role. People had seen him working closely with Xu Zhen to arrange the casting call, so when Xu Zhen was severely injured, the public pitied him but were also curious about what had happened. All kinds of baseless accusations were hurled at Su Shengbai.
They said he must have had a personal grudge against Xu Zhen or that the two had been romantically involved, and Su Shengbai had abandoned him after Xu Zhen’s injury. The rumors were as irresponsible as they were numerous, and Su Shengbai had no way to defend himself.
He couldn’t afford to provoke Xu Zhen, who knew far too much about his misdeeds. Though Su Shengbai wasn’t the one to personally sabotage the brakes, it wouldn’t be hard for someone to find evidence linking him to the incident. He was terrified that Xu Zhen, in his broken state, might decide to drag him down as well.
Su Shengbai felt helpless. He wanted some reassurance from Luo Ding, but at that moment, he realized that Luo Ding’s warmth had long since faded, disappearing without him even noticing.
Sitting down next to Luo Ding’s legs, Su Shengbai tilted his head back to reveal his beautifully defined jawline. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Luo Ding… just look at me, please.”
Luo Ding glanced at him.
Su Shengbai, on the verge of tears, said, “Luo Ding… can’t we just make up?”
Seeing Su Shengbai’s hand reaching toward his knee, Luo Ding immediately shifted two steps to the side. “What are you doing?”
“I know I was wrong,” Su Shengbai said, his heart aching with complex emotions that only he could understand. He recalled the silent, introverted young man he once teamed up with, back when the future looked bleak. Even Luo Ding probably hadn’t imagined he would achieve the success he had today. If Su Shengbai had known things would turn out like this, he would have stuck it out until the end. Luo Ding was sentimental; surely, he wouldn’t have abandoned him after making it big. If only he had persevered, working alongside Luo Ding, he would have surely reaped some of the rewards from his success.
Surely it wasn’t too late.
He looked at Luo Ding with hopeful eyes, not daring to expect immediate forgiveness, but hoping at least for a softening of Luo Ding’s attitude. A single hint of change would be enough proof that he still had a chance.
If only… if only, back at the Fashion anniversary gala, he had chosen to reconcile, things might have been different.
But there was no turning back time.
Luo Ding stared into Su Shengbai’s eyes. His first reaction was to quickly glance over his shoulder. In the distance, Duan Xiubo, as if sensing something, looked up and met his gaze. Their eyes collided mid-air, and Duan Xiubo froze for a moment.
The others didn’t seem to notice what was happening here.
Luo Ding relaxed slightly and shifted to sit farther away. “Get up.”
“Ah Ding!”
