The season was autumn.
The summer heat had begun to fade, and the greenery in the courtyard was slowly turning yellow. Leaves fell to the ground, revealing the resilient, bare branches reaching upward.
Fresh air poured in through the open windows of the tall building. Xu Zhen sat in his wheelchair, gazing off into the distance.
His functioning right hand gently stroked the controls on the electric wheelchair. With a press of a button, the wheelchair emitted a soft hum and rolled forward a few steps.
He moved it back and forth, enjoying this small bit of motion.
After Cao Dingkun’s death, Xu Zhen had also spent some time in a wheelchair. That time, he had been severely beaten and spent a long time in bed before he could barely walk again. Due to the need to play the sympathy card while organizing the casting event, he had to continue pretending to be a patient who couldn’t walk, even when he could. Back then, Su Shengbai had pushed him around various media outlets and television stations, but his mental state had been relatively calm—after all, his inability to walk was only an illusion.
But lies come at a cost. Now, he would forever be tied to the wheelchair. No matter how much longer he lived, this specially designed wheelchair, with all its controls on the right side, would accompany him for the rest of his life. It felt more like a curse.
To ensure convenience, his new nursing home was located in the city, though the environment was not as peaceful as the one in the countryside.
He could no longer live alone, nor could a single caregiver manage someone with his condition. The issue of incontinence alone was a significant challenge. Xu Zhen had no choice but to wear adult diapers, resolving his bodily needs with a sense of shame and self-loathing, slumping helplessly in his wheelchair.
“Director Xu,” someone called as they opened the door. Xu Zhen struggled to control his wheelchair and turn toward the voice. His sharp gaze caused the person, an assistant director, to immediately stand straighter.
“We’re ready to depart. Are you prepared?” the assistant director asked.
*******
The sycamore trees lining the streets of T City shed their leaves in this season, carpeting the ground in large, crisp yellow foliage. As car wheels rolled over the leaves, there was a distinct *crunch*.
The car seat was reclined, and Luo Ding lay sideways, yawning. His eyes, slightly teary from the yawn, sparkled as he rubbed them away with his hand.
Wu Fangyuan, feeling sorry for him, draped a light blanket over Luo Ding’s body and gently took the phone from his hand, which he was still unwilling to put down. “Get some sleep. You were up late at last night’s event. It’s still early, and I’ll wake you when we arrive.”
Gu Yaxing, sitting in the front passenger seat, browsed a tablet, occasionally glancing back at them. With his new hairstyle, he looked particularly refreshed.
Yawning again, Luo Ding extended his hand. “Give me my phone.”
Despite his concern, Wu Fangyuan had no choice but to hand it back, knowing Luo Ding’s determination.
He opened it to find a WeChat message from Duan Xiubo: “Don’t talk too much with others at the event. Bring Xiao Wu, and don’t drink. You can’t handle your alcohol at all.”
Luo Ding chuckled softly as he quickly typed back, “Got it.”
Duan Xiubo had been away since September for a short-term event. Though it wasn’t long, he couldn’t leave in the middle, and the time zone difference between them made it a bit tricky. Surprisingly, their relationship had grown even closer since they started dating, their interactions more frequent. One phone call a day was minimal; the real interaction came through a constant stream of texts and WeChat messages. Thinking of Duan’s slightly puffy face from lack of sleep during their video call the previous day, Luo Ding felt a wave of inexplicable tenderness.
Gu Yaxing turned around several times, and upon seeing Luo Ding’s expression, furrowed his brows. “Who are you texting?”
“Old Duan,” Luo Ding casually replied, handing his phone back to Wu Fangyuan before pulling the blanket closer around himself and yawning again.
Gu Yaxing’s frown deepened. Of course, he knew who “Old Duan” was. Luo Ding had never addressed anyone else with such familiarity. Given Duan Xiubo’s current status, Gu Yaxing should have been pleased to see Luo Ding forging such a close relationship with him, but something didn’t sit right. The way the two interacted went beyond what was typical for friends. The sweet, almost tender look in Luo Ding’s eyes—though he wasn’t smiling—spoke volumes of warmth and affection.
Gu Yaxing had his own close friends, but none of them ever acted so intimately. If any of them did, he’d probably be covered in goosebumps.
Pondering over it for a moment, he decided to let it go. Luo Ding wasn’t just another artist in the company, after all. Gu Yaxing made sure to maintain a certain level of respect and distance when dealing with him. The agency’s current success was largely due to Luo Ding. Thanks to him, resources had flowed in, which had, in turn, helped build new connections. The third wave of trainees had already debuted, with several making a name for themselves through talent shows. Some who had striking looks were even landing roles in idol dramas. Though none of them were likely to reach Luo Ding’s level, they were well on their way to establishing their own careers.
“By the way,” Gu Yaxing said, seeing that Luo Ding was about to doze off. “The invitation for the Annual Music Awards has arrived. They’re still discussing which song from your new album will be nominated, but with your sales this year, you’re definitely taking home an award. It’s just a matter of which one. There weren’t as many new albums this year, and the usual veterans are thinking of retiring, so who knows, you might even snag Best Artist or Best Album.”
Luo Ding chuckled. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.” It felt more like a situation where he wasn’t excelling—just that the competition was weak.
Gu Yaxing rolled his eyes at him. “You’re getting off easy! Nowadays, young singers rarely have the chance to surpass their predecessors in terms of credentials. And older fans can be just as passionate as younger ones. Just because they have more say doesn’t mean they won’t call younger fans ‘brain-dead.’ You’re lucky that this year’s veterans didn’t step up. Otherwise, taking their glory would’ve turned you into a public target.”
He looked at Luo Ding, still a little concerned. “The album itself isn’t my biggest worry. What I’m really concerned about is your upcoming time with the *Assassin* crew. You’ll be living on set, and Fangyuan, capable as he is, has his limits…” He sighed. “And with Xu Zhen’s current mental state—well, even though he’s paralyzed, he’s still as volatile as ever. I’ve heard he’s been throwing tantrums in the nursing home, breaking things, and being overly picky. If he acts up on set and you try to stand up for yourself, no matter how respectful you are, the media could twist it to make it seem like you’re disrespecting a senior.”
Luo Ding could tell what he was hinting at and smiled, reassuring him that he wouldn’t be impulsive, though the weight of the situation lingered in his heart.
So, Xu Zhen had fallen that far? Once known for his self-discipline and concern for public image, Xu Zhen now openly lost his temper, even when the cameras were rolling. The signs had been there during their last meeting in the hospital, where Xu Zhen’s mental instability had been apparent.
Decades of friendship, reduced to this—there was no joy in it at all.
As the car slowly approached the outskirts of T City, Luo Ding, having rested briefly, sat up and stared pensively out the window. This road led to a place etched deeply into his memory—
—Taiheng Mountain.
In his previous life, this was where he had spent his final days.
T City had a full-fledged film base, and Taiheng Mountain’s secondary peak was home to the grandest temple in the area. The scent of incense grew stronger as they ascended the mountainside, with devotees making their way up in a steady stream. When the car pulled up at the temple gates, most of the crew had already arrived.
This production had been plagued by one misfortune after another, from accidents involving both the lead actor and the director to funding and staffing issues. A visit to the temple to ward off bad luck was deemed necessary. Even Luo Ding, normally not one for superstition, found himself questioning his beliefs after everything that had happened. After all, there was no scientific explanation for his extra lifetime.
The towering Buddha statue exuded an air of solemnity. The media, unwilling to offend a sacred site, kept their distance, forming orderly rows at the temple gates. As soon as Luo Ding stepped out of the car, the shutters of cameras began clicking non-stop.
Yuan Bing and the others, dressed in traditional, modest attire, came forward to greet him. Seeing that Luo Ding seemed a bit tired, they gathered around, expressing their concern.
Luo Ding responded to them absentmindedly, his attention drawn to the car parked at the far end. The door on the side shielded from the cameras opened, and Luo Ding recognized an employee from Triumph. He could guess who was inside, and sure enough, not long after, Xu Zhen was wheeled out.
The wheelchair was custom-made, its backrest more reclined than usual. Xu Zhen leaned against it, a blanket covering him from the waist down, his face devoid of expression, his head bowed low.
Luo Ding’s sharp eyes caught the moment Xu Zhen clenched his right hand into a fist as the sound of camera shutters filled the air.
Sighing inwardly, Luo Ding realized that seeing Xu Zhen no longer stirred any emotions within him—not even pity.
The media presence seemed to make Xu Zhen extremely nervous, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the rest of the crew. While senior actors like Yuan Bing didn’t openly intervene, a few younger actors rushed over to shield him, hoping to share the spotlight while pretending to help.
Luo Ding stood in the furthest corner, making no effort to conceal his dislike for Xu Zhen.
Once inside the temple, the doors were closed, leaving the noise of the outside world behind.
Xu Zhen insisted on being lifted from his wheelchair to kneel before the Buddha. With his lower body completely paralyzed, just stabilizing his kneeling posture was a challenge. Holding a stick of incense with his only functioning hand, he mumbled incoherently as he was held in place on the cushion.
The others stood at a distance, Yuan Bing nudging Luo Ding. “Hey, what’s wrong with Director Xu? Did he take the wrong meds?”
Luo Ding snorted softly, easily reading the guilt hidden beneath Xu Zhen’s face. “Wrong meds? No, just a guilty conscience.”
*******
The movie Assassin was, as the title suggested, a story about a group of assassins.
These shadowy figures were secretly raised by the imperial court, used as tools by officials to carry out tasks too dirty to be done in the open. Their lives were devoid of morality; they existed only to obey orders.
But the masters who exploited them to the fullest had no intention of granting them a peaceful end.
Born insignificant, they would die in obscurity.
Few knew, however, that these assassins also harbored the same loves, desires, and grudges as ordinary people. Hidden beneath the calm surface, like a volcano brewing in the deep sea, their emotions often died before anyone could ever detect them.
A figure clad in black, with a lean and graceful physique, crouched on the courtyard wall, resembling a predator ready to pounce.
He silently leaped down, rolling to the ground without making a sound, then slipped into the bushes.
His face was concealed by a headscarf, revealing only his eyes, which glowed eerily in the night as they fixated on a nearby servant holding a lantern.
Sensing something, the servant turned slowly, lifting the lantern toward the darkness. “Who’s there?” he asked, squinting into the distance.
The shadow held its breath, a mischievous grin flashing briefly in his eyes. As the servant muttered to himself and continued on his way, the assassin smiled beneath the headscarf, the movement barely visible.
He moved quickly toward the main house, blending into the shadows. Two guards stood tall outside the door, but the assassin, smirking to himself, chose to climb onto the roof instead.
He lifted a roof tile, creating a small opening, and dropped down silently.
The playful expression vanished the moment his feet touched the ground. His eyes gleamed with cold precision as he slowly unsheathed a curved dagger from behind him.
Gliding over to the bedside like a ghost, he parted the curtains to reveal a fat old man snoring lightly.
Without hesitation, the assassin drew his blade across the man’s throat. The man awoke with a start, his eyes widening in terror as he stared at his killer, struggling to escape.
The assassin calmly plunged the dagger deeper, smiling as the man’s struggles ceased. Then, with a quiet chuckle, he closed the dead man’s wide-open eyes.
“Lord Wei,” he sighed, rising to his feet and shaking the blood from his blade as if he had just put a man to sleep, not ended a life.
He rummaged through the shelves, flipping through ancient books and searching for a hidden compartment. From a concealed space, he pulled out a bundle of letters and documents, skimming through them before spitting in the direction of the bed.
“Feeding on the people, huh? I should’ve stabbed you a few more times. You got off easy,” he muttered, stuffing the letters into his cloak and slipping back out the window as silently as he had come.
The house remained still and quiet.
But the once-living figure inside had long departed from this world.
******
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