Luo Ding jogged along the mountainside, where resilient plants grew from the stone walls. It was early morning, and the leaves were still covered in a thin layer of dew.
The air on Taiheng Mountain was crisp and refreshing.
After a busy period of filming, the crew’s schedule had gradually stabilized. With no time to hit the gym, Luo Ding chose to run on the mountain. A daily hour of exercise in the fresh air was far more enjoyable than working out with dumbbells or resistance bands indoors.
The sky was still only faintly lit.
As Luo Ding slowed his pace and walked along the outer edge, his gaze fell on the cliffs beyond.
There, the trees were sparse, but the grass grew thick and lush. A few trees had been cut down or burnt, their trunks yellowed and withered, though Luo Ding couldn’t tell if they were dead or just naturally barren in this season.
Luo Ding stopped, facing the spot, feeling an unusual calm as he took a deep breath.
That was where Cao Dingkun had perished in a car crash.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Luo Ding had gone from being a middle-aged man to rediscovering his youth, inhabiting a new body and returning to the place where his former self had died.
The feeling was… rather surreal.
A distant car horn echoed, drawing Luo Ding’s attention. A dark gray minivan was slowly descending the mountain, looking out of place on the deserted road.
The car stopped next to him, and the window rolled down to reveal Xu Zhen, his gaze drifting past Luo Ding toward the cliffs, a strange expression on his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Good morning, Director Xu,” Luo Ding replied, his lips curling into a faint, ambiguous smile.
Xu Zhen stared at him for a moment, feeling unsettled by the look in Luo Ding’s eyes and the expression on his face.
Luo Ding, seeing Xu Zhen’s silence, turned to look at the spot he had been observing for a long time and spoke quietly. “Director Xu, do you remember what happened here?”
Xu Zhen, of course, knew. His heart clenched tightly. Since the start of filming, he had been having strange dreams every night. Visiting Taiheng Mountain’s sub-peak for incense offerings had become a regular ritual. Every time he passed this particular spot, his nerves were on edge. Just now, as he drove down the mountain and caught sight of a figure standing there in the dim morning light, he had nearly screamed in panic, frantically shouting for the driver to stop.
When he realized it was Luo Ding standing there, Xu Zhen didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. His tightly wound nerves had relaxed somewhat, but now Luo Ding’s demeanor was making him uneasy again.
The morning light had not fully brightened yet, and the mist in the air was heavy. The mountainside was silent, and for Xu Zhen, this location held more significance than it did for anyone else.
In the misty light, Luo Ding’s features seemed slightly blurred, though his eyes shone brightly. The subtle curve of his lips appeared mocking at first glance, but upon closer inspection, there was nothing in his expression beyond basic politeness.
Since Xu Zhen didn’t respond, Luo Ding lost interest in the conversation. With a calm “goodbye,” he resumed his run up the mountain.
The car remained parked for a long time. Xu Zhen stared out at the barren patch of ground below the cliff, and after a while, Luo Ding’s figure disappeared from the rearview mirror.
The driver noticed beads of sweat on Xu Zhen’s forehead and temples. The car felt unnaturally quiet, and the surrounding atmosphere was eerie. Unable to bear the silence, the driver asked, “Director Xu, shall we go?”
It took a second repetition before Xu Zhen snapped out of his daze, breathing heavily. After a few moments of steadying his breath, he finally managed to close the window and, after some thought, murmured, “Let’s go. In the afternoon… in the afternoon, go into the city and buy some spirit money for me.”
The driver glanced at him in surprise through the rearview mirror, but seeing Xu Zhen’s tired expression, he didn’t dare ask any questions. He simply nodded and replied, “Sure.”
******
Xu Zhen stared blankly at the monitor, watching Jia Da speak quietly to his love interest, Jia Qi, as they sat together on the bed. Jia Qi, trained as a female assassin, specialized in seduction and often had to use her body to complete her missions. To assassinate one of the crown prince’s generals, she had posed as a courtesan, enduring the man’s sadistic abuse before ultimately succeeding in her mission. Though she completed the job, she returned covered in whip marks.
Assassins were not allowed to have personal relationships. Any feelings they developed would be severely punished. Jia Da, an exceptional fighter, was strong, but even he could not withstand the full weight of authority that loomed over them.
And Jia Qi—she was in love, but also deeply insecure. As a woman, she had given her body over to her missions time and time again. Living in brothels had left her unsure of her own worth. In such a conservative era, a woman like her was unlikely to ever receive fair treatment.
She admired Jia Da but never dared express her feelings, believing herself too lowly and unworthy of him.
These two confused young people could only express their hidden emotions when they were alone together. In the presence of anyone else, even Jia Qi’s most trusted sister, Jia Nian, they had to remain strictly professional.
When they heard the faint sound of footsteps outside the door, both immediately tensed. Jia Da rose to his feet before the door opened, concealing his worry with a mask of cold indifference.
******
This was Yuan Bing’s first time filming a romantic scene with Luo Ding. Even long after the director called “cut,” she was still immersed in her character’s deep emotional turmoil.
Luo Ding’s eyes were too convincing. That look of wanting to be close yet held back by fear was expressed so vividly in just a few fleeting moments. Yuan Bing, though a naturally talented actress who was skilled at delivering lines and facial expressions, usually relied more on technique than true emotional investment.
But acting with Luo Ding made her feel completely drawn in. Besides Duan Xiubo, there hadn’t been another actor who could make her feel this kind of pressure.
From their few scenes together in Crouching dragon to now playing a couple torn between love and duty, Yuan Bing found herself surprised by how much a younger actor like Luo Ding could challenge her.
Pan Yiming, noticing her still seated on the bed, quietly leaned over and whispered, “It’s hard doing romantic scenes with him, isn’t it?”
Yuan Bing was startled for a moment before she remembered that Pan Yiming had worked with Luo Ding on both Tang legend and a music video. She chuckled. “You seem to know all about it.”
Their foreheads touched as they exchanged a knowing smile. In the entertainment industry, it wasn’t uncommon for actors to develop real feelings while filming.
But unlike many others, Yuan Bing and Pan Yiming both knew how to separate their personal emotions from their professional work. No matter how strong the feelings were during filming, once the collaboration ended, they had to keep those emotions in check.
“Luo Ding!”
Luo Ding had just pulled his phone out of his costume pocket to check his messages. In the few minutes it had taken to film that scene, Duan Xiubo had sent him a barrage of voice messages, as if he were a lovesick fool.
“I just landed.”
“Mi Rui went to get my luggage.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you.”
What a nutcase.
Luo Ding deleted the redundant “I miss you” messages but hesitated for a moment, replaying one of them a few times before finally deleting it as well.
Duan Xiubo’s work had just wrapped up, and although he had planned to visit Luo Ding, an invitation from a brand celebrating its 60th anniversary had come up, pulling him away again. With December approaching and the two of them having been apart for so long, even Luo Ding found himself missing Duan Xiubo. As for Duan Xiubo, who was far more open with his emotions, he had been more expressive than ever, showering Luo Ding with affection every time they spoke on the phone.
Luo Ding had already requested two days off, and after changing out of his costume, he intended to say a quick goodbye to the production team out of courtesy.
Xu Zhen was hunched over in his wheelchair, staring at the monitor without moving.
Luo Ding decided not to disturb him and called out to the assistant director instead. “Director Hu, I have an event tomorrow, so I’ll be heading off today. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”
Before the assistant director could respond, Xu Zhen jolted as if he’d seen a ghost. His sudden movement startled Luo Ding, who instinctively turned to meet Xu Zhen’s wide-eyed gaze.
The assistant director had grown accustomed to this. Xu Zhen had been increasingly jumpy lately, always on edge for reasons no one could quite understand. A few days ago, one of the production assistants had tried to help him take a nap during a break, quietly wheeling him back to his room. When they checked on him half an hour later, they found him staring fixedly at the makeup mirror in the dim room, his eyes glowing eerily in the dark. The assistant had been severely scolded for their well-meaning actions.
Since then, no one dared to leave Xu Zhen alone. Even when he was resting, a caregiver had to be present at all times.
The assistant directors were aware that Xu Zhen’s mental state was clearly deteriorating, though no one knew exactly how bad it was.
Luo Ding took a step back, unsettled by Xu Zhen’s reaction. Just then, the crew coordinator came over, apologizing to Luo Ding while hurrying to ask Xu Zhen, “Director Xu, the reporters from the Chinese Language Channel are here for the interview. When would you like to start?”
After a brief pause, Xu Zhen replied, “Let’s do it now.”
The coordinator nodded and moved to push his wheelchair, but Xu Zhen raised a hand to stop her.
Returning to his usual expression, Xu Zhen looked up at Luo Ding, hesitated for a moment, and said, “Luo, you should probably run somewhere else from now on.”
Luo Ding raised an eyebrow.
“That mountain…” Xu Zhen seemed unsure how to phrase it. “That mountain isn’t… clean.” Ever since he returned from there, his nightmares had only worsened. Even burning spirit money hadn’t helped.
Luo Ding stared at him for a moment, then broke into a quiet smile—the same smile he had worn when they had crossed paths that morning on the mountain road, near the spot where Cao Dingkun had died. It was a calm, almost eerie smile.
“Not clean?”
Luo Ding said nothing more and turned to leave.
The coordinator, clueless about the nature of their conversation, exchanged a glance with the assistant director, who also seemed just as puzzled. She decided not to dwell on it, instead lowering her head to ask Xu Zhen if he was ready to go, only to be shocked by the sight of Xu Zhen’s face.
His entire expression was contorted—not with anger, but with fear.
She followed Xu Zhen’s line of sight. Luo Ding was cheerfully saying goodbye to the other crew members, his tall, slender figure illuminated by the sunlight, his side profile strikingly handsome.
What on earth was Xu Zhen so terrified of?
It made no sense at all.
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