Qin Sizheng, naturally fond of laughter, couldn’t help but giggle at Lu Xianqing’s awkward, slightly embarrassed demeanor. “I thought you could do it! It’s fine if you can’t. Not embarrassing at all, hahaha.”
Lu Xianqing groaned, rubbed his teeth, and lightly tapped Qin Sizheng on the head. “Had enough laughing?”
Qin Sizheng stepped back two paces. “Enough, enough.” Seeing Lu Xianqing’s expression, he realized he might have overdone it. He coughed lightly to stifle the remaining laughter and cautiously asked, “Do you want me to teach you? It’s simple, you’ll get it in no time.”
Looking into the boy’s bright, sparkling eyes, Lu Xianqing restrained the impulse to touch him. “Until you learn it properly?” he asked faintly.
“Mm!” The boy nodded, revealing two small fangs that glinted against the snow, looking irresistibly cute. Lu Xianqing thought, I wish I could take a bite…
Unaware of his inner thoughts, Qin Sizheng diligently set the skis down and explained carefully: “See, just keep your balance. Don’t look at your feet while going down, look forward. Slightly bend your knees, like driving a car—keep your eyes on an open view ahead.”
Lu Xianqing looked down at his fingers, slightly red from the cold, feeling the urge to warm them in his mouth but afraid it would scare him off. He had avoided Lu Xianqing for so long; if they hadn’t coincidentally met, Qin Sizheng might still refuse to see him.
His idol Xu Jinhang was about to join a new production. Qin Sizheng would likely be too focused on filming to remember the one who had always bullied him, and even if he did, once he realized those texts were sent by Lu Xianqing, he might ignore him completely.
Qin Sizheng spent a long time teaching with no feedback. Assuming Lu Xianqing didn’t understand, he looked up and met his gaze, only to feel as if Lu Xianqing… disliked him?
The sharp look of annoyance in Lu Xianqing’s eyes made Qin Sizheng’s chest tighten. Had he been too annoying? Had he upset him? He retracted his hand and stood up, intending to ask if he’d done something wrong, when Jiang Xi’s voice called out:
“Qin-ge, the equipment is fixed. Come take the photos!”
Feeling liberated, Qin Sizheng immediately shouted, “Coming!” He pressed his lips together and said, “Fourth Brother, Jiang Xi wants me for photos. If you want to learn, you can ask the ski instructors—they’re more professional than me. I’ll head off first, see you later.”
With that, Qin Sizheng ran off, leaving only a red figure in his wake. At that moment, he didn’t know the video of him skiing had been uploaded online.
The ski resort had just opened in the early morning, with no guests yet. Staff idly fiddled with their phones and saw Qin Sizheng gliding like a “sword-flying immortal.” They were instantly captivated.
Though many celebrities had skied here before, most wore protective gear to prevent injury—they needed to rely on their looks. Qin Sizheng, dressed in full costume with no protection, was the first of its kind.
Initially worried about his safety, the staff saw that he really had practiced before. His refusal to wear gear was genuine, not bragging. They couldn’t resist filming and uploaded it online.
“Whose young master is this? Come claim him! He ran to ski as soon as the resort opened, probably from the next set over, sneaking a bit of fun. You couldn’t feel the energy in person—it was incredible!”
Because celebrities frequently visited the resort, the post gained attention immediately, sparking a frenzy of comments:
- “Ahhhh, so handsome! Is this the ‘sword-flying immortal’ come to life? Let me see his face! Whose brother is he? I’ve got a ladder ready to climb the wall!”
- “Last time I wore Hanfu to ski… the result, you all know. I came home unrecognizable to my mom.”
- “This is too beautiful! The flowing sleeves—so ethereal! I fell in love immediately. My fantasy Xianxia boy came to reality. Mom, I’m in love!!”
- “He’s amazing, so smooth and graceful. The way he stops at the turns hits my heart. Even when I learned to drive, I wasn’t this precise. If I had this skill, I wouldn’t get scolded by my instructor every day.”
- “Wait, that back view looks so much like Qin Sizheng! Is there a little string? Help me confirm if this is your brother. If it is, I’m climbing! I was already smitten from Traveling With the Little One, just missing this thrill.”
- “That’s my brother! Climb away! He can do martial arts, ski, kick sticks, break glass barehanded. Worth investing in!”
- “Qin Sizheng can do so many things. He’s like an all-rounder. Last time he said Si Qianqiu was no good—he wasn’t mocking; he probably really trained.”
- “Brother, tell us, what else haven’t we seen? Boss CEO lighting a cigarette.jpg”
- “Does Qin Sizheng ski often? Where is this resort? I want to randomly meet him!”
Qin Sizheng couldn’t check his phone, so he didn’t see the post. He hurried back to the studio to have his makeup touched up. The director and cinematographer were still discussing details, nodding occasionally but continuing their conversation.
The audition had a scene prepared. When Xu Zhi contacted him, he had already received the script. He would play the youngest son of a national general. The nation had fallen, his father died in battle, the family was wiped out, and the common people’s bodies were trampled under the enemy’s iron boots.
The enemy generals had always respected his father. Seeing him so young, they offered him a chance to submit and be granted the title of “Deer King.”
But the “Deer King” was a mocking title. Qin Sizheng understood—it was meant to humiliate.
The city gates had long been breached, corpses and the stench of blood everywhere. He struggled to strip the heavy armor from his older brother and put it on himself, then hoisted the tattered army banner. Step by step, he left the general’s residence.
“The mountains and rivers are broken, I shall die for them. My father lived without shame before heaven and earth, and I will not let him down! You invade my land and slay my people—heaven and earth shall punish you!” he declared, unbowed, planting the scorched, torn banner upright with great effort.
He wiped the tears from his face carelessly, grabbed a fallen soldier’s spear, and charged into the dense enemy ranks. Soon, he was surrounded—first by a few, then dozens, then hundreds. Arrows rained down like a storm.
His arms, chest, legs—pierced repeatedly, blood pouring from his mouth, pain searing through him, yet he forced himself to keep swinging the spear. Even killing a single enemy honored the general’s legacy.
He fought until the very last moment, finally collapsing in exhaustion, hands clutching the blood-soaked, burned, and tattered banner, veins standing out on his hands. With one final, desperate release, his hands went limp.
Qin Sizheng adored this script. The fearless valor, the steadfast loyalty to one’s country, the willingness to die for honor—he was utterly captivated. From the first glance at the script, he resolved to perform it perfectly.
He spent an entire night alone at home rehearsing, watching countless war films to study how others portrayed such scenes, mimicking them. Knowing his own acting skills were limited and that he would not instinctively find the camera, he pushed himself harder than anyone else.
He muttered under his breath, forgetting to eat or practice his boxing. From eating to bathing, everything was accompanied by the script, until morning when he finally got on the car, still mumbling. Jiang Xi laughed: “Is he crazy? Obsessed. Don’t be so nervous—they already said your face alone guarantees fame. And they specifically chose you—nothing to worry about.”
“No,” Qin Sizheng said firmly. He feared letting such a precious role slip because of poor performance. And since they had specifically selected him, he couldn’t disappoint them. Whoever they were, he felt immensely grateful for such an opportunity.
The makeup artist applied some kind of paint to simulate blood on his hands for the shot where the city was breached and he fought to his last breath. Qin Sizheng nervously inhaled and exhaled repeatedly: “It’s fine, it’s fine. Not nervous, not nervous. I can do it, no problem!”
The makeup artist chuckled, “Stop mumbling and shoot.”
Qin Sizheng drew in a deep breath, exhaling heavily, clenching his fists as he stepped out like the young general facing death head-on: “Shoot.”
Though he had never acted before, sweat already soaked his back as he stepped onto the set. Sticky and uncomfortable, yet his unyielding spirit shone through his eyes, strikingly moving.
The director whispered to the cinematographer: “The acting isn’t perfect, but the innocence is perfect. He really feels like the young general. I wonder how explosive it’ll be later.”
That explosion came at death’s doorstep.
Qin Sizheng had studied Lu Xianqing’s interviews, where he explained that he immersed himself entirely in a character, living as them, leaving no distinction between himself and the role. Experiencing the character’s life erased the need for “acting.”
“He said, ‘What moves the audience isn’t acting—it’s the actor’s heart. The audience can tell the difference. To be perfunctory is the worst.’”
Though Qin Sizheng didn’t fully grasp the abstract idea, he understood the first part: he had to become the character, forget his own identity, and truly step into the script.
He repeated this in his mind: the nation was destroyed, his family dead, everything he cherished shattered, and he would die alone.
Unable to relate directly, he imagined himself dying in solitude on an unnoticed rooftop, knife at his neck, calling for Lu Xianqing to see him one last time. But he was with Jiang Zhen showing affection, refusing to come.
He struggled to hold the spear steadily, eyes gradually reddening, thinking of the young general’s vow to protect his father’s honor, charging into the enemy ranks. Slowly, he merged with the character until the last moment, when the spear snapped and he fell to his knees, clutching the banner.
His slender fingers trembled, the “blood” soaking the tattered banner. The torn cloth mirrored the blood on his hands; veins on his arms bulged, a vivid display of grief and valor.
The director was captivated, so engrossed that he forgot to call “cut.” It wasn’t until a clear, cheerful voice rang out: “Hey, bullying the kid? Let me join!”
Everyone snapped back to reality, realizing the audition had ended. The director hurriedly said, “Alright, Sizheng, stand up. Your knees hurt from kneeling; don’t you realize?”
Qin Sizheng exhaled, still a little nervous, glancing at the director and instinctively looking for Lu Xianqing.
Luckily, he arrived late. Had he watched him the entire time, he might have broken character and been scolded.
The director loved this clip. Acting aside, Qin Sizheng truly became the young general—innocent, unyielding, and passionately defiant.
The game’s operations director, a woman named Zhou Ruomei, had stood silently since the audition. She finally clapped and said, “Good performance. It’s you. I’ve already brought a contract signed by our chairman. If you have no issues, we can sign anytime.”
Qin Sizheng, not understanding fully, looked instinctively at Lu Xianqing. Seeing him nod, he turned back to Zhou Ruomei: “Alright, thank you.”
The studio had a meeting room. Qin Sizheng followed Zhou Ruomei inside. She handed him a copy of the contract, which she had already reviewed with Xu Zhi. Unsure of the terms, he called Xu Zhi.
“I’ve checked it. No issues, and it’s a windfall. Sign it!”
Qin Sizheng took the pen and signed, careful not to reveal his inexperience. He had practiced forging the original owner’s signature for days so it looked plausible. Handing it back, he simply said, “Thank you.”
Zhou Ruomei took the document and said, “Our former chairman asked me to pass something along. Previously, you did that photo shoot where you grabbed the bedsheets—although it was later taken down, it did leave an impact. For this promotional video, we’ll mention that the previous set was just for a test shoot for the game. You can take the opportunity to explain this to your fans.”
Qin Sizheng had always felt uneasy about that photo. Even though it was blocked, he had been relieved. Although Jiang Xi had said it would please fans and attract attention, and Xu Zhi hadn’t objected, he still felt uncomfortable but went along with it. Hearing Zhou Ruomei now, he was grateful and thanked her sincerely: “Thank you… and please also thank the former chairman for me.”
Zhou Ruomei smiled. “No need. This is what you deserve. Just be more careful in the future. Kindness is good, but you must assume the worst in others to keep yourself safe.”
Qin Sizheng felt like the former chairman had revealed far too much, as if he knew him personally. “May I ask… do I know your former chairman?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t disclose that. Our former chairman prefers not to appear in public,” Zhou Ruomei said, pausing, which made Qin Sizheng unconsciously focus on her lips, waiting for the rest. After a moment, she added, “You can also take this contract to Lu Xianqing outside to see if it meets your industry standards. And regarding the chairman’s comment—if you’re uncomfortable, we don’t have to mention it.”
Qin Sizheng didn’t doubt her, but after a moment’s thought, he accepted the contract and stepped out. He wasn’t sure, but he sensed that Lu Xianqing hadn’t left yet.
“Fourth Brother.”
“Hm?” Lu Xianqing was talking to the director. Hearing the voice, he turned. “What’s up?”
Qin Sizheng suddenly realized how casually he had come out. Would Fourth Brother be unwilling to look at it? For such private matters prone to disputes, would it embarrass him?
He decided to sign it himself. Xu Zhi had said it was fine; it must really be fine.
Lu Xianqing noticed the contract in his hands and understood immediately. That old man’s enthusiasm had probably overwhelmed him. His hesitation to step forward meant he was probably feeling awkward.
“Want me to check the contract? Come here.”
Qin Sizheng hesitated briefly, then carefully relayed Zhou Ruomei’s words, slightly condensed, in a low voice so the director wouldn’t hear: “I have a feeling that former chairman knows me somehow.”
Lu Xianqing looked down at the contract and chuckled. “You think you’ve even won over the old man?”
Qin Sizheng blushed at the teasing and fell silent, watching Lu Xianqing methodically review the contract. He didn’t understand the complex terms but instinctively trusted him—he felt Lu Xianqing wouldn’t deceive him.
“Any issues?” Lu Xianqing asked, closing the file.
“No problems,” he said. “The pay is even higher than the industry standard. You should know, this company usually hires only top-tier stars. That they noticed you means you’re extraordinary. Be confident.”
Qin Sizheng still found it hard to believe. Lu Xianqing continued: “What Miss Zhou said is correct. You’re still young—don’t rush to please fans.”
Qin Sizheng frowned slightly. Lu Xianqing, noticing him, took him aside and explained: “Fans need to be nurtured, but you have to maintain a distance. Don’t confine yourself too early, don’t devalue your own commercial potential.”
“In other words… no kissing scenes, no intimate scenes, nothing that could suggest seduction,” Lu Xianqing said, his tone growing stricter. He admitted a hint of possessiveness slipped through. Just now, seeing Qin Sizheng’s hand gripping the bloodied banner, it stirred him inexplicably. If it weren’t so public, he almost wanted to reach out and grasp that hand, to taste the raw intensity of it.
He was fascinated by Qin Sizheng’s hands and didn’t want anyone else to affect them. But he also genuinely cared about Qin Sizheng’s future—he was only eighteen and shouldn’t be marked by any labels.
“Remember the line I told you on the variety show?” Lu Xianqing asked.
“What line?” Qin Sizheng looked confused. That man had said so much—how could he remember everything? He wasn’t a tape recorder.
“I said, no matter who teaches you, never use that look of pleading again,” Lu Xianqing said, placing his hand over Qin Sizheng’s eyes. Instantly, Qin Sizheng remembered.
He hadn’t realized it at the time, but seeing Lu Xianqing’s expression made it clear—it wasn’t good. He blushed then, and now, recalling it, his ears warmed involuntarily.
Lu Xianqing withdrew his hand, tracing it gently over Qin Sizheng’s eyes before removing it, handing the contract back. “Understand what I mean?”
Qin Sizheng resisted the urge to scratch his ears, nodding slightly. “Yes.”
“Good. Repeat it to me, so you don’t forget.”
Qin Sizheng mumbled, “I’m not forgetful,” then obediently repeated: “Don’t over-please fans, keep some distance, and don’t devalue your commercial potential.”
He even muttered quietly to himself, thinking, what commercial value could he possibly have? He was barely scraping by; having any work at all was already a blessing.
He thought that if things didn’t work out, he could just focus on boxing—at least legal competitions, no need for underground matches now that he was an adult.
Lu Xianqing noticed his wandering gaze and gently tilted his chin up. “Anything else?”
“What else?” Qin Sizheng paused, then realized: “No kissing scenes, no intimate scenes… but I can’t control what scripts I get. What if I’m cast in those scenes?”
Lu Xianqing paused. Indeed, following someone like Xu Zhi—a mediocrity—if such scripts came his way, what could be done?
He recalled He Xing’s words: Shengyu Entertainment was a tiny company, and Xu Zhi was barely capable of handling low-tier talent. Even a large contract would be hard for him to negotiate. He only cared about minor success, without considering the quality or trajectory.
In his eyes, popularity was equivalent to success, and he didn’t care about the long-term value of one’s career. If Qin Sizheng blindly followed someone like that, the boy would be ruined before he even realized it.
He knew nothing, took whatever he was told to do as the rule of showbiz, and thought that’s how the entertainment industry worked. The truth was, the industry had no such rules.
“First, go give the contract to Miss Zhou. Let her file it away, and make sure to thank her,” Lu Xianqing said, handing over the contract and ruffling his hair.
Qin Sizheng quickly accepted it and hurried over, apologizing repeatedly: “Sorry to keep you waiting, thank you.”
“It’s fine. It’s good to be cautious,” Zhou Ruomei said, picking up her bag and telling him the official filming time and location, leaving a business card behind. At the door, she nodded slightly to Lu Xianqing and strode away in her high heels.
The makeup artist reminded him to change clothes and remove his makeup, and Qin Sizheng suddenly remembered he was still in costume. He walked a few steps, then turned back: “Fourth Brother, thank you. You really are a good person.”
“?” Lu Xianqing’s expression broke for a moment.
The makeup artist snickered, “And here we go, handing out the ‘nice guy’ card?”
Qin Sizheng didn’t understand the joke. He looked at Jiang Xi, who whispered: “It’s that kind of thing you say when someone likes you, but you don’t, and you don’t know how to reject them politely—like, ‘You’re a good person.’”
“?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Fourth Brother, you really aren’t just a good person,” he quickly clarified. The sudden silence made him shiver—he felt he’d said the wrong thing again.
“Fourth Brother, you’re not human!” Qin Sizheng added, fearing he’d be misunderstood. “You’re a deity! Not a mortal!”
“…Alright, go remove your makeup now.”
Qin Sizheng hurried away, careful not to say anything wrong. When he finished and stepped out, no one was outside; Lu Xianqing had already left.
Jiang Xi, holding the script, came over immediately: “Shall we go home? Are you hungry? Maybe we can eat before heading back.”
Qin Sizheng was a bit hungry but didn’t want to eat out, worried about being recognized. “Let’s eat at home. You bought groceries yesterday that haven’t been cooked yet. What do you want?”
Jiang Xi replied, “We can’t make you cook all the time—your fans would tear me apart if they found out.”
Qin Sizheng smiled: “I don’t think they’d tear you apart. They’d probably be envious. You know, if I leave showbiz someday and become a chef, maybe I’d make more money?”
Jiang Xi stayed silent.
Qin Sizheng dropped the topic, and they walked side by side. At the studio entrance, they saw Lu Xianqing taking a phone call and instinctively paused.
He had helped him again just now—should he thank him? Did he already eat? If he invited him home for a meal, would he refuse? Would he be busy in the afternoon?
Last time, Lu Xianqing had said his cooking wasn’t particularly to his taste; with his status, he probably ate at the level of a three-star chef, so home cooking might not impress him. Still, they couldn’t record a show while eating, so he let it go.
Lu Xianqing ended his call and noticed the boy still standing there, lost in thought. He remembered the ski resort, the video of him boxing—it stirred a hint of mischief in him. He pocketed his phone and waved for Qin Sizheng to come over. Once he reached him, Lu Xianqing asked, “Leaving?”