“What’s wrong with Juexia?”
The camera assistant a few steps away witnessed the scene. “Are you okay?”
Pei Tingsong steadied Fang Juexia in his arms. “He’s fine. Just exhausted. He hasn’t slept in so long he barely had the strength to walk down the steps.” He turned back to Fang Juexia. “Right?”
Fang Juexia quickly moved a little away and spoke along the steps Pei Tingsong had already formed for him, “Yeah, I’m a bit dizzy.”
Pei Tingsong chuckled softly. Fang Juexia knew he’d done it on purpose—probably watching from the sidelines all along, just waiting for him to take the bait. Realizing this, Fang felt like he’d been toyed with. Unwilling to let it go, he pretended not to notice and deliberately stepped on Pei Tingsong’s foot.
Watching the smile on his face instantly turn to surprise, Fang Juexia finally understood the pleasure of teasing someone.
“Bad move.”
Hearing Pei Tingsong utter this out of the blue, Fang Juexia looked up in confusion. “What?”
Pei Tingsong pointed at his own foot, suppressing a smile as he tried to look like he was deep in thought. “I should’ve worn my AJs today. Got stepped on for nothing.”
Few guys were unaware of the meme [Can I step on your AJs and kiss you?], and Fang Juexia was no exception. His face flushed again, and he could only pretend not to understand. “You’re crazy.”
“Oh, now you’re cursing at me.” Pei Tingsong laughed. “You’re freeloading, you know.”
The photography assistant kindly brought them two hot mochas. Overhearing bits of their conversation, she smiled and asked, “What are you guys talking about?”
Fang Juexia awkwardly took the coffee and explained, “Nothing. Pei Tingsong just hopes sales will be better this time.”
“Exactly,” Pei Tingsong quickly picked up the thread, “I hope there’s less freeloading and more genuine love in this world.”
The assistant nodded in agreement, “I’m a true fan! I’m waiting every day for the purchase link to your new album.”
Completely twisted. Fang Juexia lowered his head to sip his coffee, silently exiting the cross-server chat group.
The toll of continuous work on their bodies was immense, yet the six members’ professionalism remained unwavering. Even the photographer, who had collaborated with them multiple times, couldn’t help but praise Cheng Qiang, “They’ve truly improved a lot, becoming more and more professional.”
Cheng Qiang, however, sighed deeply. “It’s been so tough with my guys. I don’t even dare hope for huge stardom anymore. I just wish things would go smoother for them from now on.”
“They will. Gold always shines.”
After wrapping up the studio shoot, they rushed to the outdoor location. They caught a quick nap in the van before immediately getting ready for makeup and hair.
The album’s concept was “war.” The company’s original plan was to take the entire group to Xinjiang for the shoot. However, all plans were disrupted by the leak, forcing everything to be moved up. There was no time to fly to such a distant location, so they settled for the nearest desert park.
Unlike the modern military-style outfits in the dark studio, this promotional shoot drew inspiration from ancient warriors and knights. The stylist designed costumes with a historical flair, and everyone’s makeup and hairstyles were styled in period fashion. They looked like a band of knights fighting a desperate battle with their backs against the wall, trapped in an ambush.
During the shoot, the wind was fierce. Fang Juexia borrowed a white silk scarf from the stylist to cover his face, then went to the monitor to watch Pei Tingsong’s shoot.
Pei Tingsong’s look was sinister, clad entirely in heavy, ominous black. A two-inch-wide cloth band wrapped around his forehead like a headband, and battle scars painted by the stylist marked his right cheek.
He crouched half-bent in the yellow sand, a gleaming sword slung over his shoulder. His jaw was set, a blade of grass held between his teeth. His expression was restrained, yet the gaze he cast down was brimming with emotion—fierce and murderous.
“This white hair looks so cool,” Ling Yi couldn’t help but exclaim. “Little Pei could totally act in movies.”
Fang Juexia felt the same way, but if Pei Tingsong really went into acting, he’d surely see it as neglecting his main job—after all, this guy was the type to go west when told to go east.
Mid-sentence, Ling Yi turned to Fang Juexia, eyes sparkling with delight. “Juexia, you look amazing like this! It matches your white outfit perfectly.”
The photographer who’d just finished Pei Tingsong’s shoot turned at the sound, his eyes lighting up at the sight of Fang Juexia. “That veil looks great—let’s shoot a few shots like this later.”
“Huh?” Fang Juexia looked awkwardly at the stylist and explained, “This is Sister Cindy’s scarf. I’m using it to block the sand.”
“Juexia, wear it with confidence!” Stylist Cindy called out from behind. “It’s an honor for this scarf to appear alongside a fairy!”
“A fairy? Hahahaha, Sister Cindy, you’re hilarious.”
Pei Tingsong finished his shots and walked over. “This damn wind is blowing sand right into my throat.” He started coughing violently.
He Ziyan launched into mocking mode. “A certain famous knight errant dies of tuberculosis.”
“Cough cough… cough cough!” Pei Tingsong coughed while moving closer to Fang Juexia. Fang expected him to lean on his shoulder, but instead, he just stood there, coughing incessantly.
Fang Juexia wanted to speak but found it rather amusing. Pei Tingsong looked like a child, feigning hurt and pleading for a hug at an adult’s feet. He was stunned—this guy truly had no limits, cunning and adaptable, utterly unafraid to stoop low.
“Juexia, let’s get to work!”
“Got it, right away.” Fang Juexia responded, ready to leave. But as he took his first step, he caught Pei Tingsong staring at him with such a pouty expression that he’d even stopped coughing.
Fang Juexia didn’t meet his gaze. His naturally stoic face remained almost expressionless, though a faint smile touched his lips. “Coming.”
Before walking away, he gave Pei Tingsong a quick, light pat on the back.
Fang Juexia’s solo shoot was on horseback. Though he’d never ridden before, this particular horse proved surprisingly easy to handle—more than just docile, it was utterly placid. As long as he fed it grass and patted its head, it became perfectly still, carrying him without a single twitch.
“Juexia, draw the bow back. A little further.”
Using a real bow for the first time, he felt something was off. “Is this right?”
Pei Tingsong had been crouched on the ground drinking soda. Seeing this on the monitor, he abruptly stood up, setting his soda aside and warning Ling Yi not to sneak a sip. Clapping his hands, he strode straight toward Fang Juexia. “Teacher Jiang, hold on. I’ll teach him.”
Fang Juexia hadn’t expected Pei Tingsong to know archery. Figuring that if he claimed to teach, he must know what he was talking about, he prepared to dismount and let him instruct him. Unexpectedly, Pei Tingsong stopped him. “Don’t get off.”
With that, he stepped into the stirrup, swung himself onto the horse, and settled securely behind Fang Juexia. Fang Juexia turned back, surprised. “You know how to ride?”
“I was the runner-up in the youth equestrian competition during middle school.” Pei Tingsong raised an eyebrow, wrapping his arms around Fang Juexia from behind and guiding his hands onto the bow. “And I won the archery championship.”
Suddenly embraced from behind, Fang Juexia’s heart skipped a beat. His ears buzzed, and he could only stare blankly ahead.
“Place this hand here, and raise your arm a bit higher.” Pei Tingsong drew an arrow from the quiver on his back, running his fingers over the arrowhead. “The props team did a good job.”
“Want to try shooting one?” Pei Tingsong’s voice was unusually patient and gentle as he guided Fang Juexia’s hand to draw the bow fully. He scanned the targets before locking onto an oddly shaped boulder not far away.
His voice lingered in Fang Juexia’s ear, “On three, two, one, release. Okay?”
Fang Juexia nodded. His low countdown blended with the pounding in his chest, creating an overwhelming surge of emotion.
In that split second of taut nerves, Fang Juexia released. The arrow shot from the bow like the wind, striking the stone precisely before bouncing to the ground.
The crew erupted in applause. “Impressive! Juexia has a natural talent for everything!”
“Why aren’t you praising me?” Pei Tingsong’s lips curved into a smile as he rested his chin on Fang Juexia’s shoulder again. “Teacher Fang, how am I doing?”
“Get down now.” Fang Juexia didn’t even dare to turn around. “I’m about to film.”
“Ah, I’m just a tool, after all.” Pei Tingsong sighed heavily. With the order to leave given, he had no choice but to comply. “It’s like using someone and then discarding them, burning bridges after crossing the river, discarding the bow once the birds are caught, cooking the dog after the rabbit is dead…”
He swung down from the horse and brushed his clothes. Suddenly, a slender white hand reached out before him. Looking up, he saw Fang Juexia leaning slightly forward, his face covered, yet his eyes sparkled with amusement.
He reached out to take what he offered—a fruit-flavored candy wrapped in glass paper. Pei Tingsong’s expression brightened as he tossed the candy into the air and caught it firmly. “Where’ve you been hiding these?”
Fang Juexia pointed to his belt. “Just two. One’s for you as payment.”
“Alright, let’s start shooting the first set!”
Pei Tingsong stepped out of the center of the frame and walked back to the monitor tent, sitting down next to several teammates. He clutched the candy in his hand, reluctant to unwrap it. Sunlight streamed in at an angle, making the wrapper shimmer.
His heart was light with joy. As the word formed in his mind, Pei Tingsong was once again struck by the precision and beauty of the Chinese language.
Absolutely. His chest felt as though it were filled with a hundred little larks, fluttering and dancing.
“Pei, look at what I just shot!” Ling Yi rushed over to share his photographic masterpiece. The phone screen showed him arm-in-arm with Fang Juexia, riding a horse and drawing a bow. “Isn’t it super awesome?”
Lu Yuan leaned in too. “Wow, if we post this online, tons of CP fans will write wuxia paros for it.”
Pei Tingsong asked in confusion, “What’s a paro?”
“Alright, let me, your seasoned fanfiction scholar, explain it to you,” Lu Yuan slung an arm around his shoulder. “Paro means the setting I’m writing is different from the original work. Like you two—you’re actually idols, but someone wrote a wuxia-themed fanfic where you’re both martial heroes. That’s a wuxia parody.”
“Oh, I get it…” Ling Yi immediately put his new knowledge to use. “Then I want a tycoon parody!”
He Ziyan, who had been resting nearby, couldn’t help but laugh at his antics. “Bro, I’ll write you a Beggars’ Sect parody.”
Ha ha ha ha.
The photographer stood on a raised platform, shooting from above. Fang Juexia leaned back, reclining on the horse’s back. A corner of his white veil fluttered in the wind, his face veiled in soft light. Only his eyes stared directly into the lens, a strand of long hair swept by the breeze, falling over the birthmark at the corner of his eye.
“This shot could be a magazine cover,” the photographer declared with satisfaction, handing the camera to his assistant. “Look, this one absolutely has to make it into the album inserts.”
Inside the break tent, the other boys were still roughhousing, but Pei Tingsong’s gaze never left Fang Juexia.
From afar, he watched Fang Juexia, after finishing the shoot, lie back on the horse’s back, pull on the reins, and use the momentum to lift his waist, returning to a seated position. His supple waist, like a soft whip, lashed against Pei Tingsong’s heart.
After wrapping the promotional photoshoot, the group rushed back to their dormitory for sleep. They could manage no more than four hours before heading to the music show recording. The leak forced Kaleido to compress their schedule to the absolute limit, working frantically. Meanwhile, the online storm surrounding the leak showed no signs of abating.
Following the initial legal notice on the day of the incident, Star Chart Entertainment announced Kaleido’s early comeback on their official platform. They released the first wave of promotional photos—six images capturing close-ups of the members’ eyes shot with a light leak effect. The caption was minimal: just the date, 3.23.
Long-awaited fans flooded the official Weibo comments with excitement. With Kaleido having been absent for a full year, this minimalist teaser quickly garnered over 100,000 reposts.
[@siilu: AAAAAH my little Huka is finally out of the house and not picking his nose anymore!!!]
[@Is Kaleido Back Today?: They’re back!!!!]
[@AuditoryTruth: Waaah these six pairs of eyes are too gorgeous! I can recognize them just by their eyes! I missed you guys so much!]
[@KaleidoFandomDeservesTrending: Oh my god I’m about to cry seeing this post.]
But before this, a fan had asked Cheng Qiang’s official Weibo about Caledo’s return date. At that time, Cheng Qiang replied it would be early April. This screenshot spread widely, seen by more and more fans, who felt heartbroken.
[@FanAccountDeletionTodayMustStayRelevant: My group’s life is so tough. They were supposed to return in early April, but now the leak forced them to move it up to March 23rd. I can’t even imagine how the members have been holding up these past few days—probably barely sleeping. After a year without an album, they get hit with this mess.]
[@FairiesSpewingFragrance: Leak dogs deserve no house]
[@A Tiny Domino: My heart aches for the brothers. This time, everyone must give them the best results!]
Even before Caledo’s resurgence, they had caught the attention of many teams. Their comeback alone was noteworthy, but the fact that this group also harbored a wildly popular CP whose fanbase was exploding daily made their momentum truly enviable. Marketing accounts and trolls from every camp jumped in to stir the pot, each hoping to pull a leg in the chaos.
The fastest and darkest rhythm naturally came from the anonymous forums. Groups like Caledo, rising from small agencies, hold the least sway in these spaces. But this time, their early album release clashed with Seven Stars, and the group’s core member, Fang Juexia, has a subtle connection to Seven Stars. Multiple high-traffic threads are discussing the outcome of this head-to-head collision between the two teams.
[Who do you think will win this Qiao vs. Kala battle? Place your bets now.]
[Are you kidding me? Qiao just dropped a week ago, and their digital album already broke a million sales. The lead single hit #2 on the 30-day streaming chart—beating a song released in early March that’s about to get knocked off the top spot. And the MV views? Just check Bilibili—it hit #1 in the music section within three hours. I won’t even bring up the companies to avoid sounding like I’m picking on anyone, but K’s song leaked early. Don’t tell me it’s just a demo leak—it matters a lot. By the time the full version drops, making it into the top ten of the 30-day streaming chart would be a miracle.
[Qiao, I was actually looking forward to this K vs. Qiao showdown, but then the song leaked. Plus, Qiao’s new album is seriously strong this time—it’s performing incredibly well. Sure, it’s still the artist carrying the song, but damn, it’s just popular. ]
[Is this thread even worth building? I seriously don’t get why K is rushing this comeback so desperately—are they trying to die young and be reborn? Honestly, I’ve never seen a leaked song go viral. Even big names just scrap leaked tracks. Maybe Xingtu can’t afford new songs?]
[You guys are all buying Qiao’s stuff, making me want to buy the opposite…]
[That’s just how it is. It’s been unfair from the start—big companies have different resources and promotional power, plus higher costs. K-pop probably chose an early April comeback to avoid Qiao, but now they have no backup title track and had to rush it. It’s like eggs hitting a stone. It’s still Kaleido’s misfortune. Every time they think they’re about to soar, they hit a brick wall.]
[fjx just isn’t destined for success…]
Before the official showdown, online sentiment was almost unanimously certain that Kaleido’s album release was bound to flop. But Star Chart’s PR team is steering the narrative too. While Kaleido’s recognition has grown, it still can’t match Seven Stars. Since others have already tied them together, they might as well let it happen—letting more casual fans know Kaleido is releasing an album too, and it’s going head-to-head with Seven Stars.
Despite the relentless battles on social media, the company strictly forbade members from checking platforms, demanding full focus on the new album.
After a few hours’ rest, they were summoned at dawn for the music show Music Live House on Yunshi Platform. This would be their first live performance for the new album—crucial.
“So opportunistic.”
While waiting for the stylist to finish his hair, Fang Juexia overheard Cheng Qiang grumbling and asked curiously, “What’s up, Qiang?”
Cheng Qiang shoved his phone into his pocket. “When they found out we were releasing an album and approached us for a collaboration, they volunteered to film a comeback short documentary capturing the behind-the-scenes for Yunshi and Weibo. Now, they tell us it can’t happen due to staff scheduling conflicts. All we get is one live performance.”
So that’s what happened.
Fang Juexia had long understood the fickleness of this industry. Back when everyone assumed he’d debut with Seven Stars—and likely as an official member—everyone sought him out, fawning over him as if they were all friends. But the moment he left Astar, those “friends” vanished overnight, becoming silent entries in his contact list.
He reassured them, “It’s fine. We brought the group variety show’s cameraman, right? It doesn’t matter who records it.”
“Yeah, Brother Qiang,” Ling Yi chimed in. “Look at me—I’ll warm up my voice and sing you a free verse.”
Cheng Qiang laughed. “Enough. You sing on stage later. Don’t try to split me in two.”
After hearing Cheng Qiang’s words, Fang Juexia felt a strange emptiness, as if something was missing. Glancing around the mirrored room, he suddenly realized: Pei Tingsong was gone. If he were here, he’d be firing on all cylinders—probably rewriting lyrics on stage in a minute.
Where did he go?
Just as he was thinking about it, the door to the break room knocked. Jiang Miao got up to open it and saw Pei Tingsong carrying a pile of things, muttering, “Quick, help me take this.”
“What’s gotten into Little Pei lately?” Lu Yuan took the coffee from his hands. “Why so considerate? Did some angel possess you?”
Just as he was checking himself in the mirror, Fang Juexia heard the stylist say, “Juexia, your hair’s done. Go rest while I style Ling Yi’s hair.”
“Alright, thanks for your hard work.”
He stood up, wrapped himself in his black military coat, and sat down on the long sofa. Pei Tingsong distributed coffee and cake to everyone. “All set. Help yourselves. That bag has sugar—add it yourself if you want.” After handing everything out, he also sat down on the sofa, right next to Fang Juexia.
Fang Juexia hadn’t received any coffee or cake—his hands were empty. He glanced at Pei Tingsong beside him. The other man was looking right back, smiling at him. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Nothing.” Fang Juexia turned his head away.
Pei Tingsong kept his eyes on the group show’s cameraman. Only after the cameraman turned to film Ling Yi did he quietly pull out a small, dark green bag and place it in front of Fang Juexia. Inside was a Venetian latte with milk but no sugar, an exquisitely decorated small cake, and a small thermos.
Watching him, Fang Juexia couldn’t figure it out. He couldn’t understand why Pei Tingsong hadn’t given it to him earlier, yet now was secretly offering it.
“Eat up,” Pei Tingsong said, unwrapping the cake box, inserting a fork, and pushing it toward him. “It’s super delicious. Trust me.”
The petit four was layered and exquisitely crafted. Having eaten nothing since waking up, Fang Juexia was feeling a bit peckish. Within their team, it was customary for everyone to share whatever one person bought, and he was well accustomed to that. But now that it was Pei Tingsong doing the sharing, he suddenly felt a bit uneasy, hesitating to take a bite.
“You’re twenty-three years old—do you expect me to feed you?”
At those words, Fang Juexia immediately took a bite. He’d always loved sweets, and the cake was perfectly to his taste.
Seeing his eyes light up, Pei Tingsong beamed with satisfaction. “Delicious, right?”
“Mm.” Fang Juexia looked up at him. “What kind of cake is this?”
“Tiramisu.” Pei Tingsong didn’t answer in Chinese, but in Italian instead.
Fang Juexia wasn’t particularly picky about desserts, but tiramisu was so classic and universally known that he recognized it the moment Pei Tingsong mentioned it. Yet, by saying it in Italian, what he was eating wasn’t just cake anymore—it felt like a heart, ambiguous and passionate.
Feeling guilty, he pressed down on his coffee, set down his fork, and pulled out his phone to send Pei Tingsong a message. His tone was stern, tinged with a hint of warning.
[Pretty as ever: Rein it in a bit.]
But the moment he sent it, Fang Juexia wondered if he’d been too harsh. His fingers hesitated over the keyboard, typing a few words before deleting them in frustration, rephrasing his message.
Before he could send it, Pei Tingsong’s reply arrived.
[Guide Dog: Got it, Teacher Fang.]
Seeing how obedient he was, Fang Juexia felt even more guilty.
[Pretty as ever: Thanks for the cake. Why did you sneak it to me like a thief?]
Pei Tingsong seemed not to notice Fang Juexia was still replying. He busied himself unscrewing the thermos and placing it in front of Fang Juexia. He glanced at it—it seemed to contain chunks of snow pear, cut into various sizes, releasing a sweet, fragrant aroma.
Fang Juexia’s heart instantly softened. He never imagined Pei Tingsong would make him a sweet soup.
His phone vibrated. He picked it up and saw the latest message pop up.
[Guide Dog: Because I only picked this one out carefully for you. If they found out, they’d scold me to death.]
Immediately followed by another message.
[Guide Dog: Teacher Fang, I’m being so good. Please take me with you.]
Author’s Note: Tiramisu means “Take me away.”
