Once on the plane, Qin Wuyan was still in a sour mood.
“Other actors’ managers always put their artists first. Mine keeps holding me back.”
Song Cheng sat beside him, expression full of helplessness. “Ban Jie just wanted me to take a few photos. It’s not as exaggerated as you’re making it out to be. Besides, ultimately, you were the one who messed up first—”
Mid-sentence, Qin Wuyan shot him a frosty glare. Song Cheng immediately shut his mouth and made a zipper motion at his lips.
Qin Wuyan: …
Radiating cold, Qin Wuyan turned his head away and said stiffly, “I’m not wrong.”
Song Cheng: “Mm hmm hmm.”
Qin Wuyan: …
With the lead actor absent, filming didn’t stop. For an art film like this, the lead’s presence in the footage was minimal. When Qin Wuyan and Song Cheng returned, the crew had just finished their break and were ready for the next scene.
Qin Wuyan dropped Song Cheng at the hotel, then left with a cold expression. Song Cheng worried he might go confront the director, and tried to talk him out of it, but Qin Wuyan didn’t respond, expression unchanged.
Watching him leave, Song Cheng felt uneasy—he sensed something big might happen today.
Meanwhile, Qin Wuyan reported back at the set. Director Xue sat under a parasol and lazily asked, “You’re back?”
Qin Wuyan pulled over a small stool and sat beside him, equally indifferent. “Handled the matter. Just came back, that’s all.”
Director Xue looked him over. “What happened at your place?”
Qin Wuyan: “Privacy issues, can’t disclose.”
Director Xue: “I wouldn’t tell the media!”
Qin Wuyan: “Doesn’t matter, still can’t say.”
Director Xue: …
After watching Qin Wuyan for a moment, he relaxed back in his chair. “Alright, special circumstances. This one time only, don’t make it a habit.”
Though Qin Wuyan had requested leave via phone, the crew had already wrapped up, and his tone sounded truly urgent. He said there was a family matter that needed handling. When Director Xue saw the message, Qin Wuyan was already on the highway. Rather than anger, Xue felt more fear—fear that something might happen to the lead actor and the film might be disrupted.
Everyone has urgent matters at home; a day or half-day delay isn’t a big deal.
Though he verbally claimed he was not wrong, his body honestly stayed on that little stool for half an hour.
Making Qin Wuyan admit fault was impossible. At most, he could act compliant for a while, sitting with Director Xue.
The lead actor had returned, but he wasn’t in the script for the afternoon, so he effectively had time off.
The filming location was similar to the small mountain village where they last did a variety show. Unless you were a local, you wouldn’t know this corner of China existed.
The scenery was beautiful, with terraced fields that outsiders loved, but the lack of infrastructure and promotion made it a hidden paradise.
Qin Wuyan lingered at the set for a bit, then claimed he was tired and went back to rest. At the hotel, the first thing he did was pull the genuinely sleepy Song Cheng from the bed and drag the bewildered boy outside to enjoy the autumn air.
Though technically summer, the high altitude brought an early autumn chill.
At undeveloped sites, walking was the only option. The car was parked at the mountain base. Song Cheng climbed step by step, beginning to question his life choices.
“You’re taking me out to relax, not just to torture me, right?”
Qin Wuyan: “Aren’t you fond of hiking?”
Song Cheng: “You said it’s hiking. Mountains have trees and birds. Look around here—what’s there? Only scorching sun and melanomas.”
Qin Wuyan: …
True enough, at two in the afternoon, under the harsh sun, they trudged foolishly along the endless terrace paths. Nothing provided shade, so it was no wonder that any local they passed gave them a dumbfounded stare.
But halfway up, quitting would mean all the effort was wasted. Gritting his teeth, Qin Wuyan encouraged Song Cheng, “It’s better at the top. The view changes completely.”
For this, Song Cheng climbed another hour and finally reached the summit. Looking at the sweeping fields, Qin Wuyan’s expression turned awed. Song Cheng, turning to him, said slowly,
“I’ve seen something like this before.”
He exhaled three words: “Completely wasted.”
Qin Wuyan: …
Still unwilling to admit defeat, he argued quietly, “No way it’s exactly the same. Every place has its own scenery.”
Song Cheng raised a hand, pointing to the wheat below, half-yellow, half-green. “It’s the same. Surrounded by mountains, sky’s bright blue. Honestly, the place I saw before was bluer, a bit prettier. Here it’s dull gray—looks like rain might be coming.”
Qin Wuyan frowned. “Where did you see that?”
Song Cheng, after a pause, gave a clear answer—normally he’d only recall blankness, but today he remembered precisely.
“Two years ago, during Devil Zhou’s training, the place we went to was called Niujiao Mountain. When we reached the top, what I saw looked almost exactly like this.”
After saying this, Song Cheng still seemed unaware. He stared at the scenery below, frowning so hard it could crush a mosquito, thinking only about the unnecessary suffering he’d endured. Qin Wuyan watched him uneasily for a long moment before finally speaking.
“You… have you recovered your memory?”
Song Cheng was momentarily startled. Meeting Qin Wuyan’s anxious gaze, he quickly lowered his head and tried to recall his past. Well, nothing appeared like a film reel running through his mind. He touched his face and said with some disappointment, “No… maybe I was trying too hard. The more I force myself to remember, the less I actually do.”
The moment those words left his lips, Qin Wuyan’s expression visibly softened. Around Song Cheng, his usual reserve faded more and more each day, though when it came to emotions involving Song Cheng, he still had to pretend a little.
Catching the subtle shift in his expression, Song Cheng squinted. “What, you don’t want me to recover my memory?”
Qin Wuyan blinked slowly. In that brief instant, his face grew serious. “Of course I do!”
Song Cheng: …
“If your voice weren’t so loud, I might have believed you.”
He cast a subtle glance at Qin Wuyan and let out a quiet hum. “Whether you want it or not, I have a feeling it’s going to happen soon.”
The afternoon memory that had resurfaced yesterday was like a floodgate; now it had opened. The remaining memories might trickle back gradually—or burst forth all at once, flooding his mind entirely.
Qin Wuyan had only instinctively felt nervous, though he already knew this would happen. He paused and then murmured, “It’s good if you remember quickly. I don’t want your life to be a complete blank.”
Song Cheng, feeling a bit tired, sat down on the slope, leaned back, and smiled at Qin Wuyan. “So, if there’s anything you’re hiding from me, you’d better confess now. If I remember later and then find out… well, it’ll be too late.”
Seeing him sit, Qin Wuyan followed suit. Ever pragmatic, he figured hygiene concerns could wait until they returned to the city. Stretching out his long legs, he chuckled lightly. “I’m not falling for your trap. You just want to get me to reveal something.”
Song Cheng: “So… you really are hiding something from me.”
Qin Wuyan hesitated slightly, then turned to meet Song Cheng’s puzzled gaze. He breathed slowly, shoulders relaxing.
“Of course I am. I like you so much, I have to hide a few things from you.”
Song Cheng: “Then…”
Before he could finish, Qin Wuyan stopped him. “Don’t ask. Even if you do, I won’t say. I don’t tell you because I still want you to like me. Unless I’m dead, you’ll never know.”
Song Cheng: “…And if you’re dead, how would I know?”
Qin Wuyan answered matter-of-factly, “That’s how every mystery movie begins: someone dies leaving a pile of secrets, and others piece together the truth from clues.”
Song Cheng: …
He rubbed his temple, speechless, then finally conceded, “Alright. If you’re that capable, then hide everything from me for life. But you better let me close my eyes first—otherwise, by the time you’re buried, I’ll be old, shaking, with cataracts, trying to decode it all. I might get so mad I scatter your ashes.”
Qin Wuyan couldn’t help laughing softly. “Then, by that logic, you’ll be mine for life.”
Song Cheng glanced at him, sighed, and said, “Yeah… I’m yours for life.”
Though Qin Wuyan had asked casually and Song Cheng answered casually, both paused afterward.
Above, clouds slowly gathered; below, the wheat was still in transition between green and gold, swaying gently. No birds, no insects, yet the surroundings buzzed with life if one listened carefully.
Qin Wuyan’s eyes were unsettled, but Song Cheng could see him trying very hard to restrain himself. He wanted to stay calm, but his entire body rebelled.
His hands and feet didn’t know where to go. Perhaps he should kiss Song Cheng. No, hold him. No—doing nothing might be best.
The instinct to comfort and please one’s loved one is universal, yet Qin Wuyan had forgotten it in this moment. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides until, after a long pause, he seemed to realize something. He grabbed Song Cheng’s hand and pulled him into his arms.
Like a child finally reunited with a cherished toy, his first reaction was to press it against his chest, protecting it like his own heart.
The invincible Qin Wuyan was mute at that moment, merely gazing at Song Cheng without speaking. Yet his eyes spoke volumes.
Song Cheng, as if understanding without instruction, pursed his lips and smiled. “Mm. I promise. Won’t lie to you. Not this lifetime.”