The next morning, Duan Ming knocked on the door with his assistant, just as Liang Xiao was waking up.
He had gone to bed in the early hours of the morning and had barely slept a few hours. Groggily, he got up, washed, changed, and headed out to the car, his energy levels still far from ideal.
Duan Ming, long used to Liang Xiao’s lack of energy, handed him breakfast. “Couldn’t sleep again?”
Liang Xiao accepted the fried dough stick, nodded drowsily, and took a couple of sips of soy milk.
“Still thinking about what we discussed yesterday?” Duan Ming sighed. “Don’t worry about it. If you don’t want to use Weibo, then don’t. It’s your call.”
Having worked with Liang Xiao for a long time, Duan Ming understood his temperament. If Liang Xiao had been open to using these kinds of tactics earlier, they wouldn’t have spent five years stuck doing stand-in and bit parts.
This was just another opportunity passing them by. They had endured this long, and missed opportunities were no longer a novelty.
Liang Xiao blinked himself awake for half a minute and smiled. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”
Duan Ming didn’t believe him. “Don’t tell me you stayed up all night writing another reflection piece?”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Duan Ming genuinely thought that phase was over. After waiting for a reaction, he turned back in disbelief. “Wait… you really did?”
Liang Xiao opened his mouth, coughed lightly, and avoided his gaze.
“Did President Huo force you to do it?” Duan Ming grew anxious. “What, no writing means you’re out of the group? Fired after the show wraps? Some Ice Peak Special Forces scenario?”
“No,” Liang Xiao replied. “I just…”
He trailed off, unable to articulate his reasoning. He wasn’t even sure himself why he had wanted to write it.
…
It was just that after hanging up the phone last night, he couldn’t sleep no matter how hard he tried.
Duan Ming, without a thermometer on hand, stared at him for a while before reaching out to feel his forehead.
“I don’t have a fever.” Liang Xiao brushed his arm away and said seriously, “The last one was too sloppy… I wanted to give it another shot.”
Clearing his throat, Liang Xiao straightened up and said with determination, “This time, I want to take it seriously and write something President Huo actually wants to read.”
Duan Ming thought, That last one wasn’t just sloppy—it was utter garbage. However, mindful of the young assistant nearby, he swallowed his words. After thinking it over for a while, he reluctantly managed a hint of agreement: “And what does President Huo want to read?”
Liang Xiao frowned. “I don’t know.”
Duan Ming: “…”
Liang Xiao sighed heavily.
Writing essays had never been his strong suit.
Back in school, he had a significant subject imbalance, and Chinese was his worst subject. Scraping a passing grade required being forced to memorize flowery phrases and elegant passages.
Memorizing was easy, but putting words to paper was another matter entirely. Liang Xiao couldn’t count how many walnuts he’d eaten trying to boost his brainpower for this one subject.
He was utterly distressed. “Brother Duan, help me!”
Duan Ming sighed, resigning himself. “Let me see the apology letter.”
Liang Xiao hesitated. “It’s not really convenient…”
“Then figure it out yourself,” Duan Ming said.
Liang Xiao: “QAQ.”
Duan Ming took a deep breath. “Let me see the apology letter.”
But Liang Xiao had his limits. He clutched his phone tightly. “No way.”
…
The variety show recording was at the broadcasting building. After the driver parked, the assistant watched, wide-eyed, as the manager picked up Liang Xiao, who was wailing dramatically, and tossed him out of the car with a flourish.
The program recording went smoothly.
Since it was a scripted interview show, the invited cast of Year-End naturally divided into three camps as soon as filming began.
The hosts and main actors chatted effortlessly. The screenwriter and production crew exchanged witty banter.
Liang Xiao focused on mentally collecting elegant phrases and polished lines.
He wasn’t one of the leads; just being brought along to show his face was already the limit. The script had long been finalized, and there weren’t any questions directed at him.
Understanding his position well, Liang Xiao voluntarily took a seat in the farthest corner of the second row as soon as filming began.
“We haven’t even wrapped yet, but we’re already too excited to wait!”
The male host was chatting with the screenwriter, reading out a selection of fans’ comments with a smile. “Is Sister Man’s character this time another one of those ‘A-tier, leg-breaking’ types?”
Su Man, who had been whispering with Meng Feibai, heard this and casually gave a sharp, cool salute by sliding two fingers across her forehead.
The audience was packed with fans. A wave of excited screams erupted instantly, especially from young girls thrilled by her charisma.
“She’s so cool!” The female host graciously translated. “They want to marry you.”
The room filled with laughter.
“While Sister Man’s fans are celebrating, ‘The Tide’ is here begging for mercy on behalf of Teacher Jiang.”
The male host chuckled and read the next comment. “A joint petition, begging Sister Man and Film Emperor Meng to go easy on him.”
The female host tilted her head, curious. “What happened to Teacher Jiang?”
“Even his fans don’t know what’s happened to him.” The male host dutifully read on: “Why is he, an innocent and tough alpha, doing nothing but coughing up blood, crying, and getting beaten up in the trailer?”
The male host continued, “And it’s Sister Man and Film Emperor Meng taking turns pounding on him, with the editing alternating between their blows.”
Jiang Pingchao choked on his cola, stood up coldly, and headed backstage to change clothes.
His persona as a reserved and aloof character was deeply ingrained in the public’s mind. Though proud and taciturn, he spoke so infrequently that he often lost arguments simply by failing to keep up with the conversation.
Longtime fans were accustomed to seeing their cool and aloof idol occasionally conduct solitary post-mortems of poorly executed arguments on social media.
The atmosphere on set didn’t grow tense due to his unexpected departure; the lively and joyful vibe continued.
The male host cleared his throat, trying to maintain a serious tone as he flipped a page. “Teacher Jiang has unexpectedly left the stage, so let’s slot in a substitute topic: bowing to beauty. The call is clear—Yun Lian must have a name…”
Having watched the trailer, the host remembered the character and curiously turned to the scriptwriter after setting down his tablet. “Teacher Pei, does Yun Lian have a significant role in the series?”
“Thirty-five episodes,” the scriptwriter replied steadily, pointing toward the director. “Don’t believe me? Ask him.”
Director Song: “…”
“Then we can rest assured.” The male host smiled. “With so many episodes, is the actor playing Yun Lian here with us today?”
Not only was Liang Xiao present, but he was also in the middle of memorizing the scriptwriter’s earlier summaries of the characters, trying to comprehend and adapt them for future use.
The scriptwriter pointed toward the script, and the camera immediately followed the cue.
Liang Xiao was seated far off to the side of the stage. The main camera, constrained by its angle, barely managed to catch his profile as it panned.
Completely unaware that he was part of the segment, Liang Xiao hadn’t even noticed the camera. It took a nudge from the assistant director beside him for him to blink and look up, dazed.
…
The screen projection served only as a backdrop, its resolution not particularly high. Even so, the LED display managed to piece together a close-up of Liang Xiao’s striking features, his sharp eyebrows and lashes breaking through the limits of the screen’s clarity.
Most of the audience members were fans of other cast members, accustomed to seeing attractive faces. Even so, they were momentarily stunned into silence.
The female host stepped in to interpret the reaction: “…Ah.”
The audience erupted into enthusiastic applause.
Despite only a fleeting appearance in the trailer, Yun Lian had already garnered significant attention. The character even made it to trending searches a few times due to fans’ curiosity, as no information about the actor beyond their face could be found.
Director Song’s productions were known for their authenticity, often stripping away glamour. While Liang Xiao sitting unnoticed in the far corner hadn’t attracted attention, the sudden close-up delivered a visual and emotional shock to the audience.
“There’s probably a barrage of comments online right now,” the male host gestured. “Urgent requests for a name, social media handles, and—why not—contact details and home address.”
“No need for that.” The female host played along with the crowd and passed the microphone over to Liang Xiao. “Are you single?”
Liang Xiao: “…”
The issue with Weibo hadn’t been resolved yet. The producer wanted to leave some suspense to whet the audience’s appetite, forbidding him from releasing any information prematurely and even pulling him aside to sign a confidentiality agreement.
It was Liang Xiao’s first time participating in such a large-scale interview. Before the recording, the producer had specifically warned him that the hosts’ questions might be a little sharp.
He hadn’t expected this level of sharpness.
“For now, I am.”
The screenwriter, a respected figure in the industry with a wealth of experience, smoothly took over the conversation. “Our production team’s official Weibo account is running a popularity poll for the characters. If Yun Lian’s votes stay high, he’ll remain untouched till the end.”
The producer, impressed by how seamlessly this was tied back to promotion, quickly joined in. “So please, vote now!”
The male host latched onto a key detail and pursued the topic. “Is there a chance Yun Lian might die?”
Liang Xiao carefully reviewed the terms of the confidentiality agreement in his mind and smiled lightly. “As of now, I’m still alive.”
It was his first time speaking on a program, and his tone was calm and unhurried. His steady voice carried a hint of a soft Jiangnan accent with a slight upward lilt at the end.
The producer, who had been on edge and ready to jump in at any moment, exhaled in relief and leaned back into his seat.
The female host, noticing his accent, smoothly followed up. “Are you from Jiangnan?”
Liang Xiao nodded with a faint smile. “I grew up in Jiangnan.”
The female host continued her line of questioning. “Do you live in the capital now?”
Liang Xiao glanced briefly at the producer and skillfully dodged the question. “Mostly, I live on set.”
The female host tried again. “Do you use Weibo often?”
Liang Xiao replied, “Not really. I rarely use my phone.”
The female host pressed further. “Do you have any other works to recommend to our audience?”
Liang Xiao answered, “A Gentle Breeze Fills the Air, a 46-episode series where I played a stand-in.”
The female host was persistent. “I’m from Jiangnan too! Which high school did you graduate from?”
Liang Xiao hesitated, then replied apologetically, “I was homeschooled.”
The female host was at a loss. “…”
The producer, feeling drained, muttered under his breath, “That wasn’t necessary…”
Liang Xiao, quick to adapt, gave the female host an apologetic smile and formally introduced himself. “I’m Liang Xiao.”
The recording ended smoothly.
During the game segment, where the cast competed to grab water balloons, Jiang Pingchao’s balloon was accidentally popped by Su Man, forcing him to change into his third outfit of the day.
He’d only brought three changes of clothes. To prevent further mishaps, he brought his manager onto the set, who guarded him like a fortress, impenetrable from any accidents.
Meng Feibai played the character Jing Ming, the older brother of the protagonist, who oversaw the Jing Corporation. The two brothers, one working openly and the other in secret, wouldn’t team up until the very end.
Apart from beating up Jiang Pingchao, most of Meng Feibai’s scenes had little overlap with the main plot. His primary responsibility seemed to be appearing in late-night office settings, shooting so many night scenes that he was practically isolated from the world. Throughout the entire program, he busied himself finding people to chat with.
Meanwhile, the main cast signed autographs and interacted with fans, and the crew members—rarely getting days off—enthusiastically socialized with the production team.
It was a lively and pleasant gathering for everyone involved.
Liang Xiao, who was tight-lipped throughout the show, revealed only his name. The female host, suspecting it was likely due to restrictions imposed by the production, was still impressed. “Mr. Liang, you’ve had it tough.”
Liang Xiao apologized sincerely. “Speaking too much might lead to a pay deduction.”
The female host immediately understood, patting him sympathetically on the shoulder. “It’ll all be over after filming wraps.”
Liang Xiao smiled, about to respond when someone suddenly called his name.
“That’s our producer.” The female host looked curious. “Do you know him?”
Liang Xiao turned his head and froze for a moment.
During the recording, he had already noticed someone watching him. However, with so many eyes on him at the time, he hadn’t paid it much attention.
Sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, the female host discreetly stepped back and left the scene after nudging him.
Liang Xiao nodded silently, offering her an apologetic smile.
A dignified middle-aged man in a suit and tie approached, his gaze heavy as it landed on Liang Xiao. “You were one of Longtao’s artists back then?”
