The butler stood weakly for a while before turning off the recorder pen.
Having spent thirty years at the Huo family—even though he hadn’t personally watched Huo Lan grow up—from what the butler knew of him, President Huo shouldn’t have been this fierce and intense.
…But regardless of how one interpreted it—
If such words were played for Mr. Liang to hear, Mr. Liang would likely not be moved enough to tearfully throw himself into President Huo’s arms.
With complicated feelings and an aged sigh, the butler deleted this recording that might otherwise send Mr. Liang straight onto trending searches: “…Alright.”
Huo Lan silently furrowed his brows slightly.
Seeing President Huo’s slightly displeased expression, the butler struggled to encourage him further: “You… must absolutely make Mr. Liang cry out loud.”
Butler repeated earnestly: “Cry loudly.”
Satisfied with this affirmation, Huo Lan nodded quietly and returned his attention fully back onto his documents.
Inwardly apologizing profusely to Mr. Liang, the butler quietly tidied up the desk for him, discreetly hid away the inhibitor injection pen, and left silently on tiptoe.
–
Liang Xiao spent nearly two hours filming one scene; by the time they finished it was almost midnight.
Jin Zhenbo had been painstakingly surrounded by the entire crew all day long. After finally watching a scene without any flaws left to pick at, his expression improved slightly: “It’s done.”
The assistant director let out a long sigh of relief and sat down exhaustedly.
“Good work everyone.”
Crew members handed out hot coffee everywhere. Seeing how bright-eyed and energetic Liang Xiao still appeared despite everything, someone couldn’t help exclaiming in admiration: “You have such good stamina.”
Liang Xiao smiled lightly: “I rested well.”
He’d gotten enough sleep that morning and wasn’t sleepy yet; thanking them politely, he passed his coffee over to his assistant who’d just rushed back.
His character hadn’t reached its highlight yet; these scenes weren’t particularly taxing on him personally.
Most actors playing young princes had just graduated; even the most experienced among them had only been involved with two previous productions. Director Jin didn’t care about that—if they failed his standards he’d repeatedly reshoot their lines over and over again; one particularly difficult shot had been redone twelve times straight.
Several young actors had been scolded from start until finish today; their confidence utterly crushed as they wilted at the sidelines being collectively consoled by the production manager.
Group A director showed Liang Xiao footage from monitors while shaking his head slightly at those young actors nearby: “Still inexperienced…”
Three camera groups simultaneously captured close-up scenes inside the studio; Group A mainly handled shots involving Liang Xiao—although less exhausting for them directly—whenever scenes needed reshooting everyone still suffered together through repeated takes.
“Everyone goes through this,” sighed the producer emotionally. “After getting scolded enough times they’ll eventually figure out what they’re supposed to do.”
Director A became curious: “Did Liang Xiao ever get scolded too?”
When they’d first cooperated previously Liang Xiao was merely a stunt double; nobody paid much attention then—but upon meeting again later he’d already secured himself an anticipated breakout role capable of carrying this drama as its lead actor.
Camera presence or filming techniques could be accumulated through stunt double experiences—but fully immersing oneself into character portrayal required something else entirely.
Several assistant directors privately discussed among themselves—curious about exactly how Liang Xiao managed developing such impressive acting skills along his journey so far—
Liang Xiao was quietly asking his assistant about President Huo’s reaction after receiving his note; hearing their question suddenly raised towards him directly though caused him glance upwards briefly replying simply yet honestly:
“I’ve gotten scolded before.”
The producer couldn’t resist gossiping further curiously asking exactly how he’d been criticized previously—
“Too fake—not immersive enough,” recalled Liang Xiao thoughtfully describing criticisms received earlier during initial stages acting career development:
“Lacking confidence—not convincing enough—unable making others truly believe I am character portrayed…”
Director A was startled after hearing such strict criticisms asked immediately curious:
“Which filming crew?”
Liang Xiao smiled faintly replying casually:
“A small amateur troupe.”
Even producer listened amazed quietly sighing emotionally afterwards:
“It’s true circumstances create heroes…probably just hadn’t encountered good scripts earlier—with such professionalism dedication should’ve become famous long ago.”
Director A nodded along: “Fate plays tricks on people.”
The producer sighed, “Only gold survives the waves.”
…
Liang Xiao didn’t elaborate further on the forced acting lessons from that dedicated group of scammers years ago, letting the two men lament about current industry trends. He waved discreetly at his assistant and quietly stepped aside.
Liang Xiao glanced around, making sure no one was paying attention, and asked softly, “Was President Huo angry?”
The assistant thought carefully, then shook his head: “The captain of the bodyguards said no.”
At nine-thirty, Liang Xiao had still been energetically repeating the same line for the eleventh time and hadn’t found a chance to make a call.
Now that the entire crew hadn’t wrapped up yet, it wouldn’t be appropriate for him alone to sneak away either.
Liang Xiao checked the time and guessed President Huo had probably already gone to bed. Feeling slightly regretful, he asked, “Did you give President Huo the note?”
The assistant nodded.
Liang Xiao cleared his throat lightly: “President Huo—was he happy?”
The assistant knew this clearly and quickly nodded: “Yes, very happy. Butler Huo even said—”
Butler Huo had asked him to wait two minutes, mysteriously claiming he needed to record something with a voice recorder to bring back as a surprise for Mr. Liang.
Two minutes later, Butler Huo emerged looking world-weary and empty-handed, strictly instructing him not to tell Mr. Liang anything.
The assistant spoke too quickly and hesitated midway: “Butler Huo said not to tell.”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Duan Ming had already exchanged information with the butler and roughly knew what had happened. He patted Liang Xiao on the shoulder sympathetically: “It’s better if you don’t know.”
Liang Xiao was startled: “Brother Duan, do you already know?”
Duan Ming nodded and gave him a sympathetic glance.
Liang Xiao felt uneasy under his gaze: “What’s wrong?”
Duan Ming advised earnestly: “Better not be too loud.”
“…?” Liang Xiao was confused: “What?”
Concerned for Liang Xiao’s acting career prospects, Duan Ming thoughtfully explained: “It’ll hurt your throat.”
Liang Xiao’s voice was perfect for delivering lines—clear, crisp, bright with strong penetration. According to Director Jin, just one sentence from him could make viewers immediately look up at the screen.
Thinking ahead, Duan Ming added thoughtfully: “Prepare two boxes of throat lozenges later.”
Liang Xiao was completely baffled but decided not to ask further. He instructed his assistant to buy some lozenges before continuing softly with slightly red ears: “President Huo—”
Guessing he’d been talking with Butler Huo earlier, Liang Xiao coughed lightly again: “Has President Huo gone to sleep?”
Duan Ming nodded: “President Huo has already washed up and gone to bed.”
Liang Xiao wasn’t surprised; he felt relieved but also slightly disappointed. He nodded quietly: “Oh.”
Duan Ming tapped twice on his phone screen casually: “Have you given President Huo notes before?”
Liang Xiao paused briefly in confusion: “No.”
The last time he’d passed notes was back when they were still in Jiangnan.
Over the years, that kind of atmosphere never appeared again, and Liang Xiao hadn’t thought about it either. Perhaps playing the role of the young marquis had stirred some whimsy in him, causing him to impulsively act childish once more with their President Huo.
Duan Ming raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask further. He sent a few messages back to the butler: “The butler said President Huo carefully hid your note inside a book.”
Liang Xiao nodded subconsciously, feeling something stir within him. He rubbed the back of his neck softly.
Duan Ming noticed his mood shift: “What’s wrong?”
“Back then…” Liang Xiao mumbled vaguely, “I once stole a whole book full of notes.”
Duan Ming frowned slightly: “Back when you were in Jiangnan?”
Liang Xiao nodded.
Duan Ming: “Were those notes passed between you two?”
Feeling slightly embarrassed now, Liang Xiao coughed and nodded again.
Duan Ming stared at him speechlessly, watching Liang Xiao use exactly the same method to flirt twice. After holding back for a long moment, he finally asked: “…Then what happened afterward?”
Liang Xiao was quiet for a while: “I burned them.”
Duan Ming froze.
Liang Xiao rarely recalled those childish things he’d done in his youth. Now that he remembered, he tugged at the corner of his mouth and sat down: “At that time… someone taught me that words carry emotions.”
Duan Ming: “Your wild Jiangnan Alpha.”
“…” Liang Xiao didn’t know where Duan Ming had picked up this new slang. He coughed awkwardly: “Yes.”
Actually, young Liang Xiao hadn’t believed it. After all, whenever he memorized texts back then, if words truly had emotions, surely they’d have been moved by his sincerity and jumped into his head on their own.
But at that time… he really had nothing else to believe in anymore.
“He told me that as long as something was written down, it would be remembered.”
Liang Xiao coughed lightly again, his face turning slightly red: “So I thought—if that’s true—could I do the opposite…”
Duan Ming was stunned by his youthful logic: “So you wanted to test if burning them would make you forget?”
Looking back now, Liang Xiao realized how embarrassingly childish he’d been. He almost couldn’t bear recalling it: “Brother Duan, don’t ask anymore.”
But Duan Ming couldn’t help himself: “Did you want to forget him? Completely severing your past ties and rising anew from ashes—”
Liang Xiao interrupted softly: “No.”
Duan Ming paused in surprise.
Liang Xiao rubbed his neck again and smiled faintly: “I wanted him to forget me.”
Originally eager to hear more gossip, Duan Ming instead felt strangely saddened after hearing this. He lowered his voice gently: “If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t force yourself.”
But Liang Xiao rarely opened up like this and genuinely wanted to share: “I never wanted to cut ties with my past. Actually, I’m quite happy remembering those days—I couldn’t bear forgetting them just like that.”
Liang Xiao continued softly: “But he was different.”
Growing up until then, young Liang Xiao had never experienced being cared for or accompanied by anyone before—someone who talked with him, studied alongside him; someone who allowed him to fool around freely.
For the first time, he’d experienced something almost like having a home.
That young alpha he’d treated as a cash cow clearly came from an affluent family with strict and excellent upbringing.
Though surely harboring some secret sadness unknown to others, Liang Xiao inexplicably believed—given that person’s character—he would definitely overcome everything.
He would walk steadily along the broad and open path originally meant for him—and reach great heights one day.
Young Liang Xiao couldn’t bear to forget, but when he thought about the things he’d done, he gritted his teeth, clutching the book full of notes, and steeled himself.
Duan Ming felt a pang in his chest: “And then… did you go buy a box of matches?”
Liang Xiao wasn’t sure what kind of image he had in Duan Ming’s eyes now. After a long pause, he finally said, “I bought a lighter.”
Duan Ming: “…Oh.”
Liang Xiao continued, “At the time, I really didn’t know what to believe anymore… grasping at straws. If I didn’t believe in something, I might not even believe in myself.”
Liang Xiao added, “I thought that if I burned them, maybe he’d forget.”
Duan Ming didn’t mock him but frowned deeply: “He remembered you, but he didn’t know what you did before leaving. He must’ve thought you abandoned him… If he ever finds out what happened back then, he’ll definitely lose it.”
Duan Ming continued, “You saved him, but you didn’t want him to owe you for it.”
“He saved me too. We’re even,” Liang Xiao replied with a faint smile. “I didn’t think that far; I just wanted him to be okay.”
Duan Ming said softly, “Don’t dwell on it anymore.”
Liang Xiao nodded, closed his eyes, and exhaled lightly.
The young Liang Xiao who had just gotten off the train… couldn’t think that far ahead either.
Biting his arm to endure the pain of forcing out pheromones, young Liang Xiao’s arm was soaked through with blood. His glands were in agony, and most of his physical strength had been destroyed in that burst of pheromones.
Dazed and freezing stiff in the cold wind, young Liang Xiao crouched there burning the notes one by one.
As he burned them, he softly pleaded with some unknown star responsible for connecting words with emotions.
He thought it was too strict—if possible, let him forget everything too.
In any case, once the notes were all burned, he swore that person must return to live a good life—a life as good as it could possibly be—and never remember him again.
…
The assistant director came over to announce the end of filming. Duan Ming got up to make arrangements while Liang Xiao opened his eyes and stood up as well.
Liang Xiao touched the faint scar on his left arm that hadn’t completely faded and pulled his sleeve down tightly to cover it.
Don’t remember me.
Don’t remember.
![After losing all his wealth, the ancestor rose from his coffin [BL]](https://www.freenovels.net/wp-content/uploads/2025/01/Your-paragraph-text-1.png "After losing all his wealth, the ancestor rose from his coffin [BL]")
