The delicate fragrance still circled Yu Zhi’s nose, refusing to dissipate, though the lips’ contact was gone. Yu Zhi’s brow furrowed slightly, clearly displeased at the sudden attack.
Seeing him rise in displeasure, Ji Xingyu made no attempt to stop him; instead, he watched with a gleeful, almost predatory amusement.
Logically, they had already filmed kissing and bedroom scenes on set, they had experienced real intimacy. He shouldn’t be so affected…
But this was not acting. Everything carried a different weight.
Ji Xingyu leaned lazily against the sofa, licking his lips to make them even more glossy and red, watching Yu Zhi with slow, deliberate interest. His voice was languid and seductive.
“Yu Zhi, does it hurt to be kissed by me? Feel cheated? Don’t worry. I’m right here. You can kiss me back all you want, no need to fight it.”
Yu Zhi: “……”
He didn’t want to look at this childish man, who had taken advantage and was now acting coy. For a moment, he didn’t even know what to say to such sudden boldness.
Part of him recognized that since Ji Xingyu could finally act without the influence of his White Moonlight, and now made a move on him, it meant that the weight and impression of that past love were fading in Ji Xingyu’s heart, and by that, he should feel some quiet relief.
On the other hand, Yu Zhi also felt conflicted because Ji Xingyu’s shift in focus, overcoming the hold of his White Moonlight by directing more attention toward him, put him in a tricky position.
If the condition for Ji Xingyu to free himself from being controlled by his White Moonlight was transferring his affection onto Yu Zhi, then what was Yu Zhi supposed to do? Let it happen? Let it run its course?
He pondered for a long moment. Ji Xingyu, sensing his hesitation, asked, “What are you thinking about?”
This man didn’t seem like the type to be so rigidly virtuous, he probably wasn’t the kind to dwell on restoring his chastity just because he’d been kissed.
Yu Zhi restrained his expression, poured himself a cup of cool water on the coffee table, and after a long sip, felt the trace of agitation in his heart finally cool down.
“I was just thinking that perhaps you should see a doctor,” he said evenly. “There are many illusions in this world, for instance, you thinking I like you.”
Ji Xingyu: “……”
He knew Yu Zhi wasn’t being serious, yet the fact that he singled it out to mock him like that. This man’s heart really was sharp, and his sense of cruelty, precise.
Watching Yu Zhi turn and head toward his room with his suitcase, Ji Xingyu clenched his jaw, stood abruptly, and shouted at his retreating back: “Yu Zhi!”
Yu Zhi stopped in his tracks.
“Since you don’t like me, then why did you agree to sign the contract? Why do you care about me? Why do you care that I still have a White Moonlight in my heart?!”
Ji Xingyu’s questions hit hard, each one sharp as a blade, his gaze locked on Yu Zhi’s back with the intensity of someone demanding an answer and refusing to relent.
Yu Zhi turned to face him.
Ji Xingyu sneered. “Don’t tell me you’re just afraid I’d retaliate and ruin your career. Do you think I’d believe that?”
“Because I don’t like trouble. Because I’m a good person. Because I don’t like seeing you cling after an impossible White Moonlight, or worse, use someone else as a substitute for it.”
Three questions. Three answers. Laid out clearly before him. Yu Zhi looked at him calmly. “So, now do you believe me?”
Ji Xingyu stared back, silently, for a long while. Yet in Yu Zhi’s eyes, he could detect neither guilt nor evasion.
He was telling the truth.
The reason was that simple.
And yet, Ji Xingyu felt a rush of frustration coil tightly in his chest, a fire that didn’t die down even when he finally lay down to sleep.
Was he really that useless? Not a single bit of attraction sparked in him?
After all, Ji Xingyu was an international movie actor, with countless fans spanning the globe. How could that kid just… not care at all?
Yu Zhi made him feel as if he had already faded out of relevance.
Tossing and turning, unable to sleep, Ji Xingyu didn’t even realize it yet: his attention had already shifted away from his White Moonlight. Now, it was Yu Zhi who tangled his thoughts.
The next day, Yu Zhi rose early to prepare breakfast. Since he had promised to serve, he would not shirk the task. After coordinating new work with Chen Yue, he decided to devote the remaining days of rest entirely to Ji Xingyu.
After thinking through last night, he had finally made his choice: between helping Ji Xingyu break free from his obsession with his White Moonlight at the risk of being used himself and letting Ji Xingyu continue under its control, he chose the former.
Although he didn’t particularly like Ji Xingyu, Yu Zhi didn’t dislike him either; he simply couldn’t bear to watch him follow the path dictated by the story’s plot.
At nine in the morning, Ji Xingyu was abruptly yanked from his covers. The curtains were violently thrown open, and the blinding sunlight poured in, making it impossible for him to continue sleeping.
“What are you doing?!” he shouted, still full of morning grumpiness, sitting up and glaring at the young man standing by the window.
Yu Zhi turned to look at him. “You’re about to miss breakfast.”
“I don’t want it, so what? Mind your own business! Get out!” Ji Xingyu pulled the covers back over his head in protest.
Yu Zhi was silent for a moment, then took out the remote control and turned the room’s heater to warm air, cranking the temperature up past 30°C. Within a dozen minutes, Ji Xingyu was forced out of bed, sweating profusely from the heat.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the culprit still standing by the bed, calmly watching him. “Eat.”
Ji Xingyu: “……”
You son of a—
In the end, Ji Xingyu resigned himself and sat at the table. Looking at the breakfast spread, a mix of sandwiches, eggs, soy milk, and buns, a fusion of East and West, he found he actually had an appetite.
Over the following days, Ji Xingyu experienced full-service care from his little canary.
Three meals a day, all nutritionally balanced. One hour of exercise each morning, household chores, reading scripts or books at noon, two hours of leisure and entertainment in the afternoon, following the news in the evening, and lights out at nine.
If he refused, Yu Zhi would go to extreme lengths to force him to comply. Gradually, Ji Xingyu became somewhat zen, adopting a disciplined lifestyle of early rising, early sleeping, and overall health-conscious living.
At first, it was far from easy, going to bed at nine only to still be awake at midnight, but after a few attempts, his schedule actually started to normalize.
With his three meals handled and household chores covered, the rest of the housekeeping staff had little to do but keep things clean.
Yu Zhi was an excellent cook, and he varied his dishes every day, preparing an assortment of delicacies. Within a few days, without any reminders from him, Ji Xingyu began to sit at the dining table punctually, as if on autopilot.
Once a person becomes disciplined, their mind grows clearer, and their energy naturally increases. At first, Ji Xingyu didn’t notice anything unusual.
It wasn’t until Yu Zhi’s holiday ended and he left for a new job that the house suddenly felt empty. Ji Xingyu realized with a pang of emptiness that even his usual pleasures, playing games and watching movies, seemed dull and uninteresting. Without that one person around, it felt as if he’d lost the entire world.
Yu Zhi had taken on a new drama role, the second male lead in a TV series.
There are many genres of television dramas, but the ones that gain popularity most quickly and attract fans fastest are idol dramas.
Yu Zhi didn’t place any hierarchy or prestige on genres; he judged purely based on the quality of the script, the drama’s production, and its potential impact.
Watching Yu Zhi meticulously select scripts, carefully weighing their merits, and seriously attending auditions, Chen Yue couldn’t help but comment, “I thought after starring as the male lead in a prestigious director’s film, you’d look down on TV dramas. Your starting point is so high. If you return to TV, you might lower your status.”
“Not at all,” Yu Zhi replied calmly. “The quality of a drama determines its value, not its genre. No person or thing is inherently superior.”
The new drama was a historical political power-play series, adapted from a novel of the same name, carrying built-in IP fan traffic. From the moment the project was greenlit, fans had followed it eagerly.
Now that casting was completed, fans were clamoring on the official social media account, begging for the cast list to be announced.
The official account didn’t disappoint, gradually releasing character posters, starting with the major supporting roles.
《The Chronicles of Imperial Court》 tells the story of court intrigues and factional struggles during the decline of a fictional dynasty.
Most of the important roles were male, but the few female characters were each remarkably distinctive, standing out despite their smaller number.
No, more accurately, every single character in this drama was distinctly memorable.
There was the weak, mediocre emperor who nonetheless cared deeply for his people; the prime minister, who wielded immense power over the court yet remained devoted and affectionate; the ambitious imperial uncle; the queen, initially a mere pawn but later swept up by her own emotions; and the brilliant, cunning, astonishingly talented yet illegitimately born disabled prince…
What does the officialdom consist of?
Mediocre sycophants who go with the flow, opportunistic hypocrites who shift like chameleons depending on which way the wind blows, and loyal, patriotic scholars…
Yu Zhi was cast as that disabled prince.
The prince had originally been designated crown prince from childhood. Raised as the heir, he was exceptionally intelligent and held a deep concern for the realm. But then it was revealed that he wasn’t the late emperor’s biological son, he had been born from the empress’s affair.
As a result, he was deposed. The late emperor had initially wanted him executed, but since he had personally raised him, he spared his life. His crown prince title was revoked, and he was instead granted the rank of prince; a compromise to preserve the bond between father and son.
Yet even as a prince under a kind of house arrest within the palace, his legs were poisoned. Investigation revealed it was revenge from a concubine who had previously been wronged by the empress, though the full extent of the intrigue remained hidden from outsiders.
After the late emperor’s death, his younger brother, who had only received a year’s training as heir, was pushed into the throne unprepared, and in his fear, he frequently turned to his elder brother, the disabled prince, for counsel.
Unfortunately, the prince’s poisoned body, combined with his exhaustive efforts aiding the emperor, led him to die young. His death marked the opening act of the dynasty’s decline, powerless to reverse the course of history.
Whenever the emperor was ineffectual or unsure of what to do, he would murmur the deceased prince’s name: “If only my brother were here, he would know what to do.”
Other characters, too, would often remark, “If he were here, what would he do?”
This role functions almost like the narrative linchpin, connecting events and bridging the story’s arcs.
The original novel was already brilliant, with its intricate palace schemes and political maneuverings both refreshing and exhilarating, turning what might have been a niche subject into a fiery sensation. Even years later, it is still regarded as a masterpiece.
The TV adaptation further streamlined the story, amplifying the tension and the climaxes.
The production team even invited the original author to oversee the script adaptation. During script readings, Yu Zhi frequently offered his insights and suggestions, leaving the author impressed, so much so that he sometimes felt the urge to revise the original text.
After a few days of releasing character posters, fans began flooding the official social media account, clamoring for more, their voices calling out daily for the production team to reveal additional posters.
Finally, on the penultimate day, the poster of the actor playing the disabled prince was released.
Jade crown, emerald hairpin, simple yet elegant robe, a white fox cloak draped over his shoulders, embroidered with auspicious clouds and white cranes. Thick brows like ink, bright eyes like stars, lips pale and delicate, a faint, almost imperceptible smile at the corner of his mouth. Rocks piled like jade, pines standing like emeralds, a red plum blossom in his hand contrasting with the snow, radiant and vivid. His beauty was singular, unparalleled in the world.
The comment section fell silent for a heartbeat, then erupted as if a drop of water had fallen into a pot of boiling oil.
⟦ Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! I need all his information in one minute!!!!! ⟧
⟦ Oh my god! This is exactly the Prince Lang I imagined in my dreams!!! ⟧
⟦ Starting today, I’m climbing walls, quick! Tell me where this cutie’s on the wall?!!!⟧
⟦⟧“Before seeing the poster: Where did this newcomer come from, who could play my Brother Yun Lang?! No way, I refuse! After seeing the poster: Perfect, this man is ridiculously sweet! ⟧
⟦ I’m different, I just ruined eight screens of my phone licking him. ⟧
⟦ Can someone tell me who this is? Why did he grow up looking like this and we had zero news before? This is impossible!!! ⟧
⟦ The entertainment industry is really just a place that buries beauty and talent. ⟧
⟦ I don’t care. Starting today, I’m his diehard fan! I’m going to cheer for him every day and help my prince win the crown!!! ⟧
Previously, Yu Zhi only had the private Weibo account that the original owner used to post on. Now, he opened a new official account under his own name, verified it, and reposted the poster’s Weibo.
Netizens are nothing if not sharp-eyed, they immediately noticed the account and swarmed onto Yu Zhi’s page. In just two hours, the account’s followers skyrocketed by over a hundred thousand, and the numbers continued climbing.
Chen Yue watched the rapid surge of followers and exclaimed excitedly to Yu Zhi, “You’re going to blow up!”
Yu Zhi, however, wasn’t surprised. He was bound to become popular, he always would be. Not to mention, even the original owner had once achieved fame.
Seeing the new artist’s career take off and his future looking limitless, Chen Yue hesitated for a moment before bringing up something that had been on his mind.
“Xiao Yu, you’re already popular on your own now. Really, you don’t have to cling to anyone’s coattails. If you’re worried about offending Ji Xingyu, you can still handle it more gently. But… you don’t have to force yourself.”
He scratched his head and added thoughtfully, “I mean, I don’t look down on people who take that route, but you’re not into this person. If the chance exists but doesn’t need to be pushed, you can totally be a little more… willful.”
Yu Zhi let out a quiet sigh and said seriously, “Thanks, Brother Chen, but no one’s making me feel wronged. If I don’t want something, I won’t agree even if someone tries to force me. So regarding Ji Xingyu, I have my own considerations, and you don’t need to interfere.”
Having worked with Yu Zhi for a long time, Chen Yue knew him well: he was fiercely independent, and no one could override his decisions. Since Yu Zhi had said it outright, Chen Yue didn’t press further.
Yu Zhi thought for a moment more and added, “Also, Ji Xingyu isn’t the kind of person who throws a tantrum and tries to ruin someone’s career just because he’s rejected.”
Chen Yue’s brow furrowed in doubt. He recalled when Ji Xingyu had sent people to negotiate initially. Looking back, he thought his own artist must have been completely charmed by Ji Xingyu’s sugar-coated approach. He’d even helped him speak on Ji Xingyu’s behalf.
Thinking of the CEO-abuse romance novels he’d read before, Chen Yue couldn’t help but worry: could it be that his artist had actually fallen for someone who would torment him, like those female leads in the novels?
Half worried, half sympathetic, he sighed inwardly. Silly kid, there’s no such thing as turning an arrangement into true love. If it starts as an arrangement, it won’t ever become genuine. If his artist actually caught feelings… what then?
Meanwhile, Yu Zhi, unaware of being considered a silly kid, started shooting scenes on set, completely ignoring the storm brewing on Weibo.
Someone who had been keeping an eye on him, however, not only noticed but remained intensely attentive.
Fingers swiping across the screen, watching the fan numbers climb steadily, Ji Xingyu felt a ripple stir in his gaze.
⟦ Does anyone else feel like this guy looks familiar? ⟧
⟦ No way! If I’d met him before, I’d never forget! ⟧
⟦ Yeah… he does look familiar… where did we see him? ⟧
Comments like these gradually started appearing under the Weibo posts. Even Xue Yan noticed and couldn’t help but say, “It probably won’t take long before people figure out your little canary has some connection to you. Once that spreads, it’ll ferment online, and he’ll blow up.”
It wasn’t a maybe, Xue Yan’s tone left no doubt that it would happen. Coming from someone with his sharp business instincts, it sounded especially convincing.
Ji Xingyu remained unmoved, scrolling through Weibo as usual, though he couldn’t resist opening that poster again and again, staring at it.
Seeing no reaction, Xue Yan nudged him. “Aren’t you worried at all? Once your little canary stands on his own, you probably won’t be able to rein him in. What will you do then?”
He genuinely worried for his friend, and after thinking for a moment, added, “Why don’t you start scouting a new substitute now? Even if this one flies off, there’ll always be a replacement ready.”
The more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed. How clever was he, coming up with a peaceful plan that didn’t hurt anyone?
All he got in response was a look from Ji Xingyu that basically said, “Are you serious? Are you for real?”—a gaze that could almost be translated as “You’re an idiot.”
Xue Yan blinked. “…”
He was trying to help, and this kid not only didn’t appreciate it, he even looked down on him! Absolutely heartless.
As luck would have it, the TV started airing the same trending drama again, featuring the male lead, Lu Qi, the same Lu Qi who always caught Ji Xingyu’s eyes.
But this time, Ji Xingyu didn’t shy away from the attraction the way he normally would when he didn’t like a feeling. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the man on screen.
Seeing him glued to the TV—no, glued to the lead actor—Xue Yan waved his hand in front of him. “Totally captivated? Could it be you actually like this actor? Is he like that unknown white moonlight in your heart?”
He studied closely, convinced that Lu Qi could never compare to the current little canary, though whether he resembled that white moonlight, he still had no clue.
Ji Xingyu stared at Lu Qi on the screen, struggling to suppress the overwhelming urge to protect him, to do everything for him, and yet he spoke calmly, with deliberate intent: “I want to meet him.”
He needed to see for himself who this person really was, and why he stirred such a strong reaction within him.
The opportunity arrived sooner than expected. During a promotional event for the drama, Ji Xingyu leveraged his connections to sneak backstage and see Lu Qi in person.
He caught sight of the young man sitting under the makeup artist’s hands and suddenly called out, “Are you Lu Qi?”
Startled, Lu Qi opened his eyes and looked over, only to find a man wearing a mask staring at him. He rose hesitantly. “You are…?”
Ji Xingyu removed his mask.
Lu Qi’s eyes widened. “Ji…Teacher Ji?! How are you here?”
Could this show have invited Teacher Ji as well? Was it really that prestigious?
Ji Xingyu’s gaze never left his face. Listening to the astonished words, watching the shock in his expression, he felt an unexpected sense of relief.
Perhaps it was because the reaction showed he wasn’t past his prime , that it wasn’t that the world had moved on, just Yu Zhi who didn’t recognize his value.
Or perhaps… it was because the reaction was too ordinary, too normal: just a fan seeing their idol, surprised and delighted in the usual way, nothing extraordinary. It certainly wasn’t the same overwhelming, uncanny pull he felt toward Yu Zhi.
When Lu Qi extended a pen and paper for an autograph, Ji Xingyu reached out and took them, swiftly signing his name.
The strokes were precise and elegant, carrying a sense of openness and transparent charm.
A gentle joy softened Ji Xingyu’s expression.
He hadn’t been wrong.
He had not mistaken him.
This person… he wasn’t the one in his heart.
Not even close.
He was not him.
“Lu Qi, is it?”
“You’re very good, but you’re not him.”
The words fell like a key turning in a lock, and suddenly, a barrier in his heart shattered. A hazy fog that had long clouded his vision dispersed.
He had felt that Lu Qi resembled that figure in his mind, but that feeling evaporated in an instant. There was a bit of emptiness, yes, but more than that was clarity, a sudden, freeing sense, like sunlight after a storm.
Lu Qi, dumbfounded as he took the autograph, muttered: “…???”
What… what just happened?
Who was this person? Why wasn’t he like him?
Why did his idol feel… kind of off?
He gave an awkward smile and offered a well-meaning suggestion: “Teacher Ji, maybe you should do something you want, something that makes you happy, to relax a little? Don’t let yourself bottle it up and go… you know, overboard.”
“Something I want… something that makes me happy?” Ji Xingyu murmured, then let a small smile curl his lips. “That’s… not a bad idea.”
Meanwhile, Director An, filming 《The Chronicles of Imperial Court》, suddenly received news: What? Ji Xingyu was planning to visit their set? Perfect!
To be honest, a visit like this would naturally bring attention and traffic, especially when the guest was international superstar Ji Xingyu.
It turned out that the drama’s second male lead was friends with Ji Xingyu?! What a surprise!
The only shame was that Yu Zhi had scenes to shoot today, so the crew couldn’t pause filming to entertain Ji Xingyu.
When Ji Xingyu arrived, the set was in full swing, and coincidentally, it was Yu Zhi’s scene being filmed.
The young, disabled prince wore heavy layers, walking through the artificial snow the crew had created, laughing and conversing with others. Every word he spoke was a trap, baiting enemies and filling pits, a master of subtle manipulation.
His pale lips made him appear even more frail, evoking an almost irresistible sympathy.
It was him.
Almost instinctively, Ji Xingyu knew: If such a person truly existed in this world, someone he had deeply longed for and could never forget…
It had to be him.
The man before him, smiling effortlessly, chatting with ease.
He had come from nothingness.
And had become real.
Truly, he existed.
====================
