Holding a small loudspeaker in his hand, Director Zhang watched as Ye Shanshan stepped out step by step. After much thought, he gave a very sincere evaluation: “Indeed, my eye for casting is impeccable.”
Ye Shanshan emerged from the dressing room like a noble prince who had transcended a thousand years. His ink-black hair was tied with a jade crown, and he wore an intricate moon-white robe. The color was understated, and a coiling dragon jade pendant hung from his waist, its scales and claws exquisitely detailed.
At this moment, Ye Shanshan’s walking posture was strikingly elegant. Each step seemed precisely measured, with a consistent rhythm and steady gait. Even the jade pendant at his waist did not sway with his movement, as if he had truly emerged from the deep confines of the imperial palace.
Stopping a few steps away from Director Zhang, Ye Shanshan glanced at him, then slightly bowed his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am the third prince, Ji Lingyun.”
His voice was not his natural one but carried a crisp, resonant tone, reminiscent of jade striking jade. Even the spaces between his words seemed to carry a unique rhythm.
Director Zhang stared at the person before him who had just bowed and greeted him. He didn’t know how to respond—his first reaction was to blurt out, Your servant dares not accept such an honor.
He felt that if he actually said it, his reputation would be ruined forever.
Before the awkward silence grew, Xu Luoyang, who had just entered the room in makeup and costume, stepped in. Dressed in a golden prince’s robe embroidered with dragon patterns, he approached Ji Lingyun with a sincere smile.
“Third Brother, you’re late,” he said, delivering his line from the script.
Ye Shanshan smoothly followed up, “Elder Brother, the weather was cold today. I forgot my hand warmer on the way out and was delayed.”
Xu Luoyang immediately frowned in disappointment and interrupted their impromptu scene. “Shanshan, the script emphasizes intimacy. You should call me Ge instead of Elder Brother!”
Ye Shanshan did not reply, his refusal evident. Folding one hand into his wide sleeve, he turned to Director Zhang. “Where do we shoot the character portraits?”
Noticing the distinct shift in Ye Shanshan’s demeanor, Director Zhang, though accustomed to such situations, simply pointed outside. “In the studio we passed earlier.”
Acknowledging this with a nod, Ye Shanshan turned and left the dressing room. His ink-black hair cascaded down his moon-white robes, resembling a scene straight out of a fine brush painting.
“He gets into character so fast. Facing Third Prince Ye Shanshan, I almost referred to myself as this humble servant,” Director Zhang remarked, hanging the loudspeaker on his waist. He couldn’t help but feel proud again. “My casting eye is truly unmatched. The role of Ji Lingyun couldn’t have been better suited for anyone but Ye Shanshan!”
The assistant director, however, rolled his eyes silently and couldn’t help but reveal the truth: “Director, this role was specifically requested by Ye Shao himself.”
Feigning ignorance of this statement, Director Zhang quickly rallied Xu Luoyang. “Let’s go, let’s go! Let’s see how Shanshan looks in the photoshoot!”
The group marched to the studio, where Ye Shanshan was already standing by the prop candelabra. The studio was dimly lit, and when Ye Shanshan turned his head at the sound of their arrival, his expression was calm. Just his profile alone sent a chill down one’s spine, exuding a high and aloof aura.
Facing this version of Ye Shanshan, Director Zhang felt a bit uneasy. He decisively gave instructions, “The props are ready. This scene involves you brewing tea in a plum grove. The effects and background will be added in post-production, so bear with the green screen for now.”
Initially intending to ask the etiquette coach to guide Ye Shanshan’s tea-making posture, Director Zhang decided to confirm first. “Do you know how to brew tea? Professionally, I mean.”
Ye Shanshan nodded and moved to the cushion. Kneeling down gracefully, his posture was strikingly elegant.
With just a simple movement, the etiquette coach whispered to Director Zhang, “His tea-brewing skills far surpass mine. There’s nothing to teach. As for his standing and sitting posture, even my teacher would find no fault. They’d probably want to learn from him instead.”
The coach gave a thumbs-up. “He’s a treasure.”
Director Zhang agreed. Then he heard the coach sigh, “What a pity—a future tea master held back by an acting career!”
Director Zhang suddenly felt guilty, as if he had committed a great sin. Now he understood why Producer Zheng often felt immense pressure—carrying the blame for hindering human progress was indeed a heavy burden.
As Ye Shanshan meticulously brewed tea, his hands, holding the porcelain tea lid, looked like finely crafted jade. His lowered eyes, framed by lashes like raven feathers, were mesmerizing. Through the lens, Director Zhang finally understood the meaning of “grace like the dawn, beauty like snow, elegance transcending the mundane.”
He couldn’t help but marvel at how truly gifted actors possess an extraordinary power. The typically mischievous Ye Shanshan transformed completely once in character. His progress was evident—this scene was far more polished than his earlier performances.
Director Zhang was convinced: he had indeed unlocked a gem of an actor!
When the shoot wrapped up, Director Zhang reviewed the footage, delighted to find the images nearly perfect as they were.
Still in character, Ye Shanshan remained seated for a moment before abruptly standing and stretching. “It’s been a while since I struck a pose. My back and neck are killing me.”
In an instant, the image of the aloof Third Prince shattered before Director Zhang’s eyes—Ye Shanshan was still the same spirited, playful person as ever.
Looking at the photos imported into the computer, Ye Shanshan, impressed with his own work, grinned. “Director Zhang, I’ll see this through to the end!”
Before Zhang could ask what he meant, Ye Shanshan had sat down on a plastic stool, tied up the wide sleeves of his moon-white robe, and expertly opened an editing software, adjusting the images with practiced ease.
Watching Ye Shanshan’s adept skills, Director Zhang sighed in regret. “If I’d known earlier…” he muttered, “we could’ve saved a fortune!”
Thanks to Ye Shanshan’s hands-on approach, the character portraits for Ji Lingyun were finished in no time. Untying his sleeves, Ye Shanshan declared, “All done. Ready to publish!”
Patting Director Zhang on the shoulder, Ye Shanshan grinned, his eyes curving with his smile. “Considering how much I’m saving on labor costs, can we bring back the roasted sweet potatoes?”
Director Zhang chuckled. “Of course! One a day, no problem!”
Ye Shanshan instantly felt life was wonderful. With one sweet potato a day, he could even save half of it to bring back for his Big Demon King at home. Perfect! After taking a few steps, he began to think: roasted sweet potatoes… maybe he could grow some himself. There might be space in the vegetable garden to plant a few.
Excited, Ye Shanshan borrowed his phone from Zheng Dong and enthusiastically messaged Gong Yue:
“Ge, let’s plant some sweet potatoes in the garden. I’ll make roasted sweet potatoes for you!”
Gong Yue replied almost immediately, “Alright, I’ll have Butler Hawk make the arrangements.”
At noon, Ye Shanshan had a boxed meal with the crew, which, as usual, included an extra chicken leg for him. Half of it was promptly claimed by Xu Luoyang, who teased,
“You’re practically the crew’s golden sponsor. Isn’t it stingy of them to only give you one little chicken leg?”
Ye Shanshan nodded earnestly. “I agree. They should’ve given me at least two!”
“…” Xu Luoyang sighed, disappointed. “Shanshan, you lack ambition. You should demand something better, like a pork knuckle! Chicken legs are small and don’t have much meat.”
“I don’t like pork knuckles,” Ye Shanshan replied decisively, cleaning every scrap of meat off the chicken bone. Glancing at a group of colleagues sitting a bit farther away, he asked, “What are they talking about?”
Xu Luoyang knew Ye Shanshan’s hearing was excellent. Following his gaze, he saw a few female cast members and asked, “What are they saying?”
“They’re guessing whether we’re discussing a 50-million-dollar project.” Ye Shanshan had long since learned to tune out background chatter, but he always paid attention when his name came up.
Looking at the modest boxed meal in front of them and the thoroughly picked-clean chicken bone in Ye Shanshan’s hand, Xu Luoyang decided not to comment.
That afternoon, the lead actress Cheng Shaoran was supposed to have a scene, but she had to leave unexpectedly. Director Zhang approached Ye Shanshan with a suggestion: since the set was already prepared and snow was forecast, they could take the opportunity to film some of Ye Shanshan’s scenes instead.
Ye Shanshan, who had read the script countless times, agreed without hesitation.
Film productions ran on tight budgets, with expenses flowing like water. Many scenes also depended on the weather. This winter had been unusually cold, and today’s snow was likely one of the last for the season.
Every penny saved mattered!
The happiest person about this change was Xu Luoyang. “Third Imperial Brother, stick to the script later. Don’t call me ‘Royal Brother’—call me ‘Big Brother.’”
Ye Shanshan gave him a glance and declined. “I’ve already changed all the terms of address in the script to ‘Royal Brother.’”
Seeing that Xu Luoyang was about to protest, Ye Shanshan pointed at himself with a smirk, clearing his throat for dramatic effect. “This movie is funded by me.”
For the first time, he felt like a true “domineering CEO who owns a sweet potato farm.”
“…Fine,” Xu Luoyang grumbled, focusing on his boxed meal.
The first scene Ye Shanshan filmed that afternoon was a three-person confrontation with Liu Yanqing and Xu Luoyang.
In the resplendent grand hall, the flames of nine-tiered candles burned so brightly they seemed to pierce the eyes.
Liu Yanqing, portraying the North Kingdom Emperor, sat on the dragon throne atop nine steps. His brows furrowed deeply, his expression betraying his weariness.
Xu Luoyang’s Crown Prince Ji Linghuan knelt straight-backed on the hall’s floor, his complexion pale. Even so, he repeated, “Father, please reconsider! Third Brother has been frail and sickly since birth. If he’s sent to Chu as a hostage—”
He swallowed heavily, lowering his voice. “I’m truly afraid we’ll never see him again.”
The Emperor stared at his eldest son kneeling before him, his outstretched finger trembling. “You only think about his frailty. Have you thought about the citizens struggling to survive under Chu’s iron rule? You are the Crown Prince, the future emperor of the North Kingdom!”
Ji Linghuan slowly raised his head, looking up at the Emperor on the high throne. Tears streaked his face.
“All I know is that Chu invaded, swept through, and took half our lands in less than half a year. That cannot simply be explained by their military strength. Those city defenders who opened the gates and surrendered, those corrupt officials bought with silver and women—why not send them to Chu as hostages? Why must it be my Third Brother, who has never even stepped outside the palace?”
The Emperor suddenly slammed his desk and stood up, exclaiming, “You’re really out of line!”
Just as the tension between father and son reached a breaking point, a chief eunuch entered the hall and announced, “Your Majesty, Crown Prince, the Third Prince has arrived.”
Ji Linghuan turned his face away, no longer looking at the Emperor.
Outside the grand hall, faint footsteps could be heard approaching. As the sound became clearer, a figure draped in a white fox-fur cloak appeared at the entrance.
The person’s beauty was unmatched, though their face was pale. Against this pallor, a pair of clear, piercing eyes seemed as if they could see straight into a person’s heart.
Removing the cloak, the individual revealed themselves in a moon-white robe befitting a prince. They entered the hall and walked to Ji Linghuan’s side, knelt, and saluted, “Greetings, Father.” Then, looking at Ji Linghuan with a hint of concern, they added, “Brother.”
“Azhuo, why did you come here in such cold weather?” Ji Linghuan’s expression was filled with worry as he noticed his younger brother’s nearly frozen hands. Azhuo was Ji Lingyun’s childhood name, given by the empress because of his delicate, jade-like appearance at birth. The emperor, regarding him as an auspicious sign, had also favored the name.
—No one could have foreseen that this very name of “auspiciousness” would one day make Ji Lingyun the demanded hostage of the Chu Kingdom.
Ji Lingyun shook his head. “I’m fine, Brother. I avoided the wind and snow on the way here.”
“Azhuo,” the emperor sighed as he looked at his third son, “You’ve already heard, haven’t you?”
Ji Lingyun coughed lightly twice, catching his breath. “Father, I know. I am willing to go.” His voice, though weak as always, was firm and unwavering.
Ji Linghuan abruptly raised his head, his voice cracking, “Azhuo, you—”
“Brother, please don’t ever say you’ll go to Chu in my place again. It will dishearten the court officials.” Ji Lingyun’s gaze carried a gentle smile, and the tear mole at the corner of his eye made his expression all the more tender.
“You are the crown prince of this nation. You must not stand under a crumbling wall. Let me go instead. Half of Northern Dynasty’s territory has fallen to the Chu barbarians, and the people are suffering terribly. If drawing the Yang River as a boundary and offering a frail, useless ‘auspicious sign’ like me can buy Northern Dynasty twenty years of peace and respite for its army and people, that will be enough.”
Before Ji Linghuan could object, Ji Lingyun stood up, performed a formal salute to the emperor, and raised his voice.
“When I return, may the Northern Dynasty have reclaimed its land, the rivers and seas be calm, and no one dare to bully us!”
His forehead touched the icy ground. A few moments later, he raised his head to look at his father, forcing a smile.
“Father, I do not know if I will see you again after I leave. I regret not being able to fulfill my filial duties at your side. I only wish for Your Majesty’s health and long life—ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand years.”
Hearing the final “ten thousand years,” choked with emotion, the emperor tilted his head slightly, but tears still slid from the corners of his eyes into his hair. His hand gripped the imperial red brush tightly, veins bulging, yet he couldn’t bring himself to utter a single word of refusal.
His empire still waited for him. His people still waited for him.
Ji Linghuan wiped his tears, his eyes reddened, and swore with every word like an oath to heaven, “Azhuo, one day, I will come to Chu and bring you back.”
Ji Lingyun smiled softly at his brother. “I’ll wait for you to come and get me.”
—If I’m still alive by then.
When Director Zhang shouted “Cut,” Ye Shanshan was still kneeling on the ground, unable to snap out of the scene. Xu Luoyang stood up first and extended a hand to him. “Shanshan, get up. The floor is freezing.”
Ye Shanshan looked at his hand, his gaze finally falling on the dragon embroidery on Xu Luoyang’s prince’s robe. As he stared, a tear suddenly rolled down his cheek.
Xu Luoyang was startled and flustered. “Shanshan! Don’t scare me—why are you crying?”
“He wanted to cry just now, but he couldn’t.” Ye Shanshan’s words clearly referred to Ji Lingyun.
Director Zhang, recalling how Ye Shanshan nearly broke down during the filming of The Deer, quickly came over and handed him a tissue.
Just as he considered telling a fairytale to comfort Ye Shanshan, he saw the latter take the tissue, wipe his tears, then casually grab his long robe and bounce twice in place. His entire demeanor shifted.
“Why does it feel like my legs hurt even though I didn’t kneel for long?”
For some reason, Director Zhang let out a sigh of relief but couldn’t help feeling that the scene now looked a bit jarring.
—Bring back my ethereal, otherworldly Third Prince!
After completing the scene in one continuous take, Ye Shanshan stretched his legs and arms, then stood in the palace’s long corridor, watching the snow falling heavily outside.
This was the part where his maid was supposed to hand him a hand warmer, followed by a brief exchange of lines, marking the end of the shoot. However, just as Ye Shanshan was ready with his emotions, the actress playing the maid accidentally dropped the golden hand warmer mid-handoff. It fell directly onto Ye Shanshan’s toes.
“Hiss—” He sharply inhaled. If he hadn’t been maintaining his pose, he would have been hopping and howling in pain.
Director Zhang hurried over. “What happened? Shanshan, is your foot hurt badly?” Seeing Ye Shanshan wincing, he turned to the actress, his tone stern. “What’s going on? We hadn’t even started the dialogue, and you dropped the prop. It’s not light—you didn’t know that?”
The actress immediately teared up, her face a picture of sorrow. Yet she professionally kept her makeup intact, looking pitiful but saying nothing.
Ye Shanshan, uncomfortable in such situations, glanced at Xu Luoyang for help, but the latter simply gave him a helpless expression. Left to his own devices, Ye Shanshan thought hard before finally managing to say,
“It’s no big deal. Don’t cry anymore; your tears might freeze in this weather.” He added earnestly, “And most importantly, crying wastes filming time—it’s expensive.”
Still awaiting payment for his role in The Observer, Ye Shanshan felt compelled to budget carefully. Otherwise, when would he ever clear his brother’s online shopping cart?
Sure enough, the actress stopped crying, though her eyes remained red as she glanced at Ye Shanshan.
Oblivious to the unspoken signals, Ye Shanshan simply resumed his position. After Director Zhang returned to his seat, they quickly wrapped up the remaining takes.
As night fell and heavier snow loomed, Director Zhang used a loudspeaker to urge everyone to finish up and head home.
Back in the dressing room, Ye Shanshan was removing his makeup while chatting with Xu Luoyang when a vaguely familiar young woman entered. She walked straight over, said, “Thank you, Ye Ge,” and quickly left.
Confused, Ye Shanshan asked Xu Luoyang, “Why did she thank me? And why was her face so red? Did she overdo the blush, or…was she having an allergic reaction?”
Looking at the clueless Ye Shanshan, Xu Luoyang decided against explaining. Clearly, the girl had been shyly expressing her gratitude in hopes of currying favor with Ye Shanshan. Landing good resources or even marrying into wealth wouldn’t hurt either.
He was reminded of his younger self, who had naively believed in the rumors of Ye Shanshan being a “kept lover” of Gong Yue. In hindsight, what nonsense! What kind of “kept lover” holds equity shares while the supposed “sponsor” diligently works under them?
After removing his makeup, Ye Shanshan changed shoes and noticed his toe was swollen. His pale skin made it look especially alarming.
Xu Luoyang was startled. “Should we go to the hospital? If Gong Yue sees this, he might blow up at the production team!”
“My brother isn’t someone unreasonable like that.”
After pondering for a moment, Xu Luoyang felt something was off about that remark.
Suppressing the pain, Ye Shanshan resolved to show Gong Yue his “severe work injury” once he got home. Surely, he deserved plenty of love and comfort!
[mfn]If you enjoy my translations, you can show your support by leaving a comment or donating to my Ko-fi. It will be much appreciated. Thank you! -TL: YSIAD
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