When the filming for this scene ended, Director Zhang called “Cut.” Both actors, surrounded by the filming equipment, were still struggling to get out of character. Xu Luoyang lifted his head, but tears continued to fall, dripping from his chin one after another. His eyes were still red.
Ye Shanshan was still deeply immersed in the role. With a slight furrow of his brows, he spoke with the calm rhythm that belonged to Ji Lingyun, though his words were sharp:
“Stop crying. Your snot is about to drip.”
Startled, Xu Luoyang immediately covered his nose with his hand, looking at Ye Shanshan with teary, reddened eyes, clearly feeling very wronged by the disdainful remark.
Ye Shanshan casually wiped the fake blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Standing up, he brushed at the snow on his clothes but stopped when he felt Xu Luoyang tugging at the wide sleeve of his costume. Xu Luoyang softly called out, “Ah Zhuo.”
Ye Shanshan lowered his gaze to look at him and responded smoothly, “Royal Brother, what is it?”
He stood there as the artificial wind scattered the fake snow on the ground, and the visual of the two—one sitting, the other standing—was stunning.
Xu Luoyang sighed in disappointment, realizing Ye Shanshan still hadn’t called him “Brother” in the more casual sense. He had lost count of how many times he had tried and failed. Reaching out, he gestured for Ye Shanshan to help him up. Only then did he manage to stand, as the heavy armor severely limited his movement.
Director Zhang walked over, turning off his megaphone and handing Ye Shanshan a bottle of water to rinse his mouth. The taste of the artificial blood packs was indeed unpleasant.
“Well done! Great job!” Director Zhang said with bright eyes, clapping Ye Shanshan on the shoulder. “That final close-up of the crooked character ‘Zhuo’ you wrote in blood was amazing. It perfectly captured Ji Lingyun’s inner turmoil, his physical weakness, and the complexity of his emotions. Truly well done!”
Ye Shanshan listened earnestly to the praise but responded with unvarnished honesty: “That’s because the fake snow was so cold that my hands were freezing. By the time I finished writing, they were shaking uncontrollably.”
“…” Director Zhang’s words of praise were instantly swallowed back.
Standing nearby, Xu Luoyang couldn’t hold back a laugh. But when he looked over, he noticed that Ye Shanshan’s expression hadn’t changed at all. His face remained cold and detached. It took a glance from Director Zhang and a nod of confirmation for Xu Luoyang to realize that Ye Shanshan was still fully immersed in Ji Lingyun’s character.
Later, during a break, Ye Shanshan sat alone on a rock, looking visibly drained. He stared blankly at the occasional flower petal blown over by the wind, then took a sip of water. The moment he swallowed, however, he began coughing violently.
The coughing fit was so severe that tears streamed down his face, mirroring the intensity of the scene earlier in the plum grove. Supporting himself on the rock, he was suddenly transported back to his childhood, to a laboratory setting.
Back then, researchers had brought in a virus for experimentation. Trapped in a sealed room, he was quickly infected. Within four hours, he developed a high fever, which peaked at eight hours, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.
The coughing began soon after, escalating until he started coughing up blood. He lacked even the strength to stand, curling up on the bed as monitoring devices tracked his vital signs. Outside the glass wall, the researchers watched in excitement, discussing terms like “miracle,” “immune system rebound,” and “rapid infection.”
He couldn’t hear them, but he could read their lips. Those three days, lying in bed without any treatment, felt like a nightmare. Though he miraculously recovered, emerging five kilograms lighter, the memory of coughing so violently that he thought he would die in that lab remained vivid.
So when Director Zhang praised his performance as realistic, it wasn’t acting—it was a recreation of his own memories.
When the coughing finally subsided, Ye Shanshan’s face was streaked with tears, though it was unclear if they were caused by the coughing, childhood trauma, or grief for Ji Lingyun.
Wiping his eyes casually, Ye Shanshan steadied his breathing and pulled out his phone. Almost instinctively, he dialed Gong Yue’s number.
Gong Yue answered quickly. “Shanshan?”
Hearing his voice, Ye Shanshan’s face instantly lit up with a smile, dimples appearing. “Brother, are you busy?” He scuffed the ground with his shoe, finding even the grass beneath his feet suddenly beautiful.
There was a two-second pause. “You’ve been crying?” Gong Yue’s voice dropped several degrees, then softened again, as if afraid to scare him. “What happened? Did someone bully you?”
Ye Shanshan froze for a moment before realizing Gong Yue was asking who had made him cry.
Sniffling, Ye Shanshan complained without hesitation, “Ji Lingyun!” Then, he added, “The script tortured me!”
Remembering Ye Shanshan’s role and the storyline, Gong Yue, who had unconsciously clenched his fist, relaxed immediately. His voice became gentle. “Be good. It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
Ye Shanshan idly poked at the surface of the rock with his finger, a silly smile on his face. He nodded and replied softly, “Mm, I’m fine now. Hearing your voice makes me happy.”
He was practically flying with joy.
With Gong Yue in his life, those dark memories could be buried deep, never to resurface.
After all, he was still alive—he hadn’t died in that lab. That alone was more than he had ever imagined.
With that thought, the bad memories and emotions began to fade. Holding his phone, Ye Shanshan’s voice unconsciously carried a hint of playfulness, though it wasn’t too obvious. “Brother, come pick me up after work.”
“Okay, wait for me.”
After hanging up, Gong Yue looked at the people in the meeting room, his expression composed. He nodded toward his subordinate, who had paused the report, and said calmly, “Continue.”
Filming for the final scene wrapped up after 1 p.m. The team took a break, and the boxed lunches arrived.
As usual, Ye Shanshan enjoyed his exclusive chicken leg meal. Placing his phone on the table, he asked Director Zhang, “Will you be answering questions too?”
To celebrate the box office success of The Observer, the cast members were answering random fan questions on Weibo. Ye Shanshan had ten to answer.
The movie had earned 2 billion yuan in a month, exceeding all expectations. Commercial blockbusters rarely received critical acclaim, and award-winning films often struggled with mainstream appeal, so this outcome defied conventional wisdom.
“I’ll answer too. I’ve got twenty questions,” Director Zhang said cheerfully, sipping his juice. “Yan Ke has it worse—he’s got thirty!”
Feeling better by comparison, Ye Shanshan glanced at his ten questions and felt more at peace.
The first question: What’s your biggest regret so far?
Ye Shanshan thought seriously before typing: My biggest regret is watching my abs slowly disappear.
Satisfied, he submitted the answer and moved on to the next question: What are you most afraid of?
Curious, Xu Luoyang leaned over. “Shanshan, what are you most afraid of?”
Ye Shanshan pondered for a moment, recalling the dream he had that morning. “I’m most afraid that aliens will abduct me to a planet hundreds of light-years away, and I’ll never be able to come back.”
“…”
Xu Luoyang decided that Ye Shanshan’s unique answering style was truly inimitable.
Sneakily, he opened Ye Shanshan’s Weibo. Sure enough, the comments under the answers were filled with reactions like, “Totally Shanshan’s style!” “Definitely him answering personally!” “Authenticity confirmed!”
Another question stumped Ye Shanshan: How do you feel about not getting paid for this role?
Turning to Xu Luoyang, he asked, “What should I say about not getting paid?”
“Sad, heartbroken, never want to see Director Zhang again?” Xu Luoyang suggested, adding, “But you made that bet yourself. If you don’t answer well, it might attract criticism.”
Ye Shanshan nodded, took a bite of chicken leg, and quickly typed his answer: My feeling is that I should never dabble in fortune-telling again!
“…”
Xu Luoyang read the response and couldn’t argue with it. Somehow, it gave the impression that Ye Shanshan’s main job was acting, with fortune-telling as his side hustle. And strangely, it didn’t feel out of place at all!
Feeling that he had answered pretty well, Ye Shan Shan continued reading aloud: “So far, the luckiest thing.”
This was the question Ye Shan Shan answered the fastest, without a moment of hesitation. “The luckiest thing is taking my delicate flower out of its flowerpot.”
“Delicate flower?” Xu Luoyang was puzzled. “What does that mean? Have you stopped growing vegetables and started growing flowers instead?”
Ye Shan Shan secretly felt pleased, but after holding back for a moment, he couldn’t resist admitting, “The delicate flower is my brother!”
“…”
Xu Luoyang was so shocked that he dropped his chopsticks. He stared at Ye Shan Shan in disbelief, his expression conflicted. “Mr. Gong—your brother, in your mind, is… a delicate flower?”
Imagining the six-foot-tall Gong Yue paired with the words “delicate flower,” Xu Luoyang couldn’t help but shudder.
“Don’t you think so?” Ye Shan Shan decisively set down his chopsticks and gestured. “Gong Yue constantly needs care and attention. If I don’t keep an eye on him, he’ll get sick or run into trouble. I have to monitor his eating and sleeping because when he’s busy, he forgets everything. He also gets lonely easily, feels isolated, and keeps everything bottled up inside. He needs very meticulous care.”
In other words, isn’t this the very definition of a delicate flower?
Looking at Ye Shan Shan’s earnest expression, Xu Luoyang suddenly felt like he had just been force-fed an entire bucket of diamond-grade dog food. In this world, probably only Ye Shan Shan would see someone as untouchable and formidable as Gong Yue as a delicate flower that needed tender care.
But when it came to the term “delicate flower,” Xu Luoyang felt his psychological shadow expanding infinitely!
The evening darkened quickly. After finishing a night shoot, Ye Shan Shan sat down with Director Zhang to discuss the shooting schedule.
According to the original plan, once filming at the studio base was complete, the crew would head to the prairie and then to the Gobi Desert for some location shoots. Many of the war scenes in Mountains and Rivers Still involved large-scale battles that couldn’t be filmed in the studio. While CGI could be used, Director Zhang insisted on authenticity, believing realism was crucial to the film.
Since Ye Shan Shan, playing the fourth male lead, had almost completed his scenes at the studio, he wouldn’t be traveling with the crew for the next phase.
“Let the finance team prepare the accounts. Someone from Gong Yue’s side will handle the coordination. If the later stages require a larger budget, funds can be added,” Ye Shan Shan said.
Director Zhang didn’t waste words. “Alright, if the budget’s sufficient, I’ll pull out all the stops for the shoot.”
As they were about to continue their discussion, Ye Shan Shan suddenly turned around as if sensing something. He saw Gong Yue approaching with two bodyguards in tow.
Ye Shan Shan’s face instantly lit up, his brows and eyes shining as if illuminated, so dazzling it was hard to look away. Still in costume, he stayed where he was, resisting the urge to run over. When Gong Yue reached him, Ye Shan Shan finally spoke. “You’re here.”
Thinking about how he had called Gong Yue at noon with a choked, tearful voice, Ye Shan Shan felt a bit embarrassed.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Gong Yue said, handing over a box of desserts. “I bought them from that corner shop.”
Taking the desserts, Ye Shan Shan felt a thrill from the brief touch of their fingers, as if flowers were blooming across the barren wasteland of his heart.
However, just as he bit into the cranberry dessert, Gong Yue leaned close to his ear, gently brushing aside the hair at his temple, and whispered,
“Shan Shan, what’s this about a delicate flower?”
[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[/mfn]
