The manager unexpectedly got caught up at the hotel.
By the afternoon, he still hadn’t been able to return, missing the final scenes of Yun Lian’s grueling interrogation.
“No rush.” Liang Xiao wrapped himself in a down jacket, wiping the fake blood and wounds from his face while reading the script. “What’s Brother Duan doing?”
The assistant, who was unaware of the situation, thought for a moment and relayed, “Helping Butler Huo with something, brainwashing the hotel owner into believing that the heating system in their hotel is leaking water…”
Liang Xiao didn’t expect that this issue hadn’t been resolved yet. He winced as his knee gave way. “Where’s the hold-up?”
Assistant: “The hotel owner doesn’t understand why there’s water in the heating system.”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Assistant: “…”
Liang Xiao paused for two seconds, took a deep breath, slowly put down the script, and walked out, his face still streaked with dried blood.
“Here?”
The screenwriter, who had been watching a playback with Director Song, noticed Liang Xiao coming over. “Where’s your manager?”
Liang Xiao had unwittingly dug himself into a hole, having now inadvertently buried Butler Huo, the hotel owner, and his manager in this mess. He didn’t even want to think about the unexpected situation that had developed.
He wasn’t sure when Duan Ming would be able to climb out of this, so Liang Xiao cleared his throat and vaguely explained, “He’s dealing with something… Brother Duan went to handle it.”
It was common for managers to run errands for busy artists, and in the entire crew, only Jiang Pingchao’s manager spent most of their time rooted on set.
The screenwriter didn’t pay much attention, nodding and waving Liang Xiao over. “It’s the same whether you come now or later, come take a look.”
The promo for the last wave had been very popular, and the crew wanted to capitalize on that momentum. They planned to cut another version focused on the spy theme, adding fuel to the fire while the heat was still fresh.
The spy plot for Yun Lian was too minimal, so the crew had been waiting for his interrogation scenes. With enough footage gathered, they had roughly edited a version on-site.
The other managers had already reviewed it. Su Man and Meng Feibai were fine with it, while Jiang Pingchao was especially eager to see his action scenes spread widely. His team had even actively requested to assist with the promotional efforts.
Liang Xiao walked over to the monitors and bent down to watch the playback. “No problem.”
“Doesn’t the pacing feel a bit off?” Song Qi, who had high standards, furrowed his brows, still pondering. “Su Man is shooting, he’s getting whipped, Meng Feibai is chasing a car, she’s being burned with a hot iron, Jiang Pingchao is fighting, and he’s having saltwater thrown at him…”
Screenwriter: “Then let him deliver an umbrella.”
“…” Song Qi, feeling a headache coming on, sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“With just this bit of footage, Xingguan’s promotional team has already done their best to make it as intense as possible.”
The screenwriter leaned over, explaining to Liang Xiao with a knowing look, “See? Even the whip strikes are synced to the beat.”
Liang Xiao couldn’t hold back a chuckle and cleared his throat.
Song Qi, having been tormented by the screenwriter for days, had developed an inexplicable fondness for Yun Lian’s character. Looking at Liang Xiao, he uncharacteristically offered an explanation: “The limitations of the storyline—it’s not intentional to suppress your scenes.”
“I understand,” Liang Xiao replied with a smile. “Actually, this interrogation scene can be trimmed down.”
Including this scene was certainly beneficial for his character, but its overall impact on the narrative was uncertain.
If Yun Lian were the protagonist of Year-End, this segment would naturally need to be fully fleshed out. However, Yun Lian’s marginal role throughout the series meant that if his character shone too brightly, it could disrupt the balance of the entire story.
Song Qi was momentarily stunned. His expression turned serious as he scrutinized Liang Xiao.
Liang Xiao met his gaze openly. “I can make this call.”
Liang Xiao wasn’t underestimating himself. He had a clear sense of the potential heights Yun Lian’s character could reach after the series aired.
Yun Lian’s exit occurred in Episode 12, and his next appearance would be in the finale.
The Jing brothers’ defining moments would come in the later episodes, as the layers of the story unraveled. If a supporting character stood out too much early on and overshadowed the leads, it could cause a backlash after their exit, leading to fluctuations in viewership—an outcome no one wanted.
Song Qi stared at him for a while, his expression gradually softening. He patted Liang Xiao on the shoulder. “It’s unnecessary.”
“Director Song—” Liang Xiao began.
“If the audience can’t stay engaged, it’s the director’s failure, not the character’s fault,” Song Qi interrupted. “Stop worrying about the crew’s problems and focus on yourself.”
The screenwriter, who had worked with Song Qi for years, helpfully translated, “Director Song is moved by your suggestion. As a director, he’s confident he can maintain viewership. He doesn’t want to cut your scenes and is even considering collaborating with you again in the future.”
“Thank you, Director Song,” Liang Xiao said sincerely.
“No need to thank me,” the screenwriter interjected. “If you really want to help, when that scene of you galloping on horseback airs, just post about it on Weibo after the promo drops.”
Song Qi: “…”
Liang Xiao: “…”
“We’ve already filmed it.” Song Qi held back his irritation and shot a glare at the screenwriter. “Might as well release it.”
When Xingguan first pushed Liang Xiao into the cast, Song Qi had dismissed him as just a pretty face and didn’t pay much attention. But after working with him on set these past days, it was impossible not to appreciate his efforts.
Liang Xiao’s talent and potential should never have been delayed until now.
“Once that scene is released, you’ll likely receive a lot more offers,” Song Qi said directly, now fully intent on giving him a push. Exposed by the screenwriter, he decided to lay it all out: “Choose wisely, build steadily, and don’t let yourself get swept up by big IP investments. At the latest, by next year, my team will have the right script, and we’ll reach out to you.”
Liang Xiao was stunned for a moment before lifting his head with a smile. “Thank you.”
“What kind of expression is that?” Song Qi frowned. “Has no one ever looked out for you before?”
“Someone has,” Liang Xiao instinctively replied. He cleared his throat. “But it’s only been two days… I’m not used to it yet.”
The second version of the promotional trailer still needed fine-tuning. The director and screenwriter, as usual, were embroiled in a heated argument over shot composition. Liang Xiao couldn’t insert himself into the debate, so he stood off to the side, inadvertently thinking about Huo Lan.
…He found himself wondering where President Huo’s hands would end up tonight.
Liang Xiao shuddered, jolting himself awake. “But—wasn’t the horseback riding scene not part of the main cut?”
“Exactly, it wasn’t.”
The screenwriter, well-versed in audience psychology, took a moment to explain. “That’s precisely why they’ll keep waiting for it—until the very last episode.”
Liang Xiao: “…”
He suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for the innocent viewers of Year-End.
“This scene was originally an interlude where you save the protagonist. By then, the audience already knows you’re dead. Their only hope is to see you reappear in a few flashbacks.”
Under the director’s death glare, the screenwriter cleared his throat and elaborated more seriously. “But the crew will produce it with the same quality as the main footage. It’ll be released in full as a deleted scene, with the same clarity as the main episodes. Visually, it’ll be better than just a flashback.”
Liang Xiao couldn’t help but worry for the production team. “But if viewers get to the final episode and still don’t see this flashback—”
“They won’t see the flashback,” the screenwriter patted his shoulder, “but they will see that Yun Lian is still alive.”
Ultimately, this ending was what truly mattered to the viewers who cared about Yun Lian.
A fleeting appearance followed by an abrupt exit would always leave a sense of regret. But with the comfort of such a resolution, it might heal much of the heartbreak inflicted by the story.
“Not necessarily,” Song Qi stubbornly retorted, letting out a cold snort. “It might just be an illusion, a play on reality. Wait till the flowers bloom on the mountain.”
Liang Xiao couldn’t help but laugh faintly, caught off guard: “…”
“Yun Lian was never a fully grounded character to begin with,” the screenwriter said, refusing to argue further, exuding confidence. “He’s a manifestation of an ideal. In a fractured nation, amidst a collapsing era, some resist, some compromise, and some continue to wander, searching for their own path.”
Song Qi, perpetually dismissive of this kind of abstract thinking, scoffed. “An ideal that was almost beaten to pieces.”
“…” The screenwriter remained unshaken, wrapping an arm around Liang Xiao’s shoulder as they walked out, continuing his explanation: “No matter how the audience interprets it, he is alive—or he has always been there. A drifting cloud has no shape, gathering in peril and scattering into the mountains and rivers.”
To better “scatter into the mountains and rivers,” Liang Xiao worked tirelessly, cooperating with over a dozen close-up reshoots to refine the details on set.
“That should do it,” the D-unit director said after meticulously reviewing the footage on the monitor. “We’ll wrap up with some scattered shots over the next two days. Once the sets are ready, it’ll be time to shoot the finale.”
The finale would be the last time this set was used. The remaining war scenes would shift to the shattered landscapes their assistant director had painstakingly scouted out after much effort.
Liang Xiao had heard Su Man complain about it multiple times. He coughed lightly, taking the warm towel handed to him. “Thank you for your hard work.”
“You’ve worked hard too.”
The D-unit director, having collaborated with Liang Xiao frequently, seemed reluctant to see him leave the crew. “It’s a shame we won’t get a chance to grab a drink together.”
Liang Xiao couldn’t drink alcohol, but he smiled and replied, “I’ll treat everyone to a meal next time.”
He wouldn’t be wrapping up with the rest of the crew. According to his manager’s schedule, by the time the production held its official wrap party, he would likely already have new commitments.
After this project, who knew when they’d meet again.
The D-unit director understood this as well. He nodded and bumped fists with Liang Xiao. “Wishing you a bright future.”
Liang Xiao smiled, about to thank him, when an unusual commotion suddenly erupted nearby.
Song Qi’s set was known for its strict discipline—there was rarely any noise, let alone chaos. Yet the disturbance wasn’t subsiding; instead, it seemed to be escalating.
Liang Xiao froze for a moment, lifting his head to look in the direction of the noise.
“What’s going on?”
The D-unit director was startled, grabbing the producer, who was striding over. “What happened? Isn’t that coming from Unit A—”
“A stalker fan of Jiang Pingchao somehow got hold of a staff badge and snuck into the set disguised as crew.”
The producer, visibly stressed, hurriedly explained in a low voice, “Clear the area immediately. Get all alphas and omegas to keep their distance… They brought pheromone inducers.”
Understanding the implications of this, the D-unit director’s expression tightened. He nodded quickly and turned to leave at once.
“Mr. Liang,” the producer, busy directing the evacuation, turned to Liang Xiao. “You should also—”
“How’s Teacher Jiang’s manager?” Liang Xiao interrupted.
The producer paused, studying Liang Xiao’s expression, then hesitated. “In… the rest area, behind a cordon.”
Fans who brought pheromone inducers usually intended to use them on themselves.
Fans who lose their sense of reason and recklessly force their idols to mark them often disregard the devastating impact such incidents can have on the artist’s reputation once exposed.
Jiang Pingchao’s manager reacted swiftly, preventing anyone from getting close to Jiang Pingchao and forcefully pinning the individual down in the rest area.
The stalker had already been taken away, but during the struggle, a canister of pheromone inducer was broken. Without clearing the area first, the crew couldn’t use blowers on a large scale.
Liang Xiao nodded and gave a quick instruction to his assistant.
“Mr. Liang, what are you planning to do?” The producer, already overwhelmed with managing the chaos and finding ways to keep the incident under wraps, felt a surge of panic. “It’s not safe over there. You—”
“I use Valu. I’ll be fine.”
Liang Xiao pulled out a few portable suppressant injectors. “Let’s suppress his pheromones first.”
“Is that the specialized suppressant?” The producer was pleasantly surprised, not expecting to find such a solution on-site. “We’ll have a beta staff member deliver it. Thank you so much—”
“I’ll go myself.” Liang Xiao cut him off with a helpless smile. “Please clear out the crew from this area as well.”
He knew better than anyone the consequences of close contact with pheromone inducers. Omegas couldn’t control the sudden surge of glandular signals, and along with the uncontrollable pheromone outburst came deeper, more intense emotional and physical reactions that were impossible to ignore.
Liang Xiao wasn’t particularly familiar with Jiang Pingchao’s manager, only knowing his name was Chi Che—a strikingly refined omega. Known for his strict professionalism, he treated everyone with an unyielding demeanor, including Jiang Pingchao. Chi Che was widely regarded as a top-tier elite manager in online rankings.
Without further delay, Liang Xiao grabbed the suppressants and headed over quickly.
By the isolation line, Jiang Pingchao’s eyes were bloodshot. Su Man and Meng Feibai flanked him, holding him down with all their strength as he struggled to break through.
“Not now!” Su Man, also an alpha, understood the consequences and restrained him firmly. “You can’t handle the pheromone concentration! What do you think you’re doing—going crazy with him on set?!”
Jiang Pingchao was in a rising phase of his career, officially single in the public eye, with his relationship with his manager not yet disclosed. Although the crew was aware of the situation, fans and netizens were still at the stage of playful speculation.
If this incident were to escalate, no matter how hard the crew tried to contain it, the damage would likely be irreversible.
“Then I’ll go public!” Jiang Pingchao roared hoarsely. “What’s there to hide? Let me go!”
“Calm down. Emergency services have already been called.”
Meng Feibai pressed him down. “Our team has omegas, and we’ve sent in temporary suppressants. Even if they’re not fully effective, they’ll have some impact.”
“Right.” Su Man, reminded of this, straightened up and looked around. “Where’s Liang Xiao? Did someone—”
“Man-jie,” Liang Xiao pushed through the crowd. “I’ll take it to him.”
Su Man had initially intended to borrow Liang Xiao’s specialized suppressant and have a beta deliver it. Hearing his plan, she paused, surprised. “Will you be okay?”
“I’ve been using suppressants consistently. I’ll be fine.”
Liang Xiao added, “At times like this… a beta won’t be able to help an omega.”
He calculated the timing. “In ten minutes, I’ll take him to an empty room first, then let Mr. Jiang come in.”
His words were tactful but clear. Su Man immediately understood, frowned deeply, and nodded without further comment.
Liang Xiao had just used a suppressant the night before. To be cautious, he administered another dose to himself before bending down to step past the isolation line.
The moment he entered the rest area, the sickly sweet scent of the pheromone inducer assaulted his senses.
Liang Xiao’s body was highly sensitive to Valu, but after standing still for a moment to confirm that his pheromone levels remained stable, he moved through the corridor and found the rest room where Jiang Pingchao’s manager was.
Before he could push the door open, a hoarse shout came from inside: “Don’t come in! Get out…”
“It’s me, Liang Xiao,” he called through the door. “I’m an omega. I’ve brought a specialized suppressant for you.”
He paused briefly, then opened the door and entered without waiting for a response.
A dense wave of minty pheromones enveloped him immediately.
Chi Che was curled up in the corner of the room, his clothes soaked in cold sweat. His wrist was bleeding from where he had bitten it.
Liang Xiao quickly approached, kneeling beside him and pressing on his gland. “Don’t move.”
Chi Che’s consciousness was already hazy, yet he still struggled to resist. Liang Xiao exhaled softly, used his shoulder and arm to restrain him, and felt his tightly tensed arm. Closing his eyes, he carefully released a small amount of his own pheromones.
He wasn’t sure if alpha pheromones would resonate with Chi Che, but omega pheromones were typically repellent to each other.
The amount he released wouldn’t harm him physically. It was just enough to suppress Chi Che’s reaction slightly, allowing him to relax.
Muscles this tense needed to loosen up a bit before the suppressant could be injected.
“It’s okay,” Liang Xiao reassured him softly. “Teacher Jiang is fine. He’s doing well.”
At the mention of Jiang Pingchao, Chi Che finally showed a hint of response. In a hoarse voice, he pleaded, “Don’t let Teacher Jiang come in…”
“Man-jie and Teacher Meng are holding him back.”
Liang Xiao released more pheromones to suppress Chi Che’s gland activity further. Swiftly, he pulled out the suppressant and injected it into him. “You’ll be fine.”
Chi Che’s health was excellent. As long as the specialized suppressant was administered in time, the effects of this pheromone outburst wouldn’t be too severe.
Valu’s effect on omegas remained significant. Before long, Chi Che’s body gradually relaxed, and he leaned against Liang Xiao, opening his eyes.
Liang Xiao checked the time and steadied his own gland activity. “Feeling better?”
Chi Che lifted his arm to push him away, taking a labored breath as he sat up. “…Thank you.”
“Can you stand?” Liang Xiao asked. “I’ll take you to another room. Teacher Jiang will come to get you.”
“No need.” Chi Che’s voice was low. “I’ll rest here for a bit and go out on my own.”
“Thanks for your trouble today.”
Chi Che tried to stand. “Do you need any resources? In a few days, my team will send you a curated selection. If you’re interested—”
Liang Xiao smiled faintly. “No need to thank me.”
Chi Che paused, glanced at him, then bit his lip and forced himself to stand.
“I don’t need resources. Let Teacher Jiang come in and pick you up.”
Liang Xiao looked up. “Teacher Jiang was so anxious he nearly punched Man-jei.”
Chi Che: “…”
Chi Che had never interacted with Liang Xiao before. After a moment of silence, he managed not to laugh and bent down to pick up the scattered items on the floor.
Liang Xiao rested for a bit, gathering enough energy to stand as well. “I know it’s not easy.”
Chi Che’s shoulders tensed sharply.
“I’ve been through it too.” Liang Xiao smiled. “When I was younger and more reckless, I thought… I couldn’t handle it.”
The struggle, the despair, the helplessness.
The loss of control over one’s body and the inability to suppress desire.
“Your pheromones haven’t fully stabilized yet, have they?”
Liang Xiao hadn’t administered the entire dose of the suppressant. Calculating the remaining amount, he realized it would be just enough for Jiang Pingchao to handle. “Rest for a bit. I’ll contact Teacher Jiang.”
“No need.” Chi Che frowned tightly. “I—”
“You don’t want to see Teacher Jiang?” Liang Xiao interrupted.
Chi Che froze, his delicate eyes trembling slightly as his gaze locked on Liang Xiao.
Though their situations weren’t entirely the same, Liang Xiao himself now felt the urge to see President Huo. Empathizing with Chi Che, he skipped the potentially lengthy back-and-forth and sent Jiang Pingchao a text.
Just as Liang Xiao helped the still-dazed Chi Che into a well-ventilated room, Jiang Pingchao arrived at the door, panting heavily.
Chi Che, still exuding a cold minty scent and insisting he didn’t need help, saw the figure at the door. In the next second, his eyes turned red.
Jiang Pingchao strode over and pulled him tightly into his arms.
Liang Xiao, having used two doses of suppressants and just finished a minor scuffle with Chi Che, was now feeling drained. He found a sofa to rest on and lazily raised a hand to remind them, Teacher Jiang, take him home first.”
Jiang Pingchao took a deep breath, holding Chi Che securely, and gave Liang Xiao a solemn bow. “…Thank you.”
“No need.” Liang Xiao enjoyed the scene and smiled. “It was no trouble.”
Having been in a similar situation before, Liang Xiao understood how helpless and vulnerable omegas felt under the influence of an inducer.
While he could empathize with Chi Che’s current state, he didn’t have the experience of looking up and seeing someone he trusted in such a moment. Still, he figured it must bring some comfort.
Liang Xiao watched the two leave, holding onto each other in a way that could scandalize onlookers. He melted into the sofa, closed his eyes, and exhaled softly.
“Is it raining?” Chi Che, leaning against Jiang Pingchao’s steady arm, asked in a low voice as they reached the door. “I just—”
“No,” Liang Xiao interjected, reluctantly raising his voice again. “That’s my pheromone.”
Chi Che: “…”
Liang Xiao didn’t intend to disrupt them, but he was too drained to move. Clearing his throat, he let himself fade back into the background.
Jiang Pingchao, who had burst in earlier, was now calm again. Carefully tending to the injury on Chi Che’s wrist, he turned back to Liang Xiao and bowed deeply once more.
Liang Xiao chuckled but suddenly froze mid-response.
Jiang Pingchao also paused, looking toward the doorway. “…President Huo.”
Huo Lan nodded at him, his gaze sweeping into the room. The tension in his furrowed brows eased slightly.
“…There was an incident,” Jiang Pingchao explained.
He had planned to sneak away with Chi Che, but now, caught red-handed by the project’s main investor, he felt uncharacteristically guilty. After struggling to find the right words, he added, “I came to pick up my omega. We want to go home.”
Jiang Pingchao had a residence near the filming base. It wasn’t appropriate to stay at the set any longer, especially given Chi Che’s condition. He needed to spend time with him and give the production team and his PR team some breathing room.
Initially planning to ask Director Song for a half-day leave, Jiang Pingchao now had to explain himself directly to the investor.
Liang Xiao, meeting Huo Lan’s gaze, blinked, his attention drawn to Huo Lan’s left hand—the one Liang Xiao had once teased.
The pale, slender fingers had regained a hint of warmth, their bluish hue fading.
Huo Lan withdrew his gaze and turned to Jiang Pingchao.
He usually didn’t visit film sets and had only rushed over to see Liang Xiao. He wasn’t familiar with this peculiar custom of the crew reporting their destinations to each other. “I—”
President Huo fell silent for a moment, then did his best to adapt to the local customs. “We… want to return to the presidential suite.”
HAHAHAHAHAHA HES TOO INNOCENT FOR HIS OWN GOOD 😂😂
😂😂😂😂 He’s too funny I wanna cry