C18

 

The pressure on Jiang Fanxing during filming was growing heavier by the day.

Because the plot had reached its climax: Yang Hanguang’s character, Xie Changlan—the female supporting role—had gradually regained her powers. She used Jiang Fanxing’s character, Murong Qing, to steal a treasured artifact from their sect as a means of advancing her cultivation.

One girl, infatuated with Murong Qing, secretly followed Xie Changlan and ended up being killed by her. After investigating, Murong Qing was shocked to find that the culprit was none other than the woman he cared for most.

This was a pivotal scene—not just the moment of their falling out, but also when their romantic connection became undeniable.

Murong Qing had always thought of the girl he saved as just a little sister. Xie Changlan believed she was merely using Murong Qing as a pawn. But in the face of a life-or-death situation, neither could bring themselves to harm the other.

The charm of this couple laid in the fact that everyone around them could see they’d fallen for each other—it was a mutual, heartfelt affection. But the two of them were the only ones who didn’t realize it, still believing their bond was purely based on manipulation.

Because if the emotions were fake from the start, there was no way you’d be able to fool everyone else.

If everyone believed they were truly in love, then somewhere along the line, those feelings had to have become real.

So, this scene was basically the highlight of both characters’ romantic arcs.

Naturally, it put a lot of pressure on Jiang Fanxing.

But the director, Zhu Guofu, didn’t think that was enough. Soon, he announced a major bombshell: the drama’s head writer, Suisui Ping’an, would be visiting the set. The actors needed to be prepared to face the scrutiny of the original creator.

A renowned screenwriter like Suisui Ping’an, with multiple collaborations across the industry, was leagues above the average writer. Even Qiao Qiao was visibly nervous upon hearing this news—let alone Qiu Songsheng, who looked like he wanted daily therapy sessions from Jiang Fanxing just to survive the stress.

This time, even if he offered money, Jiang Fanxing wasn’t interested.

With someone like the original writer visiting, everyone was focused on saving their own skins. Who had the time or energy to babysit Qiu Songsheng?

Besides, Jiang Fanxing saw Qiu Songsheng like a slacker who just found out there was a surprise exam—no matter how hard he crammed, he’d still fail. Jiang Fanxing, on the other hand, felt like he could still pull off a last-minute comeback and maybe score a decent grade.

When Qiu Songsheng heard Jiang Fanxing say that, he was in utter disbelief.

“What happened to being bros? You’re gonna betray me just ‘cause the writer’s coming to visit?”

“…Says the guy who used to practice singing and dancing all day during the talent show, grinding so hard that your teammates were too guilty to go to sleep,” Jiang Fanxing rolled his eyes. “You’re not trying now because you know trying won’t help. I’m different—I’m still a newbie, so I have to give it my all.”

“Where do you even look like a newbie in your day-to-day?” Qiu Songsheng grumbled. “Fine, fine! I won’t get in your way. Go shine or whatever.”

With that, Qiu Songsheng stormed off, sulking. Not even a parade of assistants kissing up to him could lift his mood.

Jiang Fanxing was a bit speechless.

Seriously, acting like a sulky schoolkid at your age? He wasn’t Qiu Songsheng’s mommy fan—there was a limit to how much he was willing to tolerate.

After a brief moment of internal conflict, Jiang Fanxing put all his energy into rehearsing again.

Which only made Qiu Songsheng even angrier.

And of course, all of this drama didn’t escape the notice of Lin Rin, who was observing them both from within the same crew.

“See? I told you their so-called brotherhood wouldn’t last long,” Lin Rin sneered coldly. “Perfect—now Qiu Songsheng can see just how disgusting these newbies can be when they’re clawing their way to the top.”

“Honestly, I don’t think there’s a need for us to keep targeting them,” his manager said, trying to reason with him. Before an artist became famous, they usually listen to their manager without question. But once they blew up, the dynamic flipped. The artist started resisting, and the manager had to coax them into accepting gigs.

“You think I’m targeting them?” Lin Rin let out a dry laugh. “I’m just showing Qiu Songsheng that in this industry, there’s no such thing as a real bro. If they truly trusted each other, we wouldn’t even have the opportunity to mess with them.”

The manager fell silent.

It seemed Lin Rin still hadn’t moved on from that betrayal years ago—when he’d been stabbed in the back by someone he once called a brother.

He may have basked in fame and praise all these years, but it was all a hollow bubble—he had no real, career-defining work to his name. Several of his recent dramas had flopped hard, receiving scathing reviews. Some actors take criticism as fuel to improve. Others convinced themselves it was never their fault—and start spiraling.

Lin Rin clearly belonged to the latter camp.

As for Suisui Ping’an —one of the most respected and high-profile screenwriters in the industry—she had a whole lineup of blockbuster hits under her belt. With her status, she could easily hand off a script and sit back, collecting royalties.

But out of commitment to her work, she always made surprise visits to the set.

If she found the adaptation diverging too much from her original script, she’d leave immediately and refuse to do any promotion.

That was why readers who wanted to know whether a drama stayed true to the original just had to watch whether Suisui Ping’an was actively promoting it.

After all, if you were famous enough, no matter what you did, there were always be fans and investors to clean up the mess.

This rule applied to screenwriters and directors too.

Jiang Fanxing and Yang Hanguang were both going all out—meticulously working through every acting detail, breaking down each scene.

Qiao Qiao, too, was scrambling—dragging Lin Rin and Qiu Songsheng into intensive last-minute training. But the results… left much to be desired.

When the day finally came for Suisui Ping’an to visit the set, Shen Tianqing cleared his schedule to personally show up and support Jiang Fanxing.

And as expected of a top-tier agent in the entertainment industry, Shen Tianqing’s presence instantly changed the atmosphere—people suddenly became much more respectful toward Jiang Fanxing.

After all, both Qin Shi and Yi Zhu had recently lost their lawsuits, and the explosive allegations against Niannian Studio had all been rejected by the courts. The studio was finally regaining momentum, poised for a strong comeback.

Shen Tianqing looked exhausted, but when assistant Xiao Zhou handed him a triple-shot iced Americano, he downed it in one go—it was so bitter that even Jiang Fanxing had to give him a thumbs-up.

“Bro, you’re truly the chosen one for this grind life. Has life become so bitter that bitterness itself can’t faze you anymore?” Jiang Fanxing couldn’t help but joke. That coffee was seriously next-level bitter.

“That’s nothing,” Shen Tianqing shook his head, starting to perk up. “When a production’s on a tight deadline, it’s normal for actors to go two or three days without sleep. If they don’t sleep, I definitely can’t either.”

Jiang Fanxing chose to selectively go deaf.

He had zero interest in engaging with that kind of toxic grindset energy.

If a production suddenly had to rush its schedule, it was almost always because too much time was wasted during earlier stages.

If it were up to him, he’d definitely try to avoid that from the start.

When Suisui Ping’an arrived on set, what she saw was a scene of intense, focused filming.

She couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“I’m not a school inspector, you know. But every time I visit a set, I’m met with scenes like this. It really makes me wonder—how do those awful dramas even get made?”

She looked to be in her early forties, her hair tied up in a sleek high ponytail, impeccably dressed. If you didn’t know who she was, you’d probably think she was a fashionable urban professional instead of a top-tier screenwriter.

Not all writers fit the artsy or literary stereotype—plenty took pride in their style, too.

When faced with Suisui Ping’an, even the once-arrogant director Zhu Guofu toned himself down considerably.

“Well, of course—we just want you to have a good impression during your visit,” he said with a chuckle. He and Suisui Ping’an had worked together before and were fairly familiar with one another. “Come, I’ll show you around. This here is the female lead, Qiao Qiao…”

“I know. I’ve seen your work. In fact, when the investors bought the rights to my script, they told me you’d been cast as the female lead. That’s the only reason I agreed to sign so quickly.”

Suisui Ping’an was clearly very pleased with Qiao Qiao. Among the rising young actresses of the new generation, her acting skills and professionalism were among the best.

“Thank you, teacher,” Qiao Qiao responded with a sweet smile. “I’m honored to be part of your project.”

She actually knew more than most: Suisui Ping’an had recently been invited by a major state department to write a drama on a specialized profession. Once completed, it would be aired in prime time on CCTV, with high chances of sweeping national awards. For any actor, it was a golden opportunity.

Her agent had rushed over the night before, hoping to leave a strong impression. If Suisui Ping’an recommended Qiao Qiao for the lead role, the impact would be enormous. Even a significant supporting role would be a win.

Lin Rin and Qiu Songsheng were also introduced to the screenwriter by the director, but Suisui Ping’an greeted them far less warmly than she had Qiao Qiao.

Zhu Guofu, sensing the vibe, quickly changed the subject:

“Today we happen to be filming one of the key scenes—between Murong Qing, our third male lead, and Xie Changlan, the second female lead. The classic ‘love and betrayal’ moment. We’d be honored to have your feedback later.”

He had considered showing her a scene with Qiao Qiao and the two male leads, but quickly scrapped that plan. Considering the male leads’ barely-passable acting, he didn’t want to risk traumatizing the screenwriter to the point where she’d rage-tweet about the production.

Better to showcase the supporting cast.

If they delivered, it would make the production look sincere—like they even put effort into side characters.

If it flopped… well, they were just supporting roles, right?

Suisui Ping’an sighed silently to herself.

The fact that they didn’t want her to see the leads was all the confirmation she needed—clearly, expectations should be kept low.

Still, the third male lead was one of her carefully crafted characters. She’d heard he was a complete newcomer. Would he be able to carry it off?

Both Jiang Fanxing and Yang Hanguang were under immense pressure, but instead of retreating, it seemed to give them even more fire.

After all, if they couldn’t even win over the writer, how could they possibly win over the audience?

They exchanged a look. And then—

Action.

Murong Qing watched as the woman in front of him slowly turned around… revealing a disbelieving expression.

During this period, many people had told him that ever since he brought this girl back, strange things kept happening around the sect. Even though it was eventually proven she wasn’t behind them, people still called her a jinx. They said it’d be better to send her away, to raise her elsewhere. But every time, Murong Qing refused.

Partly because he couldn’t bear to abandon a girl who had no one else in the world.

Partly because… he didn’t even know why he couldn’t let her go.

But now, seeing with his own eyes that Xie Changlan was the cause of everything—it made his eyes go red with emotion.

“It was really you?”

“Why not me?” Xie Changlan stared at him with scorn. “Your fellow disciples have suspected me for a long time, haven’t they? Since that’s the case, why should I keep pretending?”

“If you wanted those things, you could’ve just told me. The Murong clan could afford to give them to you. Why did you have to kill for them—again and again?”

“The things I want, I take with my own hands.” Xie Changlan bit out the words. “I didn’t want to kill anyone. They forced me.”

If they hadn’t threatened to tell Murong Qing the truth… if they hadn’t constantly provoked her, she never would have walked down this path.

All she’d planned was to recover her powers and return to the Demon Sect.

“You…” Murong Qing started to speak—but then paused.

The next part was supposed to be his internal monologue.

But Jiang Fanxing didn’t follow the script.

“I just want to ask you one thing,” he said instead, softly and calmly. “Was it really all done by you? If you say no… I’ll go with you to find the proof.”

Xie Changlan went silent for a long time, her eyes fixed on his.

“It was me.”

Neither of them said anything more. Their teary eyes, the way they fought to hold back the emotion—that alone told the whole story.

They both understood it now.

They had truly fallen for each other.

And they’d realized it… at the worst possible moment.

“Cut.” Director Zhu Guofu called out, stepping in quickly. “Teacher Suisui Ping’an, they improvised a little just now. I think they did a good job, but I promise we weren’t trying to disrespect your script—”

Suisui Ping’an glanced at him, then suddenly smiled.

“It’s fine. That dialogue wasn’t in the original draft anyway. The investors asked me to add it later, thinking the actors wouldn’t be able to convey the emotional depth without extra lines. But this… this was good.”

After all, Murong Qing was written as a noble young master, and Xie Changlan the type to stay silent even in pain.

One was willing to ask a question he already knew the answer to.

The other was willing to admit to something that wasn’t entirely her fault.

That alone was proof of love.

Great acting didn’t always come from emotional outbursts.

What was harder—and more powerful—was when it felt real. When the audience could sense the character’s inner turmoil in just a glance or a pause.

That was what mattered.

What they saw on set today was just a small taste.

The real impact would come after filming, once everything was edited and polished.

Meanwhile, Shen Tianqing had broken out into a cold sweat.

“Why did you change the script like that?” he whispered in a panic. “We’re lucky Yang Hanguang was willing to follow your lead. What if Teacher Suisui Ping’an had hated it?”

“We discussed it beforehand,” Jiang Fanxing replied calmly, still smiling. “We both felt that the original lines were missing something. We agreed on it—this wasn’t some last-minute whim.”

“I’ve played this character long enough. I wouldn’t misread his emotions.”

Shen Tianqing let out a long sigh.

Honestly, he thought Jiang Fanxing was just a little too rebellious at heart.

“Brother Jiang, Brother Shen—there’s some trouble online,” Xiao Zhou rushed in, phone in hand. “Just this morning, there’s been a surge of smear posts about you across forums and platforms. People are saying you’re leeching off Qiu Songsheng’s popularity to create fake drama between you two. Others are accusing you of bullying your castmates, claiming you landed the third male lead because you’re ‘kept’ by some rich woman…”

Shen Tianqing snatched the phone, eyes scanning rapidly.

“This is coordinated. Professional trolls stirring up a storm. Looks like someone really doesn’t want you to blow up. I’ll get the PR team on it. Don’t respond to anything.”

Jiang Fanxing was already scrolling through the posts.

His brows furrowed deeper and deeper.

“Calling me a bad actor with a plastic face who lives off hype? Fine. But dragging my family? Insulting my school? Oh wow—they even photoshopped a funeral portrait of me.”

He stared at the avalanche of vicious comments flooding the internet, starting to wonder if he’d unknowingly reincarnated as some kind of dark overlord.

Shen Tianqing massaged his temples with a sigh, already feeling the familiar rush of battle mode.

“They always attack from every angle. And don’t get me started on Qiu Songsheng’s fans—when they go rabid, they’ll even turn on him. Don’t worry, I’ve dealt with this before. Qin Shi got the same treatment. If no one’s smearing you, it just means you don’t matter.”

“I can ignore the stuff about my acting. But these accounts —these marketing accounts and smear bots—I can’t let it slide.”

Jiang Fanxing jabbed at the screen, pointing to a few of the dirtiest ones.

“Brother Shen, I need your help.”

“Hold on. I can’t get involved in anything illegal. Online drama’s one thing, but we’re not taking it offline.” Shen Tianqing looked genuinely alarmed.

“…Brother Shen, what kind of person do you take me for?” Jiang Fanxing rolled his eyes. “What’s my degree in again? You think I’d get my hands dirty?”

“You still haven’t paid me my last fee, and didn’t Qin Shi’s team just cough up compensation recently?” He grinned coldly.

“Perfect. Brother Shen, help me hire the fastest typists, the sharpest internet trolls money can buy.”

“Pay them daily—five hundred yuan a head. I want them going toe-to-toe with the ones spreading the worst filth, especially those dragging my family into it.”

“Dig up every lie those marketing accounts have ever posted. Every fake rumor, every slander—and post it in every fan community they’re active in.”

“I didn’t come to the entertainment industry to get stepped on.”

And just like that, Jiang Fanxing declared w-ar—with a keyboard army and a paycheck.

 

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