Chapter 104
This year’s Oscars weren’t as fiercely competitive as in previous years.
This was partly due to the quality of this year’s films—many veteran actors weren’t in the race for awards this time. In a way, it was a showdown of the new generation on the global stage.
But even so, when the camera panned to Fang Huai, it still caught many people by surprise.
The opening band played two high-energy songs, turning the Dolby Theatre into what felt more like a concert venue. Meanwhile, the cameras randomly captured audience reactions.
The young man, whistling along to the music, smiled with his eyes squinting—he looked like a high school student who had skipped class to sneak into the awards show.
He was young enough to be the son of many of the attendees, yet who would have guessed that this “kid” had been nominated for an Oscar this year?
Then, the lights dimmed, and the big screen began playing the montage of all the nominated films.
This year still maintained the classic Hollywood style.
The very first shot zoomed in on Superman’s pupil before pulling back—he punched the wall, cracks spreading outward as the deep, resonant hum of a cello filled the theater.
The camera began to shift, seamlessly connecting multiple films together. In the wind, Diana’s voice trembled slightly:
“What kind of world are we living in? War, poverty… Can you hear me, Ted?”
“Hey, look at me. I want you all to see—I’m a Black man living in San Francisco.”
“They always talk about winning, but why can’t we just— I mean, simply stop wars from happening? No one ever truly wins a war.”
Scenes flashed by one after another, followed by half a second of complete darkness.
Then, a young man’s voice rang out:
“We live in this world—a world filled with endless wars, famine, and pollution. A world where homosexuals, people of color, and women face discrimination… And then? Do you love it?”
His pupils were unfocused as he gripped a white cane, slowly crouching down. His head was wrapped in gauze, and his eyes were red.
Behind him, the sky of Los Angeles stretched in an endless, brilliant blue. A white-winged bird took flight into the distance. The young man closed his eyes, picking up a trampled gentian flower from the ground. As he did, the last trace of shadow on the horizon was swallowed by the sunlight.
“I do.”
He whispered.
A single drop of water fell into the ocean, and both the screen and the sound faded into silence.
In that one second, where the entire audience sat in stunned silence, the camera zoomed out, capturing a panoramic view of Los Angeles. Then, as the beat of the accompanying drums quickened, the editing sped up as well. A violin joined in, gradually pushing the accumulated emotions to their peak.
The scene cut to two girls retrieving discarded instruments from a junkyard, trying to play them. An empty concert hall. A boxer turning away at a bustling marketplace.
“Do you like music?”
“Never forget your dreams and love. Life sucks, but it’s also romantic. Hey, let me write a song for you—what do you want to hear?”
“Just keep moving forward. Don’t be a coward.”
The violin finally reached its climax, unleashing all the pent-up emotions. Voices from different people, speaking in different languages, flashed across the screen, all saying the same sentence:
“Life is tough, but…
I love you.”
The gentian flower, lifted by the wind, soared toward the sky. White doves took flight, waves crashed against the shore, and the brilliant blue sky stretched endlessly over the land.
Finally, the credits rolled.
The atmosphere in the theater, already warmed up by the opening performance, was now completely ignited by this montage. The entire audience was buzzing with excitement, making them even more eager for the awards ceremony to begin.
“Welcome to the 101st Academy Awards!” The host stepped onto the circular stage of the Dolby Theatre, microphone in hand.
This year’s female host, Jenny, was also quite young, but her hosting skills were impeccable. After some playful banter with her co-host, they began introducing today’s nominees and guests.
When it came to Song of the Nameless, the camera panned over the entire film crew, capturing Xu Tuanyuan’s warm smile before deliberately zooming in on Fang Huai for a close-up.
“Hey, Fang Huai, look at the camera.”
Beside him was Joan, an actor he had worked with before, nudging Fang Huai with his shoulder.
Joan had been lucky—this was his eighth year in the industry. During a trip to China, he had met the woman he wanted to spend his life with, and the very next day, he received the news that he had been nominated for Best Supporting Actor at the Oscars.
Fang Huai had been watching the stage intently when he suddenly realized he was on camera. He seemed momentarily stunned, his eyebrows lifting instinctively. Like a student caught daydreaming in class, he hesitated for a moment before forming a heart with his fingers at the camera.
[So cute!!!]
[I’m done for. He’s so handsome! He looks so different from his movie character.]
[I saw the picture of him taking off his jacket for Diana—it’s trending on Twitter.]
[He’s just a seat-filler nominee. Came for the red carpet and didn’t even make it onto it properly.]
Of course, sarcastic remarks were inevitable—there were always cynics on every platform.
The awards ceremony officially began.
Xu Tuanyuan had come with high hopes, and the judging panel did not disappoint—shortly after the ceremony started, the award for Best Supporting Actor went to Joan from Song of the Nameless. On top of that, Song of the Nameless also won Best Sound Editing.
When Joan stood up, he was on the verge of tears. He had never seriously considered the possibility of winning—being nominated alone had already been a huge honor.
He hugged his girlfriend tightly, then embraced Fang Huai and Director Xu before walking up to the stage. During his speech, he was so overwhelmed with emotion that he had to pause several times, and the audience responded with warm, encouraging applause.
While Joan shared his journey, viewers back in China felt a growing sense of unease.
Although there was no rule stating that Best Supporting Actor and Best Leading Actor couldn’t come from the same film, from a broader perspective, the odds of it happening were slim. Even if Song of the Nameless was outstanding, the judging panel wouldn’t allow it to sweep all the major awards—it wouldn’t be fair to the other nominees.
So, paradoxically, the more awards Song of the Nameless won early on, the lower Fang Huai’s chances of winning Best Leading Actor became.
[It’s rare for a first-time nominee to actually win. Everyone should manage their expectations.]
[Agreed. No need to stress. Being nominated is already a big deal.]
[I just don’t get it—why is same-sex marriage still not legal in our country in this day and age?]
[…]
Fang Huai glanced at his phone. Ye Yuyuan hadn’t responded to his message, but Fang Huai knew he was watching—he had to be watching.
That thought made him both excited and anxious.
The ceremony was now reaching its halfway point, with each award more significant than the last: Best Foreign Film, Best Director… and Best Leading Actor.
Fang Huai put his phone away and reminded himself to stay calm.
*
In the Capital of China
A group of high-ranking officials sat around a table, exchanging serious glances over documents.
One of them finally spoke: “The reason?”
Ye Yuyuan sat there with an unreadable expression. Beside him, a lawyer carefully turned a page in the file and replied cautiously:
“Based on relevant international cases…”
Everyone listened without expressing their opinions. Though the discussion was about such a significant matter, few people were overly emotional. Ye Yuyuan, in particular, remained exceptionally calm—even though, in the eyes of many, his actions seemed reckless and impulsive.
In the back rows, those permitted to observe sat with tense postures, while the stenographer continued taking notes.
Time was dragging on.
The session was supposed to conclude by 12:30, but it was already 11:40, and they had only made it halfway through the agenda. The higher-ups’ stance remained ambiguous.
Ye Yuyuan’s thumb absently rubbed against his jade ring—a habit of his when feeling impatient. In his miniature Bluetooth earpiece, the live audio from the Oscars played—it had now reached the Best Foreign Film award.
There wasn’t much time left. The longer this dragged on, the lower the chances of success.
After a brief silence, Ye Yuyuan tapped his index finger lightly on the edge of the table and said softly to his lawyer, “Speed up the process. Move directly to the questioning phase.”
*
“And the winner of this year’s Academy Award for Best Director—Mr. Xu Tuanyuan!”
Xu Tuanyuan blinked in mild surprise before exchanging a kiss with his wife and making his way to the stage. Having been to the Oscars multiple times before, he didn’t lose his composure like Joan, but his joy was evident.
Xu had won several Oscars in the past, but this was his first Best Director award. Receiving such an esteemed industry acknowledgment—who wouldn’t be thrilled?
However, in his heart, he still hoped that Song of the Nameless would win Best Picture or that Fang Huai would take home Best Leading Actor. More than anything, he wanted Fang Huai to be recognized. His dedication and hard work shouldn’t be dismissed or buried for any reason.
Best Director was one of the later awards, and not long after, it was time for one of the biggest moments of the night—
Best Leading Actor.
This year’s Best Actress went to a Black actress from South America for a film centered on women’s rights—an exceptionally rare win in Oscar history. As she wiped away her tears and walked off the stage, it was finally time to announce Best Leading Actor.
Clips from the nominated films began playing.
“Johnny Aldotto, Sky Mirror.”
A knight clad in silver armor walked across a vast salt lake, its mirror-like surface reflecting the gray-blue sky. He murmured softly to his companion before raising his weapon.
“Morrick J. Jess, Strawberry.”
Beneath a straw hat, a weathered face appeared—his features lined with age and hardship. He gently lifted a handful of strawberries from a basket, his speech slow and slurred, clearly portraying someone with an intellectual disability. Living alone with his son, he struggled to make a living.
“I want to sell these to… Rick, keep moving forward.”
He grinned, showing his slightly crooked front teeth, and pulled his straw hat lower over his eyes.
“Don’t be a coward.”
The clip lasted only thirty seconds—not a grand, dramatic moment, yet the performance was breathtaking. Truly masterful acting doesn’t feel theatrical or exaggerated; rather, it is effortlessly natural, where every tiny detail is perfectly in place, moving people with its sheer authenticity.
Fang Huai had watched Strawberry before, and he had to admit—it was a truly outstanding film. The effort and dedication that went into the performance were undeniable.
He watched the screen intently.
He was neither arrogant enough to underestimate his competitors nor insecure enough to belittle himself.
But for many viewers back home, the reaction was very different. Since neither Strawberry nor Song of the Nameless had been released domestically, most people hadn’t seen them. When the clip played, they immediately felt—
Fang Huai had no chance at winning.
[So this is what it means to be completely outclassed…]
[Morrick has been a runner-up three times. It’s about time they gave him the award.]
[I’ve seen both films, and it’s really hard to say. But Fang Huai’s timing is definitely unlucky. Both movies have overlapping themes, so they have to pick one—and it’s probably going to be Morrick.]
[That line, ‘Keep moving forward. Don’t be a coward,’ really hit me hard. Golden quote of the year.]
Then, the clips for the other two nominated actors were played.
The camera throughout the segment seemed to favor Morrick, making many speculate whether this reflected the program’s stance. Morrick, with his gentle demeanor, watched the screen intently before breaking into a small smile—something that many interpreted as quiet confidence, a sign that he had this in the bag.
He was a rational actor and understood that the Oscars rarely considered things like seniority or sentiment when awarding their winners.
Upsets weren’t impossible.
Besides, he had seen Song of the Nameless himself. To his own surprise, even as an actor, he had ended up crying by the end. It had been a long time since a film had affected him so deeply. Usually, industry professionals experienced movies differently than regular audiences—dissecting, analyzing, breaking them down rather than getting lost in them.
*
Capital city, 12:30 PM.
In the spectator section, quiet murmurs filled the air. The highest-ranking official in the room adjusted their glasses, meticulously reviewing the documents one by one.
The documents had been prepared with extreme care—there was hardly a single flaw to be found. But the attitude in the room remained ambiguous. No matter how one looked at it, the issue at hand was an incredibly difficult one.
They were tempted to fall back on the same strategy they had used countless times before—refusing to take a clear stance, letting both sides compromise, and allowing the issue to fade into obscurity.
Ye Yuyuan’s gaze swept over everyone’s faces in silence, his fingers tightly interlaced. The shape of his jade ring was imprinted into his palm—a thing he had no intention of ever letting go of.
Moments like this were rare in his life.
His miniature Bluetooth earpiece transmitted the live broadcast of the Oscars. He could hear Fang Huai’s voice delivering his lines, each word so moving that it was impossible not to be drawn in.
This was the last chance.
If they failed this time—if it was rejected again—who knew how long it would take for another opportunity to arise? He wasn’t willing to wait any longer.
Outside the imposing government building, a crowd sat in silent protest. Rainbow flags fluttered against the deep blue sky.
And beyond those who could be physically present, there were countless others.
In offices, in classrooms between lessons, in cramped rental apartments, or in the noisy rush of subway stations, people gripped their phones, watching.
Lovers held each other’s hands.
Parents sat in quiet anticipation with their children at home.
Everyone was waiting for an answer.
This pot of boiling water had been left on the fire for too long—every scalding bubble was waiting to be set free.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, an endless expanse of blue sky stretched out.
“Apologies—”
Director Li, seated directly across from Ye Yuyuan, let out a deep sigh before finally speaking. “We will carefully consider all perspectives. However, given the gravity of this issue, perhaps…”
The observation section fell into silence. Some people’s faces turned ashen.
Half-formed bubbles, on the verge of boiling over, cracked apart one by one—until they shattered completely.
In the midst of this quiet—
“I object.”
A man, silent until now, rose from his seat.
His back was straight, his expression cold and serious. Yet as he looked across the table, the sheer intensity of his presence burned like a rising flame, impossible to ignore.
His gaze locked onto each person opposite him, and anyone who met his eyes instinctively recoiled.
“Are you sure,” he asked, voice steady, “that you want to stand on the wrong side of history?”
At that exact moment—
On Weibo’s trending topics, three hashtags exploded at once.
The first: #Song of the Nameless at the Oscars#
The second: #Same-Sex Marriage Bill Review#
The third: #I Am Gay#
For the first time in three months, Ye Yuyuan broke his silence on Weibo and made a post:
Ye Yuyuan V: “Love is an instinct we are born with. Love is the gift the world has given us.”
Tagged under #Same-Sex Marriage Bill Review Results#, the post rode the momentum of current events and shot straight to the top of the trending charts.
People on Weibo began tagging their same-sex partners:
“The weather is beautiful today. I want to marry you.”
“I refuse to immigrate. I want to declare, as a citizen of China, that you are my wife.”
“He is my husband. And I am his husband. There is no contradiction in that.”
“I want to introduce you to my parents, to my friends. I want to marry you. I want the rights that heterosexuals have.”
At Ptah’s headquarters, many employees stopped what they were doing to refresh the news—today, no one stopped them.
The boiling water only continued to rise in temperature. Within the massive furnace that was the city, it grew hotter and hotter, searching for a crack to burst through—ready to bring forth a long-overdue, raging storm.
*
Meanwhile.
Los Angeles. Dolby Theatre.
The clips of the Best Leading Actor nominees flashed across the screen one by one. Other than the initial awe sparked by Morrick’s performance, every nominee’s acting was impressive.
After all, this was the Oscars. Everyone here had beaten out countless competitors to make it this far.
Forget Morrick—many people had even started thinking that Fang Huai wouldn’t stand a chance against any of them.
When the camera cut to Fang Huai, his nervousness was plain to see. His fingers were interlaced, gripping his sapphire cufflinks in his palm, knuckles slightly pale.
Then came the final nominee—Fang Huai in Song of the Nameless.
Surprisingly, they hadn’t chosen one of the film’s most widely circulated scenes.
Instead, the clip showed the protagonist being forcibly taken to a local church by his parents for confession, forced to kneel and repeat the words:
“I am homosexual. I am a sinner.”
Christianity did not recognize homosexuality.
The boy, dressed in a thin white shirt, had his white cane resting beside his knees. His face was bruised and swollen from his father’s blows.
Sunlight poured in from the stained glass windows of the towering dome, while the distant sound of the choir filled the air. Above it all, God looked down in supposed mercy.
Homosexuality is sinful, filthy, evil.
They claimed they were offering him “salvation,” rescuing him from the abyss of suffering.
No one had ever asked if he wanted to be saved.
“Say it. Say you are homosexual. Say you are a sinner.”
A middle-aged man stood before him, eyes cold and half-lidded. “—I’m doing this for your own good.”
“I am…”
The boy’s voice was slow. His unfocused gaze drifted toward the ground, lips pressing together.
“Homosexual.”
He turned toward his father’s direction, his expression carrying the faintest trace of a smile—one touched by the muted gray light of the heavens.
“I am not a sinner.”
He spoke.
That faint smile seemed to be interpreted as mockery. His mother, trembling, slapped him across the face, eyes red with fury. “You are a sinner. A beast. Disgusting.”
The boy lowered his head once more.
“I am homosexual. I am not a sinner.” He repeated stubbornly.
The sun and stars traded places, people came and went from the confessional, yet he remained forced to kneel. But his back—his back stayed straight the entire time, like a tree that no storm could break, a being born from raging fire, enduring the cycle of life and death, struggling upward toward the light.
For a full twenty-four hours, he repeated those words thousands of times, until he collapsed into unconsciousness.
—”I am homosexual. I am not a sinner.”
The scene faded out.
The theater fell into complete silence.
Even the endless murmuring of discussion halted in its wake.
…Stunning.
Beyond those two words, it was difficult to describe what this moment made people feel.
[My god.]
[I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to watch this movie…]
[Is it possible to hope for a miracle?]
Morrick was silent for a few moments before he was the first to applaud.
And suddenly, he realized what he was witnessing—a strong, undeniable feeling in his gut. He had been nominated three times before. He came here tonight with high hopes.
But there were moments when one simply had to admit defeat.
The applause spread through the theater like wildfire.
Joanne gave Fang Huai an encouraging hug amid the clapping, while Xu Tuanyuan shot him a glance—”Stay calm, no matter the result.”
The screen went black.
The host walked onto the stage, holding the envelope.
The camera began cutting between the five nominees.
Fang Huai lowered his head, pressing his fingers against his Bluetooth earpiece, unconsciously holding his breath. His soul felt as if it had been thrown into the air—weightless, light-headed, suffocating.
The female host took a breath and carefully opened the envelope.
Time slowed.
So slow it was almost still.
Like the hushed moment right before boiling water overflows.
The lights of Los Angeles, the grandeur of the Dolby Theatre, all of it burned into Fang Huai’s pupils.
All the pages of a book seemed to flip at once, carried away by the wind—
And then, the host’s fingers—
Bit by bit—
Unfolded the card.
She unfolded the envelope.
Her pupils widened slightly in surprise, and she covered her mouth for a brief moment. She looked up at the camera, then swept her gaze over the entire audience. Finally, the corners of her lips and eyebrows lifted in a faint smile.
The female host’s lips moved, forming a few words.
The entire world seemed to slow down, as if trapped in a deliberate slow-motion frame. Joanne turned toward him in exaggerated increments. Morrick and Xu Tuanyuan lifted their wrists. And then—
A sharp crackling sound came through the Bluetooth earpiece.
The most important person in Fang Huai’s life spoke.
His voice was slightly hoarse, carrying the background sounds of September wind and rustling leaves in the capital.
He said, “Huaihuai, you are my pride.”
Yooo, that climax!