All the Cubs I Raised Became Big Shots – CH21

Chapter 21

“I don’t place my faith in it.”

“…I believe in you.”

Ye Yuyuan’s voice was low, his final words carrying a faint sigh that was scattered by the wind.

After brushing the petals off the boy’s hair, his fingers suddenly froze. A faint red spread across his ears.

Though his expression remained neutral, Ye Yuyuan took half a step back, somewhat awkwardly averting his gaze, lips pressed into a thin line.

For a fleeting moment, frustration and embarrassment flickered through his dark eyes before they quickly returned to calm.

Fang Huai: “…?”

He hadn’t heard clearly.

But he wasn’t the type to press for answers. After a moment of thought, he simply said, “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“It’s nothing.”

Only then did the tension in Ye Yuyuan’s posture ease slightly.

The two of them held each other’s gaze for a moment, neither speaking.

After a long silence, Ye Yuyuan finally said in a low voice, “Don’t be too nervous.”

His gaze rested on Fang Huai. For a second, his dark eyes seemed surprisingly gentle—but then, it felt like an illusion.

Listening to Ye Yuyuan talk gave Fang Huai a sense of comfort.

He smiled and nodded. “Mm, alright.”

Fang Huai thought that if they could become friends in the future, he hoped Ye Yuyuan would talk more, so he could hear him more often.

But for now, that was enough.

A summer breeze carried a few petals to the ground. In this abandoned corner of the city, it was so quiet that one could almost hear the light slowly descending.

“Then, I’ll go prepare,” Fang Huai said, seeing that Ye Yuyuan had nothing more to say. He waved with a smile. “See you around?”

Ye Yuyuan gave a soft “mm” in response.

It was only after the boy’s figure disappeared around the corner that he finally withdrew his gaze.

Meanwhile, Fang Huai arrived at the backstage lounge that had been cleared out. He started preparing for his upcoming talent performance—his particular “talent” required meticulous attention to costume and appearance.

He was already familiar with the singing, but his movements were still a little unpolished. After all, he hadn’t trained in physical performance from a young age, so compared to professionals, he was still far behind. Luckily, the piece he had chosen was mostly a dramatic scene rather than an action-heavy one.

This was one of Fang Jianguo’s few hobbies aside from playing mahjong—and it had become one of Fang Huai’s as well.

Now that he had the chance, he thought… he wanted more people to see it.

*

One hour later.

The documentary crew arrived at the grand theater, setting up equipment and finding the best angles. As they worked, they chatted idly, “What exactly is Fang Huai’s talent, anyway?”

“This venue… is he going to perform a play or something?”

“Hope nothing goes wrong.”

Many contestants hadn’t explicitly stated their talents, but their choice of venue provided some clues.

Some deliberately kept it a secret to maintain an element of surprise.

As for Fang Huai?

Eighty percent of online viewers speculated that he’d either whistle on a tree leaf again or entertain birds—something a bit dull but unlikely to go wrong. That said, it was obvious his final score wouldn’t be particularly high.

The live broadcast had been running for a while now.

A contestant named Xu Lufeng had just performed figure skating, creating a small sensation on the show. Xu Lufeng was a young man with tanned skin who had only recently signed with an agency and debuted. Someone even discovered that his father was a retired Olympic gold medalist in figure skating.

The order of performances was determined by lottery, and interestingly enough, the top three from the preliminary round ended up scheduled one after another—Xu Lufeng first, then Fang Huai, and finally Lu Yu.

Fang Huai was particularly unlucky this time, performing immediately after the figure skating act. When his turn came, the chat was still buzzing with excitement from the previous performance.

A few stray comments like “Looking forward to it!” and “Go, go, Huaihuai!” were quickly drowned out, making it seem as if no one was paying attention to him at all.

[Ahhh, so handsome!!]
[Damn, this level is practically professional! Cool and beautiful at the same time.]
[It’s almost my baby’s turn!]
[Your baby? Who?]
[Figure skating is just too stunning, omg. I wanna marry him.]

At the skating rink, Xu Lufeng was holding his skate blades when he saw the comments and immediately felt a little embarrassed. He was just about to log into his alt account and top up some money for a virtual gift when suddenly, a flashy special effect swept across the screen—someone had just sent ten Giant Deepwater Torpedoes.

Holy crap. Xu Lufeng was stunned.

50,000 yuan…

The scrolling banner only contained two simple words—“Good luck.”

[Thank you, big boss! Huaihuai, go for it!]
[Wait, the next one up is him? I’m looking forward to it!]
[Alright, let’s see your little baby perform some circus tricks, play with birds, and whistle on leaves. LOL. It’s always the same little gimmicks—getting kinda old.]
[Agreed. So over it. Since when was this about picking acrobats? This is an idol competition, not a street performance contest. I’m laughing.]

Every time a new contestant began their performance, the moderators muted the chat for ten seconds. Finally, the chaotic flood of comments cleared up, and many viewers let out a breath of relief, turning their focus to the stage.

The camera angle was well chosen, aligning with the stage floor, creating an inexplicably captivating atmosphere.

The grand but abandoned theater.
The vast, empty stage.
Vines and wildflowers creeping along the edges.
A broken skylight allowing soft beams of light to spill through.

There was something strangely serene about this scene—it quieted the heart in an instant.

No music had started yet.

Ten seconds later, the moderators re-enabled the chat, and messages started flying by again.

[Uh… where is he?]
[Is he late again, just like last time? Some people barely have any works out yet, but they’re already acting like divas.]
[It’s only been ten seconds. Can’t you people be a little more patient?]

Li Yun opened the stream just in time to see the flood of unfriendly comments. Her hands trembled with anger as she instinctively fired back with her own message. Only after sending it did she take a closer look at the venue on screen.

“Huh.” Li Yun rubbed her chin.

Her father, Li Su, was a Kunqu opera performer, and his mentor was Professor Dong Rulan. She had accompanied her father to watch one of Professor Dong’s performances when she was younger, and if she remembered correctly…

Wasn’t that performance held in this very theater?

So, it had already become this dilapidated.

The once-bustling center of Nanshi was now so desolate—it might even be torn down tomorrow to make way for a new development. Li Yun felt a pang of nostalgia.

Then, something suddenly occurred to her.

Fang Huai chose this venue… could it be that he was—

“No way,” she thought. “This is really difficult. If he’s not careful, it’ll be embarrassing. I don’t need him to be outstanding, I just hope he doesn’t make any mistakes.”

Her father, Li Su, leisurely flipped a page of his newspaper, brewing tea while scolding her as usual.

“Watching that variety show again? Can’t you put some effort into your studies? These so-called ‘idols’ you follow—none of them can sing properly. They sound weird, all style and no substance.”

Li Yun completely ignored him. Holding her breath, she kept her eyes locked on the screen.

The next second—

“Spring breeze on the Shangsi Festival, peach petals as light as cut silk.”

It was a line from The Peach Blossom Fan, specifically the “Jade Hibiscus” aria.

The voice flowed like silk, smooth and delicate, with impeccable breath control. The operatic style carried its own resonance, sending an electric shiver down the spine.

An immediate showstopper.

For a brief moment, the chat fell completely silent. Many watching behind their screens widened their eyes, momentarily speechless—including Li Yun and Li Su.

Li Su’s reaction was even more intense.

His expression shifted from disdain to blank shock, before he suddenly widened his eyes, nearly dropping his teacup. He shot up from his chair, blurting out in disbelief—

“Yun Yun, who is this?!”

There was no mistaking it—this singing style, this phrasing—it was unmistakably…

But Li Yun couldn’t answer him.

She was too transfixed on the screen.

A figure stepped out from behind the curtain.

A traditional dan (female) opera costume, complete with an elaborate headdress and full Kunqu attire. Their movements were as light as drifting clouds.

Kunqu opera’s aesthetics didn’t align with modern tastes—many found the styling too exaggerated or outdated, unable to appreciate it.

But looking at this person, that thought never even crossed one’s mind.

All that remained was sheer amazement.

For a brief moment, it was as if time had stopped—perhaps because the setting was too perfect. In that abandoned theater, under the soft glow of falling daylight, the boundaries of time seemed to blur.

[??? Don’t try to trick me with a pre-recorded vocal! This has to be lip-syncing, 100% fake!!]
[No way—I was just watching Professor Dong’s old recordings yesterday, and this voice sounds so much like his!]
[WHO IS THIS?! SOMEONE TELL ME WHO THIS IS, I’M LOSING MY MIND!!!]
[It’s so beautiful ahhhhhhh]

Fang Huai’s stage movements weren’t perfect—after all, he hadn’t trained since childhood. He lacked the delicate femininity and frail elegance expected of a dan role.

Anyone paying close attention could tell—the person beneath the opera robes was still a tall, slender young man.

He had previously discussed it with his teacher—playing to his strengths while avoiding his weaknesses, minimizing movements, and emphasizing the lyrics.

But his stage appearance? That alone was enough for a perfect score.

“This…” Li Su stared at the screen, his emotions incredibly complex. “This child’s potential is extraordinary.”

As a professional, he could immediately spot the slight stiffness in Fang Huai’s posture. But that appearance—among qian dan (male performers playing female roles), those who could achieve this level were extremely rare.

Fang Huai’s adaptability was simply outstanding.

Normally, he was just a clean-cut, good-looking teenager—throw on a school uniform and headphones, and he’d be the classic rebellious younger boyfriend type. In a suit, he was handsome and charming. But now, in opera costume as a dan role, he fit the part effortlessly.

He was… beautiful.

There was no better word for it.

Not a fragile beauty, but one that commanded attention. His eyes seemed to shimmer with brilliance, impossible to look away from.

[This is insane?!]
[LOL am I the only one who noticed Huai Huai’s movements are a little stiff? He’s clearly trying to minimize them and focus on the singing—so cute!]
[This is 100% lip-syncing. I’m pulling up Professor Dong’s recordings to do an audio comparison right now.]

“Like drifting snow in silk, like fallen petals turning to frost.”

Kunqu opera was slow, rich with lingering charm.

But The Peach Blossom Fan wasn’t just a gentle, graceful play.

At this moment, countless people held their breath, all eyes fixed on Fang Huai.

His fans and the production team were overjoyed—Fang Huai had surprised them yet again.

Meanwhile, a figure stood silently at the entrance of the abandoned theater, listening. A soft light flickered in his gaze.

On stage, Fang Huai seemed to be glowing.

He was born to stand there—to be loved by all, to be bathed in light, to be followed by every camera.

Li Yun clutched her tablet, so excited she could hardly keep from jumping up and down. Even her strict father, Li Su, had nothing to say this time—or rather, he was more excited than she was.

This child’s surname was Fang.

If he wasn’t mistaken…

Father and daughter stared intently at the screen, leaning in as if trying to get even closer.

Li Su had completely forgotten his earlier complaints about “young people wasting time idolizing celebrities.” When Fang Huai flawlessly transitioned into a key change, he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, “Good!”

But at the same time, not everyone was pleased.

“There’s a spoken monologue coming up after this line,” a manager muttered, setting down his phone and grinding his teeth. “That part is the highlight. We can’t let him reach it—if he does, there’s no turning back.”

The gentle-looking young man beside him remained silent.

He tapped on his phone a few times before murmuring,

“Of course. But besides that… start pushing the ‘lip-syncing’ tag.”

Fang Huai’s style was far too similar to Dong Rulan’s early performances.

Moreover, with only Fang Huai and a few cameramen present on-site, the environment was so conducive to cheating that it would be difficult for him to prove his innocence. His movements—any discerning eye could see they were only average—but his vocal performance was so exquisite. Who would believe it?

And Dong Rulan had been in seclusion for years, barely even giving lectures anymore. How could he possibly come forward to clear Fang Huai’s name?

Impossible.

*

There were three cameramen at the scene.

One was the chief cameraman, while the other two were assistants. The equipment had been tested in advance.

Just as Fang Huai sang the words “drifting snow in silk”, one of the assistant cameramen suddenly stumbled, crashing into the camera!

The shot jerked violently and went black.

[What happened?!]
[WTF, I want to punch something! It was just getting to the best part!]
[That monologue was coming up! Don’t interrupt my listening experience!!!]
[DON’T INTERRUPT MY BABY!!! GIVE HIM BACK, YOU [BLEEP]!]

The chief cameraman’s eyes widened in shock.

His face darkened as he steadied the equipment and cursed, “What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you wanna lose your job?!”

The assistant was just as confused. It was as if he had been momentarily possessed—his mind had gone blank, and his body had moved on its own. Now, he was on the verge of tears.

And then—

The chief cameraman and the assistant both froze in place, eyes widening.

A tall, impeccably dressed man strode over, his long legs closing the distance in just a few steps. He reached for the camera and took it from the stunned cameraman’s hands. Behind him, his secretary smiled and ushered the two aside for a private discussion.

President Ye… was here?!

Both men were completely dumbfounded.

It felt like a character from a financial magazine had just stepped off the page and into reality—utterly surreal.

Everything had happened within seconds.

Ye Yuyuan took the equipment in silence, his thin lips pressed into a neutral line. His face showed no particular expression. His well-defined fingers tapped lightly against the camera before he swiftly removed a few components and pressed a button.

His hands were beautiful. And his movements—decisive, efficient—were almost mesmerizing to watch.

Meanwhile, on stage, Fang Huai remained unaware of any of this.

The Peach Blossom Fan was not a lighthearted or soothing opera. On the contrary, it was heavy—every lyric laced with sorrow, as if written in blood.

The song had reached the line “Fallen petals turn to frost.” The boy closed his eyes slightly.

Many years ago, that person had probably sung this exact verse, too.

The images surfaced in his mind…

All within the span of a few seconds.

And the live chat exploded.

[WTF, I’m filing a complaint!!!]
[@ProductionTeam, we demand an explanation!]
[Ugh, stop wasting time. Just move on to the next act. I wanna see my baby Lulu!]
[Agreed, switch to the next contestant already. No need to waste time.]

Li Yun was completely stunned by the sudden turn of events. Then, when she saw the chat messages, her jaw clenched.

If they switched to the next contestant now, there was no telling whether Fang Huai would even get extra time to make up for this. The audience’s attention would be completely diverted, rendering all his previous effort meaningless.

But Li Su’s reaction was even stronger.

Associate Professor Li, now in his forties, suddenly stood up, his fingers trembling as he pointed at the screen. “Who did this? I’m calling the TV station to file a complaint!”

Li Yun: “……”

At this moment, chaos reigned in the production team.

The assistant director, clutching his phone, gritted his teeth and said, “Should we just switch to the next contestant, Lu Yu? We have a hundred thousand viewers now—just dragging it out like this isn’t a solution.”

The chief director’s expression was grim, his jaw stiff as he was about to nod—

Then his phone rang.

Seeing the caller ID, his heart clenched, and he scrambled to pick up. “Hello, President Ye?”

A low, cold voice came through the receiver, like ice and frost.

Just two words—

“Don’t switch.”

Switching to the next contestant was not an option.

Fang Huai had worked so hard and prepared for so long. He was going to make sure everyone saw it—

Saw it clearly.

AI had auto-dialed through his Bluetooth headset. When Ye Yuyuan spoke those two words, his expression didn’t change. His hands, however, never stopped moving—his slender, well-defined fingers adjusting and operating the equipment at lightning speed.

Ten seconds later.

In the abandoned grand theater, the silent man steadied the camera, released his grip, and said softly:

“It’s done.”

His voice was low, cold, and rich—distinctive and mesmerizing.

The livestream viewers once again saw a clear image.

It had taken less than thirty seconds. The camera and audio equipment were fully restored, with almost no delay.

Someone sharp-eyed caught a glimpse of a hand passing in front of the camera.

[That hand is so nice-looking—is it the assistant?]
[And that voice… My ears are melting.]
[Thank you, assistant! Now I can continue enjoying my baby!]
[…Are you sure that was an assistant?]

Some of the audience members fell silent.

Was it really who they thought it was?

But… how could that be possible?!

On the other side, Lu Yu and his manager’s faces darkened instantly.

“You said there wouldn’t be a problem!” the manager snapped, almost frantic.

Their plan had been simple: cause a brief camera malfunction, then use it as an excuse to have the director switch to another contestant. That way, all the audience’s attention would shift to Lu Yu. Even if the equipment got fixed later, there was no guarantee Fang Huai would be given extra time. Plus, once the initial wow factor was gone, fewer people would vote for him.

Lu Yu’s expression was also grim.

After a brief pause, he said, “Push trending topics on Weibo. Do it now.”

The manager’s face darkened further, but he nodded.

Back in the livestream, the video feed was crystal clear once again, with the audio fully restored.

And after a brief discussion, the audience’s attention was once again drawn back to the stage—

Fang Huai simply had that kind of presence.

As long as he was in your line of sight, you wouldn’t want to look at anything else.

He had a unique, magnetic presence that belonged only to him.

The young man, dressed in traditional opera attire, stood under the dim stage lights, his eyes half-closed—his beauty was almost unreasonable. The melody of Yu Furong’s first two lines was slow and gentle; if one didn’t pay attention to the lyrics, it could almost feel like a fleeting spring dream.

Until this moment.

The person on stage suddenly opened his eyes, and his pace quickened:

“Along the red-walled corridors, the path winds askew—
A noble youth first rides the carriage of fortune.”

“By the Green Creek, magnolia trees abound—”

A gaping hole in the sky let in soft, hazy light, casting an almost surreal glow over the scene. As Fang Huai opened his eyes, a single tear slipped unexpectedly from the corner of his eye.

—“But none compare to the peach blossoms in the east wind.”

His voice, once gentle and restrained, rose suddenly, carrying a tremor of suppressed grief. The urgency in his tone made each word feel like it was carved in blood, nearly cracking with raw emotion.

Many watching the screen forgot to type.

The livestream, which had been a chaotic flurry of comments moments ago, fell silent all at once—almost as if everyone had agreed to hold their breath.

Not until the spoken verse ended, transitioning into the next verse—”Blood splattered, forming the Peach Blossom Fan”—did the chat suddenly explode again!

[What just happened????? Why do I have chills all over my back???!!!]
[He recited a line from The Peony Pavilion during auditions, and I thought he had some talent… but now??? His spoken delivery is insane.]
[I’m done talking. I’m going to dig up my grandpa’s Kunqu opera collection. This is too good.]
[Of course, it sounds good, lol. It’s fake singing. You guys really believe this? They just played Master Dong’s recording while he lip-synced. No way someone could sing this flawlessly live.]

“……”

This segment of The Peach Blossom Fan, Yu Furong, wasn’t long, and it soon came to an end.

But the fervor in the chat showed no sign of dying down. If anything, after the initial shock, the comments exploded even more intensely.

[Ahhhhh, I want to marry him—wait, no, I want to—marry—wait…]
[Screw it, I just want to be with him!!!]
[Wait, what’s wrong with Huaihuai???]

Someone sharp-eyed noticed that right after singing the last line, Fang Huai suddenly stumbled—he was about to fall!

But most viewers didn’t think much of it. They assumed it was just part of the performance—like how tragic dances or plays often ended with the performer collapsing dramatically on stage.

They thought this was the same.

Only a few people realized something was truly wrong with Fang Huai’s condition.

[Is he about to fall?]
[Someone help him!!]
[No one can reach him in time! The camera crew is all offstage, and the distance is too far!]

The next second.

A sharply dressed man seemed to materialize onto the stage.

He was tall, standing straight as an arrow. From the camera’s perspective, the perfectly tailored high-end suit accentuated the elegant lines of his shoulders and back. His fingers curled slightly as he reached forward—

And caught the falling boy in his arms.

He held him tightly, his knuckles slightly turning white.

Fang Huai’s eyelashes drooped, and his lips pressed together. His exact condition was unclear.

The audience, both in the theater and watching from their screens, fell into a brief, two-second silence.

[How did he appear there??? Or am I seeing things?!]
[My poor baby QAQ what’s happening to him?]
[That back view looks so handsome… I want to see his face.]
[+1 for wanting to see his face.]

The man holding Fang Huai seemed to realize something and turned around—

The screen suddenly went black.

“……”

[WTF. WTF. WTF.]
[I think I just saw his eyes??? So freaking handsome, but also… strangely familiar???]
[I’m more worried about Huaihuai right now QAQ]
[It’s finally Xiaolu’s turn!!! Go, Xiaolu!!!]

Lu Yu’s team was well-prepared. As soon as the livestream switched to him, they immediately took control of the narrative, steering the conversation and managing comments. They flooded the chat with discussions about Deepwater Torpedoes (a known fan-favorite performance), quickly suppressing those still talking about the previous incident.

Some netizens had recorded the livestream, but they soon discovered something eerie—their footage only captured the moments before that man appeared. Everything after that had been mysteriously cut off. It was as if the scene had been collectively erased from existence, making people wonder if they had all experienced a shared hallucination.

Meanwhile, on the screen, Lu Yu had already begun his performance.

He was playing the piano. He wasn’t trying to win with creative expression—this was pure technical showmanship. And admittedly, the piece was extremely difficult. Not a single note was off, his execution flawless. It was indeed impressive.

[Lulu 66666 (amazing)]
[Hahaha, way better than that stiff, robotic opera performance earlier.]
[Tbh, I couldn’t appreciate the last guy at all. His singing felt fake.]
[No wonder he’s performed on the Spring Festival Gala before. Truly deserving of his fame.]
[Am I the only one who finds the camera angle weird? You can’t see his face at all.]

That last comment was swiftly deleted by the moderators.

Some people were curious, but they didn’t dig too deep—after all, the pianist looked like a slender young man from behind. Most viewers didn’t question it further.

*

Fang Huai’s vision suddenly blacked out.

For a few seconds, he lost consciousness. His head spun, his ears rang, and his footing completely gave way.

But it only lasted for a few seconds.

When his awareness returned, he found himself being held in someone’s arms.

More precisely, he had been held, but the moment Fang Huai regained clarity, he instinctively stepped back.

“…Ye Yuyuan?” He said the name for the third time now, still slightly clumsy with it. “We meet again.”

He’s really good-looking, Fang Huai suddenly thought.

He had mild facial blindness but could still distinguish beauty from ugliness. Ye Yuyuan’s skin was pale—not the soft, porcelain kind, but a cold, almost inhuman shade. From a distance, he might seem detached and unapproachable, but up close, he looked like a perfectly sculpted deity. His jet-black eyes carried a trace of icy sharpness.

Yet when Ye Yuyuan looked at him, that cold indifference seemed to fade, revealing something much softer.

Hearing Fang Huai’s words, Ye Yuyuan gave a faint “mm.”

After a brief pause, he asked, “Not feeling well?”

Fang Huai shook his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

His condition had been perfect from the moment he stepped on stage. He hadn’t been sick recently either, so what just happened was… incredibly strange. If he had to describe it, it felt like what Fang Jianguo had once called being possessed.

…But people don’t really believe in superstitions these days, right?

He thought about it for a moment and decided not to mention it.

A cameraman and an assistant approached, looking slightly apologetic.

“Fang Huai, the program team is all set now. You’re free to do as you like for the rest of the event.”

They had been answering questions from the secretary earlier and hadn’t seen what had happened on stage. But they still felt guilty about the technical difficulties during the livestream, even if it wasn’t intentional.

Fang Huai nodded.

“What are you planning to do?” the photographer asked casually.

“First,” Fang Huai smiled and pointed to his face, “I need to wash this off.”

He was still in full opera costume, complete with intricate headwear and makeup—it was definitely time to remove it.

“Mm.” The photographer nodded but felt a slight pang of regret.

Fang Huai’s opera attire was stunning. Was he really going to just wash it off like that?

Of course, Fang Huai couldn’t hear his inner thoughts. He simply waved and turned to leave.

And as he turned…

A shadow followed behind him.

Though, considering his size, “shadow” wasn’t quite accurate. More like a large tail. A nearly 1.9-meter-tall man was silently trailing behind Fang Huai—his expression completely natural, as indifferent as ever. His lips were pressed into a straight line, as if this had been his intended direction all along.

Fang Huai: “……”

The secretary: “……”

The secretary was panicking internally. Manager Li and President Zhang are waiting outside! Is this really okay?!

They had come here to discuss a project—a land development deal related only to a branch of Ptah. Ye Yuyuan technically didn’t need to be here at all.

Three hours ago, after wrapping up the main negotiations, there were still a few loose ends left to handle. But when the secretary turned back, President Ye had already disappeared.

He’s not the workaholic he used to be, the secretary thought.

“Ye Yuyuan,” Fang Huai glanced back at him as they walked, his amber eyes bright and clear with amusement. “What are you doing here?”

“To discuss busin—”

“Taking a walk,” Ye Yuyuan interrupted, his voice calm. Then, he shot the secretary a look.

The secretary: “……”

He stopped in his tracks, a cold sweat breaking out on his back as he watched the two of them walk away.

“Mm.” Fang Huai nodded, accepting the answer.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at the backstage lounge, the same room where Fang Huai had changed earlier.

The space was narrow, with an old-fashioned small-paned window and a tiny mirror. By the window, a white magnolia tree was in bloom, and a sparrow chirped from the windowsill.

Ye Yuyuan had followed him the entire way but finally stopped at the doorway, his lips pressing together slightly.

Fang Huai hadn’t spoken a word to him since they arrived.

His fingers curled slightly, and his gaze dimmed.

“You’re not coming in?” Fang Huai looked toward the doorway after sitting down, surprised.

Without even thinking, he had already started pouring tea for him—hot tea from a thermos.

When he was young, he and Fang Jianguo had lived in the mountains, not far from a village. Fang Jianguo would often go there to play mahjong, sometimes bringing people back for a casual chat over tea.

This wasn’t his home, but it was still a place where he could serve a guest.

Fang Huai had always been polite.

Hearing this, the man hesitated.

After a long pause, he finally stepped inside.

He took the cup from the boy’s hands.

Technically, it wasn’t even a proper cup—just the lid of the thermos. If the employees at Ptah could see their aloof, wealthy, and notoriously unapproachable CEO sitting in this cramped and simple room, quietly sipping hot tea from a thermos lid…

They probably wouldn’t believe it.

Yet his expression remained perfectly composed, as if none of this was out of place at all.

His dark eyes were misted over by the steam, softening bit by bit.

After a long moment, Ye Yuyuan murmured, “It’s very sweet.”

“The tea is sweet?” Fang Huai was momentarily stunned.

Ye Yuyuan was silent for a few seconds, then shook his head slightly.

He fixed his gaze on Fang Huai.

“Not the tea.”

His voice was deep and rich, with a slight rasp at the tail end—gentle, lingering, and fleeting.

Fang Huai didn’t notice. He simply smiled, his eyes curving as he exhaled in relief, removing the headpiece from his opera costume before picking up a towel to wipe off his stage makeup.

Bit by bit, his porcelain-white skin was revealed. Under the dim light, the corners of his eyes and brows glowed with a soft radiance. His pale amber eyes were pure and captivating, carrying a subtle sweetness from head to toe.

He was like a bright, crystalline candy in a display case—dazzling like the stars, yet soft and sweet.

Like a wish within reach. A dream that wasn’t too far away.

Fang Huai glanced at the small table filled with bottles and jars. Shi Feiran hadn’t been able to come today due to family matters but had prepared everything for him in advance. One of the bottles had a label: Use this to wash your face after the performance. It was makeup remover.

Fang Huai hesitated for a moment, then opened the cap. After a brief thought, he simply poured it directly onto his face.

The next second—

“Hiss—”

Fang Huai sucked in a sharp breath and immediately shut his eyes.

…It burned.

The liquid had gotten into his eyes!

It felt like pouring chili water directly into them—acidic, stinging, and unbearably painful. He tried blinking, but his eyes were already red, welling up with reflexive tears.

Ye Yuyuan’s eyes froze, his brows knitting slightly.

“Don’t move.”

As he spoke, he took the towel from Fang Huai’s hand and gently dabbed at the water around his eyes.

His movements were careful. But after just two strokes, his hand suddenly paused.

They were… too close.

Fang Huai still had his eyes shut, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor. Meanwhile, Ye Yuyuan was leaning over him. Their faces were so near that their breaths nearly intertwined. Soft light streamed in through the small window.

The tips of the man’s ears suddenly grew warm.

“This is a very suitable position for kissing,” a flat, mechanical voice sounded in his earpiece. “Apologies, I accidentally accessed your brainwaves just now.”

Ye Yuyuan: “……”

It might be time to consider replacing his AI.

*

Meanwhile, on Weibo.

The hashtag #FangHuaiLipSyncing was quietly gaining traction. In less than thirty minutes, it had already climbed into the top five trending topics.

[??? What’s going on?]

[Apparently, he was lip-syncing during the talent performance. Desperate to get famous, huh?]

[Didn’t he only make it up the ranks through shady deals? Buying trending spots, rigging the auditions—he knows exactly how he got through the preliminary rounds. Rotten from the core, what can you expect from him?]

[The comment above is definitely a paid troll. I’m taking my boy away from this mess. Weren’t you guys the ones calling him a “migrant worker” before? Now, all of a sudden, he’s got powerful connections parachuting him in? Funny how your precious Lulu just happened to be outplayed by a ‘migrant worker’ using backstage deals. LOL.]

A well-known Weibo influencer posted:

“Here’s an audio comparison with Professor Dong’s work. Decide for yourselves if someone was lip-syncing. [Audio]”

The post didn’t include any professional sound analysis, but just from listening…

It really did sound suspiciously similar.

Dong Rulan’s early recordings had poor sound quality, slightly muffled, but the enunciation, breathing techniques—many details actually matched up.

[???]

[Not gonna lie, it does sound kinda similar.]

Seeing these orchestrated smear comments, Fang Huai’s fans were absolutely furious—who wouldn’t feel protective when their own was being attacked?

[Anyone who watched the livestream knows he wasn’t lip-syncing, right? He didn’t make a single mistake because he worked hard—try practicing 16 hours a day before you talk.]

[Are you all deaf?? How does this sound alike at all?! Stop spreading lies, NMSL.]

[Some fans really have no class. Coming in here just to insult people—guess that says a lot about their idol.]

[Seriously no manners. Just like a certain “migrant worker.” This is why nine years of compulsory education is essential.]

This smear campaign was clearly led by Lu Yu’s fans, and they weren’t even trying to hide it.

The talent show relied on public votes. The worse Fang Huai’s public image got, the more it benefited them. And now that Fang Huai’s fans were enraged, it actually played right into their hands—his fans were lashing out indiscriminately, turning themselves into easy targets and further damaging his reputation among casual viewers.

The show’s producers probably hadn’t expected their carefully planned competition format to devolve into such vicious rivalry.

Li Yun opened Weibo and took a quick glance. Her mind went blank for a moment.

Like many other fans, she was absolutely livid. But she forced herself to stay calm and turned to her father.

“Dad, people online are spreading rumors that Fang Huai was lip-syncing. They’re saying the audio played was actually Professor Dong’s recording.”

Li Su was already dialing Professor Dong’s number.

Just as she spoke, the call connected.

Li Su: “……”

There was a brief silence on both ends.

After a long moment, a gentle yet aged voice came through the phone, “…Fang Huai?”

---

Get The Whole Series on PDF and EPUB Click Here!