Chapter 42
“Excuse me, may I borrow the piano?”
The room fell silent for a few seconds.
Wang An felt a flicker of surprise. Just moments ago, he had been debating who to replace Fang Huai with. After all, only yesterday, Fang Huai had still been in that same slump—how could he have possibly composed something overnight?
The media, too, looked at Fang Huai with suspicion, their skepticism evident. Countless cameras were locked onto him, capturing everything.
“At least he looks good. Absolute visual impact.”
“Which character is he playing? Is Fang Huai making a cameo?”
“Honestly, he should just go into variety shows and endorsements—make a living off his looks. Songwriting? He just doesn’t have what it takes. Why insist on embarrassing himself?”
The grand piano in the corner had been sitting unused for a while. Its tone was still accurate, but a thin layer of dust had gathered, forming faint beams of light in the air.
But the moment Fang Huai pressed that first key, all the murmuring instantly ceased.
It was a low, low note.
So low it felt like being plunged into the depths of the coldest, darkest ocean. All warmth and color drained away, leaving only an overwhelming chill. For a split second, it felt as if even one’s heartbeat had frozen over. In just ten short seconds, the temperature of the entire hall seemed to drop, as if the outside light had been swallowed by the rising tide.
But that cold wasn’t gradual—it came fast and sharp, seeping into every pore, making people shudder—
The young man sat quietly at the piano, eyes lowered. He was still dressed in that military uniform, his shoulders and back forming elegant lines. The light cast shadows on the curve of his profile, and all of a sudden, he felt so distant from everyone.
Then, someone realized—
This was nothing like any of Fang Huai’s previous songs.
His past works had never ventured into such deep, low registers. His music had always been free, relaxed, gentle. Because of that, it had lacked a certain depth—a sense of story.
But now, that missing depth was being filled in.
Each note pulsed with weight and restraint, tangled together, echoing back—a suffocating rhythm, like heavy, unheard breathing. It was the sound of someone trapped, struggling for a sliver of air, being dragged down deeper and deeper…
The tension kept building, pressing to an extreme. Then—Silence.
Fang Huai lifted his wrist, his fingertips hovering over the keys, his chest rising and falling sharply.
The air was thick with unease, frozen in place.
The very reporters who had been mocking him moments ago were now unconsciously entranced. As the silence stretched on, one of them, embarrassed by his own reaction, tried to cover it up with a scoff.
“This is what you call songwriting? This melody is awful…”
It was oppressive.
And in many people’s minds, oppressive meant bad.
The next second.
The repressed sound suddenly exploded like a tidal wave!
Without any buildup, the very first key pressed was already the climax. All the pent-up emotions, wound so tightly, surged up at once, carrying everyone’s feelings higher—pushing them beyond their limits.
It was as if every soul in the room had been pulled into the magnetic force of the melody, trembling in resonance. The sheer outpouring of emotion in that moment made it almost impossible not to cry. Every corner of their hearing was overtaken, filled to the brim, like a long-awaited rainstorm after an endless drought.
A sudden tempest of rain and wind swept through the entire space. The once-empty hall seemed to be caught in a whirlwind, obscuring the flashing lights, the gazes, the shocked expressions of the onlookers—everything disappeared behind an invisible curtain.
In this entire world, only that piano sound remained, dominating every sense, controlling every thought.
The journalists holding their cameras forgot to take pictures. Wang An’s hand trembled slightly as he gripped his pen. Lin Shengyun took a deep breath, his eyes slowly filling with astonishment—he had struck gold.
Fang Huai had complete mastery over emotion.
The structure of suppressing before soaring was common in composition, but many failed to execute it well—either they couldn’t suppress deep enough, or once suppressed, they couldn’t bring the emotion back up effectively.
But Fang Huai had no such problem.
His repression was absolute, and his explosion was an unrestrained, unrelenting eruption.
If his past songs were impressive—proof of his raw talent—then now, this song was beyond that. Brilliance was no longer enough to describe it.
The greatest composers in the world don’t just write songs. They write themselves into their music. Their life attitudes, their thoughts and emotions—woven into every note.
Fang Huai’s past works had certainly been stunning, but they had never been this—never this profoundly earth-shattering.
He had grown.
The first light of dawn streamed in through the windows, casting a glow on the boy’s eyelashes, tiny specks of light like scattered stars. Dust particles drifted gently in the air.
The melody crossed its most passionate peak and slowly softened, transitioning into the final movement. The ending notes were bright and pure, wrapping up all the intensity and weight with a sense of closure—like the relief of surviving a storm, a peaceful resolution after chaos.
And then—
The final note fell.
Silence blanketed the entire hall.
Fang Huai’s wrist hovered above the keys. A single curl of hair framed his forehead. His eyes opened—clear, bright, and piercingly transparent. Sweat trickled down his temple. His chest rose and fell with deep, heavy breaths.
The fine dust in the air swirled gently with the light, and the slowed flow of time gradually returned to normal.
Since it was just the opening ceremony, Fang Huai had shortened the song on the spot to only a minute and a half. But no one even noticed.
He let out a soft breath, lowered the piano lid, and curved his lips into a faint smile before bowing to the crowd.
The reporters from earlier were left speechless. In the end, it was Feng Lang who reacted first. The strikingly handsome man leaned lazily against his seat, his half-lowered golden eyes partially hidden beneath his lashes. Then, with a leisurely smile, he started clapping.
As if awakening from a dream, the rest of the audience followed, and soon the media swarmed forward.
“I…” Wang An’s expression stiffened. “I always believed in Fang Huai! Yes, I did mention the possibility of changing composers before, but that was in the context of adding some supporting staff—without replacing the main composer—”
But no one in the room was a fool. Wang An had dodged the question before, using vague language, and now he was trying to switch sides. His opportunistic attitude left a lasting impression on many. Being profit-driven wasn’t necessarily wrong, but his lack of conviction made him seem untrustworthy. Sometimes, being too short-sighted led to greater losses—like this time.
Had things gone Wang An’s way, Frost might have missed out on an exceptionally talented composer like Fang Huai.
In the years that followed, Wang An’s career gradually stagnated. He was only able to take on commercial film projects and could no longer advance in the industry. But that was a story for another time.
Fang Huai, now shielded by staff members, selectively answered a few questions.
It was now intermission, and the main cast and crew interviews had concluded. After a short break, they would head outside for the traditional blessing ceremony and officially kick off filming.
Meanwhile, Lin Shengyun had no interest in dealing with the reporters. The old director had been so excited that he’d already paced around twice before swiftly making his way to Fang Huai. His eyes were bright with enthusiasm.
“Have you written the lyrics yet? You haven’t refined them, have you? No rush—I’ll assign you a team…”
Fang Huai listened carefully.
His gaze drifted slightly, and he suddenly noticed a man sitting in a high seat not far away. The man, with his light golden eyes lowered in a casual manner, held a wine glass in one hand. His lips carried a faint smile as he raised his glass in a distant toast to Fang Huai.
In front of him, a piece of paper had been folded into the shape of a half-bloomed rose.
“…”
Fang Huai blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Without understanding the intent, he nodded slightly in acknowledgment before retracting his gaze and continuing to listen attentively to Lin Shengyun.
*
After the Frost opening ceremony, the top two trending topics were, as expected, dominated by Feng Lang—
The first spot: #Feng Lang Frost Costume Reveal#
The second: A romance rumor.
Feng Lang’s costume photos were undeniably stunning. His role in Frost was an unconventional hero—he drank, smoked, and appeared like a good-for-nothing at first glance. It wasn’t until the film’s final act, where he sacrificed himself for his ideals, that his brilliance truly shone through. And despite the character’s initial unlikability, Feng Lang’s stills had somehow given him an effortless allure.
But beyond that, something unexpected happened.
Many had assumed Fang Huai was destined to fade into obscurity—but against all odds, he, too, made it onto the trending charts.
Of course, part of this was due to the Frost team’s marketing efforts, but even so, it was an impressive feat.
At number three: #Fang Huai Opening Ceremony Song (Full Version)#
[I knew he could do it! ]
[I cried listening to it… I wasn’t even interested in Frost before, but for this song? Count me in.]
[So where’s the full version?! The internet only has a minute and a half clip! I demand an official promotional video now!]
Additionally, #Fang Huai Military Uniform# had entered the top ten.
The military uniform clip had first gone viral on Douyin (TikTok). After discussing it with Shi Feiran, the Frost marketing team decided to seize the opportunity, using the popularity of the video to promote the film’s costume and set design.
[Aaaaaah I’m dead! Miracle Baby collection update: Linen Shirt Baby, Midnight Blue Custom Suit Baby, Opera Costume Baby, Military Uniform Baby.]
[I love this game! When can I start spending money on it?!]
[The costume and styling in Frost really live up to the hype… Wait, is he barefaced? His skin is unreal, I’m jealous.]
Fang Huai’s appearance in the military uniform was simply too striking—not just handsome, but truly commanding. With his tall frame, straight posture, and a youthful mix of defiance and elegance, he had an effortless camera presence. Several international fashion magazines took notice, subtly shifting their attention toward this young talent from Asia.
Of course, what was happening online had little to do with Fang Huai himself.
After the opening ceremony, filming officially began, and Fang Huai focused on refining and perfecting his song.
The theme song, sharing the same name as the film, Frost, had only been drafted on the first day—just the main melody and a piano version. He had a rough idea for the lyrics, but the arrangement was still a blank slate.
Since a theme song was a major project, Fang Huai wasn’t handling it alone. Another lyricist and arranger were involved, and the final singer hadn’t been decided yet. Some suggested Fang Huai should perform it himself, while others worried his vocal tone wouldn’t fully capture Frost’s atmosphere. The debate was still ongoing.
The arranger, Zhang Xuhao, was an experienced professional and got along well with Fang Huai. They often sat together discussing ideas, with Zhang Xuhao occasionally pointing things out or offering fresh perspectives. He was straightforward and easy to work with.
However, the lyricist sent by Wang An to “assist” them was a different story.
“You can’t write it like this,” said Lao Li, a middle-aged man who adjusted his glasses as he spoke. “These lyrics are too straightforward. We’re making a deep, meaningful film… Depth, do you understand?”
He gestured dramatically, spitting as he spoke. “Xiao Fang, you’re too shallow. This is why life experience and education are—”
He cast Fang Huai a condescending glance and stopped talking.
Fang Huai, ever patient, nodded politely and asked, “Then what do you suggest?”
Lao Li dramatically rewrote the entire line on the spot.
Zhang Xuhao leaned over to take a look and was instantly speechless: “…”
Fang Huai studied the new lyrics under the light, his amber-colored eyes reflecting a soft glow. After a moment, he sincerely said, “I’m sorry, but I think this sounds terrible.”
“…Art, do you even understand art?!”
Because of Lao Li, everyone’s progress had been significantly delayed. The production had just begun filming, and the whole team was already overwhelmed with work, leaving Lin Shengyun no time to deal with this issue.
That night.
Lao Li was still rambling on about his so-called artistic vision when Fang Huai’s phone suddenly rang. He paused, nodded apologetically to everyone, and stepped outside while holding his phone.
The late summer night carried the distant sound of oars dipping into the water, accompanied by a fisherman’s song. The osmanthus flowers were about to bloom.
Fang Huai leaned against the railing with one hand, tilting his head back to gaze at the sky. He asked,
“Ye Yuyuan?”
A soft “mm” came from the other end.
“Did you receive it?” The young man’s eyes curved into a smile, his long lashes catching the faint glow of the stars. “It’s nothing expensive, but I hope you like it.”
Hundreds of kilometers away.
A silent man lowered his dark eyes, his index finger twitching slightly. His gaze fell upon the object on his desk, his usually cold expression softening. After a long pause, he murmured in a low voice,
“I like it very much.”
On the desk sat a small ceramic wine bottle.
It was crafted with exquisite care—the porcelain glaze was of high quality, clearly handmade with meticulous attention to detail. At the bottom of the bottle, a few small characters were carved: Peace and Joy. It was a gift from Fang Huai to Ye Yuyuan.
Fang Huai knew how to work with clay, but for him, finding a shop in the city that offered pottery services and finishing a piece within a limited time was no easy feat. He had prepared this for a long time but never found the right opportunity to give it. Eventually, he brought it to the filming location and then mailed it back to Nan City.
Had the secretary been present, he would have known that “liking it very much” was an understatement.
Despite the bottle being somewhat out of sync with Ye Yuyuan’s usual minimalist aesthetic, it began making frequent appearances on his otherwise barren social media.
Ye Yuyuan’s last Moments post had been two years ago, yet in just a few days, he had posted four or five photos, all subtly centering the little bottle. Even during video conferences, he would unconsciously place it in the most visible spot on his desk.
This wasn’t just “liking” something.
This was adoration, down to his very bones.
