Chapter 43
Fang Huai’s military uniform video continued to go viral—its popularity had exceeded even the expectations of the production team and Shi Feiran.
Originally, they had only intended to generate some buzz, but thanks to a lucky stroke of timing and the organic enthusiasm of online users, the video’s ranking on trending lists skyrocketed. Of course, in retrospect, this outcome wasn’t entirely surprising—the video’s composition and aesthetic impact were simply stunning.
The girl who originally shot the video was an extra and a small-time influencer who knew all the right angles and techniques for capturing compelling footage. What made it even better was that she had the perfect vantage point.
In the background, all the clutter—props, equipment—faded into the shadows. Dust particles in the air caught the light, forming soft beams. The dressing room’s poor lighting ended up creating an extraordinary play of shadows and illumination.
The camera first captured a single hand.
That hand lifted the curtain, revealing the figure standing at the intersection of dim light and shadow.
It was a young man, barely an adult. His slender fingers adjusted his sleeve, fastening the last metallic button at his collar. He was tall and lean, wearing military boots. His light brown eyes gleamed like amber. His lips were faintly curved, holding a smile that was both clean and slightly distant. Handsome, yet untouchable in a way that exuded restraint.
As his eyelashes lowered, time itself seemed to slow down—as if he carried his own slow-motion effect.
[Ah, I’m dead.]
[Obviously staged, looks so fake… And buying trending spots? What a joke.?
[To the comment above, no one’s forcing you to watch. Also, @FrostOfficial Weibo V, please arrange for the promotional song’s video recording ASAP, thank you! Also, selfishly, I need to see him in that military uniform on the big screen—too handsome, it should be illegal!]
[Magazine cover and editorial spread, maybe?! Not to mention, his body and visuals are top tier.]
*
Xiao Xu was a girlfriend fan of Fang Huai.
She had just graduated this year and started her internship at Ptah’s PR department two weeks ago. Ptah was one of the top companies in the industry, and perhaps due to Ye Yuyuan’s personal work style, the entire company operated with strict discipline, high efficiency, and meticulous precision. Xiao Xu worked a standard 9-to-5, and her biggest joy in life was scrolling through Weibo and keeping up with Fang Huai’s updates.
That afternoon was no different. During her lunch break, she had no urgent tasks at hand, so she secretly logged into Weibo on her office computer—just in time to see Fang Huai’s military uniform video.
“……” Ahhhh!
She suppressed a scream with all her might, her hands trembling as she typed and retweeted the post:
@CorporateSlaveXu: “Thank you, everyone, for appreciating my boyfriend Fang Huai in his military uniform~ [doge emoji]
@HuaMuV: “Guess who I ran into today?
Fang Huai’s fan base was initially dominated by mom fans, but after the Stellar Light finals, a wave of girlfriend fans and wife fans had flooded in—Xiao Xu being one of them.
But today, after she sent that Weibo post, she suddenly noticed that her surroundings had gone completely silent.
She worked in PR, a department usually filled with lively discussions and even heated debates, so this level of quiet was rare. The way her colleagues were looking at her made her realize something—slowly, she turned around.
A man in a perfectly tailored suit stood in silence, his gaze briefly landing on her computer screen. Beside him were his secretary, the PR department head, and a few executives from partner companies. Clearly, they were in the middle of a routine inspection.
Xiao Xu involuntarily shivered.
She was honestly a little scared of this young yet incredibly powerful boss. Employees had mixed opinions about him—some feared him, while others felt quite the opposite. After all, as the saying goes, wealth and power are the best embellishments for a man. And Ye Yuyuan himself was already exceptional enough.
The first 24 years of his life were a complete mystery—no media outlet had ever dug up any information on him. In just a few short years, he had risen from having nothing to standing at the center of the world. Even without mentioning his almost terrifying résumé, his personal abilities alone were astonishing.
He held no official degree from any school, yet one of the world’s top three engineering universities had granted him an honorary professorship. He single-handedly wrote the core algorithm for Ptah’s first through fourth-generation AI. His casually written lines of code had even left Silicon Valley’s most elite and arrogant programmers in awe.
And now, that very man stood there in silence.
Ye Yuyuan was, in truth, incredibly handsome. He was tall, and his impeccably tailored bespoke suit outlined the sharp contours of his physique.
He stood there, surrounded by many people, his face emotionless. A faint gloom lingered between his brows, and his presence was almost inhumanly distant.
The entire office fell silent, with everyone wearing different expressions.
“…President Ye, is there a problem?”
In the end, the department head braced himself and stepped forward to ask.
Ye Yuyuan showed no particular emotion. His gaze swept across the screen and briefly paused on the words “my boyfriend, Fang Huai.” His thin lips pressed together slightly.
The room remained utterly silent.
Everyone felt as if the air had frozen. In reality, only half a minute had passed. But… even though President Ye’s expression was the same as usual, his secretary and a few familiar colleagues could tell—this was a sign of displeasure.
On Xiao Xu’s screen, the military uniform video was still playing on loop. The tall, slender young man dominated most of the display, his image repeating over and over again in the short clip.
After a long pause, Ye Yuyuan let out a soft “Mm” and said in a low voice:
“It’s nothing.”
He stood in silence for a moment before stepping out first. His secretary, assistant, and the department head quickly followed.
The moment the door closed, the tension in the office instantly eased.
Xiao Xu, whose heart had nearly stopped, finally exhaled as if she had just survived a disaster. Meanwhile, the office erupted into murmured discussions.
“What was that about? President Ye isn’t usually that strict. It’s not like checking Weibo during lunch break is a crime. Why did he look upset?”
“That scared me to death,” Xiao Xu said, clutching her chest. “I almost had a heart attack.”
“I think he just doesn’t like the guy on the screen,” a female model nearby smirked, her voice carrying a hint of contempt. “What’s his name again? Fang Huai? …A fake-looking face that’s honestly terrifying. Not good-looking, so pretentious, always hyping himself up with bots—so annoying. Even appearing on the screen is an insult to President Ye’s eyes.”
The speaker was Lin Fangchun, a model who collaborated with one of the company’s subsidiary product campaigns. She had no real reason to be at headquarters but constantly found excuses to visit under the pretense of “discussing collaborations.”
Everyone could see that Lin Fangchun had a thing for President Ye.
From the very first day, she had tried carrying a homemade bento box around, hoping for a coincidental encounter with Ye Yuyuan at every hallway corner. She had tried countless ways to get his attention—of course, all of them failed. No one really understood her thought process, but after being ignored so many times, she had grown increasingly bitter, to the point of borderline delusion.
Now, anything that caught even a fraction of Ye Yuyuan’s attention would immediately become the target of her vitriol.
“I’ll just say it outright,” she sneered. “Some low-tier little celebrity is never getting into President Ye’s sights. What, a toad dreaming of swan meat?”
Xiao Xu couldn’t help but laugh. “Miss Lin, are you talking about yourself?”
A full-blown argument nearly erupted, but their coworkers quickly stepped in to diffuse the situation.
Meanwhile, on the other side—
At 8 PM, employees had gradually finished work and left for the day. Since it wasn’t a critical development period, the workload wasn’t overwhelming, and aside from a few people staying late, the lights in the building flickered off one by one.
The video conference ended, marking the close of another workday.
Ye Yuyuan’s secretary knew his habits well. There was no coffee or water cup on his desk—because the desk was always cluttered with important documents, and spilling a drink could cause unnecessary trouble.
But in the very center of the desk sat a small, exquisitely crafted ceramic sake bottle.
It was carefully placed on a non-slip velvet mat, ensuring it remained within Ye Yuyuan’s line of sight while also preventing it from being accidentally knocked over.
Ye Yuyuan silently unlocked his phone and opened Weibo.
The trending feed was still filled with Fang Huai’s military uniform video, flooded with comments from girlfriend fans and wife fans.
For content as overwhelmingly masculine and visually stunning as this, girlfriend fans would temporarily outnumber mom fans. The comment section was full of posts like “Huai Huai, marry me!” and “Thank you all for supporting my boyfriend.”
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the night was calm, with the city’s countless lights flickering in and out of view.
The man pressed his lips together slightly, a fleeting trace of displeasure flashing through his eyes.
His gaze soon landed on the small ceramic bottle on his desk, and his expression softened. He curled his index finger slightly, then, after a brief pause, scrolled through his photo album.
He had never understood his subordinates’ habit of constantly posting on social media—sharing pictures of their wife’s homemade lunchboxes, celebrating their child’s perfect math score. To him, these were trivial matters, nothing noteworthy.
But now, he suddenly understood.
The photo he selected was of the small sake bottle. Ye Yuyuan hesitated for a moment, then began typing a Weibo post.
At first, he instinctively wrote “boyfriend.”
After a moment, he coughed lightly, his ears heating up. He slowly deleted the words and changed them to “friend.”
Even then, he still wasn’t satisfied.
The gentle night stretched on.
Ye Yuyuan lowered his eyes, and in the end, he changed the wording to—
@Ye Yuyuan V: A gift from a little friend. [Photo]
He pressed send.
A few minutes later—Weibo nearly crashed again!
Normally, someone like Ye Yuyuan—who neither managed his social media nor frequently appeared in public—shouldn’t have had such a high level of engagement.
But just recently, he had delivered the closing speech at Davos. Discussions surrounding Ptah’s latest achievements remained at an all-time high. And only a few days ago, an international top-three engineering university had announced that he had been exceptionally granted an honorary professorship. His previous, rarely updated Weibo posts had already been flooded with programmers, admirers, and fans checking in.
This post, however, carried a particularly unusual significance.
It was nothing like his usual cold, businesslike style.
[Little friend… Does President Ye have a son or daughter?! That can’t be, right?! He’s still single, isn’t he?]
[Just realized that President Ye, like the rest of us, also breathes, drinks water, eats, and has a normal social life.]
[Is this… showing off a gift?! The tone is so affectionate ahhh I’m dying.]
[So, who is the little friend? Hm?? I’m jealous. My pH levels are dropping.]
*
That evening, at 6 PM.
Fang Huai set down his pen and exhaled softly.
For the past few days, neither he nor his team had been doing much apart from occasionally visiting the set to observe the filming process and refine their feel for the project. Their main focus had been perfecting and polishing the theme song.
The lyrics were basically finalized, but the specifics of the arrangement were still under discussion. Old Li was still stubbornly meddling and making trouble for everyone, but by now, everyone tacitly agreed to just ignore him.
Fang Huai remained calm. He wasn’t the sociable or leader-type, but he was incredibly serious and dedicated—he spoke little, and nine out of ten times, it was about the music. He was always open to new ideas and willing to put them into practice.
In contrast, Old Li was all talk and no action. The team wasn’t foolish—when put side by side, the difference was obvious.
At one point, Old Li insisted that his composition was better and wanted to have it judged by a professional.
Zhang Xuhao, the arranger, reached out to his graduate advisor—a well-respected figure in the industry. The old professor first reviewed Fang Huai’s work and didn’t hesitate to give it high praise. Then, after taking a look at Old Li’s melody, he bluntly said, “Nonsense.”
Old Li’s face turned green on the spot.
After that, he became even more confrontational with Fang Huai, but everyone just treated him like a clown and didn’t bother engaging.
During this time, something else happened.
A mainstream fashion magazine, Young, approached Shi Feiran, wanting Fang Huai to shoot an editorial spread. As one of the big three fashion magazines, appearing in Young wasn’t just about popularity—it was a mark of recognition from the fashion world.
Some celebrities, despite having massive popularity, could never break into the big three and were left circling the fringes. On the other hand, getting an offer from a top magazine right after debuting was incredibly rare.
Yet, Shi Feiran didn’t immediately accept.
He was waiting. An editorial spread wasn’t enough—he wanted to secure a solo cover for Fang Huai.
A cover carried far more weight than an inside spread. Young had already shown great interest in Fang Huai, so the chances of securing the cover were high.
As night approached, dusk spread over the water town like an ink wash painting.
The crew’s assistant came around with boxed meals. Everyone paused their work to chat. In a few days, they would be returning to Nan City—they had only come here to complete the initial filming. With progress more than halfway through, the team was noticeably more relaxed.
Fang Huai took his meal but didn’t join in the conversation. He walked along the gray walls and white tiles toward the set.
*
The assistant director was currently overwhelmed with stress.
A supporting actor, Xu Shu, had ghosted the entire crew without a word. At first, he had said he would come later, but eventually, they couldn’t reach him at all. Left with no choice, they had to push his scenes back and start looking for a replacement.
Xu Shu’s character had an independent storyline—not exactly crucial, but not insignificant either.
While Lin Shengyun was filming on one side, the assistant director was scrambling to recast the role on the other. He was so busy that he felt like he could play the role himself at this point.
The character was a young master from an aristocratic family.
Born into a prestigious household, he had received the most orthodox noble education. His entire life revolved around his beliefs.
After his family declined during political turmoil, he strayed from his path—a once-polished gem, now covered in dust. He fell into a reckless lifestyle, spending years as a street thug, gambling and fighting. Later, he joined the military.
The early part of Frostfall took place in this small water town, which was the setting for their current shoot. As the story unfolded, the location would change.
Near the film’s climax, the young master sacrificed himself for his beliefs.
At dawn, with a smile, he took his own life. That moment was a quiet yet heavy emotional peak of the film.
“I, Lin Shuheng, have lived a life of triumph and of struggle. I have been reckless, and I have nearly died a beggar on the streets. I have also fought my way forward with a gun in my hands. I do not die for anyone—I die for my beliefs.”
The assistant director, gripping the script, sat on a stone stool and had nearly memorized all the lines by now.
Fang Huai, holding his boxed meal, sat down nearby, gazing at the rippling water and the boats returning at dusk. He lowered his eyes and opened the meal container.
He liked it here.
The assistant director glanced at him. The fair-skinned, handsome young man sat with his long legs stretched out, eating quietly. His light amber eyes, washed clean like water, shimmered in the twilight.
The director suddenly recalled that military uniform video and had a very bold idea flash through his mind. His heartbeat quickened.
“Fang Huai, can you read this line?”
Fang Huai paused, put down his chopsticks, and read the line seriously:
“I, Lin Shuheng, have lived a life of triumph and of struggle. I have been reckless, and I have nearly died a beggar on the streets. I have also fought my way forward with a gun in my hands. I do not die for anyone—I die for my beliefs.”
He read it with extreme seriousness.
Serious, clear, and completely monotone.
Absolutely devoid of emotion, with not even the slightest rise or fall in intonation. Forget about capturing the character’s resignation and defiant brilliance in his final moment—this was the kind of robotic line-reading that would get you scolded out of an introductory acting class.
The assistant director sank back into his seat, his previously racing heart slowly settling down. Right. What was he even hoping for? Fang Huai was a musician. He was already outstanding in his own field—if he also turned out to be a born actor, that would be almost unbelievable.
That said, his appearance really did fit the character.
“Was that okay?” Fang Huai finished reading and looked at him earnestly.
“Yeah, that’s fine. Thanks.” The assistant director weakly waved his hand.
He realized something—Fang Huai rarely showed emotions outwardly. His way of expressing emotions to the world was through music.
People like him—musicians, painters—weren’t necessarily lacking in feelings. But their way of expressing them was usually subtle and restrained, woven into melodies and colors rather than words. To put it simply, genius often comes with a touch of social detachment.
Actors, however, were the complete opposite.
He had been overthinking it.
*
As night approached, Fang Huai finished his meal, cleaned up, and after getting permission, wandered around the set.
He wanted to make Frost’s theme song as perfect as possible. Though the main melody was already set, there was still a lot of room for improvement in the arrangement. That’s why he made time to visit the set every day.
For example, the sound of oars hitting the water in the intro, the fishermen’s song, the whistle of a steamship and gunfire in the key change—every little detail subtly mirrored moments in the storyline.
It was painstaking work, most people wouldn’t even notice these details, and it was thankless effort—but Fang Huai insisted on doing it.
And that was exactly what Lin Shengyun appreciated most about him.
Oars and drifting clouds intertwined on the water’s surface as dusk spread across the sky.
Suddenly, Fang Huai’s phone rang.
The assistant director only saw him glance at the caller ID. In the next moment, the young man’s eyes curved slightly, and a sudden brightness filled his gaze—he looked happy.
How should one describe it?
Fang Huai was usually reserved with his emotions. He had remarkable talent and was incredibly photogenic. Whether in reality shows, on the red carpet, or in videos, his presence was undeniable.
But most of the time, his emotions were carefully concealed. His red carpet videos at least showed glimpses of his gentle warmth toward fans, but in competition shows or other recordings, while he was undeniably good-looking, with an aura that easily drew people in, his emotions always felt polite yet distant.
Many actors and celebrities were skilled at the art of “flirting with the camera,” but Fang Huai was not. It was as if every camera adored him—but he felt nothing for them in return.
But this moment was different.
The assistant director’s breath caught. On impulse, he lifted his camera and peered through the viewfinder at the young man.
The fading sunlight brushed against Fang Huai’s lowered lashes. His light amber eyes gleamed brilliantly for just a fleeting instant. He was slightly turned away from the camera, holding his phone. The golden light traced the contours of his face, from his forehead down to his collarbones, while shadows interwove delicately.
And in that moment, his expression came alive. His emotions spilled over, raw and unfiltered.
The assistant director’s heart began to race wildly.
