Chapter 47
“A noble man, like jade—cut, polished, carved, and refined.”
“This is a verse from the Book of Songs.”
“A gentleman is like jade. His name is Yucheng. Do you remember?”
At the time, the little boy was barely three or four years old. Other than Fang Jianguo, he wasn’t close to anyone, and some even doubted whether he was slow-witted.
Wearing a pair of overalls, he held a small shovel, quietly scooping at the sand. His round, light amber eyes blinked up at the man, and after a long silence, he softly asked:
“Who is he? Why do I have to remember him?”
The unkempt middle-aged man had a mischievous grin on his face. He watched the child for a moment, and then, slowly, his smile faded.
“Will you remember or not?”
“……”
The boy silently met his gaze.
But surprisingly, Fang Jianguo didn’t get angry. He simply stared at the child for a long moment, sighed, and shook his head.
“He’s your savior.”
“He is…” His voice suddenly turned hoarse, dropping to a near whisper, and the smile on his face finally disappeared altogether.
Fang Jianguo never finished that sentence.
He held the little boy’s hand as they waited outside a grand theater.
At that moment, a performer in a blue opera gown—Dong Rulan—stepped out, smiling as he called out, “Brother Jianguo!” before embracing Fang Jianguo.
Beside Dong Rulan stood a young man dressed in a military uniform—handsome, with sharp features.
The young man effortlessly lifted the little boy into his arms, smiling as he said, “Huaihuai, it’s been a long time. You’ve grown so much.”
It wasn’t until much later that Fang Huai suddenly recalled that scene—and along with it, the words Fang Jianguo had left unfinished.
He had said:
“He is…”
“The person I wanted to love all my life but never dared to.”
“……”
Fang Huai didn’t have many childhood memories.
As far back as he could remember, he had always lived with Fang Jianguo in a remote place, rarely venturing into the world. Most of his knowledge came from Fang Jianguo and the radio. Before that, his memories were fragmented, scattered like pieces of a puzzle with no connecting thread. He had always wanted to recover them.
The abandoned theater in Nan City, Dong Rulan, “Yucheng”…
These fragments crowded together in his mind, but the thread that strung them together had long been missing.
That was why, during the talent performance of Stellar Light, Fang Huai had chosen the old, abandoned theater in Nanshi. But that attempt had failed—by the end, he could only recall a few clear images.
Until today.
Until that morning, when Shi Feiran mentioned the name Lin Shuheng from Frost, mentioned the jade pendant, and until Fang Huai, absentmindedly writing, had unintentionally penned the words:
“Like cutting and polishing, like carving and grinding.”
At that moment, a corner of the veil covering his memories was suddenly lifted.
In an instant, he understood why he had always felt an inexplicable fondness for the story of Frost. Because the Lin Shuheng in the script was very likely the same person he had met as a child—the person Fang Jianguo had spent his whole life thinking about.
What had happened back then? Who was Lin Shuheng to him? How… had Lin Shuheng died?
Fang Huai had a strong feeling—he needed to see the full script of Frost.
“Director Lin, I’m sorry, but may I take a look at the script?”
Fang Huai had run all the way there. One button on his linen shirt had come undone, his nose was slightly red, and sweat clung to his temples. The assistant director opened the door to let him in. Fang Huai barely registered the scene inside before he spoke anxiously.
Only after his breathing calmed did he realize that something felt off in the room.
“…Director Lin?”
This was Guan Li’s first time seeing Fang Huai in person. He had only seen him in videos and variety shows before. Now, for a brief moment, he was stunned—he hadn’t expected Fang Huai to really look like this.
The industry wasn’t short of good-looking people, but Guan Li had been acting for years—he could tell at a glance which faces would shine on screen and who had potential.
And Fang Huai… He was only eighteen. His features hadn’t even fully matured, yet he was already so strikingly clean-cut and handsome. If Guan Li had to guess—give him a few more years, and he’d hit his peak. Right now, he was still an unpolished gem, but even so, he already looked this good.
Some people were just born to be in this industry. It was almost unfair.
Guan Li quickly composed himself.
He had lost his temper just now—because Lin Shuheng was a role that many veteran actors didn’t dare touch, and new actors weren’t qualified for. He had been stuck in between, neither here nor there, which had made him the perfect candidate to seize the opportunity.
His agent had even assured him with absolute confidence that he would get the role. They had painted a bright future for him—only for him to be rejected at the last moment. In his anger, he had lashed out.
As for why Lin Shuheng was such a difficult role?
Firstly, because he was based on a real historical figure—one who had left a significant mark on modern history. A single misstep in the portrayal could lead to severe backlash.
And secondly… that historical figure had been gay.
Although the country was much more open-minded than before—same-sex marriage had even been brought up for legislative discussion—when it came to the entertainment industry, the atmosphere remained strict.
It wasn’t that certain themes were outright banned or that films couldn’t get screening slots, but any actor who took on such a role risked being typecast. It was a thankless, high-risk job, which was why casting for this role had been so difficult.
Guan Li had assumed that Lin Shengyun had no other choice but him.
And now, Fang Huai was standing here.
That… was very interesting.
As the thought sank in, Guan Li’s expression darkened slightly.
“What do you mean by wanting to read the script?” Lin Shengyun was somewhat surprised, but his expression remained completely neutral.
Could it be that Fang Huai… wanted to act?
His mind quickly started analyzing this possibility.
“Director Lin.”
Guan Li suddenly spoke, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced at Fang Huai, a trace of mockery flashing in his eyes, though he only curled his lips slightly before quickly restraining himself.
“So that’s why you rejected me—you had already reserved the role for someone else, giving them a backdoor pass.”
He was genuinely curious—what kind of background did Fang Huai have to make Lin Shengyun, who was notoriously meticulous about his work, not only hand over the theme song but now even consider giving a supporting role to someone who had never acted before?
Fang Huai was certainly good-looking, but Guan Li could tell—he wasn’t suited for acting. His emotions were restrained and introverted, which was fine for musicians and singers, but for an actor, it was a fatal flaw.
Even playing an ordinary role would be a struggle for him, let alone portraying Lin Shuheng.
Fang Huai: “…?”
Lin Shengyun’s assistant gestured for Fang Huai to sit aside and poured him a cup of tea. Fang Huai accepted it and sincerely thanked him.
Keeping matters separate, Lin Shengyun stated firmly, “No. You simply didn’t perform well enough—you didn’t meet my expectations.”
Guan Li’s expression twisted slightly again. But he quickly swallowed his frustration and said,
“Then give me another chance.”
“And why should I?” Lin Shengyun looked at him in disbelief, nearly laughing in exasperation. “Oh? So now Frost isn’t a guaranteed flop anymore?”
“I lost my head for a moment, Director Lin. Please don’t hold it against me.” Guan Li was remarkably flexible, putting on a forced smile and lowering his voice. “Others might not see it clearly, but surely you do. Do you really think Fang Huai can carry such a role? Give me another chance—we can negotiate the pay.”
This was, of course, the concern lingering in Lin Shengyun’s mind. Fang Huai did have a significant flaw that couldn’t be ignored.
Though he was still annoyed, he calmed himself and thought it over. He glanced at Fang Huai again—the young man was sitting quietly in a chair, flipping a page of the script. The afternoon light cast shadows along his profile.
Lin Shengyun weighed his options. After a brief hesitation, he finally relented, impatiently tossing a new slip of paper to Guan Li and saying,
“Three minutes.”
An on-the-spot audition.
Guan Li got into character almost instantly. The room gradually quieted down. Fang Huai, who had just turned a page in the script, suddenly sensed something and looked up.
Guan Li pulled a chair to the center and sat down. At first, he lowered his head over an invisible desk, eyes downcast as if he were writing. His face was devoid of expression—his features, which usually gave off a warm and sunny charm, now felt distant and cold. The stark contrast made him seem unapproachable, even indifferent.
This was the young master Lin Shuheng—raised under strict family discipline, molded by the most orthodox and gentlemanly education.
To be fair, Guan Li had his merits; after all, he had passed several rounds of selection.
The assistant director gave a small nod of approval, but Lin Shengyun remained impassive.
A moment later, Guan Li subtly shifted his posture. He crossed one leg over the other, fingers seemingly holding an invisible cigarette. Everyone knew what this meant—this was Lin Shuheng after he had strayed from the right path.
Lin Shuheng had always been a controversial figure, not even considered a protagonist in the traditional sense. His youth was cold and detached, his later years reckless and debauched. Guan Li’s performance did, indeed, capture that decadence.
He first leered at an imaginary figure on the street, letting out a vulgar whistle, then took a slow, self-satisfied drag from his imaginary joint. He hit people, bullied the weak, and indulged in every vice imaginable.
Half a minute later, Guan Li, who had been slouched forward, suddenly lifted his head and gazed toward a certain direction. There was no one there, but everyone knew—this was Lin Shuheng hearing someone call his name.
In that instant, his eyes darkened with an intense, almost overwhelming desire.
“…I’m here.”
The performance ended.
Lin Shuheng was never meant to be a purely righteous character. It wasn’t until his final moments—when he sacrificed himself for his beliefs and finally bared his heart—that his life revealed its only moment of brilliance.
Guan Li’s portrayal wasn’t exactly wrong. He had effectively conveyed that cold indifference and downward spiral—it was immersive, even. But somehow… it felt like something was missing.
This version of Lin Shuheng was simply detestable.
Guan Li could tell from the reactions around him that his performance had landed well. A satisfied smirk played on his lips. As he walked past Lin Shengyun, he lowered his voice, speaking with deliberate insinuation:
“Director Lin, go ahead, look around—where else is Frost going to find a better fit than me? That backdoor kid? You must be joking. Even if you’ve lost your mind, the producers and investors haven’t. They’ll never approve him.”
This time, Guan Li’s performance was undeniably better than before.
Lin Shengyun didn’t respond. His face showed impatience, but after a brief silence, he turned and exchanged a few quiet words with the assistant director. That was when he suddenly caught sight of Fang Huai’s expression.
The young man sat in his seat without a word, his eyes shadowed in the dim light. He had watched the entire performance in silence, only now furrowing his brows ever so slightly.
Lin Shengyun paused.
He had watched Guan Li’s performance, knowing something still wasn’t quite right. But reality had almost pushed him into compromise—until he saw that look in Fang Huai’s eyes.
His heart stopped for a beat, then suddenly pounded wildly. Without thinking, he asked,
“Fang Huai, do you have something to say?”
Fang Huai’s brows had only furrowed for a moment before he smoothed his expression. He met Lin Shengyun’s gaze, remained silent for a second, then shook his head.
No. It would be too rude to say anything.
Fang Huai wasn’t the type to publicly embarrass someone.
“So, is the actor decided?” Lin Shengyun’s assistant whispered from the side. “This is the first time Lin Shuheng will appear on the big screen. No one’s dared to film him before… and now we’re letting Guan Li define him?”
As everyone knew, the first actor to portray a historical figure on screen often shaped the public’s initial impression of that character—an influence that could not be understated.
From then on, whenever people mentioned Lin Shuheng, the first image that would come to mind would inevitably be Guan Li’s interpretation.
Fang Huai’s fingers suddenly curled slightly.
He lowered his eyes, something flickering in the depths of his light amber irises.
The room remained silent for nearly a full minute. No one spoke.
The assistant director waited for a moment before exhaling—a mix of slight regret and relief—as he said, “Alright then, let’s move forward with contract negotiations—”
The smile on Guan Li’s lips deepened. Victory was within his grasp.
And then—
Lin Shengyun suddenly narrowed his eyes, cutting the assistant director off:
“Wait.”
In the silence that followed, under the watchful eyes of everyone in the room—Fang Huai stood up.
The young man was tall and slender, standing amidst the interplay of the afternoon light and the heavy drapes. His light amber eyes shimmered with something unreadable. He let out a soft breath and said:
“Sorry,” he looked at Guan Li, “but I think…Lin Shuheng isn’t like this.”
His lips pressed into a firm line. He spoke each word with absolute conviction.
