All the Cubs I Raised Became Big Shots – CH48

Chapter 48

“I think…Lin Shuheng isn’t like this.”

Fang Huai’s tone was so earnest that everyone was momentarily taken aback.

A beat later, a trace of mockery flashed through Guan Li’s eyes, while the assistant director looked visibly stunned.

He hadn’t interacted with Fang Huai much, but his impression was that the young man wasn’t the reckless type. And yet, wasn’t this recklessness? Not only had he openly embarrassed Guan Li in front of everyone, but his words left no room for retreat.

What was he trying to do? Did he think he should play the role instead?

The idea was so unexpected, so absurd, that most people found it almost laughable.

Fang Huai doesn’t even know how to act.

Even Lin Shengyun hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, leaving no space for negotiation. His brows furrowed slightly.

But Fang Huai no longer cared about the reactions around him. He turned to face Guan Li and bowed deeply.

It was an apology—for embarrassing him in front of so many people.

He knew this wasn’t right, that it was impolite.

But in the end, he had still decided to do it.

Lin Shuheng wasn’t like that.

“Then what was he like?” Guan Li let out a mocking scoff, making no effort to hide the derision in his eyes. “I don’t get it—do you?”

Guan Li hadn’t done much research on Lin Shuheng. He only had a general impression of the character. But to be fair, there wasn’t much easily accessible information about Lin Shuheng to begin with.

His job was to act—to leave an impression on the audience, to satisfy the director. It wasn’t even a lead role. Who actually cared what the real historical figure had been like, whether he was good or bad?

Besides, he wasn’t wrong in his portrayal. Lin Shuheng had been reckless and depraved. After his family’s sudden downfall, he had abandoned his servants and even several younger relatives while fleeing. If that wasn’t cold and ruthless, then what was? The reason Guan Li had chosen those specific scenes was precisely because they were vivid and striking—easy to perform. Overacting wasn’t the problem in acting; the real challenge was portraying those subtle, nuanced emotions that seemed restrained yet carried layers of depth.

At this moment, Fang Huai had already straightened up, locking eyes with Guan Li from across several meters.

His gaze was clear and piercing, as if he could see through everything in an instant.

A strange, unpleasant feeling rose in Guan Li’s chest—like he had inexplicably been put in his place.

“Then what was he like? Go ahead, teach me.”

Guan Li stared at him, repeating the question with even more ridicule and a faint trace of irritation.

“Fang Huai,” Lin Shengyun’s assistant spoke up, looking at him with concern. “Just let it go…”

The assistant director also tried to dissuade him. “Aren’t you heading back to Nan City tomorrow? Just take the script with you and read it. Just don’t leak anything. Leave this matter alone.”

But Lin Shengyun raised a hand, cutting him off. He fixed his gaze on Fang Huai for a few seconds before speaking, “Since you’re not satisfied with Guan Li’s portrayal, why don’t you try it yourself?”

“What is the Lin Shuheng in your mind like?”

He handed Fang Huai a sheet of paper.

Fang Huai was silent for a moment before saying, “Alright.”

Standing partly in the shadows, his face unreadable, he reached out and took the page.

The page contained Lin Shuheng’s life story. Just a few simple lines—brief, sparse, and devoid of any subjective judgment. Lin Shengyun gave every actor this same page, presenting only the most basic information, leaving it to them to interpret and bring the character to life.

Fang Huai vaguely remembered seeing Lin Shuheng a few times when he was very young.

If he had to describe that person in terms of color and light, it would be like the light on a rainy afternoon—muted and gray, but with a brilliant radiance hidden behind the clouds, waiting to break through once the storm passed.

At the very least, it wasn’t the version of Lin Shuheng that Guan Li had just portrayed.

Under the watchful eyes of those around him—some mocking, some curious—Fang Huai walked toward the center of the room. As he passed by Lin Shengyun, he lowered his voice and asked a question. Lin Shengyun raised a brow and murmured a few words in response. The exchange was brief and subtle, unnoticed by most.

Fang Huai took a seat in the chair, inhaled deeply, and let his gaze fall on the sheet of paper.

For a full two minutes, he studied it in silence. Then, he placed it down and closed his eyes.

The entire room fell still.

Dust particles drifted in the air, illuminated by the light filtering through the window, forming soft beams that pooled at Fang Huai’s feet, weaving a hazy, story-like atmosphere.

He lifted his wrist and grasped an imaginary pen from the air. Then, with quiet focus, he bent over the table and began to write, each stroke deliberate and serious.

At this, many people were surprised.

He had chosen to act out the exact same scene as Guan Li.

Aside from that, it was clear that his movements were somewhat unfamiliar, slightly stiff. After all, this was his first time acting, whereas Guan Li had nearly a decade of experience on the big screen.

A gap that wide wasn’t something one could just bridge overnight.

Several people—including the assistant director—were already feeling a sense of disappointment.

The assistant director had expected this outcome. He had known all along that Fang Huai wasn’t suited for acting, but he had still held onto a small, irrational hope that he would surprise them. Now, it seemed like wishful thinking.

Whispers spread through the crowd, and Guan Li let out a disdainful chuckle.

Suddenly, Fang Huai’s “pen tip” halted. He tilted his head slightly, gazing out the window.

Just moments ago, as he had been writing, his light brown eyes had been clouded with a misty haze—like a still, lifeless pool of water—completely detached, void of emotion. But in that brief moment when he turned his head, the light from outside caught his gaze, and for an instant, those gray, murky eyes were touched by light.

The young man, somewhat awkwardly, tugged at the corners of his mouth. There was a hint of longing in his eyes as he revealed a clumsy, hesitant smile.

The room suddenly fell silent.

Fang Huai’s acting was still noticeably raw and unpolished, but for a fleeting second, he had merged with the character.

A sense of curiosity stirred among the onlookers.

What was he looking at?

Behind the high walls of a strict, traditional household lay rigid family rules and an unyielding hierarchy. A person who had grown up within such a rigid social structure—what could he have seen through that tiny window that made him smile like that?

A street artisan sculpting clay figurines? A peddler’s tray filled with trinkets? Or something else entirely…?

Before they could ponder further, the moment had passed. The scene transitioned to the most reckless and debauched period of Lin Shuheng’s life.

Fang Huai’s gaze lowered, and his posture gradually collapsed inward.

The cold detachment in his eyes had now transformed into complete emptiness—like a pool of water with no ripples, no life.

Perhaps Fang Huai knew he couldn’t rely on intricate physical gestures alone, as Guan Li had done, to immediately bring the character to life. Instead, he positioned himself with his back to the light, leaving not a single glimmer of brightness in his now dull, lifeless eyes. He hung his head and took two slow, numb steps forward.

Since both Fang Huai and Guan Li had performed the exact same scene, the audience couldn’t help but compare them.

“Purely in terms of emotional expression, Fang Huai still falls short.”

“It’s inevitable—he has no experience.”

“That smile in the first scene was decent, but now he seems to be losing momentum again.”

Acting could sometimes be a sudden stroke of inspiration, but more often, it was a skill honed through habit and experience. A seasoned actor knew exactly which movements could efficiently convey the essence of a character. Fang Huai, however… he hadn’t reached that level yet.

Watching it all unfold, the assistant director couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of regret.

The tall, slender boy walked forward slowly, his head hanging low, his back slouched. There was no particular detail in his movement, no strong emotion—it just looked like Fang Huai had run out of ways to act and was simply going through the motions.

Seeing this, Guan Li completely relaxed. A sense of satisfaction even crept into his heart. So many people were watching—Lin Shengyun might be blind, but all these other eyes weren’t. No matter what, Fang Huai couldn’t possibly…

Just as he was turning away—

“Thud.”

The sound was sudden and heavy—That tall, slender boy had fallen.

For real.

He had collapsed in the most ungraceful, humiliating way, hitting the ground hard. Blood immediately trickled from his nose. He was wearing a slightly loose linen shirt, the open collar revealing his delicate collarbones, and his cheek was smudged with dust from the floor. It was obvious at a glance—this fall must have hurt.

Some people thought it was an accident and instinctively stood up, ready to help him up.

The assistant director had the same thought—until his gaze landed on Fang Huai. His pupils shrank slightly.

Something was off.

Without hesitation, he gestured for everyone to stop.

Fang Huai remained on the floor, motionless in his fallen position. Pain flickered across his face for a fleeting moment—then it was gone, swallowed up by indifference and numbness. Blood trailed from his nose, snaking down onto the floor. He stared at it, detached, then curled the corner of his lips ever so slightly.

Pathetic. Ridiculous.

Like watching a farcical tragedy unfold—except this time, he was no longer just an audience member sitting below the stage. He had been painted in stage makeup, shouldering the weight of the role himself.

Then, once again, he fell.

And this time… he didn’t want to get back up.

He lay there, expressionless, his linen shirt stained with dust, his nose and cheeks smudged with grime. He looked like a white bird with clipped wings, discarded into the dirt, slowly losing all traces of life.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Fang Huai knew his skills weren’t refined enough, his details and movements not precise enough to shape a character through sheer technique. So he had chosen the simplest, most direct, and completely unexpected method.

He actually let himself fall.

In theater, actors sometimes needed to truly fall, to take risks physically—unlike film, which could rely on post-production and editing. This was why stage acting was considered more demanding than screen acting.

There were no camera cuts, no music to amplify emotions—only raw performance. And in that moment, when Fang Huai hit the ground, many people felt their hearts tighten.

Then, before they knew it, their attention was completely drawn to his expression, his eyes, his body language. Just like that, they were pulled into the moment—suddenly, they understood Lin Shuheng’s emotions. That tightening in their chests turned into a deep, relentless ache.

It was crude, unpolished. His technique was rough, his experience lacking.

But Fang Huai had done it.

Everyone thought that was the end.

Guan Li’s expression darkened slightly, though he quickly masked it with indifference. Lin Shengyun showed a flicker of approval—only to shake his head a moment later.

No.

Something was still missing.

Lin Shengyun frowned slightly. He wasn’t just looking for cheap tricks and flashy stunts.

Then—

Fang Huai’s eyelids started to droop, about to fully conceal the lifeless, pale eyes beneath them.

But in that instant—his body suddenly stiffened.

His eyes snapped open.

And in the distance, against the light, he saw someone approaching.

That person was important.

Even though he couldn’t see clearly or hear distinctly, he knew—that person was important.

“Tap, tap, tap.” Rapid footsteps echoed in his ears, drawing closer—

The person who had already given up on struggling somehow found strength from nowhere. He fought to stand up, inch by inch, forcing his collapsed spine to straighten once more. He hid his bloodied, gravel-scraped palms behind his back and faced forward.

Then…

He smiled.

A clumsy, awkward smile.

He no longer looked like a street thug who had been knocked down countless times, who had long given up, numbing himself daily with drugs. Instead, he looked like the well-dressed, clean, and handsome young master he once was, gazing through the small window of his study, trying his best to smile for that person outside.

That nonexistent person called his name.

The boy, his voice hoarse, replied:

“…I’m here.”

The others didn’t know.

But Fang Huai did.

He had only met Lin Shuheng a handful of times, and his memories of him were vague at best. But even so, he still remembered—Lin Shuheng always appeared immaculate, his presence commanding. Yet when he had once held a young Fang Huai in his arms, only the boy could feel it—his arms were trembling, and beneath the bandages, blood seeped through.

He was injured.

But he had masked it all, putting on his best, most impeccable appearance—hiding every trace of his struggles—just so he could meet someone in his finest state.

That was Lin Shuheng.

Not the depraved, shameless version that Guan Li had portrayed.

Even if he had truly fallen into the mud, his very essence remained noble.

Not entirely good, not entirely bad. A person who was flawed but real. Someone who once truly existed.

Not a conventional hero, but not a villain either.

He had carried the weight of an entire world on his back, speaking of faith and the people, yet he never voiced the most important words—not even at the very end.

But the truth was—

He had loved him.

The silence in the room stretched on, thick and unmoving.

Fang Huai hadn’t really become Lin Shuheng. It was as if, from the depths of time, he had simply reached back and pulled that man forward—just for a fleeting moment, just for everyone to take one last look at him.

And that alone—was enough to shake them to the core.

In that suffocating stillness, Guan Li’s face paled to an ashen shade. The assistant director stood frozen, mouth agape.

And then—

Lin Shengyun abruptly stood up.

There was a trace of emotion in his expression, something rare.

Everyone held their breath, waiting for his comment, expecting some kind of professional critique.

But after a brief silence—

He turned to Guan Li and said,

“You just said that Frost wouldn’t be able to find an actor more suitable for Lin Shuheng than you.”

“You were wrong.”

Guan Li: “…”

A thousand curses ran through his mind.

How the hell was he supposed to predict that Fang Huai could pull this off?!

He wasn’t convinced. Not entirely. But at the same time—

He couldn’t argue against it.

And that was the most unbearable part.

“Damn.”

On the other side, the old man wore an arrogant smile and said:

“You said Frost would flop, but you were wrong.”

“Frost won’t flop.”

“It will be a box office hit, win countless awards that you could never even dream of, and make you regret forever missing the chance to be part of it.”

Guan Li originally had a good chance of landing this role.

Fang Huai couldn’t match his acting skills, no matter what. But Guan Li had been so sure of his victory from the start that he didn’t even prepare seriously. He rushed into negotiations about his pay without truly immersing himself in the role. It had been a long time since he had really tried to understand a character—he had just been tagging along, going through the motions day after day.

There was nothing inherently wrong with that. A lot of actors did the same thing these days, avoiding exhaustion and hardship. If there was an easier way, why not take it?

But because of that, some opportunities, once missed, were gone forever.

Guan Li slowly clenched his fists, his face dark and stormy.

Yet beneath that darkness, there was a trace of confusion.

*

Shi Feiran was completely dumbfounded when he received a call from the assistant director.

He couldn’t understand—just this morning, Fang Huai had shown no interest in acting. How did he suddenly land the role of “Lin Shuheng” by the afternoon?!

Wasn’t he refusing to act?!

“Fang Huai, can you explain this to me?” Shi Feiran tried to keep his voice level.

The only relief was that “Lin Shuheng” didn’t have too many scenes. Though the character had a storyline, he wasn’t a main role, and staying with the crew for half a month would be enough… But even so, Shi Feiran still found it unacceptable.

That role was a trap.

Fang Huai rubbed his nose, a tissue stuffed in one nostril to stop a nosebleed. He said,

“I actually…”

…never planned to act.

He knew he wasn’t skilled enough—handling a couple of scenes was fine, but anything longer would be beyond him. But Lin Shengyun had told him that if he didn’t take the role, “Lin Shuheng” would either be cut from the script or given to someone like Guan Li.

Neither outcome sat well with him.

Shi Feiran wanted to say more, but looking at Fang Huai, he ultimately just let out a heavy sigh, turned around, and left to deal with promotional matters.

Fang Huai sat in his room for a moment before pulling out his phone.

Not long ago, he had texted Ye Yuyuan, saying he would return to Nan City the next day… But now, that didn’t seem possible.

The young man’s brows furrowed slightly.

He wasn’t sure whether to send another text or make a call, and as he hesitated, his phone suddenly rang.

It was Ye Yuyuan.

“Hello?” Fang Huai walked over to the window, gazing at the evening sky. His voice was quiet. “Ye Yuyuan, I’m not going back to Nan City tomorrow.”

The person on the other end was silent for a moment before asking,

“What happened?”

Through the speaker, there was a mix of wind and distant chatter—it seemed like Ye Yuyuan was outside.

“There’s a role in Frost.”

Fang Huai briefly explained the situation. The man listened quietly and, after a pause, responded with a soft “Mm.”

He didn’t ask for details—why Fang Huai was acting, what was special about this role. Instead, after a brief silence, Ye Yuyuan’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, his lips pressed together as he asked in a low voice “…Does it hurt?”

Falling to the ground—did it hurt?

At that moment, everyone had been watching Fang Huai’s performance. When he got up, only his assistant had handed him a tissue.

Fang Huai was startled for a second and muttered, “…It doesn’t hurt.”

His nose was still stuffed with tissue to stop the bleeding. His knee had slammed into the ground, now bruised and swollen.

He wasn’t very good at lying.

There was a brief silence on the other end before Ye Yuyuan said, “Liar.”

“I’m not lying. It doesn’t hurt.”

“Mm.” Ye Yuyuan’s voice lowered even further.

“I’ll see for myself.”

The boy froze slightly. “See how?”

On the other end of the call, Ye Yuyuan said calmly, “Open the door.”

At the same time, the doorbell rang.

Fang Huai: “…”