Chapter 55
The entire room remained silent.
It was no exaggeration to say that almost everyone’s expression was blank, their gazes frozen in place—Lin Shengyun, the assistant director, the screenwriter, and even the staff members and assistants who had been whispering and mocking just moments ago.
The impact of that brief scene— stunning was far from sufficient to describe it.
An inexplicable emotional vortex had spread throughout the space, gripping every person’s heart and dragging them toward something deeper, something more bitter and cold.
They had been completely drawn into Lin Shuheng’s emotional world.
The resonance trembled through them, and for a moment, they sank into the same despair that plummeted straight to the ocean floor—so heavy, so exhausting, so unbearably painful that it made them want to flee.
Lin Shengyun remained silent. He didn’t call “cut.”
And so, this half-minute stretched into an unspoken, weighty long take.
Fang Huai’s eyelids had fully lowered. He looked as though he was in so much pain that he couldn’t even speak. His eyes were red, his body curled on the ground. The dim light brushed against his lashes, and in that glow, his porcelain-pale skin appeared so translucent that the faintest trace of veins could almost be seen. His collar had loosened slightly in the motion, revealing the delicate lines of his collarbone and waist—not with any hint of sensuality, but rather, with a beauty unique to youth.
A deeper, heavier emotion blanketed the entire frame.
The boy’s palm, scraped raw by the thorns, cradled the shattered rose. He lowered his eyes, pressing soft kisses against the dust-laden petals and sharp thorns alike—again and again.
Like an unfinished oil painting, lingering in the hands of its creator.
Not far away, a crumpled sketch lay discarded—a delicate outline of a young man’s profile.
Lin Shuheng had painted countless images of that person in his lifetime. But in none of them was the face ever fully revealed, whether it was a sketch, an oil painting, or a watercolor. These artworks were unseen by the world, quietly stored away in the basement of his private home, gathering dust for years.
He had loved him.
No one had known before; No one would know in the future; No one could tell how much time had passed.
It felt like an eternity, yet when they looked at the clock, only half a minute had gone by. Technically, they had already exceeded the time limit, but since Lin Shengyun hadn’t spoken, no one dared to interrupt.
In fact, deep down, many felt a quiet anticipation.
In those fleeting few seconds, they had caught a glimpse of Fang Huai’s boundless potential. It made them want to watch a little longer, to see what more he could bring, to see what other surprises he had in store.
The boy curled on the ground slowly stood up.
He lowered his eyes as he adjusted his collar. In just a few breaths, he had already regained his composure.
He was Lin Shuheng—the young master of the Lin family, raised with the strict teachings of a noble household. No matter the circumstance, he was someone who would never let himself sink into the dust.
Fang Huai straightened his spine and walked to the desk. He carefully pressed the rose between the pages of a diary.
Then, he bent down and picked up the crumpled sketch.
This was something he had never dared to show him.
It was his disgrace. His cowardice. His raw, bleeding heart.
Back straight, eyes lowered, he gazed at the sketch in his hands.
Tilting his head slightly, he turned the paper toward the light, allowing the camera to capture the image drawn upon it—a delicate pencil rendering of a person’s profile.
He studied it carefully for a moment.
And then, unexpectedly—His lips curled upward.
…A smile?
Everyone was momentarily stunned. They focused their gaze, only to see that the boy in the frame was indeed smiling.
Just moments ago, he had been in such pain that he couldn’t utter a single word—yet now, all of a sudden, he was smiling. His light amber eyes curved slightly, as if he were genuinely happy.
But the hand gripping the sketch was clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.
He kept smiling, and then, without warning, his eyes reddened, and tears began to fall.
“……”
Every person watching felt their hearts tighten all at once.
He was already choking up, trembling uncontrollably—but he made no sound. His lips pressed together, and even as he struggled, he still forced a smile.
It was an ordinary day in the early 19th century. Newsboys shouted on the streets, a vast expanse of blue sky stretched overhead, and the world bustled with people. The sun was shining, the breeze was gentle.
He was only in his teens. His life had just begun.
All the hardships and bitterness of the future had yet to unfold before him.
His road ahead was still long, but already, dark clouds had begun to settle over it.
—No one knew how much time had passed.
Fang Huai turned to look at Lin Shengyun. The shot ended here.
Lin Shengyun had been holding his breath for a long time. It was only now that he finally let out a deep exhale from his lungs.
He raised his hand and, as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, called out—
“Cut!”
*
The moment that word fell, Fang Huai let out a breath and his entire body went slack.
He was exhausted.
Maintaining every single detail in front of the camera was an incredibly difficult task. Before filming officially began, he had spent a lot of time familiarizing himself with the blocking and camera angles.
As the crew moved in to reset the scene, his assistant, Li Yunyun, handed him a towel and a bottle of water. But beyond that, more and more people gathered around, eager to talk to him.
Aside from the production staff, there were also some actors and extras who had been idly watching from the sidelines.
Now, their attitude was a stark contrast to just a few minutes ago.
“That was so amazing!!!”
“You improved so fast—do you have any tips?”
“If you have any issues with the script next time, it’s best to discuss it with us in advance,” the screenwriter said, though by the end, he could only sigh and nod. “But… this time was really good. Really good.”
A large crowd had gathered around Fang Huai. He responded politely to their questions, but as he did, he glanced past them—toward the entrance.
Sure enough, Ye Yuyuan had arrived.
He kept his word.
Strangely enough, from the moment Ye Yuyuan walked in, plenty of people had noticed him.
Yet his aura was so distant, so unapproachable, that no one dared to approach him.
Only one actress had attempted to strike up a conversation, but she was quickly discouraged by Ye Yuyuan’s cold attitude.
And so, at this moment, there was not a single person around him.
He stood tall, his posture straight, bathed in the afternoon light that rested on his shoulders.
And for a brief moment—his figure seemed quietly lonesome.
There were many people around Fang Huai—people who liked him, praised him, even flattered him. He stood at the center of the lively crowd, bathed in attention.
The man in the neatly pressed suit stood there in silence, his dark eyes fixed on Fang Huai for a long moment.
There was little expression on his face, but if one looked closely, his gaze was gentle—so gentle that it even carried a hint of a smile, as if he was happy for the boy.
A moment later, the warmth in his eyes gradually faded. He pressed his lips together slightly, lowered his gaze, and turned to leave.
“You’re definitely going to be famous. Maybe you’ll even win an award,” someone beside Fang Huai—a minor supporting actor, perhaps—chattered on as Fang Huai took a sip of water. “You’ve got so much talent, Fang Huai… Mind adding me on WeChat?”
“Sorry.”
Fang Huai didn’t even catch what the person was saying.
He had already looked toward the doorway, set down his water bottle, and tightened his fingers slightly.
Then, all of a sudden, he stood up.
He pushed through the crowd and walked toward the door, his pace gradually quickening.
“Ye Yuyuan.”
The man’s steps faltered slightly.
The surrounding noise quieted just a bit. Many curious gazes turned their way. Most people had already noticed Ye Yuyuan and harbored various guesses about him, but none dared to confirm them. Now, they all perked up their ears.
“I… finished my scene.”
No one expected such an ordinary sentence.
Fang Huai felt a little anxious.
He wasn’t oblivious to people’s emotions. He could tell that Ye Yuyuan seemed happy for him—yet at the same time, inexplicably unhappy.
Fang Huai had no idea how to make him feel better, so he simply blurted out what was on his mind.
He had finished acting.
This scene had been incredibly difficult. They started filming at eight in the morning, went through more than ten takes, and by the end, the psychological pressure was immense. It had taken a lot to finally get it right.
Fang Huai never had the habit of complaining to others. But now, for some reason, he really wanted to tell Ye Yuyuan just how hard this scene had been to shoot.
For a moment, he was even a little confused.
Why did he feel the need to tell Ye Yuyuan this?
The set was busy, people coming and going, the air filled with noise.
Yet just beyond the narrow doorway, the world was different—a sky as blue as an oil painting stretched above a quiet little town, cicadas droning in the distance.
Ye Yuyuan stood with his back to him, silent for a long time.
After a while, he let out a nearly inaudible sigh and turned around.
His gaze was warm as he looked at Fang Huai.
For a few seconds, Fang Huai felt like a child—and Ye Yuyuan, like an uncle or some kind of elder figure.
Ye Yuyuan reached out and tidied Fang Huai’s slightly rumpled collar.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Of course, he knew that Fang Huai had finished acting.
Fang Huai’s light amber eyes looked at him, and for some reason, he suddenly felt a little disappointed.
“…That’s it?” he asked.
The late summer wind brushed past, lifting Fang Huai’s bangs and the hem of his shirt. There was still a slight sheen of sweat on the tip of his nose, his lips were slightly downturned, and his sharp, rebellious features frowned at Ye Yuyuan, his brows knitting tighter and tighter.
And then—
“I told you before,” Ye Yuyuan’s thumb brushed against one of his shirt buttons before withdrawing.
“You are very good,” he said.
His gaze softened as he looked down at the boy, his voice low and deliberate—
“You are very good.”
You are someone worthy of being loved by everyone.
Fang Huai stared at him.
His light amber eyes reflected the sky, as if caught in deep thought.
Looking into Ye Yuyuan’s eyes, he saw a vast expanse of blue sky, clouds, and sunlight—and in a flash of realization, everything became clear.
He wanted… Ye Yuyuan’s praise.
Ye Yuyuan looked at him.
The late summer wind carried the scent of water, cool against the skin. He gazed at Fang Huai, and for a moment, his breath hitched.
“…Happy?”
Fang Huai nodded. “Mm.”
“They’re all saying you’re very good.” Ye Yuyuan paused for a moment, shifting his gaze away. His voice was almost strained, a hint of expectation buried beneath heavier emotions. “Why… does it have to be me?”
“…”
Fang Huai froze slightly. After a moment, without even thinking, he answered:
“Because you’re special.”
Even though so many people had just praised him—even the strict Lin Shengyun had begrudgingly muttered a rare “not bad”—Fang Huai hadn’t really felt happy. That fleeting joy had only skimmed the surface.
What he truly wanted to hear was Ye Yuyuan’s “You’re very good.” Not from anyone else—only from Ye Yuyuan.
His eyes were clear, free of any impurities.
Ye Yuyuan’s breath caught abruptly.
His index finger curled slightly. For a brief second, he had the overwhelming urge to ignore everything and kiss him.
“What kind of special?” His voice was tight, and he heard himself ask the question with feigned indifference.
He was suddenly terrified of hearing the words “a friend.”
He didn’t want to hear Fang Huai say that he was an especially important friend.
He didn’t want to be his friend.
Fang Huai was silent for a long time, thinking it over carefully before finally looking at him and saying, “I don’t know.”
He didn’t know how to define it—he only knew that Ye Yuyuan was special. The feeling was somewhat like having a very important friend, but he had never had a friend like this before. Everything about it felt overwhelmingly unfamiliar.
Ye Yuyuan stared at him in silence.
The bustling crowd was shut out behind a door, while damp moss slowly crept up the corners of the walls.
He let out a quiet breath, his thumb gently brushing the corner of Fang Huai’s eye—an unconscious, indulgent touch.
In the end, he pressed his lips together, a deeper, more complex emotion flickering in his gaze as he murmured:
“There’s no rush.”
“You can… take your time figuring it out.”
*
Time passed quickly.
In the blink of an eye, Fang Huai had been on set for almost a month.
Lin Shuheng wasn’t even considered a main supporting role—his screen time wasn’t much. He had his own independent storyline, which only intertwined with the protagonist’s plot much later in the story.
All the scenes in the water town had already been filmed. The crew was moving locations, heading to the coastal border for the next phase of shooting.
The tone of the latter half of the story was noticeably heavier and more tragic than the first.
Fang Huai only had two scenes left to film.
He had just two scenes with the lead actor—one had already been completed, leaving only one final scene, which was Lin Shuheng’s wrap-up scene. Aside from that, he also had a solo scene of his own.
By the time everything was nearing completion, the official announcement from the Frost production team regarding the actor for “Lin Shuheng” finally arrived, though it was long overdue.
There had been a lot of considerations behind the delay. The biggest concern was audience backlash and potential disapproval from netizens, as well as strong opposition from producers and investors. They also worried that Fang Huai wouldn’t be able to handle the role and that announcing it prematurely could be detrimental to both sides. But now, with Fang Huai’s scenes almost wrapped, the timing felt right.
@Frost Official Weibo V: Lin Shuheng never died for anyone—only for his beliefs. @Fang Huai V. [Image] [Image] [Image]
Since he had missed the group announcement of character posters earlier, this time, they directly released three stills.
They had expected the images to generate buzz, but they hadn’t anticipated the sheer magnitude of the reaction.
Fang Huai’s fanbase was massive, and after nearly a month of silence, they had been itching for something big. But even without the fans fueling the discussion, these three stills were already enough to cause a stir!
The first image showed a young man half-kneeling on the ground, curled in on himself, his eyes red-rimmed as he kissed a rose in his palm.
The second image was set in a rainy alley, where a disheveled young man slumped against a wall, his shirt so dirty it was impossible to tell its original color. A lipstick stain from a prostitute was imprinted on his collar. His eyes were slightly red at the corners, his left hand clutching a bottle of liquor as he recklessly downed its contents. Above him, an umbrella was held over his head.
The third image depicted him in a military uniform, the double-breasted buttons neatly fastened to the top. The interplay of light and shadow added a sense of storytelling. He gazed forward, flashing a bright, high-spirited smile at the camera, exuding a fearless, heroic aura—like a man ready to embrace death with open arms.
Online Reactions:
[AHHHHHHH I’M DEAD!! I NEED TO SEE THE FULL VERSION OF FROST IN FIVE MINUTES!!!]
[I want to sneak onto set and steal him—how is he THIS handsome?!]
[That first image of him kissing the rose killed me.]
[The second image… the one with the umbrella… looks like a future Best Actor winner. I know that in Frost, the protagonist and Lin Shuheng are kindred spirits, but now I really can’t wait to see their scenes together!]
[Wait… Fang Huai is playing Lin Shuheng? Does he even deserve this role? Who does he think he is? Some no-name hack. Has Lin Shengyun lost his mind?]
Since Fang Huai had zero prior acting experience, opposition was expected. But even so, the sheer emotional weight and impact of the three stills were enough to propel #FangHuaiStarringInFrost to the trending charts.
Many people also knew that the role of Lin Shuheng was originally meant for Xu Shu—who had broken his contract—so naturally, all eyes turned to see how Xu Shu would react.
Xu Shu, however, seemed completely unfazed.
With Chronicles of Spring and Autumn nearing completion, he continued to film and promote as usual. Once Fang Huai started trending, he even released his own video, paid for a trending boost, and successfully pushed Fang Huai’s hashtag down.
Even Xu Shu’s manager was getting anxious. “Looks like Fang Huai’s doing pretty well,” he admitted, somewhat regretful. “They even revised the script to make it easier to act. That kid really lucked out.”
Xu Shu waved him off. “No matter how much they tweak it, he still won’t be able to pull it off.”
Manager: “…?”
Xu Shu raised his phone, showing him a video he had somehow acquired—a secretly recorded clip from the Frost set. The footage captured one of Fang Huai’s earlier takes, where his movements were stiff, his lines flat and lifeless, exuding secondhand embarrassment through the screen.
It was one of the failed takes from that scene they had to reshoot over a dozen times.
“What about the stills, then?”
“Photoshop, obviously.”
After thinking it over, the two felt reassured. Someone who butchered lines like that couldn’t possibly be that good.
Now, all they had to do was wait for Chronicles of Spring and Autumn to air and quietly rake in the rewards.
…The two of them seemed very optimistic.
