Chapter 8
[Dad, how did you even get involved in this mess?!]
[My husband’s voice is so sexy, deep and smooth—ugh, I’m dead.]
[@XX Summit, @XX Forum, please invite CEO Ye to speak more often, thanks ORZ]
[This guy is probably a voice actor wasted on the tech industry…]
[Wait, am I the only one wondering why CEO Ye, a supposedly reclusive developer, is even paying attention to this? Is he entering the entertainment industry?]
[What do you mean ‘entering’… He bought Starlight Entertainment two years ago. He just doesn’t actively manage it, and the acquisition was kept low-key.]
*
Not long after Ye Yuyuan posted on Weibo, a major influencer uploaded the full recording of the livestream from earlier that day. The video clearly laid out the entire truth, and they even included a GIF—Lin Rui getting pecked on the nose by a sparrow, complete with an exaggerated reaction.
Soon, more evidence that had been suppressed by paid bots resurfaced, including voice frequency analyses and various discrepancies in Lin Rui’s claims. Public opinion took a sharp turn once again.
Lin Rui’s Weibo was completely overrun. Gossip bloggers pieced together a long post detailing the entire incident from start to finish, while others dug up past scandals that had been deliberately buried. Even a certain video platform had already started producing meme edits of Lin Rui’s most ridiculous moments.
[This guy just couldn’t stop stirring up drama—danced for so long that he ended up dancing himself into oblivion, lmao.]
[Lighting a candle for him.]
[Mr. Lin is a respectable man. Let’s all spit on his grave before we leave.]
[I need that handsome guy to debut… It’d be a crime to waste those looks!]
[+1! Debut, release an album, star in a movie!!! I’m about to start scouting talent at construction sites now.]
[I have a feeling this isn’t over yet. Lin Rui, that shameless drama queen, will probably try to fight back.]
And sure enough, not long after, Lin Rui posted a seemingly sincere apology letter on Weibo. However, between the lines, he subtly hinted that Fang Huai was ill-mannered, had deliberately disrupted his livestream, and had even injured him on purpose—he even blamed Fang Huai for the sparrow that had pecked him in the face.
This time, though, barely anyone believed him.
And just moments after Lin Rui’s post went up, an animal rights influencer called him out by name, adding hashtags like #AnimalAbuse and #MaliciousTraining, exposing how Lin Rui had been using drugs to control animals. The details were crystal clear.
[Holy crap, I’ve been wondering about this. He doesn’t have superpowers, so how the hell was he…]
[He actually exposed himself during the livestream. Remember when he pissed everyone off, and then a whole flock of birds literally slapped him across the face? Pfft.]
[@AnimalProtectionAssociation, time to cash in!]
[We should be @-ing the police instead. I just rewatched the livestream—there were endangered species in it! That’s an actual crime!]
[Lmao, don’t forget what he said before: ‘I paid for these animals. Even if I kill them one by one, it’s none of your business.’ Wow. Just wow.]
[Cue Farewell for this washed-up fraud.]
Not long after, all the gigs Lin Rui had secured through the hype of the street performance video were canceled one by one. He tried to gain sympathy again or even embrace the love-to-hate route, but his lack of real talent made it impossible. He could manage a decent photoshoot, but when it came to acting or singing, he was completely clueless. On top of that, his history of animal abuse and clout-chasing scandals didn’t help his case.
Moreover, the largest shareholder of Starlight Entertainment made an executive decision to blacklist Lin Rui. From that point on, any drama, film, or show funded by Starlight would never hire him.
Before long, the name Lin Rui quietly faded from the public eye.
Meanwhile, on Weibo, a Super Topic dedicated to the street-performing superpowered young man was quietly established. Thanks to the viral video and reposts from Feng Lang and Ye Yuyuan, Fang Huai unknowingly gained a small but dedicated fanbase.
Though the number of fans wasn’t huge, they were well-behaved—keeping to their own space, enjoying their content without causing trouble. But there was one problem: there simply wasn’t enough content.
If they wanted to admire his looks or his voice, they only had two videos to go off of—and the first one wasn’t even that clear.
Desperate for more, a certain starving fan club leader, after rewatching the two videos countless times, finally gave in and reached out to a well-known artist in private.
This artist, known on Weibo as “Bu Tu”, had a distinctive art style that set him apart from mainstream illustrators. He was also quite mysterious—he rarely posted, and his output was low, but the quality of his work was undeniably exceptional.
Interestingly, all his paintings seemed to feature the same person. Yet, this mysterious figure never had a fully visible face—
Sometimes, it was a young man’s back, pant legs rolled up, revealing a glimpse of fair and delicate skin. Other times, it was a side profile, his brows and eyes concealed beneath the shadow of a baseball cap, lips subtly curved, the lines from his jaw to his collarbone breathtakingly smooth…
The first time the fan club leader saw Bu Tu’s work, she had a gut feeling—this artist was perfect to draw their beloved strawberry-cream-little-cake idol!
“@ConstructionCrewCaptain: Great artist QAQ, do you accept commissions? We’d love for you to draw our sweet strawberry cream little cake boy—willing to pay!”
There was no response.
Two hours later, Bu Tu posted a Weibo update:
[Bu Tu (Verified)]: I don’t take commissions. I don’t follow celebrities. I don’t draw strawberry-cream-little-cakes. I only draw people I choose. Stop asking.
[So disappointed… I really wanted Bu Tu to draw him, sob sob sob.]
[Tbh, I feel like the person in Bu Tu’s paintings looks eerily similar to that recently famous guy…]
[Shhh, don’t say it, sis! Let’s keep to our own corner and not invite unnecessary hate for him, qaq.]
*
Fang Huai’s phone couldn’t connect to the internet.
His outdated, blue-screen feature phone struggled even to play music, let alone access Weibo or Moments. As a result, he remained completely unaware of anything online related to him.
After running away from that open space, Fang Huai found a quiet spot to sit down and tend to the injured birds. However, while he could bandage their external wounds, they still looked weak and listless.
He thought for a moment, cleared his throat, and casually sang a few lines from The Peach Blossom Fan:
“I lift this golden cup to show my sincerity,
You, a guest of high aspirations, long renowned for your talent…”
His voice, however, was not the usual clean, youthful tone he spoke with. Instead, he sang in the traditional operatic style of a dan (female role in Chinese opera)—his voice bright, melodious, and carrying a faint quiver of sorrow in its trailing notes. He had learned some opera from Fang Jianguo but had no idea how skilled he actually was.
Amid the half-human-tall wild grass under the dull gray sky, the tips of Fang Huai’s hair curled slightly, tousled by the wind. He poured some tap water onto a towel, wiped his face, and his light amber eyes seemed washed clean by the water. The tip of his nose was slightly red, and despite everything, his youthful handsomeness remained undeniable.
Of course, what he sang wasn’t important.
What mattered was that, as his voice rang out, the weak birds visibly regained their strength at an astonishing speed. A mountain sparrow affectionately nuzzled against Fang Huai’s neck before spreading its wings and soaring toward its distant home.
Then came the thrushes, the sparrows… One by one, all the birds flew away. Only then did Fang Huai let out a soft breath and stop singing.
He never noticed that, every time a bird brushed against him, the jade pendant he always wore—strung with a red cord—would emit a faint, gentle glow.
Not far away.
“I heard someone singing… The Peach Blossom Fan,” an elderly man murmured, his lips trembling. Supported by a student, he carefully stepped out of the car. “This style… this enunciation… feels so familiar…”
“Professor Dong,” his student, renowned Kunqu opera performer Li Su, sighed helplessly. “I just sent my assistant to check. There was no one there—it’s just a construction site. Please, come back into the car. The wind is too strong out here.”
For so many years, perhaps due to deep longing, Professor Dong often experienced auditory hallucinations.
The elderly man’s wrinkled hand clenched slightly.
He stood still, his reddened eyes fixed on the distance for a long while. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and returned to the car.
Back at the construction site.
After sending off the birds, Fang Huai went back to moving bricks. Once his shift ended, he returned to his small guesthouse.
That afternoon, he still had to go register for Stellar Light. He was well aware that the woman named “Auntie Li Chunfang” wasn’t particularly fond of him, but giving up had never crossed his mind.
Back at the guesthouse, Fang Huai collapsed onto the small sofa, utterly drained—then suddenly froze.
…Why did it feel like something was glowing?
The lighting in the guesthouse’s tiny rental room was terrible. Even during the day, it was damp and dim, with only a small window letting in the faintest sliver of light. A wilted butterfly orchid drooped lifelessly in one corner. Because of this, even the slightest change in light stood out.
Fang Huai picked up the jade pendant Fang Jianguo had given him and examined it carefully.
Something about it seemed… different.
He held up the pendant and scrutinized it for a full ten minutes. It was a crude piece of jade—white jade, but murky and unrefined, exuding a strong sense of cheapness. Yet, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t pinpoint what had changed. In the end, he gave up.
*
2:00 PM.
Starlight Entertainment Headquarters. Marble floors, revolving doors—people coming and going in a hurry.
Fang Huai waited for the elevator, still lost in thought about the jade pendant.
The elevator doors opened. Without much thought, he stepped inside—completely unaware of the sharp intakes of breath around him as he did.
“Excuse me,” a middle-aged man, seeing Fang Huai enter, smiled knowingly and raised a hand to block him. “You’re in the wrong elevator. This one is exclusive…”
This man was Chen Ming, a senior executive at Starlight Entertainment. Although Ye Yuyuan didn’t directly manage the company, he visited periodically for inspections, and Chen Ming was responsible for receiving him.
Fang Huai paused, looking up. His light amber eyes still carried a trace of confusion, his slightly upturned hair tousled, and his moist lips slightly parted. Before he even had a chance to take in the scene inside the elevator, he instinctively said, “Sorry, I’ll leave right away.”
The man who had been silent this whole time suddenly spoke:
“No need.”
That voice was deep, rich, and magnetic, carrying a tone so cold it was almost indifferent. His jet-black eyes were fixed intently on the young man for a long moment before he casually shifted his gaze away.
He remained as serious and handsome as ever—reserved, dressed impeccably in a suit, with every button fastened neatly to the top.
Chen Ming, however, was stunned. “President Ye?”
He had a subtle, indescribable feeling. From the very second this young man stepped in, President Ye seemed… different.
Almost like he was… nervous.
How could that be? Chen Ming chuckled inwardly, dismissing the ridiculous thought.
At the same moment Ye Yuyuan spoke, Fang Huai suddenly froze.
—The instant that man’s voice rang out, he experienced a strange, almost surreal feeling. It was as if, on a frigid winter morning, he had stumbled upon clusters of unknown flowers sprouting through the frozen soil—surprising, almost magical.
He liked this person’s voice.
The sensation fascinated him. He had heard many beautiful voices before—Fang Jianguo’s voice was pleasant, and singers like Teresa Teng, Fei Yuqing… all had remarkable voices.
Fang Huai appreciated and admired them, but none had ever given him this particular feeling.
He lifted his gaze slightly, his light amber eyes studying the man with earnest curiosity, then smiled.
At that moment, he finally felt a sense of familiarity. Hadn’t they just met last night—outside the convenience store?
“Just passing through.” Ye Yuyuan’s long fingers brushed lightly over his cufflinks as he asked in a low voice, “Which floor?”
Fang Huai looked at the man and said, “Fourth floor, thank you.”
With those four words, he was once again certain—he truly liked this man’s voice.
It was fascinating.
“Your voice is very nice.” Fang Huai’s eyes curved as he spoke sincerely.
His smile was genuine, as were his words. His translucent, shimmering eyes carried a hint of laughter, and the corners of his lips curled slightly upward.
Fang Huai was the type to say whatever was on his mind. Ever since Fang Jianguo passed away, this trait had only intensified—he wanted to say what he could while he still had the chance. Who knew if there would be another opportunity in the future?
Upon hearing this, Ye Yuyuan was silent for a moment before nodding slightly.
“Thank you.”
The fourth floor arrived quickly. Fang Huai thanked them both and stepped out, the elevator doors slowly closing behind him.
Inside the elevator, Chen Ming’s internal alarms were blaring—he was deeply worried that President Ye would be angry. In the past, Ye Yuyuan had always despised people commenting on his good looks or voice.
“President Ye—” Chen Ming hesitantly began, but after just two words, his voice abruptly cut off.
Because he suddenly realized—
Ye Yuyuan’s cold, dark eyes had softened beyond recognition.
Even… the tips of his ears had turned a suspicious shade of red.
Chen Ming: “……”
Wait. What?!
