Chapter 86
The theater Jiang Yuan managed had been passed down through his family for generations. It had a long history. As a former stage actor himself, the theater had an established base of regular patrons. Combined with Jiang Yuan’s own solid reputation in film, his loyal fanbase often came to support his productions.
The play was scheduled to start at 8:00 PM, but by 6:30, the theater was already packed. Tonight’s performance was a classic production with a happy ending, slightly adjusted to fit modern times—perfect for families to watch together during the New Year season.
“There are a lot of people here tonight,” a young actor lifted the curtain slightly and peeked out. “Usually, the theater doesn’t fill up until 7:30. What’s going on?”
“The online tickets sold out in an instant too,” another actor sneered. “Isn’t it because of that guy? No real talent, just marketing hype. He’s dragging all that influencer fan culture into the theater, turning this place into a mess.”
During Fang Huai’s time at the theater, many actors had come to respect his skills and dedication, but there were still those who disliked him. Their feelings were a mix of jealousy and disdain—jealousy that he had managed to surpass Jiang Yuan and land a role in Song of the Nameless, even making money from it; disdain because they saw him as a second-rate actor who had come from a reality talent show rather than traditional theater training.
It wasn’t just the actors—online, skepticism about him had never stopped. This was inevitable. The more popular someone was, the more controversy they attracted. And Fang Huai’s track record in theater was indeed lacking. If he had quietly gone about his career, things might have been different, but the highly publicized audition for Song of the Nameless had made him an easy target.
Not long ago, Jiang Yuan promoted that night’s play, Homecoming, on his Weibo, saying it would be the last performance before the New Year. He didn’t mention anything explicitly, but some sharp-eyed users noticed that the cast list included the name “Fang Huai” for a supporting role.
[Is this just someone with the same name??]
[Must be. There’s no way he’s qualified to do theater. Some Z-list internet celeb should stay away from our art scene, OK?! I’m fuming.]
[I have to say, this is a dangerous precedent. If we start letting influencers and so-called ‘traffic stars’ do theater, the industry will collapse. What will real theatergoers even have left to watch?]
[Lmao, all you haters calling him a nobody—his EP sales alone outsold most albums this year. Abyss Moonlight was endorsed by Professor Dong and the Silver Birch Awards. And let’s not forget, he beat out Jiang Yuan and Wang Shuli to land Song of the Nameless. If you can’t accept it, just deal with it.]
[Come on, theater and film are completely different. Acting in a play is hard. Why would he do this to himself? This is just setting himself up for public humiliation.]
The next day, Fang Huai quietly reposted the Weibo post, essentially confirming his involvement. Immediately, the more extreme members of the theater community erupted.
Compared to film and television, modern theater was already more niche. Not entirely, of course—but to certain hardcore theater purists, trained actors doing theater? Acceptable. Movie actors transitioning to theater? Barely tolerable. Internet celebrities and influencer stars? Absolutely not.
It was an insult to the art form.
For some of these people, their love for theater wasn’t even genuine. They saw it as a highbrow identity marker, something that separated them from those who spent their time on Weibo or TikTok. To them, Fang Huai’s participation was nothing short of sacrilegious.
That night, in addition to the regular audience and Jiang Yuan’s fans, the theater was filled with Fang Huai’s supporters. But there was also a group of people who had come purely to scrutinize him, waiting for any mistake so they could heckle and mock him.
Some of them carried an inexplicable sense of superiority and collective pride. As they sat down, they first exchanged quiet jabs about the “common” audience members around them before starting to educate them about how an “internet star” was about to perform—and lamenting how this was yet another sign that theater was doomed.
“Do you know what an internet celebrity is? It’s those people on Weibo… always trying to grab attention with flashy antics. I’ve heard some of them are involved in all kinds of scandalous, disgusting things. Now they want to bring that chaos into our theater world.”
“That guy can’t act at all. He’s just a teenager, doesn’t know a damn thing. He’s definitely going to mess this up.”
“He’s just some young kid, isn’t he?” An elderly man in the audience seemed puzzled but chuckled. “Why are you all more rigid than us old folks? Back in the day, actors were considered part of the lowest class. Most of them weren’t educated, and when they started out, they were all clueless rookies. Didn’t stop them from being great performers, did it? As long as the skills are there, what’s the problem?”
After speaking, the old man stroked his chin and muttered, “Fang Huai… that name sounds familiar.”
He wasn’t an artist himself, but having lived through an era rich in cultural appreciation, he had a broad taste—Kunqu opera, theater, he enjoyed them all. Now that he thought about it, the name Fang Huai… it felt like he had heard it somewhere before.
The person he was arguing with was momentarily speechless before waving a hand dismissively. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
Soon, the pre-show warm-up and opening remarks began. Jiang Yuan had good connections in the industry, and several peers had come to support him. If one ignored a certain tension in the air, the overall atmosphere seemed pleasant and lively.
“Homecoming, starring Jiang Yuan, script by Cao Yu. Thank you for joining us.”
As the announcer’s voice faded, the lights in the theater went dark. The curtain hadn’t yet risen. Experienced theatergoers knew there would be a 30-second pause before the official start.
Meanwhile, backstage, chaos erupted. The opening was supposed to begin with a female actor singing, which would cue the stage lights and transition into the first monologue, setting the scene for the story.
“Where’s Sister Ling?”
“Sister Ling suddenly had an upset stomach and ran to the restroom! She left two minutes ago. Should we cut the song and start straight with the monologue?”
“…Brother Jiang, what should we do?”
Jiang Yuan was already in a foul mood from earlier, but work was work. He forced himself to focus. His initial thought was to cut the song—losing a bit of artistic flair was better than delaying the whole performance. The actor assigned to deliver the monologue was already clearing their throat in preparation when suddenly, Jiang Yuan said—
“Let Fang Huai do it.”
The room fell silent.
“Brother Jiang, are you insane?” One of the actors who had always looked down on Fang Huai scowled.
Fang Huai: “?”
Fang Huai had already slipped into character the moment the announcer started speaking. He was a bit nervous, mentally running through the details of his performance while also keeping an ear on the situation backstage.
Jiang Yuan mouthed to him: Can you do it?
Fang Huai understood instantly. Given the urgency, he hesitated only briefly before taking the earpiece from a crew member and clipping it on.
“I can.”
The other actor, looking displeased, tried to stop him, but Fang Huai had already turned on the microphone. Now, every move he made would be heard by the entire audience.
This was the first time Fang Huai had encountered a situation like this, and his nerves were on edge. He could practically hear the rush of blood pounding through his veins. But gradually, all the noise faded away.
I can do this, he thought.
His Ye Yuyuan was so outstanding—what did he have to be afraid of?
The curtain slowly drew open, but the lights had yet to come on.
The unexpected delay was longer than anticipated. Some people in the audience sensed something was wrong. Others, recalling the rumors about an “internet celebrity” joining the cast, began whispering among themselves. The murmurs grew louder, the situation becoming more chaotic.
The original opening song, meant to be sung by the absent female actor, was a soft and gentle tune—nice under normal circumstances, but unlikely to command the restless crowd’s attention now.
Fang Huai raised his microphone, about to start, when he heard the noise from the audience. In a split-second decision, he made a bold choice.
“A fleeting dream of Nanke, a life lived too late—”
The moment he sang the first note, the entire theater fell silent.
It wasn’t just the melody that was striking—it was the quality of his voice, even more captivating than the tune itself.
Like a stiflingly hot August afternoon, suddenly cooled by a bubbling spring, its water trickling over pebbles with a crisp, crystalline sound. The ordinary reality of the moment seemed to take on a dreamlike hue, the very air around them becoming lighter.
It wasn’t a traditional operatic singing style. One could tell it was a young man lazily lifting his voice, but every enunciation, every note was precise—like the sudden, commanding rap of a gavel in a storyteller’s opening act, instantly gathering everyone’s scattered attention.
Some who knew music couldn’t help but clap and exclaim, “Good!”
Regular theatergoers turned to each other in curiosity. “I’ve been coming here for ages, but I don’t recognize this voice. Is he a new hire?”
The two lines of Kunqu opera Fang Huai had chosen in the heat of the moment turned out to be a perfect thematic fit. It was a niche song about a wandering soul, dreaming his life away—a seamless transition into Homecoming’s opening number, Winter and Summer.
The curtain parted further, and the stage lights came on.
“The first autumn away from home—no matter how much I see, the beauty of the world only grows.”
His voice was clean and bright, the final note carrying a slight, carefree lilt—full of youthful ambition and excitement.
This line triggered recognition.
“Wait, isn’t this from Abyss Moonlight? They screened it downtown last month!”
“Oh my god, I loved that song—I cried when I first heard it!”
“This voice is really good.”
As the curtain fully opened, a young man stepped onto the stage.
He faced slightly away from the audience, in keeping with the realistic tone of the play. From his simple outfit to his hairstyle and accessories, nothing about him screamed “celebrity”—he looked just like a handsome young man one might see at school.
Tall and long-limbed, with slightly downturned eyes and a faint slouch in his posture, one hand tucked in his pocket, a bag slung over one shoulder. His steps were lazy, almost drowsy, as if he had just woken up.
The casual, unpolished entrance slightly dulled the dazzling impression his voice had left. Some people in the audience frowned.
And those who had come specifically to pick him apart immediately seized the opportunity.
“What kind of posture is that? Does he think this is his living room?”
“Was that really him singing just now, or was it a pre-recorded track? He can’t possibly sing that well.”
“Can you shut up?” Finally, someone had enough and snapped at the heckler.
The heckler clicked his tongue in annoyance and sulked back into his seat.
“The fifth autumn since leaving home…”
At that moment, someone in the audience suddenly noticed a shift.
—All the changes had been subtle.
The slightly hunched posture of a rapidly growing young man had straightened. His steps had become steadier. The light-colored eyes, once carrying a carefree air, now held something deeper, more settled.
Only now did many realize—Fang Huai’s earlier laziness and slouch had been an act.
Now, the young man—or rather, the young adult—paused in the center of the stage and adjusted his collar.
He tilted his head with a small smile, chatting with people around him before hurrying off to a dinner gathering. In the bustling city lights, he rushed to make ends meet.
Until one late autumn night, his phone rang—it was a call from home.
Here, the song grew lower, his voice slightly hoarse with exhaustion, yet carrying a warmth within it.
He held the phone and kept walking forward.
“The thirtieth autumn since leaving home—”
His once-straight back gradually curved again, his steps slowing. The bright, steady gaze dimmed with age. By the time he reached the edge of the stage, he had become an elderly man.
The piano accompaniment slowed, fading into stillness. The entire space grew eerily silent, save for the labored sound of breathing—each breath heavy, strained, filling the vast emptiness.
The singing faltered and stopped.
The man at the edge of the stage came to a halt, his back hunched as he slowly turned around. His lips were cracked and dry, his eyes red.
And then, seamlessly blending a line of dialogue with the final lyric, he spoke—his voice hoarse, trembling with the weight of unshed tears:
“…I miss home.”
A two-second silence. The lights went dark.
A heavy, indescribable emotion gripped every heart in the theater.
It felt like watching a person live out their entire life before your eyes.
Or perhaps, through the stage and the lights, witnessing the trajectory of their own existence—growing up, growing old, leaving home, being uprooted, assimilated into the pulse and bloodstream of a foreign place, listening to the wind of an unfamiliar land.
There are always those nights—when you miss home, deeply.
In less than a minute, the synchronization of song and performance delivered a near-devastating impact.
Even those unfamiliar with acting could immediately recognize the difficulty of what had just happened—so many details compressed into a single minute. The transformation from youth to old age had no lines to rely on—only expressions and movements could convey it to the audience. Without solid acting skills, such a performance would have been laughable, a failed imitation at best.
But now, even the harshest critics sat in stunned silence—at a complete loss for words.
This performance was originally meant to be delivered by Lin Ling, the 40-year-old actress who had rushed to the restroom due to an upset stomach. Lin Ling was a well-known actress in the industry—after years of honing her craft, there were few in the entire theater who could take on this scene alone.
Fang Huai’s skills and experience were, in truth, no match for Lin Ling’s. But he had something just as crucial—emotional depth and an incredible ability to draw people in. And from the audience’s reaction, the result was nearly indistinguishable.
Everyone was still immersed in the atmosphere of the performance when the narrator’s voice seamlessly cut in, guiding them into the unfolding story of Going Home.
*
As the audience exited, many were still discussing the play, reluctant to leave.
Going Home was already an outstanding script. With modern adaptations to fit the times, it resonated across generations—entertaining for the young, thought-provoking for the old. But beyond that, the appearance of a fresh face had left an undeniable impact.
“It’s nowhere near as bad as those people claimed. If anything, it was great. A little inexperienced, sure, but… the effect was actually pretty impressive.”
“The singing was beautiful, and the acting too. You only realize it when you see it live.”
“Looks like Director Xu’s judgment was spot on.”
Outside, snow had begun falling at some point.
Fang Huai bid farewell to the actors he was on good terms with, one by one, before pulling open the back door.
“Oh? Someone here to pick you up?” one of the actors teased. “So young, and already making us jealous.”
“Yeah, it’s my partner.” Fang Huai smiled. “I’m heading off now. See you. Happy New Year.”
“See you, Happy New Year.”
A few older, single actors watched him go, a little envious. The older you get, the harder it becomes to truly fall for someone.
What they envied wasn’t necessarily how good Fang Huai’s partner was to him.
It was the way his eyes lit up when he said “my partner.” The way the corners of his lips lifted instinctively, maybe without him even realizing it.
That kind of expression—one of pure, unfiltered affection—wasn’t something you could fake.
*
The streetlights cast a few lonely pools of light. Snow layered the ground in thick, silent blankets.
Fang Huai had barely taken a few steps outside when he was suddenly lifted into someone’s arms.
“Didn’t change into boots?”
The man’s voice was deep, tinged with mild displeasure. Warm breath brushed against Fang Huai’s ear. “Your shoes will get wet.”
Wet shoes weren’t just uncomfortable—they could make him catch a cold.
“It won’t matter,” Fang Huai shook his head, “because you’ll carry me.”
Ye Yuyuan’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.
He lowered his gaze, staring at Fang Huai. His pitch-black eyes held a heavy intensity as he halted his steps.
Fang Huai was watching him too—seriously. He looked a little drowsy, his light amber eyes glazed with a misty layer of warmth.
His thumb brushed lightly beneath Ye Yuyuan’s eyes. Then, suddenly, he raised an eyebrow.
“Hmm?”
Fang Huai barely thought for a second before his lashes lowered, and he tilted his head—pressing a soft kiss against Ye Yuyuan’s lips.
“Mr. Ye, your eyes just said,” Fang Huai stated in a matter-of-fact tone, speaking softly yet seriously, “that you want me to kiss you.”
Ye Yuyuan looked at him in silence for a moment before replying in a husky voice, “They’re saying it now, too.”
“…”
Like high school students in a secret romance, they stole another quick kiss under the streetlight. By the time they got back to the car, both of their ears were red.
Fang Huai always felt like he never had enough time with Ye Yuyuan.
In fact, it was far too little. Even if they spent an entire day doing nothing, twenty-four hours seemed to slip away too quickly. Sometimes, he didn’t even want to sleep—if Ye Yuyuan wasn’t in his dreams.
With Going Home wrapped up, Fang Huai had no work scheduled until The Song of the Nameless began filming.
The car stopped. Ye Yuyuan carried Fang Huai out. Just as Fang Huai was about to drift off to sleep, he suddenly remembered something and woke up.
“Baby,” he rubbed the tip of his nose and looked at Ye Yuyuan. “How was Going Home?”
“Hmm,” Ye Yuyuan gazed at him, his eyes filled with a hint of a smile as he murmured, “You were great.”
Fang Huai pushed for more.
“Say a little more.”
Ye Yuyuan thought for a moment, then, in a serious, almost academic tone, recited: “Your diction is excellent, your grasp of emotion and tone—especially your ability to empathize with the character—”
He even used several technical terms in the middle.
Fang Huai: “…???”
He suddenly recalled the books An Actor’s Self-Cultivation and Fundamentals of Music Theory that he had found on the sofa before—complete with underlined notes. Since they weren’t his, they must have belonged to Ye Yuyuan.
“You like acting?” Fang Huai looked at him, puzzled. “Are you trying to learn it yourself?”
Ye Yuyuan pressed his lips together, staying silent.
Later, Fang Huai went to take a shower. Afterward, they watched TV together for a while before he finally figured it out.
“You don’t like acting,” Fang Huai realized. “You like me.”
Ye Yuyuan had been reading books on acting and music just so they could have more to talk about?
Ye Yuyuan: “…”
“I love you,” he corrected in a low voice.
Once it all clicked, Fang Huai felt a mix of joy and confusion. The thought lingered with him until he was about to fall asleep, and then something else became clear.
“Ye Yuyuan,” Fang Huai turned over to face him, speaking seriously, “you don’t have to accommodate me. Even if you knew nothing about my interests, I’d still like you.”
Ye Yuyuan said nothing. After a moment, he leaned over and pulled him into an embrace.
Against Fang Huai’s ear, he whispered softly, “Mm.”
There were some things Ye Yuyuan never told Fang Huai, and so Fang Huai would never know.
He was an ordinary, unremarkable person, yet insatiably greedy.
He always wanted to make himself just a little more special.
And he always wanted Fang Huai to love him just a little more.
*
The New Year passed quickly.
Except for occasional social gatherings, Fang Huai spent almost all his time with Ye Yuyuan. They didn’t do anything particularly special—just existed together. After the holiday, they took a short trip abroad, and when they returned, the start of The Song of the Nameless was inching closer.
Fang Huai felt like he hadn’t spent nearly enough time with Ye Yuyuan before February was already halfway over. The production team had started calling, urging him to join. With filming about to begin, it wouldn’t be appropriate to delay any longer.
Many people were following the progress of The Song of the Nameless—it wasn’t just his personal matter.
“I really don’t want to go.” Fang Huai was completely deflated, sulking. “Can I not go?”
The answer was no.
Work was work—how else would he make money to support his family? With the New Year over, many companies were resuming operations. Fang Huai tried to delay as much as possible, but in the end, he had no choice but to board the plane and join the crew.
The schedule for The Song of the Nameless was extremely tight. From the start, the goal was to aim for next year’s Oscars, leaving little time. The shooting tasks were already heavy, and they still needed to allocate enough time for post-production editing and marketing.
The night before leaving, Ye Yuyuan packed Fang Huai’s suitcase, carefully checking and rechecking every item.
Fang Huai didn’t want to leave and was visibly unhappy. But Ye Yuyuan, as always, handled everything meticulously in times like these.
The next day, Shi Feiran drove over to take Fang Huai to the airport.
Fang Huai was so reluctant to part with Ye Yuyuan that he wanted to pack him up and bring him to the set. But compared to him, Ye Yuyuan remained calm, even making sure he hadn’t forgotten any important documents.
“Then, I’m leaving.” Fang Huai muttered.
“Mm.” Ye Yuyuan lowered his head to straighten Fang Huai’s collar. “Call me when you get there. It’s colder over there—make sure to wear more layers.”
Fang Huai: “…Okay.”
No exaggeration—when he turned to leave, he almost felt like crying.
The door closed behind him. Fang Huai had only taken a couple of steps when he suddenly heard it open again.
“The suitcase is a bit heavy.” Ye Yuyuan glanced at Shi Feiran, hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’ll take you to the airport.”
Fang Huai’s mood instantly improved, and he nodded.
*
One hour later, at the airport.
“So, we’ll stay in touch?” After this hour, Fang Huai had already convinced himself that it wouldn’t be too long—he could come back to see Ye Yuyuan in between.
“I’m going now.” Fang Huai used a magazine to shield them as he quickly kissed Ye Yuyuan, whispering, “I like you.”
“Mm.” Ye Yuyuan’s ears turned red as he nodded.
Shi Feiran, however, had a feeling things wouldn’t be that simple.
Sure enough, as soon as he and Fang Huai, along with the assistant, passed security and turned around—there was Ye Yuyuan’s cool, handsome face again.
“The suitcase is a bit heavy,” Ye Yuyuan coughed lightly to cover up, “I’ll take you abroad.”
It was too late to buy another ticket, but luckily, he had booked a private jet route two days ago—so they could take a private flight directly.
Shi Feiran: “…”
He watched in stunned silence as Ye Yuyuan personally escorted Fang Huai to the hotel, thoroughly inspecting the surroundings, making sure all the local connections were in place before finally having to part ways—Ptah’s business operations had also resumed, and he needed to return.
Fang Huai felt awful.
Since they had started dating, he and Ye Yuyuan had never been apart. Now, night hadn’t even fallen, and he was already sitting alone in his hotel room, feeling sour. In the end, he could only get up and read his script. He wanted to call, but at this hour, Ye Yuyuan was probably still on the plane back home.
Xu Tuanyuan had arrived even earlier than him, and the two of them ended up chatting for a while.
“Our schedule is very tight,” Xu Tuanyuan was an efficient person, always acting decisively. “Three days to study the script, then we start shooting right away. The first scene is yours, and after that, it’s going to be exhausting.”
When it came to work, Fang Huai became serious as well and nodded. “Got it.”
“Also…” Xu Tuanyuan’s voice dropped slightly. “I’m not exaggerating—The Song of the Nameless is definitely going to win an Oscar.”
“Fang Huai, do you think you’re qualified to be the lead actor in an Oscar-winning film?”
Fang Huai looked at Xu Tuanyuan.
Holding the script in his hands, he didn’t answer immediately. After thinking for a moment, he shook his head. “I’m sorry, Director Xu, I don’t know.”
Fang Huai had thought about it.
Actors who could reach that level must carry within them a pure love for cinema. But he wasn’t like that.
He loved movies, loved music, but he loved Ye Yuyuan more.
Xu Tuanyuan wasn’t surprised. He had expected this. He knew what kind of person Fang Huai was—that’s why he ultimately chose him.
“You’ll find out,” Xu Tuanyuan patted his shoulder. “You just got off the plane. You must be tired—go get some rest.”
Fang Huai nodded. As soon as he stepped out the door, he ran into Joan.
Joan was a New York native and also an actor, playing a key supporting role in the film. He invited Fang Huai to watch TV together while discussing the script, and Fang Huai agreed.
Joan turned on the TV, flipping through channels before stopping on one.
Fang Huai wasn’t really paying attention—his mind was still occupied with Xu Tuanyuan’s words, and he didn’t feel like watching TV. But as soon as he glanced at the screen, his eyes were glued to it.
It was a recap from a recent tech forum, edited and aired for the first time today.
“Wow,” Joan whistled. “That’s the big boss of Ptah? He’s so handsome.”
Fang Huai stared at the screen for a long time before responding, “Mm.”
When Ye Yuyuan wasn’t with him, he carried a distant, unapproachable aura—cold and indifferent, speaking only occasionally.
During the intermission, the media, seemingly trying to lighten the atmosphere, jokingly asked him a question:
“We noticed you’re wearing a ring on your left hand. Are you engaged?”
Ye Yuyuan was always reserved in front of cameras.
But this time, he lowered his gaze slightly, his right hand gently rubbing the jade ring on his left hand. His expression gradually softened, and he replied in a low voice:
“I have a partner.”
“Oh my god!” The news shocked everyone, including the reporters. One of them instinctively asked, “What kind of girl is lucky enough to have you?”
“Lucky?” Ye Yuyuan echoed the word, then shook his head slightly. “No, I should be the lucky one.”
“Who is she?” Another reporter followed up, then quickly realized the question was too intrusive and hastily rephrased:
“I mean, what kind of person is she?”
Ye Yuyuan fell silent for a long time and didn’t answer.
“He is…”
Looking into the camera, his eyes unexpectedly softened with a gentle smile—an unprecedented tenderness lingering in his gaze.
Word by word, he said: “He is the gift the world gave to me.”
