Chapter 93 Many People Thank Him

Chapter 93: He Has Many to Thank

Jiang Ruotang's face flushed. "Why do you keep talking about sleeping with him? He... he's only eighteen!"

Mu Xianqing's expression turned as colorful as a palette. "At eighteen, what *can't* he do?"

Jiang Ruotang pressed his lips together and stayed silent.

Mu Xianqing sighed. "Tang Tang, if you keep bottling it up like this, I’m afraid one day you’ll just eat him alive."

Jiang Ruotang forced a smile, thinking to himself that he could never "handle" Lu Guifan—the guy was a whole ten centimeters taller than him. One bite might choke him.

"So, is this the one?"

Mu Xianqing turned to the other painting, lifting the cover like lifting a bride’s veil, strangely reverent in his heart.

The color palette of the painting was unexpectedly muted and cool-toned, a stark contrast to Jiang Ruotang’s typically bright, lively style. Mu Xianqing’s curiosity peaked as he slowly lifted the cloth, revealing the silhouette of a young man in a black trench coat, standing under a cold streetlamp on a lightly snow-covered street, with the distant glow of city lights growing brighter in the background.

The subtle interplay of light and shadow evoked an aching loneliness, making one yearn to chase after the figure, walk beside him, or embrace him and give him all their warmth.

It still conveyed love—Mu Xianqing could sense Jiang Ruotang’s desire to protect and accompany this person toward a brighter, more radiant place.

Though less blatantly alluring than the previous painting, this one carried a depth and distance that felt unusually mature for Jiang Ruotang.

Mu Xianqing stared at it for a long time, so long that Jiang Ruotang began to worry if the painting was too dull and underwhelming.

"You’ll make your mark in this era," Mu Xianqing finally said.

Having grown up surrounded by art, his intuition told him that among the vast, shining stars in art, Jiang Ruotang’s name would undoubtedly shine.

"Huh?" Jiang Ruotang looked at him, puzzled.

Mu Xianqing smiled. "You’re *still* not selling this after the exhibition?"

"...Is that not allowed?"

This painting held memories and emotions from another lifetime—anything related to Lu Guifan, Jiang Ruotang couldn’t stand to sell.

Mu Xianqing rubbed his temples. "Sometimes I really hate how rich you are. You should be scraping by, fretting over meals..."

Jiang Ruotang rolled his eyes. "Why are you cursing me like this?"

"I’m not cursing you. I just wish you had a bit more desire for money."

"I do have desires. I want my *Little Sweet Fruit* to grow big and strong."

"Pfft. Could’ve fooled me." Mu Xianqing shrugged.

Right now, he was just hoping Jiang Ruotang would run out of money like after buying *Little Sweet Fruit*, so he’d come begging—then maybe Mu Xianqing could finally break his principles and convince him to sell the "beloved," even if it was just a silhouette.

With a tilt of his chin toward the covered painting, Mu Xianqing asked, "What about that hidden sweetheart of yours?"

Jiang Ruotang lowered his head. "He’s in the lab. An important experiment."

Mu Xianqing took a deep breath and covered his eyes with his hand. "A science guy... every art student’s worst nightmare."

"Who says? He *gets* art."

"Then text him a photo of this painting."

Jiang Ruotang hesitated, recalling Teacher Liang’s words to him:

*Painting is your language.*

*Use this language to tell him, to let him feel your longing for him.*

*Whether he comes closer or pulls away—that’s Lu Guifan’s choice.*

Seeing Jiang Ruotang’s expression, Mu Xianqing chuckled and took his phone, finding the perfect angle to capture every detail of the painting clearly.

"What’s your sweetheart’s number?"

Jiang Ruotang took the phone back, found Lu Guifan’s contact, and, steeling himself, sent the painting.

One minute passed. Two minutes passed...

If this were a comic, Jiang Ruotang and Mu Xianqing would have a flurry of awkward ellipses hovering over their heads.

"He doesn’t check his phone when he’s busy," Jiang Ruotang explained.

"So, what exactly do you like about this guy?" Mu Xianqing asked.

"Huh?"

"Is it that he’s always in the lab, leaving you free to sow wild oats outside? That he’d let weeds grow on your grave without so much as a 'how are you'? Or is it just... that he’s good-looking?" Mu Xianqing raised an eyebrow and added, "Okay, *really* good-looking. I’ve seen plenty of pretty faces in the entertainment industry, but his is the best."

Jiang Ruotang stayed silent.

Mu Xianqing sighed. "Alright, alright, I’ll stop teasing you—tomorrow, I’ll have the lawyer send over the contract. Like we said, the painting you’re finishing now goes to my gallery."

"Mm."

Hours later, Lu Guifan stepped out of the lab, grabbed his phone from his locker, and headed to the lounge, where a row of lunchboxes sat—some brought by students for their seniors or professors. Lu Guifan immediately recognized the Jiang family’s lunchbox by Sister Juan’s trademark style: a pink Peppa Pig design.

He smiled, opening it to find a perfectly balanced meal, even the shells of the braised shrimp meticulously peeled for him.

Though his temples throbbed with fatigue, seeing Jiang Ruotang’s little fox avatar on his phone softened his heart, making him want to pull the boy close.

Several messages waited unread. Lu Guifan scrolled down—and nearly fumbled his chopsticks when he saw the painting.

*Is this how Ruo Tang sees me?*

Lu Guifan knew he was stiff by nature, but in this painting, he could feel every stroke, every hue, every layer of shadow pulsing with emotion that made his heart race.

His throat tightened. His heels lifted slightly, muscles tensing from his calves upward. A fierce, unfamiliar urge surged through him—to drag the painter into his arms, hold him tight, even if it meant breaking them both.

Then came a jealousy he’d never felt before.

Jiang Ruotang’s brush had captured so many others—his father, family, friends, classmates. Lu Guifan envied them all.

Even Bai Yingchuan, whom Jiang Ruotang had once sketched obsessively, made him wish he could tear the man apart.

Lu Guifan set down his chopsticks and phone, tilting his head back to cover his eyes with a hand.

*What am I supposed to do now?*

In the past eighteen years of his life, he had never experienced impulses, jealousy, or possessiveness—yet all of these emotions seemed to flood into him the moment Jiang Ruotang entered his life.

He had to leave—now. He missed him so much.

His mind was set: he would confess.

Even if he was rejected, he had a lifetime to pursue him.

While some were battling it out in the lab, others were studying light in the studio. Meanwhile, the obscure extra actor Ling Song was playing a one-minute, dialogue-less minor role in yet another low-budget TV series.

The male lead, an investor-actor, perhaps disliked Ling Song’s cold, uncommunicative demeanor. He deviated from the script—instead of kicking Ling Song in the chest as written, he aimed for his face!

Luckily, Ling Song raised his arms quickly, or else his nose might have shattered.

The male lead offered a perfunctory apology, "Ah, my apologies—it was an accident."

Even though the entire crew, including the director, could tell it was intentional, no one spoke up for Ling Song.

After all, funding was far too important for a shoestring production like this.

After being kicked three times in a row, the director, worried that Ling Song might actually get injured and cause legal trouble, hurriedly moved on to the next scene.

After collecting his day’s pay, Ling Song stepped out of the set only to see a man in a suit and frameless glasses extinguishing a cigarette, walking toward him with a faintly mocking smile.

"Ah, Ling, why torture yourself like this? If you just bowed to CEO Han’s wishes, what resources wouldn’t be yours? Yet you refuse to play along, choosing instead to endure this kind of humiliation in these low-tier productions."

This was the assistant to CEO Han of Cefeng Pictures. He made it a habit to drop by the film lot to remind Ling Song of his miserable circumstances, routinely urging him to submit and become CEO Han’s toy boy.

In the beginning, Ling Song would seethe with anger, itching to smash his fists into this hypocrite’s face.

But years had passed, and Ling Song had grown numb to the taunts. Responding wasn’t worth the energy.

"Ling, it’s a long way back to the city from here. Are you heading back to that dingy, cramped apartment of yours? Let me give you a ride."

Ignoring him, Ling Song turned and continued toward the bus stop.

Just then, his phone rang. The voice on the other end left him frozen in place.

A gentle, refined voice spoke: "Xiao Ling, right? This is Jiang Huaiyuan—the director who interviewed you the other day. Do you remember me?"

Ling Song stood still. Rejection was a foregone conclusion—after all, he had no agency, no notable works, and Cefeng Pictures was actively working against him. He never expected to land the lead role in *Drunken Immortal Terrace*.

Hearing Director Jiang’s voice now felt surreal.

"Director Jiang, hello."

Ling Song forced warmth into his usually cold tone, forcing humility into his voice.

"Here’s the thing—I hope it’s not too forward to ask you for a favor. My son is entering a portrait-themed competition, and his friend who was supposed to model for him suddenly had to cancel. I think your bone structure is quite photogenic—would you be willing to pose for him? I’ll pay you three hundred an hour."

Ling Song was stunned. A director of his stature contacting him? Not for a role, but for his son’s art. It was a letdown.

But three hundred an hour… Staying statue-still would earn him far more than his usual background acting gigs. That would cover his living expenses for days.

When Ling Song didn’t respond immediately, Jiang Huaiyuan added, "I’m not familiar with modeling rates—is three hundred too low? How about five hundred? Or you name the price? Holding still for so long must be exhausting."

Ling Song quickly replied, "When would it be?"

"Well… if you’re free, how about this afternoon?"

Ling Song received a text with an address—a high-end residential complex.

After checking the route, he boarded the bus.

He had long heard that Jiang Huaiyuan was a strict director on set but an overly indulgent father at home.

Director Jiang’s son? Asking him to model? It seemed bizarrely random…

Ling Song scrolled through his contacts and found Sister Zhong, his former agent. Her agency had gone under last year, and though she lacked resources, she was decent enough. He decided to ask her about Jiang Huaiyuan’s son.

[*Director Jiang’s son? He’s an art student, pampered since birth—full of spoiled brat tendencies. If you go, just humor him. Offending him would be worse than offending Director Jiang himself!*]

Ling Song took a deep breath inside the bus. Sunlight glared through the windows, and he pressed his fingers to his temples.

His arms still ached from the male lead’s kicks. He let out a slow breath.

[*Oh, and I remember hearing that Director Jiang’s son is obsessed with Bai Yingchuan—splurges obscenely on his events, hires fan photographers to capture his every move, even rigged votes for him! Rumor has it he pulled strings to get Bai Yingchuan transferred to his school and class. How deranged is that?*]

Ling Song inhaled sharply. It reminded him of Han Ming’s invasive, domineering behavior.

Why did he keep running into people like this?

[*Of course, these are just rumors… But still, watch yourself.*]

Though disgust rose in his chest, Ling Song reminded himself not to judge someone he’d never met.

Besides, he had already agreed. Backing out now would only leave a bad impression.

"Ling Song, what are you even afraid of?" He scoffed at his own nerves.

After several bus transfers, he finally arrived near the Jiang family’s neighborhood.

At the Jiang residence, Sister Juan opened the door. The spacious, bright duplex was enviable.

She greeted him warmly and handed him slippers.

To Ling Song’s disappointment, Jiang Huaiyuan and his wife weren’t home. He had hoped to discuss the role with Director Jiang, but it seemed that chance was gone.

Just then, a tall, athletic young man in sportswear descended the stairs.

His scrutinizing gaze swept over Ling Song from head to toe.

Was this Director Jiang’s son? The spoiled young master obsessed with Bai Yingchuan?

Ling Song knew Bai Yingchuan’s physique—if this guy tried anything forceful, Bai Yingchuan wouldn’t stand a chance.

Then, a bright voice called from upstairs.

"Changfeng, grab me some fried chicken on your way back, yeah?"

Ling Song looked up to see a beaming young man leaning over the second-floor railing, eyes crinkled in a smile. He wore a dark apron splattered with paint—clearly, this was the artist son Director Jiang had mentioned.

"Huh? Fried chicken again? Aren’t you worried about breaking out? Don’t come whining to me when your face explodes!"

"Won’t happen. I’ll own every pimple I get from eating it."

Zhao Changfeng had just reached the entryway to change shoes when he suddenly turned back, shouting upstairs, "Do you want honey mustard or spicy? Or maybe that mayo one?"

"Spicy and honey mustard combo!" Jiang Ruotang replied cheerfully.

"I'm leaving now!" Zhao Zhangfeng passed by Ling Song once more, his eyes that were both sharp and rounded giving him a pointed look, as if issuing a warning.

As for what the warning was about, Ling Song couldn't care less.

"You’re Ling Song, the model Dad sent over?" Jiang Ruotang tilted his head slightly.

Ling Song nodded. "Hello."

"I’m Jiang Ruotang. Come on up—my studio's in the attic."

Jiang Ruotang gestured with his chin, and Ling Song exhaled softly. At least, given how slight the boy was, he couldn’t do anything to him.

This was Ling Song’s first time entering the studio. The triangular roof let in slanted beams of light through the glass windows, casting rectangular pools of light.

The room was filled with the scent of paint.

On one side, a floor-to-ceiling shelf neatly held various sketchbooks, while the other side displayed plaster statues and random knickknacks.

There was none of the cold, oppressive tension of Han Ming’s office, nor the seedy vibe of KTV rooms—no smell of alcohol, just a teenage boy setting up his easel.

Ling Song’s tense nerves gradually relaxed.

"What pose do you need me to take?"

Jiang Ruotang glanced up at him. "Strip."

Ling Song froze. Was this going to be one of those nude—

"Change into that beige T-shirt over there," Jiang Ruotang’s voice cut in again.

The studio fell silent, with no further explanation from Jiang Ruotang.

The rich kid's voice was flat, yet devoid of emotion. Ling Song felt like he was being treated as an object—or perhaps a plaster statue.

Turning his back to Jiang Ruotang, Ling Song didn’t hesitate. He quickly stripped off his shirt, changed into the beige T-shirt, and sat down about three meters from the easel.

Jiang Ruotang approached. All trace of his earlier cheer was gone, replaced by complete blankness. When his hands gripped Ling Song’s shoulders, Ling Song flinched.

"Your muscles are too stiff. You'll get sore holding this too long."

As he spoke, Jiang Ruotang tilted Ling Song’s face toward the light, then positioned his hands on the edge of the chair, arching his body slightly to emphasize the curve of his neck and the clean jawline.

Realizing Jiang Ruotang was only adjusting his pose, Ling Song gradually relaxed.

"Just hold this position?"

"Mm. You can blink. If it gets too hard, let me know."

"Alright."

Jiang Ruotang returned to his easel. Soon, Ling Song heard the soft scratching of charcoal against paper.

He knew he was being observed, studied, captured on paper.

He liked the quiet atmosphere—it felt like the turmoil inside him was slowly settling. Though holding the pose was tiring, at least he didn’t have to endure the lead actor's entitled bullying, the disdain of bootlicking crew, or Han Ming’s smug watchfulness as he struggled.

But the peace didn’t last long. The painter broke the silence.

"You know why you'll never play the male lead in *Drunken Immortal Terrace*?"

Ling Song’s heart sank, but his voice remained steady. "I figured."

"Do you know the reason?" Jiang Ruotang pressed.

Ling Song controlled his emotions, inhaling deeply. His expression didn’t change. "I doubt Director Jiang's paying me to entertain his son."

Jiang Ruotang ignored the chill in his tone. "Don’t you want to know the reason? Once you leave, no one will tell you the truth."

Ling Song glanced at him, his gaze mocking the spoiled rich kid. "The reasons are always the same. No strong agency, no connections, no commercial appeal, no notable works, no fanbase—and your father doesn’t want to offend Cefeng Pictures."

Jiang Ruotang continued sketching leisurely before replying, "Wrong on all counts."

"What?" Ling Song blinked in surprise.

But Jiang Ruotang didn’t elaborate. Instead, he picked up a palette and began mixing colors.

The silence put Ling Song on edge. Was Jiang Ruotang toying with him, or was he genuinely focused on painting, chatting only in passing?

Time dragged on. Ling Song’s muscles from shoulder to neck began to ache. He was about to give out from the strain.

Yet Jiang Ruotang kept working. Occasionally, he’d glance over the easel, his gaze focused and intense. It made Ling Song feel compelled to tough it out, so he gritted his teeth and held position.

"Your pose is slipping," Jiang Ruotang noted.

"Sorry."

Jiang Ruotang pointed to a comfy couch against the wall. "Go lie down there for a bit. I’ll call you if I need you again."

Ling Song rose slowly, stretching his stiff neck and shoulders. He wanted that answer, but Jiang Ruotang was still painting. He shouldn’t interrupt.

So he walked to the sofa and sat down.

Whatever people said about Jiang Ruotang—said he was crazy, impulsive, or blindly obsessed with Bai Yingchuan—Ling Song could tell he took his art seriously.

Time passed. Ling Song checked his phone, reading messages from Sister Zhong.

[How’s it going? The young master isn’t coming onto you, is he?]

[Be careful. Don’t eat anything he gives you.]

[Why aren’t you replying? Did he actually drug you?]

Ling Song gave a bitter laugh. Was he some hot commodity? Did everyone in the industry with an ounce of clout have to fixate on him?

Not everyone was as messed up as Han Ming.

After replying to Sister Zhong, Ling Song grew curious about Jiang Ruotang.

It took him a moment to recall the name, but a quick search revealed the rich kid actually had talent—he’d won awards. Several of his works were even exhibited at the city’s Sapphire Gallery.

What really caught Ling Song's eye was *The Bowed Sunflower*. Word was multiple collectors had bid for it, but Jiang Ruotang, not hurting for cash, refused to sell.

Gradually, Ling Song relaxed completely. The soft sofa, the quiet space—he drifted off, his phone sliding to the floor without him noticing.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when a sudden movement jerked him awake. His nerves spiked at the unfamiliar surroundings.

Where was he?

Had Han Ming cooked up some new scheme to dope him?

Turning his head, he saw the starlight from the triangular glass roof window streaming through the darkness, falling exactly on the easel.

It was then that Ling Song remembered—this was the studio. He had spent the afternoon modeling for Jiang Ruotang, then rested on the sofa and had fallen asleep.

He shifted slightly and realized a blanket had been draped over him.

The muffled sound of laughter and conversation rose from downstairs—dinnertime must have arrived.

Ling Song stood up, folded the blanket neatly, and placed it back on the sofa. Then he removed the oversized beige T-shirt he was wearing and changed back into his original dark-colored one.

As he passed the easel, he couldn't help but wonder how exactly Jiang Ruotang had painted him.

In the unlit room, the moonlight cast a deep, tranquil glow. The painting wasn’t of Ling Song sitting sideways on the chair during the day, but rather of him lounging on the sofa, utterly relaxed and vulnerable.

One of his hands dangled over the edge of the sofa, the dying light outlining the curve of his profile. His prominent nose bridge, bathed in that light, appeared to have shed all tension and resistance, softening instead. His lashes rested lightly, like a tired bird's folded wings, and the oversized T-shirt seemed to wrap him in comfort.

Ling Song had never realized he could look like this.

Just then, the studio door opened softly, light flooding in as Jiang Ruotang stood at the entrance.

“Oh? You’re awake.”

Ling Song took a deep breath. “Sorry, I fell asleep.”

“It’s fine. I finished the painting anyway.” Jiang Ruotang tilted his chin slightly. “Come down for dinner.”

“I don't want to impose. I’ll head back.”

After all, it was Director Jiang’s family dinner—he, an outsider, would just feel awkward.

Jiang Ruotang smiled. “I thought you’d at least put up a bit of a fight for yourself.”

“Fight for myself?”

“My dad’s back.” Jiang Ruotang paused, meeting Ling Song’s gaze. “Mr. Ling, among all the auditioning actors, not everyone gets the chance to step into Jiang Huaiyuan’s home and speak to him face-to-face. Not every actor gets the opportunity to further express their thoughts and understanding of the role. Or do you believe you're so exceptionally talented that no one else comes close, that all opportunities should just come to you without effort? That if you’re not chosen, it’s simply because the directors can't recognize talent?”

Ling Song felt a pang in his heart. After years of struggle, he'd long since stopped trying to explain or defend himself.

But today, the young man before him reminded him—he was this close to that role. Did he really not want to fight for it?

“Thank you,” Ling Song said sincerely to Jiang Ruotang.

Jiang Ruotang smiled, then turned and headed downstairs, Ling Song following behind.

He discovered that the Jiang family’s atmosphere was much warmer than he'd expected. At the dining table, there were more than just the four family members—there was also Sister Juan, who had opened the door for him, and the driver Xiao Gao. His bowl and chopsticks had already been set out.

Jiang Huaiyuan smiled at Ling Song. “Xiao Ling, you’re here! You’ve worked hard all afternoon—eat up!”

Living alone for so long, Ling Song felt a little awkward in such a lively setting. Murmuring a “Thank you, Director Jiang,” he took a seat beside Xiao Gao.

The six dishes and one soup, with vibrant colors, enticing aromas, and rich flavors, were something Ling Song hadn’t enjoyed in years, having spent so much time scraping by in the industry.

He glanced at Jiang Ruotang, who was shelling shrimp. Beside him, Zhao Zhangfeng nudged him with an elbow. “Peel one for me.”

“Huh? Do it yourself? Don’t you have hands?” Jiang Ruotang retorted, lifting an eyebrow.

“Your hands are already dirty—why drag mine into it?”

“That’s the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard! And who asks someone to peel shrimp for them like that?”

Zhao Zhangfeng grinned, his eyes shining brightly like a big dog begging for treats.

“Bro, I want shrimp. Peel one for me?”

“Tsk.” Jiang Ruotang actually peeled one and handed it over.

“Peel me another?”

“Don't get greedy.”

“The ones you peel are the cleanest. One more?”

“Zhao Zhangfeng, have you no dignity?”

“You’re my brother—why would I need shame in front of you? Besides, I brought you fried chicken.”

Jiang Ruotang peeled several more with a huff and tossed them into Zhao Zhangfeng’s bowl. “Right, that box of fried chicken—you ate two-thirds of it yourself!”

Ling Song watched from afar, feeling a pang of envy.

But he also realized—Jiang Ruotang was nothing like the rumors suggested. He wasn’t a pampered prince, nor was he reckless. He even got along so well with his stepmother’s son.

Now, he also understood the look Zhao Zhangfeng had shot him earlier.

It probably meant something like: *My brother is the best in the world, and no one who gets to be alone with him is allowed to hurt him.*

“Xiao Ling, have more dishes. These black bean spare ribs are Sister Juan’s specialty. And this pickled fish slices—just as good as any restaurant’s.”

Hearing Jiang Huaiyuan urge him to eat more, Ling Song was both honored and moved. He could tell Jiang Huaiyuan wasn’t like those phony industry types—there was no forced cheers or hollow compliments. The director treated him simply as an elder would treat a younger person.

This was Ling Song’s first time dining at a fellow industry insider’s home since Han Ming had started targeting him years ago—and it was also the warmest atmosphere he’d ever experienced.

After dinner, Ling Song moved to help Xiao Gao and Sister Juan clear the table, but Sister Juan just smiled and nudged him away.

“Guests don’t clean up. Go on—the director’s waiting for you.”

Turning, Ling Song saw Jiang Huaiyuan standing at the top of the stairs, gesturing for him to come up.

Steadying his breath, Ling Song followed him to the study on the second floor.

Jiang Huaiyuan poured him a cup of tea and said calmly, “Truthfully, I’ve auditioned over a hundred actors for this supporting lead role. Plenty of people have called in favors, hoping I’d give their newcomers a boost.”

Ling Song stayed silent. He knew Jiang Huaiyuan wasn’t exaggerating—Han Ming had certainly tried to push his own people into the role.

For a director of Jiang Huaiyuan’s stature to invite him home for this conversation was already a tremendous show of respect.

“But out of all of them, you had the best qualifications, the best delivery, the best performance. I hesitated for a long time about whether to cast you—until I spoke about you with my son, Jiang Ruotang. Ruo Tang told me, ‘There’s no such thing as a 100% perfect actor. Instead of agonizing over whether he’s the right fit for your lead, why not get to know him better?’”

Ling Song was stunned. He hadn’t realized this chance to connect with Jiang Huaiyuan had been something Jiang Ruotang fought for on his behalf.

And here he’d been suspicious of Jiang Ruotang’s motives because of groundless rumors—truly judging a gentleman’s heart with a petty mind.

“May I ask… what about me made you hesitate, Director Jiang?”

Jiang Huaiyuan had expected the question. “Have you read the original novel of *Drunken Immortal Terrace*?”

Ling Song nodded.

“Do you remember the protagonist Ye Linzhou’s personality in the early stages?”

Ling Song looked into Jiang Huaiyuan's eyes and immediately understood the reason he hadn't been chosen.

"Ye Linzhou is easygoing, laidback, and accepting of the world's good and evil... but I'm tense... and guarded... I can play Ye Linzhou after his fall into demonic ways, but I might not capture his open and tolerant side."

"Indeed, even the most skilled actors struggle not to project their real-life emotions and expressions onto their roles. So, the more obvious your tension and guardedness are in reality, the more jarring it will be when you play the charismatic, poised Ye Linzhou before his fall. If you don’t let go yourself, no one can help you let go."

Ling Song swallowed hard. To say he wasn’t moved would be a lie.

After all these years grinding it out in the industry, he could easily tell who spoke lip service and who spoke from the heart.

"I'm pressed for time—I can only give you three more days for final preparations. If you agree, I’ll send you the script. Three days later, you’ll do the scene where Ye Linzhou faces off against the major sects and takes the young demonic cultivator away. How to maintain an open and tolerant attitude while defying the entire cultivation world—that will test your skill."

Ling Song never expected to get such an opportunity. Of course, he nodded in agreement.

He was like a down-and-out drifter, struggling to survive, when suddenly he was handed a lottery ticket.

After leaving Jiang Huaiyuan’s study, Jiang Huaiyuan made a point of asking Xiao Gao to give him a ride home.

As he was stepping out the door, Ling Song suddenly remembered something. "Um... could you pass a message to Jiang Ruotang for me?"

Xiao Gao nodded. "Sure."

"Just... thank him."

"Got it," Xiao Gao replied.

Ling Song couldn’t help but ask, "Aren't you even a little curious about why I’m thanking him?"

Xiao Gao shrugged. "He gets thanked a lot. You’re not the first."