After a Top Idol Married the Sickly Young Master of a Wealthy Family to Bring Him Good Luck - Chapter 11

After the audition ended, Pei Xinglu returned to Pingye Residence. Sitting on the balcony sofa, he held the out-of-print second volume of The Way of the Folded Knife.

The Zhao Zhaoyan in the book seemed to have come to life.

Wearing the face of Ling Suiyao.

On the city walls, there was Zhao Zhaoyan’s integrity in refusing to surrender even unto death, the grief and resignation of a fallen nation, and the calm serenity with which he congratulated his senior brother on winning the Central Plains while pleading for the common people to be spared.

There were also the two instances of him calling out “Senior Brother” in his memories, reflecting two entirely different states of mind.

The former was timid; the latter, flamboyant.

Ling Suiyao truly lived up to being the original author; his portrayal of Zhao Zhaoyan’s emotions was incredibly fitting, even serving to drive Pei Xinglu toward a superhuman performance.

Pei Xinglu closed the book and lay back in the rattan chair, gazing at the clean white clouds drifting in the distance. He swayed absentmindedly, yet images of the moment Ling Suiyao had trance-like gripped the sandalwood prayer beads flashed through his mind like a looping LIVE photo.

The train of thought was suddenly broken by the ringing of his phone.

He glanced at the screen. The caller ID showed “Captain.” Pei Xinglu frowned and didn’t answer.

The ringing persisted, stopped for a few seconds, and then started again. After the second time, it finally fell silent.

For the past few days, Ling Suiyao had been following the director and the rest of the team through the audition process. He worked with the head screenwriter, Tang Ying, to iron out the plotlines and discuss details. He worked from morning till night until his brain felt foggy, yet he persisted until the work was done.

The cast list for The Way of the Folded Knife was essentially finalized. The casting director was handling final communications and adjustments, and the production team was beginning to contact artists for script readings, back-to-back etiquette and martial arts training, and costume fittings.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, Ling Suiyao hadn’t seen Pei Xinglu for several days—until the day of the opening ceremony.

On the day of the ceremony, the sun was shining brightly. Ling Suiyao, wearing a mask, went to join the festivities.

Maisui Media had invested heavily to build a dedicated film city for this drama.

In front of the grand, towering Chinese-style architecture, an opening ceremony altar had been set up. Amidst the festive blessings of the host, the large crowd of staff and the main creative team offered three pious bows.

Ling Suiyao, who was allergic to smoke, leaned against the car and folded his hands in prayer, wishing for a successful filming.

Dressed in black martial arts attire with his hair tied in a high ponytail, Pei Xinglu stepped forward and placed the incense upright into the burner.

Ling Suiyao quietly snapped a photo. Those broad shoulders and long legs were far too superior; he simply couldn’t look away. If one ignored the modern elements surrounding him, he truly looked like a cold, taciturn assassin of the martial world who still carried a hint of youthful spirit.

After the ceremony ended, the actors headed in to change clothes for the test shots.

As the assistant screenwriter, Ling Suiyao followed Tang Ying and Director Zhang Bo to watch the rehearsals.

The first scene of the shoot was a seemingly calm literary scene from the early part of the story.

At that time, the world was already in chaos, with feudal lords carving up territories and heroes vying for dominance. As an organization for both martial arts intelligence and assassins, the Gold and Silver Tower originally operated for money and only concerned itself with the martial world, staying out of courtly affairs and independent of conflicts. This remained true until the third day of the fourth month, when an uninvited guest arrived, demanding to see the Tower Master.

Inside a room with simple, almost desolate furnishings.

Light filtered through the wooden window. Meng Ce, played by Pei Xinglu, was looking down, wiping blood from his scabbard. Hearing the movement at the door, he didn’t raise his head. With a “clank,” he sheathed his sword and set it aside, turning instead to burn incense and whisk tea, his movements smooth and decisive.

When he finally looked up, his deep, dark eyes locked onto the newcomer without wavering. He uttered a single word: “Please.”

The middle-aged man was dressed in expensive clothing; he was the Minister of Revenue for the State of Ning, the leader of the literati officials. He glanced around and took the ordinary tea cup, but didn’t drink. Instead, with a testing tone, he said, “Is the Young Master so young, yet already the Master of the Gold and Silver Tower?”

“Master is traveling. I am merely managing it in his stead,” Meng Ce said softly. He unrolled the calligraphy scroll handed over by his junior brother, Zhao Zhaoyan, and scanned the request. He then closed it, placed it on the table with a soft “thud,” and quoted a price.

“Eight hundred gold?”

“Eight hundred gold.”

The middle-aged man hesitated, exchanging a look with his accompanying advisor. He made up his mind and said, “Fine. If we can remove such treacherous and corrupt officials, it is a blessing for the people of the world. What does it matter if it is eight hundred or a thousand gold?”

Meng Ce remained silent and signaled for the contract to be brought.

The middle-aged man inspected it closely. As he moved the paper slightly, his peripheral vision swept over Meng Ce. For a moment, the youth before him caused him to daze, and his facial muscles twitched imperceptibly.

He signed his name, pressed his thumbprint, and took the special token of the Gold and Silver Tower, cupping his hands in gratitude.

Meng Ce watched the middle-aged man’s back disappear with a concentrated gaze. Expressionlessly, he poured the untouched tea out the window, splashing it onto the swaying leaves, where the bright light shimmered like silver.

Meng Ce’s gaze was extremely profound; it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Cut—”

Zhang Bo, behind the monitor, called a halt.

The atmosphere relaxed. Yang Ling, the actor playing the Minister of Revenue, was full of praise: “Truly, the younger generation is to be feared. No wonder Director Zhang has been as hyper as if he’d been injected with chicken blood these past few days.”

Pei Xinglu’s attitude was very humble: “Teacher Yang is too kind.”

After the pleasantries, they went over to the director to review the footage.

Ling Suiyao moved aside.

Pei Xinglu paused for a moment and stood there. Ling Suiyao, wearing a hoodie, was smiling at him, the tear bags under his eyes looking particularly vivid when he smiled.

Zhang Bo was one of the top directors in the industry. He was meticulous and extremely strict, often appearing fierce.

“Script supervisor! Have the script supervisor take that antique vase away; it’s too jarring! Old Yang, your positioning here should be a bit more to the side—don’t block the calligraphy on the wall. Xiao Pei, when you pour the water at the end, keep your hand on the cup a bit longer as you tilt it; it makes your fingers look longer, like the hands of someone who handles blades. Makeup artist! Rub off a bit of the mark on Pei Xinglu’s hand; it looked too heavy on camera just now. OK, let’s go again!”

This time, the positioning, composition, and set were all excellent. The director was clearly much more satisfied.

After four scenes in the same setting were finished, it was already past three in the afternoon. The crew took a break, and the tense atmosphere immediately loosened.

Ling Suiyao immediately stood up and gave the drink in his hand to Pei Xinglu.

“Pei-ge, you’ve worked hard. Here. That dialogue just now was quite long, and the wording was a bit obscure, but your delivery was great—the phrasing was very clear, and the emotion was perfect.”

It was a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

Seeing that Pei Xinglu didn’t react and maintained his usual cold expression, Ling Suiyao added, “I saw in that celebration photo from Ding Feng Bo that you were drinking orange juice, so I thought you liked it…”

He hesitated, looked around, and whispered, “This shouldn’t count as a violation of the agreement, right?”

Xiao He, who had been coming to deliver water, was intercepted. Her face was a giant question mark, but when she realized it was Ling Suiyao, she stepped back to quietly “ship” their visuals. This was the first time Xiao He had seen Ling Suiyao’s face up close; aside from a pale complexion, he was truly as handsome as he was on the marriage certificate—fair, clean, and considerate. Standing with Pei Xinglu, they were exceptionally well-matched.

Of course, she wouldn’t dare let Pei Xinglu know these thoughts.

Pei Xinglu was, firstly, homophobic, and secondly, forced into this “auspicious marriage,” so he must hate Ling Suiyao and would surely refuse the gift… Just as she thought this, she saw Pei Xinglu take the orange juice and say coolly and arrogantly, “Thank you, Teacher Screenwriter.”

Ling Suiyao immediately smiled, looking obedient and genuinely enthusiastic, seemingly not caring at all about Pei Xinglu’s coldness.

Xiao He stomped her feet in place. Ahhh, there’s something wrong with Pei-dog! Something is definitely wrong!

Xiao He’s face turned bright red from holding it in. Ling Suiyao asked worriedly, “Miss Song, are you okay?”

Pei Xinglu glanced at her sideways.

Xiao He shook her head like a rattle: “I’m fine! Little Master Ling, I’m totally fine!”

A while later, Yu Zhihan’s team sent refreshments to the entire crew. The staff members were delighted and praised Yu Zhihan one after another.

Yu Zhihan had two scenes tonight. In The Way of the Folded Knife, he played the strategist Zhong Yuheng—gentle on the outside, but ruthless within. In the middle of the story, he becomes the strategist for the protagonist, Meng Ce, helping him stabilize the world, only to eventually be forced into seclusion due to the rift between monarch and subject.

Yu Zhihan greeted the passing staff and walked up to Pei Xinglu, saying amiably, “Xiao Pei, Teacher Suining, these are for you. I happened to bring them along.”

He held out the exquisitely packaged tea snacks.

Pei Xinglu didn’t take them. He poked the straw through the seal of the orange juice, took a sip, turned, and left—seemingly rolling his eyes with a terrible attitude.

Ling Suiyao was stunned for a moment. “Uh, give them to me. Thank you, Teacher Yu.”

“Xiao Pei’s temper really hasn’t changed at all.” Yu Zhihan sighed helplessly as he handed them to Ling Suiyao. “He offends people too easily. I’m even worried for him.”

Ling Suiyao didn’t know what to say. It seemed to him that Pei Xinglu was quite polite to everyone else, except for Yu Zhihan… Ling Suiyao remembered the Weibo war from a few weeks ago; it looked like there was a serious grudge between the two.

He felt a bit worried. With a relationship this bad, yet being in the same cast, he felt like trouble was brewing.

“Does Teacher Suining know Xiao Pei? It seems you have a good relationship. Could I ask Teacher Suining to put in a good word for me with Xiao Pei?”

Yu Zhihan secretly observed Ling Suiyao.

There were rumors that Suining, the original author of The Way of the Folded Knife, had deep ties with the Ling family.

Ling Suiyao hesitated and shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s not really appropriate for me to intervene. Besides, I’m not that close with Teacher Pei, so I probably can’t help you with this.”

Even though he was a fan of Yu Zhihan, this was a private matter and would violate the agreement. Facing his idol’s request, he could only painfully refuse.

Yu Zhihan smiled warmly. “It was my intrusion. Actually, I should thank Teacher Suining; thank you for giving me the chance to play Zhong Yuheng during the audition. Please try the pastries and see how they are—see if they suit your taste.”

Doctors had instructed him to eat less sugar and sweets. But seeing the expectant look in Yu Zhihan’s eyes, he had no choice but to eat one in front of him. “It’s delicious.”

In the dressing room, Pei Xinglu swiped through one photo after another saved on his tablet.

Suddenly, there was a sound from behind.

Pei Xinglu switched the screen and looked toward the door with a frown, his tone displeased: “Don’t you know how to knock?”

Yu Zhihan maintained his usual gentle smile. “Xiao Pei, we’re in the same cast now. With a three-month shooting period, we can’t keep being at loggerheads like this, can we? It would affect the production progress.”

Pei Xinglu: “Speak plainly.”

“The Captain called you, and you didn’t answer. He’s doing it for our own good, hoping we can clear up the misunderstanding quickly.”

Pei Xinglu said bluntly, “There’s no misunderstanding between you and me. It’s all hard evidence. The Captain knows that in his heart. Is there anything else? If not, get out.”

Yu Zhihan endured it, his smile unchanged. “On the day of the audition, I saw you get out of the car belonging to President Ling of Maisui Media and Suining. Xiao Pei, I remember your contract expires the year after next, right? Are you planning to sign with Maisui Media?”

Pei Xinglu sneered. “I think you should stop being an actor and switch careers to be a paparazzi. It would suit you quite well.”

With that, he grabbed his tablet and orange juice and walked straight out the door.

Yu Zhihan’s face instantly darkened.

After the crew finished dinner, the intense filming continued.

This was a night scene. It was Zhong Yuheng’s first appearance, where he advises his current lord, the Crown Prince of the State of Chen, not to indulge in pleasure-seeking, hunting, and banquets, but rather to strive for governance, to “clear the thickets and gather orchids” (pizhen cailan), strengthening the State of Chen step by step to face the ambitions of the neighboring State of Qu.

It was a simple scene, and Yu Zhihan’s acting wasn’t the problem. However…

“Cut—” Zhang Bo thought it was ridiculous.

Yu Zhihan’s public persona was that of a man from a scholarly family; he often posted book reviews on Weibo and spoke eloquently in interviews.

And yet, just now… he had mispronounced two words within three minutes.

Ling Suiyao felt quite disillusioned but said patiently, “Teacher Yu, for ‘pizhen cailan’, ‘zhen’ is pronounced ‘zhēn,’ not ‘qín.’ And for ‘juanke’ (to engrave), ‘juan’ is ‘juān,’ not ‘zhuì’ like in ‘zhuizi’ (awl)…”

Yu Zhihan’s expression was awkward as he apologized repeatedly.

Pei Xinglu, squatting nearby, reading his script, let out two mocking laughs, letting his silence speak volumes.

A hopeless “illiterate of the arts.”