Going from "Fanservice" to Reality with My Goddess - Chapter 13

“Cut!” Duan Yi called out from behind the monitor. “Feng Ji, your expression isn’t quite right. Let’s go again.”

This was already the nth “NG” (No Good) take for Shen Yan today. Ever since they finished filming the farewell scene earlier that morning, Shen Yan had been completely out of sorts. Usually, a scene of this caliber would be effortless for a Best Actress like her, yet she was failing take after take.

After several more repetitions, she finally met Duan Yi’s requirements, and the day’s filming was considered complete.

Back at the hotel, Shen Yan lay on her bed, feeling an unprecedented sense of exhaustion. Something was wrong. On the surface, she tried to act like she didn’t care, but her mind kept drifting back to that kiss—to Yu Nianzhi’s flushed, pretty face and the strange thoughts that had popped into her own head at that moment.

Shen Yan reflected and realized it wasn’t just this one time. Perhaps influenced by the long period of filming together, her mind had been frequently wandering into odd territories. She tried to convince herself it was merely because she was “too deep in character,” subconsciously bringing the fictional emotions into her real life.

However, she had been acting for nearly ten years. While she wouldn’t boast about having “transcendent” skills, she had never had trouble entering or exiting a role on command. She knew the difference between acting and reality. Furthermore, the person appearing in her mind was always Yu Nianzhi, not Wen Yan.

That night, Shen Yan—who usually lived a low-maintenance, “2G network” lifestyle and hadn’t posted on Weibo in six months suddenly logged into her account and posted a status.

The content was simple, consisting of only a famous four-line poem by Wang Wei:

“The red beans grow in southern lands, With spring, many branches bloom. I hope, my lord, you gather more, For they evoke the deepest pining.”

She paired it with a photo of the Abrus (Love Seed) tree used in the movie Love and Longing. The poem and the image complemented each other perfectly.

The post was simple, but the effect was explosive. Weibo instantly went into a frenzy.

@ShenYanYanLover: “Ahhh! My goddess posted! When is Love and Longing airing?! Shen Yan, I love you!!!”

@Aspirin: “I knew ‘Lover-bro’ would be the first to grab the top comment again.”

@DeepDeep: “Checked my notifications… wait, Shen Yan posted? Holy crap, Shen Yan actually posted?!”

@TenFlaws: “Oh heavens, this poem is heavy with meaning. Has someone finally stirred the heart of our Best Actress?”

@CustardBun: “Weren’t people saying that who-is-it, Yu Nianzhi, was acting with her? Could it be true? Is it possible…?”

As likes, comments, and shares skyrocketed, hashtags like #ShenYanYuNianzhi, #ShenYanLoveLonging, and #WhoStirredMyGoddess surged to the top of the trending lists, leaving all other news in the dust. Not long after their last encounter on the trending list, the two were once again linked in the public eye.

Commenters were in a heated debate. Some were celebrating the rare post, some claimed it was just promotional hype for the movie, and others were dead set on the idea that Shen Yan was finally in love.

After posting, Shen Yan went silent again. She rarely replied to comments, leaving the public to dissect the poem and the photo over and over without a definitive conclusion.

Shortly after the post, Shen Yan’s phone rang. It was her manager, Yin Qin, sounding helpless. “My dear ancestor, what did you promise me last time?”

Shen Yan sounded innocent. “I just posted to promote the movie. Am I not allowed to do promotion?”

Yin Qin rubbed her temples. “If you’re going to promote, then do it properly! Look at how far the netizens’ imaginations are running now.”

Shen Yan comforted her. “The promotion was the primary goal; additional effects are inevitable.”

“You always have an excuse,” Yin Qin sighed. She could only remind Shen Yan once more not to take matters into her own hands and to focus on filming. Finally, she added: “The filming is in its later stages, right? Given the sensitive subject matter, don’t have too much contact with Yu Nianzhi. Don’t let yourselves stay tied together after the movie wraps. We don’t need that kind of publicity.”

Shen Yan was quiet for a few seconds before softly agreeing.

After hanging up, she reopened the Weibo post. The comments were still climbing. She glanced at the top comment from “ShenYanYanLover.” Though she rarely paid attention to fans, this ID appeared so often in the top spots that she remembered it. She tossed her phone aside and closed her eyes to rest.

As one of the figures at the center of the storm, Yu Nianzhi was genuinely stunned when she saw the post. Seeing her name side-by-side with Shen Yan’s at the top of the trending list felt surreal. If she hadn’t already commented on the post using her alt account, she would have suspected her company bought the trend—though she knew they weren’t that generous.

Lying in bed, she read the poem Shen Yan had posted. Her mind was a mess of conflicting thoughts. She told herself it was just professional promotion, likely handled by a marketing team. But she couldn’t stop a sliver of hope from growing. The timing was too perfect—they had just filmed their kiss and the scene where they were forced to part.

Yu Nianzhi closed her eyes, her long lashes trembling, reflecting her inner turmoil. She didn’t know whether to be happy or anxious. After a long time, she sighed and set her phone down.

“Report!” A messenger galloped into the great hall, bringing the latest news from the front lines to the waiting court.

“Reporting to the Emperor! Fujiang City was defended with absolute resolve. Under the leadership of the Crown Prince, our army was heroic and fearless. We have achieved a great victory over Beiyan, and the enemy is preparing to retreat!”

“Good!” The Emperor beamed with joy, clapping his hands. “Truly my child! When the Prince returns in triumph, I shall reward the entire army!” The hall erupted with cries of “Long live the Prince, long live the Emperor!”

However, the messenger did not leave. He remained kneeling, appearing as though he had more to say. The Emperor gestured for silence and smiled. “Does my dear subject have more to report?”

The messenger nodded, but his previous joy was gone. “It is just that… the Crown Prince, in the final battle, was ambushed by an enemy arrow. A few days ago… a few days ago…”

The smile on the Emperor’s face froze. “You say the Prince…?”

The messenger bowed his head to the floor, his voice choking. “The army is temporarily stationed in Fujiang to reorganize. They will return to the capital within a month. May Your Majesty restrain your grief!”

The court was a tapestry of different reactions. Some were shocked and pained that such a brilliant youth had fallen; others were secretly delighted at the chance to topple the Prince’s faction; others worried for the future of the North.

The Emperor sat on his dragon throne, staring blankly at the sky. “My Prince, my throne, my kingdom…” He looked as though he had aged ten years in an instant. Yet, his heart seemed focused only on his legacy and his successor, not his child. He didn’t spare a thought for how Yu Nianzhi, waiting in the Eastern Palace, would feel.

When the news reached her, Yu Nianzhi was organizing Shen Yan’s clothes, wanting them to be ready for her return. Luo Qin knocked on the door, but her usual playfulness was gone. She stammered, unable to speak.

“What’s the matter? Why is it so hard to say?” Yu Nianzhi asked with a smile.

Luo Qin hesitated. “Master, Lord Zhang was just here. There is something he found inconvenient to say in person, so he asked me to tell you.”

Yu Nianzhi’s smile faded, a bad omen rising in her heart. “What is it?”

Luo Qin couldn’t bring herself to say it. She knew the truth couldn’t be hidden forever, but she didn’t want to be the one to break it. The room was deathly quiet. Outside, the rain from the previous night had left the air cool and the sun warm—a rare, beautiful day.

Finally, Luo Qin spoke. “Lord Zhang said… news came from Fujiang. The Prince… he was struck in a vital spot by an arrow. He has already…” Halfway through, she broke down in sobs, covering her face.

Yu Nianzhi froze. The clothes she had just folded slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Struck in a vital spot… by an arrow?

Yu Nianzhi stood motionless, her expression wooden, as if she hadn’t processed the information.

Suddenly, a sharp “Cut!” rang out.

Yu Nianzhi jumped; she was truly stunned this time. Duan Yi walked over. “The basic sadness is there, but the performance isn’t intense enough. It lacks ‘fire.’ You have to think—at this point, your feelings are peaking; you’ve already fallen in love with her. Hearing that your lover died on the battlefield should be devastating. But Wen Yan grew up unloved; she has no one to comfort her when she cries, so she is used to hiding her emotions. It needs to be that feeling of being both intense and restrained. Find that feeling and let’s go again.”

They filmed the scene twice more, but Duan Yi was still unsatisfied. He told Yu Nianzhi to take a break and find the right emotional state.

Yu Nianzhi sat down to think. Her assistant, Lin Xin, poured her some water. Yu Nianzhi took a sip and decided to pull out her phone. She opened a video site and looked at some “sad/BE” (Bad End) fan edits of Shen Yan’s previous works that she had saved over the years.

She watched them one by one, feeling the sadness swell. Then, she searched for “Shen Yan” on a search engine to look at old tabloid rumors and fake dating scandals involving the actress. The more she read, the more miserable she felt. She felt she was finally ready to play the scene.

She was reading intently when a person suddenly appeared beside her.

“I have absolutely no relationship with any of those people.”

Yu Nianzhi jumped and scrambled to turn off her screen. She turned to find Shen Yan standing behind her, wearing an expression that was truly hard to describe.

Yu Nianzhi: “…”

The two stared at each other for three seconds in silence. The scene was, for lack of a better word, profoundly awkward.