Jiang Ruotang gestured with his chin in the direction. Ling Song let out a slight breath of relief. At least with the physique of the young man in front of him, he couldn’t possibly do anything to him.

This was Ling Song’s first time entering an art studio. The triangular roof, with skylights casting rectangular patches of light.

The room was filled with the scent of paints.

On one side, shelves were neatly stacked with various sketchbooks. On the other side, there were plaster busts and various trinkets.

There was none of the cold, oppressive atmosphere of Han Ming’s office, nor the murky ambiance of those KTV rooms. No smell of alcohol, just a teenage boy arranging an easel.

Ling Song’s tense nerves gradually relaxed.

“What pose do you need me to strike?”

Jiang Ruotang looked up at Ling Song. “Take off your shirt.”

Ling Song paused. Is this that kind of legendary, no-clothes thing…?

“Change into the beige T-shirt over there,” Jiang Ruotang’s voice sounded again.

Then the studio fell silent. Jiang Ruotang offered no further explanation.

The young master’s voice sounded calm, but it was devoid of any emotion. Ling Song felt like he was being treated as an object, or perhaps a plaster statue.

He turned his back to Jiang Ruotang, quickly took off his shirt without hesitation, put on the beige T-shirt, and then sat about three meters from the easel.

Jiang Ruotang walked over. His usually smiling face was now devoid of expression. The moment he grasped Ling Song’s shoulder, Ling Song felt a slight resistance.

“Your muscles are too stiff. It will be very tiring if you stay still for a long time like this.”

As Jiang Ruotang spoke, he turned Ling Song’s face towards the light source, then placed his hands on the edges of the chair, making his body form a curve, his neck line smooth, and his graceful jawline exposed.

Feeling that the other party was merely posing him, Ling Song gradually relaxed.

“Just hold this pose?”

“Mm-hmm. You can blink. If you’re really tired and can’t hold it, you can tell me.”

“Okay.”

Jiang Ruotang returned to the easel, and soon Ling Song heard a rustling sound—the sound of charcoal against paper.

Ling Song knew he was being observed, scrutinized, and captured on paper.

He liked this quiet atmosphere. It was as if the clamor in his heart was settling down little by little. Although holding this pose was indeed a bit tiring, he didn’t have to endure the malice of the male lead who brought his own funds, nor the disdainful glances of the fickle crew, nor the condescending gaze of Han Ming watching him struggle.

However, this peace didn’t last long, as the young artist spoke.

“Do you know you can’t play the male lead in Drunken Immortal Stage?”

Ling Song’s heart sank. He replied indifferently, “I guessed as much.”

“Then do you know why?” Jiang Ruotang asked again.

Ling Song controlled his emotions, took a deep breath, his expression unchanged. “Director Jiang’s fee probably doesn’t include chatting with his son.”

Jiang Ruotang acted as if he hadn’t heard the coolness in his voice, and said, “Don’t you want to know why? No one will tell you the truth once you leave here.”

Ling Song’s gaze flickered over, revealing a hint of mockery towards the inexperienced young master. “Aren’t the reasons always the same? I don’t have a good agency, I don’t have a background or value to be promoted, no impressive works, no fans or popularity, and… your father doesn’t want to offend Cefeng Pictures.”

Jiang Ruotang continued to paint slowly, and after a while, he said, “None of those.”

“Hmm?” Ling Song was slightly stunned.

But after a long wait, Jiang Ruotang didn’t give any further reasons, instead, he picked up a palette and began mixing colors.

This made Ling Song uncomfortable. He didn’t know if Jiang Ruotang was being deliberately mysterious, or if he was genuinely just focusing on painting and their conversation was merely casual.

Time passed slowly, so long that Ling Song felt his muscles from his shoulders to his neck starting to ache. He was about to give up the pose.

But Jiang Ruotang was still painting. His occasional glances from behind the easel were focused and serious, which made Ling Song feel that he too must maintain professionalism, so he stubbornly held still.

“Your pose is distorted,” Jiang Ruotang said.

“Sorry.”

Jiang Ruotang pointed to the soft sofa placed against the wall. “Go lie there for a while. If I need you again, I’ll call you.”

Ling Song slowly stood up, stretching his neck and shoulders. He really wanted that answer, but Jiang Ruotang was still painting, and he shouldn’t disturb him.

So Ling Song walked to the sofa against the wall and sat down.

No matter how the outside world evaluated Jiang Ruotang, whether they said he was ridiculous, willful, or mindlessly infatuated with Bai Yingchuan, at least when it came to painting, Ling Song could feel that he was serious.

Time passed. Ling Song sat on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, looking at messages from Sister Zhong.

[How is it? The young master doesn’t have ideas about you, does he?]

[You should be careful, don’t eat anything the young master gives you.]

[Why aren’t you replying? You haven’t really been charmed, have you?]

Ling Song gave a slightly self-deprecating smile. Was he some kind of hot commodity? Did everyone with a little power in the entertainment industry have to be interested in him? Did they all have to have some designs on him?

Not everyone was afflicted with Han Ming’s severe illness.

After replying to Sister Zhong’s messages, Ling Song became curious about Jiang Ruotang.

He thought for a while before recalling Jiang Ruotang’s name. A quick search revealed that this young master wasn’t just coasting; he had won awards. And he had several works exhibited at the Deep Blue Gallery in this city.

What impressed Ling Song the most was the painting of the bowed sunflower. It was said that several collectors had bid for it, but Jiang Ruotang wasn’t short on money, so he refused to sell it.

Gradually, Ling Song’s mind completely relaxed. The soft sofa, the quiet space—Ling Song fell asleep, not even waking when his phone dropped to the floor.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Ling Song’s shoulder twitched. He suddenly opened his eyes, and the unfamiliar surroundings made his nerves tense again.

Where was this?

Could it be that Han Ming had pulled another trick and drugged him?

He turned his face and saw the starlight from the triangular roof’s glass window shining down in the dark, falling precisely on the easel.

Only then did Ling Song remember that this was the art studio, and he had spent the afternoon modeling for Jiang Ruotang, resting on the sofa and falling asleep.

He moved and realized a blanket was covering him.

Faint laughter came from downstairs; it must be dinner time.

Ling Song stood up, folded the blanket, and placed it back on the sofa. Then he took off the loose beige T-shirt and put on his original dark one.

Passing by the easel, Ling Song was curious to see what Jiang Ruotang had painted him as.

With the lights off, the moonlight was deep and tranquil. The painting wasn’t of Ling Song sitting sideways on the chair during the day, but of him in a completely relaxed, unguarded state, slumped in the sofa.

One hand hung by the side of the sofa. The lingering light of dusk outlined the curve of Ling Song’s profile. His high, mountain-like nose bridge seemed to have shed all its guard and resistance in that light, becoming soft. His eyelashes drooped gently, like a tired bird folding its wings, and the loose T-shirt seemed to have become a cozy cocoon.

Ling Song had never known he had such a side.

Just then, the studio door gently opened, and light streamed in. Jiang Ruotang stood at the doorway.

“Hmm? You’re awake.”

Ling Song took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”

“It’s okay, I’m finished painting anyway.” Jiang Ruotang lifted his chin. “Come down for dinner.”

“I won’t intrude; I should go back.”

After all, it was Director Jiang’s family dinner, and it would be hard for him, an outsider, to fit in.

Jiang Ruotang smiled. “I thought you’d at least fight for yourself.”

“Fight for it?”

“My dad’s back.” Jiang Ruotang paused, then looked into Ling Song’s eyes and said, “Mr. Ling, among so many auditioners, not everyone gets the chance to step into Jiang Huaiyuan’s home and speak to him face-to-face, nor does every auditioner get the chance to further showcase their ideas and understanding of a role. Or are you thinking that, given your outstanding qualities, you’re irreplaceable, and all opportunities don’t need to be fought for? That if you’re not chosen, it’s because these directors are blind?”

Ling Song’s heart felt as if it had been pricked. After years of setbacks, he had long stopped trying to explain or defend himself.

But today, the young man in front of him reminded him that he was very close to that role. Did he still not want to fight for it again?

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

Jiang Ruotang smiled, turned, and walked downstairs. Ling Song followed behind him.

He found that the atmosphere in the Jiang family was much better than he had imagined. At the dining table, there were not only the family of four but also Sister Juan, who had opened the door for him, and Driver Xiao Gao. His own bowl and chopsticks were already set.

Jiang Huaiyuan smiled at Ling Song. “Xiao Ling, you’re down? You must be tired after a whole afternoon. Eat up!”

Living alone, Ling Song felt a bit constrained in such a joyous scene. He said, “Thank you, Director Jiang,” and sat next to Xiao Gao.

The six dishes and one soup, colorful, aromatic, and delicious, were something Ling Song, who had been squatting for work at the film studio for years, hadn’t eaten in a long time.

He glanced at Jiang Ruotang, who was peeling a shrimp. Zhao Changfeng, beside him, nudged him with his elbow. “Peel one for me.”

“Ha? Why? Don’t you have hands?” Jiang Ruotang retorted, rolling his eyes.

“Your hands are already in the ‘sea’; why make mine go into the ‘sea’ too?”

“That’s a really punchable reason! And is that how you ask someone to peel shrimp for you?”

Zhao Changfeng laughed, his eyes round and bright, like some kind of large dog begging for food.

“Ge, I want to eat shrimp. Peel one for me.”

“Hmph.” Jiang Ruotang actually peeled one for him.

“Peel another one for me.”

“Don’t take advantage of being spoiled.”

“Your peeled shrimp are the cleanest. One more, please.”

“Zhao Changfeng, do you have no shame?”

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

Jiang Ruotang snorted, peeled several more, and threw them into Zhao Changfeng’s bowl. “Right, you ate two-thirds of that box of fried chicken yourself!”

Ling Song watched from a distance, feeling a little envious.

But he also realized that Jiang Ruotang was completely contrary to what was rumored about him. He didn’t have a spoiled prince syndrome, nor was he willful. He even got along so well with the son brought by his stepmother.

At this moment, he seemed to understand what Zhao Changfeng’s look meant when he left.

Probably, my brother is the best in the world, and no one who is alone with him is allowed to hurt him.

“Xiao Ling, eat more vegetables. This steamed spareribs with fermented black beans is Sister Juan’s specialty. And this pickled cabbage fish fillet, it’s no worse than those in restaurants outside.”

Hearing Jiang Huaiyuan encourage him to eat more, Ling Song was flattered. He also realized that Jiang Huaiyuan was not one of those superficial people in the entertainment industry, with their endless toasts and flattery. He treated Ling Song like an elder treating a junior.

This was the first time Ling Song had dined at an industry insider’s home after being targeted by Han Ming for several years, and it was also the best atmosphere he had experienced.

After dinner, Ling Song wanted to help Xiao Gao and Sister Juan clear the dishes, but Sister Juan smiled and pushed him.

“There’s no need for guests to clear the table. Go on, Mr. Jiang is waiting for you.”

Ling Song turned around and saw Jiang Huaiyuan standing at the second-floor stairwell, gesturing with his eyes for him to come over.

Adjusting his breathing, Ling Song walked over and followed Jiang Huaiyuan to the study on the second floor.

Jiang Huaiyuan poured him a cup of tea and said softly, “Actually, for this male lead role, I auditioned hundreds of people, and many people called me, hoping I could help promote newcomers.”

Ling Song remained silent. He knew Jiang Huaiyuan was telling the truth, and that included Han Ming’s attempt to push his own newcomers.

For such a renowned director to invite him to his home to discuss this topic showed great respect for him.

“But among these people, the one with the best conditions, lines, and performance is you. I’ve been hesitating whether to use you, and then I talked about you with my son, Jiang Ruotang. Ruotang told me, ‘Where in this world is there an actor who will satisfy me one hundred percent? Instead of worrying and imagining whether he’s suitable to be my male lead, why not get to know him more deeply?'” Jiang Huaiyuan said.

Ling Song was stunned. He hadn’t expected that his opportunity to interact with Jiang Huaiyuan was actually gained for him by Jiang Ruotang.

He had previously harbored suspicions about Jiang Ruotang’s intentions due to some rumors. He had truly judged a gentleman with the heart of a villain.

“May I be so bold as to ask… where was it that I dissatisfied you, Director Jiang?”

Jiang Huaiyuan had anticipated this question and said calmly, “Have you read the original novel of Drunken Immortal Stage?”

Ling Song nodded.

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

Ling Song looked into Jiang Huaiyuan’s eyes and immediately understood why he hadn’t chosen him.

“Ye Linzhou is open-minded, relaxed, and very tolerant of good and evil in the world… but I am very tense… and guarded… I can play Ye Linzhou after he succumbs to demonic influence well, but I might not be able to grasp his open-minded and tolerant side.”

“Yes, it’s hard for even the most profound actors not to let their real-life emotions and demeanor seep into a role. So, the more apparent your real-life tension and guardedness, the more incongruous it will be when you play the dashing and handsome Ye Linzhou before he becomes demonic. If you don’t let it go yourself, no one can help you let it go.”

Ling Song’s throat moved. It was a lie to say he wasn’t touched.

After all these years of struggling for work at the film studio, he knew exactly who was speaking empty pleasantries and who was being sincere.

“I don’t have much time left either, only three days for you to make your final preparations. If you agree, I’ll send you the script. In three days, you’ll perform the scene where Ye Linzhou debates with the various sects and takes away the young demonic cultivator. How you maintain an open-minded and tolerant attitude while confronting the entire cultivation world will depend on your skill.”

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

He was like a penniless wanderer, struggling to survive, who suddenly found a lottery ticket.

Ling Song left Jiang Huaiyuan’s study. Jiang Huaiyuan specifically asked Xiao Gao to drive him home.

As he opened the door and stepped out, Ling Song suddenly remembered something. “Um… would you mind conveying a message to Jiang Ruotang for me?”

Xiao Gao nodded. “Sure.”

“Just… thank him.”

“Okay,” Xiao Gao nodded.

Ling Song couldn’t help but ask, “You don’t seem curious about why I’m thanking him?”

Xiao Gao shrugged. “Many people thank him. You’re not the first.”