Starting at 6 p.m., media and critics, guided by staff, entered S City Grand Theater. Lucky audience members began arriving at 7 p.m., and by 8 p.m., the Silent crew was on-site, greeting fans.

Filming for Silent began in May, just six months ago.

This low-budget youth romance had no action scenes or heavy special effects, with most funds allocated to visual processing.

The premiere kicked off with the main crew on stage, chatting with the audience. Due to Liu Huizhen’s ongoing lawsuit with Lu Xiangbo, she was absent.

Before tonight, Rong Xu hadn’t realized Director Xu was so reserved. When the host directed questions to him, the veteran answered briefly, rarely elaborating.

Insiders knew Director Xu’s personality, so the host shifted focus to Rong Xu, Xiao Zitong, and Lin Xuan, sparking lively banter. The trio’s playful jabs and jokes had the crowd roaring with laughter.

After an hour, the chat wrapped up, giving way to press questions.

Under bright lights, Rong Xu squinted slightly, smiling at the audience. His gaze flicked over the front-row cameras before settling on the back rows.

In the dim theater, countless fans held small LED signs, watching the stage intently.

S City Grand Theater was vast, with the stage 30 meters from the back row, seating hundreds. Rear audience members could barely see the actors’ faces, only vague outlines, yet they clutched their signs, cheering on cue.

The most common character on those signs was “Rong.”

Too far to see their faces, Rong Xu could still make out the signs. Smiling, he waved to the distant fans, prompting another wave of cheers.

The crew had prepped the media, so initial questions focused on the film. Reporters asked Director Xu why he chose a youth romance and whether the November 30 release had special significance.

Director Xu laughed openly. “Of course there’s a reason. Golden Phoenix, Golden Prism—several awards have late-November deadlines. Why else pick this date?”

Reporters scribbled furiously, sensing a scoop.

After film-related questions, attention turned to the stars.

Likely due to yesterday’s concert, reporters bombarded Rong Xu and Lin Xuan with questions about the event, including, “Rong Xu, are you planning to enter the music industry?”

The handsome teen smiled, echoing his concert response. “No plans to go into music full-time. If I cross over, it won’t be as a singer. The concert was eye-opening—Lin Xuan showed me a singer’s world, and it was thrilling.”

His polished answer left reporters stumped, but they soon pivoted to personal questions.

No star escapes romance queries. Rong Xu, Xiao Zitong, and even scandal-prone Lin Xuan were grilled about their love lives.

After exhausting relationship questions, reporters sharpened their focus, targeting Director Xu. One boldly asked, “Lu Xiangbo and Liu Huizhen are still in court, with Lu losing recently. Director Xu, can you detail what happened with the Silent crew? When will the team, like Liu Huizhen, sue Lu Xiangbo?”

The atmosphere tensed. Fans fumed at the gossip-driven question, yet their curiosity stirred.

Indeed, Liu and Lu’s news had been constant, but Silent’s promised legal action against Lu had gone quiet.

Director Xu’s smile didn’t falter. The renowned director eyed the reporter calmly, then said kindly, “We clarified the incident in our statement. As for suing, I, Xu Sheng, assure you, this isn’t over.” Pausing, he looked at the reporter. “Anything else about the film?”

Under the gaze of such a titan, the reporter sweated.

No one pressed further about Lu, and the mood eased. Before the premiere, Director Xu had told Rong Xu he wanted exposure for the film but not via a “shameless creep” like Lu.

“Silent won’t be tied to that guy. I think Yuan Ke would agree.”

Director Yuan prioritized profits but avoided linking Lost City to Ren Shuzhi’s scandals; Director Xu craved exposure but wanted no ties to Lu.

This was their stance, reflecting their commitment to their work.

The premiere continued. The final question asked Director Xu’s box office expectations for Silent.

Confidently, Director Xu raised three fingers. “This number.”

The reporter gasped, “Three hundred million?”

Director Xu laughed heartily. “Three billion!”

The crowd buzzed, but the crew cut off further questions.

Near midnight, attendees took a break before the screening.

Backstage, makeup artists touched up Xiao Zitong, Xu discussed theater distribution with the producer, and Lin Xuan pestered Rong Xu, grinning. “Rongrong, you really had a first love? What was she like? Tell me, I’m curious.”

Earlier, a reporter had asked Rong Xu about a first love. He’d calmly admitted to having one but deflected further probes, smiling, “I thought this film was Silent, not First Love—especially not Rong Xu’s First Love?”

Reporter: “…”

He’d deftly shut it down, revealing nothing. Now, Lin Xuan pressed him.

Seeing no end to the pop prince’s nagging, Rong Xu smiled calmly. “I’ll tell if you tell me about your first love. You go first, then… I’ll consider.”

Lin Xuan: “…”

Moments later, he stormed off. “Rongrong’s bullying me again!”

Rong Xu blinked innocently.

You share, I’ll consider—fair trade, no bullying.

Half an hour later, at midnight, Silent’s premiere began.

In the front row center sat investor reps. Rong Xu and Xiao Zitong were on the left, Xu and Lin Xuan on the right, separated by four investors and the producer.

As Rong Xu sat, he caught Lin Xuan’s “you bullied me” gesture. Shrugging with a helpless smile, he ignored the dramatic star. Before the film started, he texted a certain man.

【Rong Xu: Everything okay there?】

A quick reply came.

【Qin Cheng: Yeah, theater’s about 70% full, decent turnout.】

Rong Xu chuckled. 【I meant, you haven’t been spotted, right?】

Reading the next message, he raised a brow.

【Qin Cheng: Me, get spotted?】

The smugness oozed through the screen.

Rong Xu’s smile widened. He pictured a man in a mask and sunglasses, sneaking into the back row of a dark theater, awaiting the film.

He could wait a few days for a safer viewing, but no—he chose the premiere, at a small theater near S City Grand Theater. What’s he thinking?

Rong Xu couldn’t guess Qin Cheng’s motives. Nor did he know that Qin Cheng’s “small theater” had over 200 seats per screening room, and the “70% turnout” was a wild guess!

Lumière Cinema held at least 180 viewers.

Many chose it for proximity to the premiere venue. Among them were Xu’s, Xiao Zitong’s, Lin Xuan’s, and, most numerously, Rong Xu’s fans.

Right now, flanking Qin Cheng, sat two groups of unrelated Rong Xu fans.

To the left were three college girls, likely dormmates. To the right, two office workers, crazy enough to attend a midnight premiere despite work the next day.

Before the film started, the two groups chatted across Qin Cheng. After a moment, they locked eyes, stunned, and exclaimed…

“Only wish to sleep with Moqi Yao?!”

“Love Rongrong, no regrets!”

“Comrade!”

“Comrade!”

“Finally found the squad! Here for Rongrong’s new movie? Tickets for this premiere were brutal to snag.”

“Totally, everyone wants to be close to Rongrong. Are you S City Rong fans? I’m in the local fan group. You in? What’s your ID?”

“I’m in, I’m…”

The man in the middle silently raised his right hand, shielding his face. “…”

The Rong fans buzzed until the movie began. They turned, eyes glued to the screen. As gentle music played, the film opened, exuding youthful charm like any fresh romance.

A vibrant campus, a sweat-soaked sports field—the visuals were crisp and bright, soothing to watch.

When Rong Xu’s name appeared in the credits, the five fans on either side gasped, quickly covering their mouths. The student to Qin Cheng’s left turned, whispering, “Sorry, couldn’t help it.” She started to look up.

Qin Cheng raised his hand, blocking his face. “…It’s fine.”

The student glanced curiously at him, then whispered to her friend, “The guy next to me is weird, watching a movie in a mask.”

Her friend laughed. “That’s okay, maybe he’s sick. Good thing he’s not in sunglasses, or I’d think he’s a celebrity.”

The student instinctively glanced at Qin Cheng, but before she could see his face, her friend grabbed her hand. “Rongrong!”

On the big screen—Rongrong!

No one cared about the odd moviegoer now; all eyes were on the film.

Silent’s opening mirrored typical youth romances, tapping into viewers’ tenderest school-day memories. No matter life’s hardships or maturity gained, recalling student days brought warmth.

The director leaned into this, crafting a pure, innocent campus scene.

As the “nation’s first love,” Xiao Zitong’s face and aura were flawless. Acting aside, she embodied the white-dressed girl of many men’s dreams. For female viewers, Rong Xu and Lin Xuan stole the show.

Due to cuts, Lin Xuan had few scenes, leaving Rong Xu to dominate.

Audiences saw him pull Xiao Zitong’s hand, racing across a deserted field at night; they saw them on the school rooftop, stargazing, as Xiao Zitong shared school-life snippets.

Soon, viewers noticed Rong Xu’s character never spoke. He only smiled at the willful, strong girl, eyes curving gently. Whenever Xiao Zitong turned, he was there, quietly watching.

To Zhao Leling, this mysterious boy was always present. He couldn’t speak or express feelings, but when she needed to vent, he ran with her; when she needed to cry, he offered a shoulder.

When she was bullied, he stepped in, leading her away.

This was love, perhaps.

On screen, the boy’s skin was pale, almost translucent, cool yet warmed by his smile.

No viewer could resist such heart-fluttering charm. Silent targeted women primarily, men secondarily, though Director Xu didn’t neglect the male audience.

Within the first hour, dreamy, ethereal scenes abounded. Director Xu’s top-tier post-production delivered breathtaking visuals.

If the plot captivated female fans, the visuals drew in men.

Perhaps from watching and acting in countless films, while the theater sank into the film’s first-love vibe, the man in the back row remained cool-headed, critically assessing.

Plot-wise, Director Xu’s pacing was seamless, planting key moments every five minutes to avoid artsy boredom. Visually, the film was stellar—three months for such results was remarkable.

As for the actors…

“The moon’s so bright tonight.”

A young, innocent girl sat at the field’s edge, head lowered, softly speaking.

Qin Cheng’s thoughts paused. He frowned, watching the screen. Then, his eyes widened, lips parting, staring stunned. Slowly, he smiled.

Under soft moonlight, a fair, gentle boy smiled, gazing warmly at everyone beyond the lens. His eyes held a starry sky, sparkling as his lips curved, a spring breeze brushing past.

Even the coldest heart melted at this serene boy.

You couldn’t demand too much of him or criticize him. His smile, paired with the moonlit glow, pierced your heart.

For Silent, Qin Cheng had no critiques left.

His teen dimmed his dazzling edge, shedding sharpness to become the clearest water.

This Rong Xu wasn’t Moqi Yao, Huo Xi, Ling Xiao, or Xue Jiazhe.

He was Du Ran.

Each role distinct, each character vivid, this acting deepened Qin Cheng’s smile. As the film progressed, he shed his outsider stance, fully immersed.

In any work, treating the audience like fools is fatal.

Logically, anyone would suspect Du Ran was a ghost.

In the film, Zhao Leling discovered he wasn’t a student and sensed he might be a ghost. When she noticed a cut on his arm vanish overnight, she bit her lip, silent.

The final half-hour shifted to Zhao Leling as an adult.

She graduated high school, attended college, and returned to her small city. On graduation day, she visited the school to bid the boy farewell. At the rusty gate, tears held back, she asked again, “Are you… a ghost?”

Early on, she’d asked this, receiving a warm hug.

Back then, Du Ran denied it. Now, she asked again. This time, no hug. He stood inside the gate, gazing at her outside. After a long pause, he nodded, still smiling gently.

Zhao Leling shook her head. “I don’t care if you’re human or ghost, come with me.” She reached for him, but he stepped back.

Stunned, she stared. The rusty gate creaked shut. One outside, one inside. Crying, angry, she turned to leave, but glancing back, he still stood there, smiling.

Years later, at college, she returned and saw him again. She visited often, not knowing his name or any record of a student’s death at the school.

As time passed, returning from the city in heels and makeup, her eyes no longer held youthful innocence, only weariness.

Yet, at the school gate, the white-clad boy waited, as young as ever.

Like a child.

To her, he was now just a child. The love she once felt couldn’t burn as fiercely. Memories reminded her of her affection, but time had dulled it.

She couldn’t be with a ghost. He’d never age, but she would.

The school was nearly abandoned, facing demolition. On the deserted field, the polished career woman sat by the flagpole, chatting with the boy. She shared work stories, mentioned the former heartthrob marrying the campus beauty.

Her voice choked. Unsure what to say, she looked up, meeting his unchanged, gentle smile, same as a decade ago.

In that moment, a decade of grievances and anger erupted. She stood, glaring at the mute boy, spitting out each word: “What can I do? Tell me, what can I do? Why did you choose me? Anyone else, why me?”

The boy’s smile faltered, but he kept gazing at Zhao Leling.

“Why did you make me fall for you when I was clueless? What now? I love a ghost, a ghost who looks like a middle schooler? I’m thirty! Thirty! This ghost never speaks, never tells me his name, I don’t even know if he likes me!”

Vivid sunset clouds filled the sky, a breathtaking, inky glow.

Beneath, a young, beautiful woman wailed, makeup streaked with tears, no longer pristine. Before her sat a refined teen, stunned, watching her cry, as if seeing the reckless girl from years ago.

After a long pause, he seemed to sigh. Standing, he opened his arms, embracing the sobbing woman.

Zhao Leling froze.

A soft whisper rode the spring breeze into her ear, making her pupils tremble as she stared, shocked, at the boy.

He said—

‘Leling, I like you.’

Post-processed, his faint voice blended with swelling music, reaching every viewer. Sensing what was coming, many stared at the screen, soft sobs filling the theater.

In the warm, dusky sunset, the boy smiled gently, gazing at the stunned woman. He raised a hand, wiping her tears.

Then, in radiant light, he repeated those four words. Suddenly, his body dissolved into countless starlights.

Zhao Leling’s eyes widened, reaching for his hand. He reached back, but she grasped only air. Her eyes locked on him, watching his warm smile as he faded with the glow, vanishing into the world.

“No!!!”

She collapsed, screaming frantically.

In the theater, sobs broke out. Emotional female fans wept uncontrollably; some male viewers rubbed stinging eyes, holding back tears.

The music hit its climax—purely instrumental, no vocals, yet deeply moving. Paired with Zhao Leling’s breakdown on the field, it stirred profound sorrow.

But the film wasn’t over.

The screen flashed four words—

One Month Later.

Audience members, calming their emotions, watched on.

Zhao Leling was sorting through things at home during a cleanup. The woman who’d wept a month ago seemed gone; she smiled, as if the boy who’d been with her for years was forgotten.

As her mother asked her to take out the trash, she opened the door to find a couple with their child. Staring at the strangers, she asked, “Can I help you?”

The gentle woman smiled. “I’m Du Ran’s mother.”

Zhao Leling watched her mother greet the couple warmly, inviting them in. Bewildered, she felt out of place. Her mother sighed, “It’s been so long, no harm telling you now.”

Then, Zhao Leling heard a story she didn’t recall.

Sixteen years ago, she’d loved a boy named Du Ran. The day after graduation, she waited at the school gate from dawn till midnight, but he never came.

Furious, she went to his home, only to learn he hadn’t stood her up—he was gone forever.

At Du Ran’s funeral, Zhao Leling laid a flower.

Soon after, she fell gravely ill. When she woke, Du Ran was erased from her memory.

Her mother scolded, “You were so young, already in love.” Zhao Leling stared blankly as her mother turned to Du Ran’s parents, asking, “It’s been years. What brings you here?”

Du Ran’s mother handed Zhao Leling yellowed letters.

“Recently, something’s changed. We’re ready to leave this city. Ran left early; we couldn’t let go, staying here for years. We’re moving soon, with Ran’s brother, to start anew. We wanted to give you these letters before, but you’d forgotten, so we held off. Now, as we leave, it’s time to give you Ran’s love letters.”

Trembling, Zhao Leling opened the faded pages. Each was half-written, unfinished.

The handwriting was elegant, but “I like you” was awkwardly scrawled.

Du Ran’s mother smiled. “Ran hid these in his drawer, unfinished. I think he wanted to tell you in person, ‘I like you.’”

A tear fell, splashing the letter, smudging “I like you.”

As the ink blurred, it was as if his lingering wish, fulfilled by those words, let him depart in peace.

Soft music played, the film freezing on the smudged “I like you,” ending.

The theater echoed with cries. Credits rolled, but no one left.

A hand appeared before Qin Cheng. He instinctively pulled his hat low, but the sobbing girl beside him offered, “Do you… need tissue? I have extra.”

After a pause, he took it, thanking her quietly.

While others waited for an Easter egg, Qin Cheng left first, avoiding the post-show rush to stay unrecognized.

He hadn’t cried, but his eyes were damp.

Xu Sheng planted three tearjerkers. First, Xiao Zitong’s aging against Rong Xu’s eternal youth—a stark, silent tragedy signaling no happy ending.

Second, Rong Xu’s “I like you” and disappearance—a straightforward, tragic tearjerker.

Third, the truth: the boy Zhao Leling didn’t even name was someone she’d loved so deeply she’d chosen to forget. He couldn’t leave the school or speak, waiting to say “I like you” before moving on.

These climaxes overwhelmed viewers. For Qin Cheng, the deepest impact wasn’t the truth but Rong Xu’s serene, accepting smile as he vanished.

His parents had a new child, ready for a new life.

For Du Ran, only Zhao Leling remained, but she no longer needed him.

So, he said “I like you” and embraced a new beginning.

Leaving the theater, Qin Cheng tucked his hands into his coat pockets, walking toward S City Grand Theater. His steps quickened, then vanished into the night.

Meanwhile, Silent’s nationwide premiere ended, debuting to dozens of critics and thousands of fans.

Opening box office: 26 million!

In theaters, viewers watched a humorous Easter egg, too teary to laugh, wiping eyes and noses.

Exiting, some who disliked arthouse films gave one- or two-star ratings online, commenting: 【Too artsy, fell asleep. Faces and visuals were nice, though.】

But far more gave five stars, writing: 【Loved not just Du Ran, but that purest form of love.】