Chapter 2

The clock turned back a few hours, to the entrance of the Golden Hundred Film Festival.

The woman in the pale blue gown, the one named “Zhong Qing,” had entered alongside an elderly woman named “Medea.”

To most of the people present, Zhong Qing might have been an unfamiliar face. But the old woman called Medea certainly was not.

A legendary French director. A recipient of the international lifetime achievement award. A world-renowned artistic genius. Any one of those titles alone was enough to leave people speechless.

So it was only natural that the moment she appeared, every gaze and every camera flash turned toward her.

And perhaps that same rule applied to “Zhong Qing” as well.

A graduate of a top conservatory, and the youngest chief director in the history of the French Royal Theatre.

The only student Medea had ever acknowledged.

A newcomer whose debut work had won the Best New Artist Award at an international film festival.

All of this made the entire audience stare at the young woman in the pale blue gown with the eager, appraising eyes reserved for tomorrow’s star.

On the screen, a courtyard in the classic Golden Age style flickered to life. Amid dappled sunlight, a single pearl came tumbling down, scattering radiance in three directions, illuminating worlds upon worlds.

Within that dancing pearl, daylight took on a physical form, like a spring, or a ribbon of silk, flowing through the passage of time.

At the bottom, a signature: Zhong Qing, Baroque Round Table.

No people, no faces. A conceptual silent film woven from overlapping light and shadow.

“How very artistic,” Zhou Siyou heard someone murmur beside her. “So artistic it’s impossible to understand.”

She was far from the only one in the venue who couldn’t make sense of it.

And yet, when the Baroque pearl fell onto the round table on screen and the display went dark…

Thunderous applause still erupted from below the stage.

That applause probably wasn’t for the silent film. It was for Zhong Qing and Medea.

For the polished “art” they’d put out after already making their names.

Clapping along with the crowd, Zhou Siyou sneered inwardly. Art. What a hollow word.

In this playground where traffic and money were served as the main course, “art” was the emptiest phrase of all, weightless, inconsequential.

This place was crawling with people full of passion and empty pockets. In the end, they either starved to death, or woke up, smoothed things over, learned to network, and got their fingers stained with the smell of money.

Most people betrayed their original intentions.

Yet somehow, Zhong Qing had actually taken her artistic vision and fired it as the very first bullet of her career.

And the shot hadn’t gone wide. It hit the bullseye dead center.

“International Film Festival, Best New Artist Award.” What a lovely sound that gunshot made.

In this glittering den of pleasure, Zhong Qing and her work were both as quiet as a passing breeze.

Once the pleasantries were out of the way, the screen for the Golden Hundred Awards ceremony dimmed and brightened again.

The camera cut from shot to shot, film clips played in rotation, and the host drew out her syllables, milking the suspense.

Zhou Siyou sat in the venue, chin propped on her hand, watching all the delighted or disappointed faces up on stage. Her expression was listless, her gaze wandering.

That pearl, bouncing off the Baroque round table and falling again, kept lingering in her mind, impossible to shake.

It wasn’t until the big screen suddenly switched to a face far too familiar that the people around her turned to look, and Zhou Siyou lifted her eyes as if waking from a dream.

On the screen, a woman in a red dress like rosy clouds fell from the heavens. Pale lips parted, spilling blood as they moved, proclaiming her resentment toward a world that had shown her no favor.

And yet her eyes were smiling.

There was something decisive and chillingly fierce about it. Something that seized the heart.

A line of small text beneath the screen. Best Newcomer Award. Nominee: Zhou Siyou, All Evils.

Zhou Siyou had always been confident in her acting and her looks, and besides, this was a clip the organizers had hand-picked.

Hearing the hushed gasps of admiration ripple through the venue, not to mention the applause, she wasn’t the least bit surprised.

Some people knew her role tonight was nothing more than a runway walk before the real winner was crowned, and they shot her a few pitying glances.

Her talent agent, Fang Ming, was one of them.

Honestly, Zhou Siyou under the spotlight was stunning enough that one could hardly look away.

High nose, deep-set eyes, vermilion lips, white teeth. Her gaze was like a cold star, carrying a sharp, gallant edge, and…

a hint of feral, roguish wildness.

The entertainment industry was all about fortune and feng shui. Back before Zhou Siyou debuted, Fang Ming had taken her birth date and photo to a spooky old woman in her hometown for a fortune reading.

The results were all bottom-tier.

Bad destiny. Bad character. Bad temperament. Too flashy. Everyone’s instinctive reaction upon meeting her was to be on guard, not to be drawn in.

A person like that could never become a proper star.

When Fang Ming heard the verdict, her vision went dark with panic.

But the old woman just smiled her spooky smile. “Still, even a Heaven-Blighted Lone Star has its own path.”

And Zhou Siyou had, in fact, carved out a path of her own.

Most rising young actresses were gentle and bubbly. Zhou Siyou always wore that cold, world-weary, razor-sharp look.

As if a war god had suddenly appeared among a crowd of porcelain dolls.

And somehow, it made jaded audiences’ eyes light up.

…Such a shame. Looking at her own artist now, Fang Ming could only think two words: such a shame.

All around the venue, gazes of every kind landed on her, and Zhou Siyou’s expression never wavered.

Only, driven by some subconscious instinct, she tilted her face slightly, stealing an unnoticed glance at Zhong Qing’s expression a few rows ahead.

As expected, Zhong Qing sat perfectly straight, hands resting on her knees, without a single unnecessary movement.

Zhou Siyou pressed her lips together.

Seeing the trace of disappointment on her, Yu Ning beside her smiled like she’d gotten exactly what she wanted, brimming with provocation.

“Pretty clever, I’ll give you that. Since you can’t cling to Medea’s coattails, you stare at Zhong Qing instead.” Yu Ning lowered her voice. “But relax. She won’t remember the name of some nobody who’s just along for the ride.”

At that very moment, as if on cue, the host announced the winner.

“Let’s hear it for… Yu Ning…!!”

Yu Ning’s smile deepened.

She jerked her chin at Zhou Siyou and pointed toward Zhong Qing.

In her seat, Zhong Qing looked over along with the surrounding audience, and applauded politely for the winner, Yu Ning.

Back to this very moment.

Inside the Bentley.

After saying “I’m in a great mood,” Zhou Siyou ignored her agent entirely, thumbing through her phone and scrolling Weibo.

“…Zhou Siyou?”

When she stayed silent for too long, Fang Ming shot her a glance, her face clouding over with dread and alarm. She stared hard, terrified that one wrong move would make this little ancestor pull off another legendary stunt and go pick a fight with someone.

Fang Ming sniffed. “Siyou… look, I get why Yu Ning targets you. You’re too flashy. The tallest tree gets the wind.” Then she lowered her voice. “And there’s another reason. Zhong Qing has a new script for the domestic market. She’s probably at this festival to get a feel for the actors here and scout for talent. Yu Ning must have… decided to treat you as her imagined rival.”

Zhou Siyou’s scrolling hand stopped. She raised her eyes, finally showing a bit of a response. “Zhong Qing’s new script? What genre?”

“How would I know!” Fang Ming scowled under the barrage of questions. “She didn’t invite us. The script hasn’t even been announced, and people are already lining up for it. It probably won’t be your turn.”

The script hadn’t been announced yet, the genre still vague, and already countless people were craning their necks waiting. Who wouldn’t want a taste of Medea’s fame?

“It’s not my turn?” Zhou Siyou stared at her screen without lifting her head, her voice carrying a thread of anxiety. “She didn’t invite me. Can’t you, as my agent, go fight for it?”

Fang Ming sighed. “I’d have fought for it ages ago if there was any hope. No response at all.”

“Then I’ll fight for it myself.”

“…Going yourself would be even more humiliating.” Fang Ming paused, then her eyes went wide. “Wait. Zhou Siyou. Since when are you this ambitious?”

She pulled out her own phone. “Did you spot the business opportunity ages ago? So that’s why you were mooning over Zhong Qing in the venue, then rushed to follow her Weibo before the ceremony even ended. Was that it too?”

“Huh?” At Fang Ming’s words, Zhou Siyou repeated, with exaggerated disbelief, one word at a time, “I. Was. Mooning. Over. Zhong. Qing?”

“Are you saying you weren’t?” Fang Ming shot back, flashing her screen. “The clips are already circulating. One from the red carpet, two from inside the venue. Netizens say your eyes were glued to her, that you’re a social climber pining after someone way out of your league.”

Zhou Siyou leaned over to glance at the posts, then rolled her eyes. “If they’ve got this much free time to dig up photos, they should go herd some cattle. This generation of netizens is bored out of their skulls.”

For roughly the four-hundredth time, Fang Ming warned her: “Ancestor. Ancestor. You can talk like that in the car, but never in front of a camera.”

Zhou Siyou narrowed her eyes.

But before she could say anything else, her phone buzzed.

Zhou Siyou followed the sound and looked down at the screen. Her expression barely changed. She just suddenly called out, all seriousness, “Fang Ming.”

Fang Ming drew the syllable out. “Yeees.”

A half-smile played on Zhou Siyou’s lips. “What if I told you that Zhong Qing and I aren’t ‘one-sided pining’ at all? What if it’s completely mutual?”

Fang Ming snorted in disdain. “Spare me some of that confidence, will you?”

Across from her, Zhou Siyou snorted right back, and smugly held up her phone, turning the screen toward her.

A Weibo notification. New follower:

Zhongqing_Belle

“Head Agent Fang, she followed me back.”

Zhou Siyou asked again, her smile not reaching her eyes, “Still one-sided to you?”