Chapter 36

Chapter 036
Ming Huai discovered the bracelet was missing the following afternoon. Like his ring, he usually kept the bracelet on his person at all times. Since it was so small, it took him a full day before he thought to check if it was still there.
“Lily, have you found it?” Ming Huai asked, making one last desperate attempt.
Tang Lili had already searched back and forth all afternoon. To be honest, Ming Huai didn’t hold much hope of finding the bracelet again. The cord it was strung on was just an ordinary red string; even though the jade beads themselves were of excellent quality, most people would take one look and deem the piece worthless, perhaps even suspecting it to be a fake.
Tang Lili had rummaged through her bag three or four times now, laying out every single item onto the table. There were bottles and jars of all sorts, yet nothing that Ming Huai was looking for. Having worked alongside Ming Huai for several years, Tang Lili had never once seen him without that bracelet, leading her to believe it was something of great importance. Unable to locate it, she could only offer comfort: “Brother Ming Huai, why don’t we ask if anyone else on set has seen it?”
“It’s fine, it’s fine. The film set is huge, and we aren’t the only crew here. Besides, I don’t even know when I lost it,” Ming Huai sighed. “It’s probably gone for good.”
In truth, the bracelet wasn’t anything particularly significant to Ming Huai. Dong Ruman had specially visited a temple to pray for it after that incident occurred all those years ago. Ming Huai kept it on his person simply for peace of mind; now that it was lost, a vague sense of unease lingered in his heart.
Tang Lili was about to say something more when the makeup artist pushed the door open and entered. Anna, the makeup artist, was a pretty young woman. Though not yet old, she had become Fu Hairong’s favorite collaborator in recent years; nearly all the lead characters’ makeup in his dramas had been crafted by her hands. With a pleasant personality and considerable skill, she was responsible for the makeup of both Ming Huai and Ji Tingqian.
The first time Anna met Ming Huai, her eyes lit up instantly, and she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him. As it turned out, her instinct was right—Ming Huai was perfectly suited for those looks.
“Oh, I just love skin like ours, Ming Huai,” Anna said while touching up his makeup, her compliments flowing one after another. “Look at this complexion—it’s so perfect that even the slightest touch-up makes you look incredibly stunning.”
Anna was still chattering on, and even though Ming Huai had heard these words from her many times over the past few days, hearing them again for a second time still made him feel shy.
“Is Brother Ji done filming?” Ming Huai changed the subject.
Anna clicked her tongue, glancing toward the door. “Not yet. It’s been freezing up constantly—this is already the eighth time. If this keeps up, Director Fu is definitely going to explode, and I doubt we’ll even get dinner on schedule.”
This afternoon belonged to Ji Tingqian and Bai Ying; Ming Huai had only one scene to shoot.
Ming Huai knew this scene well—it was etched vividly in his memory. Not for any other reason, but because it featured Ji Tingqian baring his skin in front of another woman. It was an indoor scene: Ji Tingqian, playing Murong Ling, accidentally stumbled into the heroine Qi Xiu’er’s bedroom—or rather, fell straight into her bathing pool.
Ming Huai understood it was just filming; he wasn’t so unreasonable as to misunderstand. Still, seeing it would inevitably stir bitterness in his heart. Better not to see it at all. So throughout the afternoon, he stayed away from the set, waiting in the makeup room for his own scene.
Hearing Anna’s words, Ming Huai couldn’t help but feel a flicker of doubt. It was common knowledge that Ji Tingqian possessed exceptional acting skills; furthermore, he had collaborated with Director Fu Hairong on numerous occasions. Over the past several days, Ji Tingqian’s performance had been consistently stable. Typically, when retakes were necessary, the issue lay with the other party. Ming Huai guessed that this time, the problem likely stemmed from Bai Ying.
“What happened?” Ming Huai asked.
Anna paused her movements, casting a satisfied glance over Ming Huai’s face before neatly packing away her cosmetics. “It’s just Bai Ying,” she replied. “Who knows what’s going on in her head? She can’t seem to control her gaze. Director Fu just scolded her, saying her look was far too explicit.”
Listening to Anna’s account, Ming Huai finally understood the situation. It seemed Ji Tingqian was simply too irresistible, attracting attention like moths to a flame. At that moment, Ming Huai felt that skipping the set visit that afternoon had been an incredibly wise decision; otherwise, another mark might have been added to Ji Tingqian’s ledger of troubles.
The scene between Ji Tingqian and Bai Ying was finally wrapped up just before 4:30. By the time Ming Huai arrived, Fu Hairong’s face had darkened to such an extent that he wanted to explode but couldn’t quite bring himself to do so, while Bai Ying had already been ushered back to her dressing room by her assistants.
Seeing the look on his face, Ming Huai had no desire to be scolded, so he threw himself into the scene with exceptional focus. Every glance and gesture was perfectly executed. Cheng Mingze, the actor sharing the scene with him, clearly shared the same mindset; their coordination was flawless, free of errors, and they nailed it on the first take.
That evening featured a pivotal scene between Ming Huai and Ji Tingqian. Even though it was summer, the small grove at night carried a refreshing chill, which for Ming Huai felt nothing short of paradise.
The most frustrating aspect of filming period dramas is the costumes. Actresses dread the elaborate headpieces, while actors fear the layered garments that wrap tightly around their bodies; under the scorching sun, they are instantly drenched in sweat.
This evening’s scene not only required heavy costumes but also wire work. Ming Huai had never been particularly strong, yet he always refused to use a stunt double. The sword in his hand was far from light, and before long, he began to struggle, though he had no choice but to endure it stubbornly.
Compared to Ming Huai, Ji Tingqian was in much better shape. When he landed, his face remained calm, his breathing steady, and there was barely any sweat on his body.
Ming Huai was still suspended midair, sword in hand, casting a slightly resentful glance down at Ji Tingqian on the ground. Truly, comparing oneself to others could be utterly infuriating.
The accident happened in an instant. No one noticed the equipment malfunction until it was too late. Ming Huai suddenly felt weightless as the wires holding him plummeted rapidly. He wasn’t high off the ground; the descent took only about two seconds.
The sudden accident left Ming Huai’s mind reeling, yet before he could even scream or react, the wire’s descent halted abruptly. At that moment, Ming Huai was merely twenty or thirty centimeters above the ground.
Ming Huai blinked, letting out a sigh of relief, only to have his shoulders seized the next second by a forceful grip. He lifted his head in bewilderment, meeting a pair of anxious eyes; it had been so very long since he last saw Ji Tingqian like this.
“How is it? Are you okay?” Ji Tingqian inspected Ming Huai from head to toe, his voice trembling with an emotion he hadn’t even realized he was feeling, his face etched with a panic unlike anything he had ever known.
Under Ji Tingqian’s barrage of questions, Ming Huai finally came back to his senses. Realizing what had just happened, a wave of belated terror washed over him. The height might not have been extreme, but landing in that position would have at least resulted in a broken leg.
“It’s… it’s nothing,” Ming Huai forced a smile, saying, “Really, it’s nothing.”
Yet Ji Tingqian seemed not to hear, continuing to touch Ming Huai’s body as if inspecting a cherished treasure.
The whole incident had lasted no more than two or three minutes; most people present were still in a state of stunned disbelief. Ji Tingqian couldn’t explain why an inexplicable rage had taken hold of his heart, refusing to dissipate. Seeing the technicians still frozen in place, he barked in a low, heavy voice, “Hurry up and lower the wire!” He rarely lost his temper like this; even Ji Tingqian barely recognized himself.
Upon hearing this, the technicians quickly lowered Ming Huai.
Ming Huai felt his body make contact with the ground. He hurriedly unfastened the wire harness, his hands colliding repeatedly with Ji Tingqian’s in the process.
After an incident like this, filming could no longer continue. Fu Hairong checked on Ming Huai’s condition and, seeing that he was unharmed, instructed him to return home and rest properly, promising that a full explanation would certainly be provided.
It would take some time to figure out exactly why this had happened, but Ming Huai remained fairly optimistic. After all, nothing serious had befallen him; he was perfectly fine, and Ji Tingqian was right there by his side.
In stark contrast to Ming Huai’s demeanor, Ji Tingqian had voluntarily climbed into her chauffeur-driven van today. Yet throughout the entire journey, his expression remained ominously grim, his scrutinizing gaze never once leaving her.
Since they were all among their own people and Ji Tingqian’s assistants were absent, Ming Huai grew bolder in his actions. Knowing that Ji Tingqian was likely worried about him, he reached out and took Ji Tingqian’s hand.
The moment their hands met, Ming Huaibai suddenly realized that Ji Tingqian’s hand was ice-cold. He gazed at Ji Tingqian, suddenly unable to utter a single word. After a long while, the positions of their hands were reversed.
In the darkness, Ming Huai’s heart pounded wildly, his nerves so frayed he didn’t know what to do with his hands or feet. He fell silent, letting Ji Tingqian hold his hand; the sensation of skin against skin was so exquisite that Ming Huai could no longer tell whether this was a dream or reality.
With a faint flutter of excitement, Ming Huai turned his head away and gazed out the window.
Outside the car window, traffic flowed like water and lights blazed brightly. Ming Huai gazed at his own reflection in the mirror—it was the familiar him, tinged with delight, shy embarrassment, and a trace of apprehension.
His grip tightened unconsciously. In the mirror’s reflection, Ming Huai watched the fear on that face gradually fade, replaced by a sense of relief.
Ming Huai no longer wished to guess what Ji Tingqian was thinking; the other man’s intentions were already crystal clear. Restraining the excitement surging within him, he knew he only needed one opportunity—just one chance—and what belonged to him would return.
On the other side, the person’s mind churned with countless thoughts just like Ming Huai’s, myriad emotions rising and sinking, yet the clearest of them all was a feeling named fear.
Ji Tingqian remembered with crystal clarity the surge of terror and helplessness that had erupted in his heart the moment the wire suddenly dropped. He could only watch, powerless, as Ming Huai plummeted downward, unable to do anything. At that instant, a string named reason snapped abruptly within him, giving rise to yet another unfamiliar sensation…