📚 Hey lovely readers!
Thanks a ton for sticking with this amazing novel and cheering on Jiang Qi and Zhi Qi 💖 Your support means the world! 🌍

This story has a total of 96 chapters 🎉 — but I haven’t been able to find the extra chapters anywhere 😢. If any of you come across them, please drop the link 🔗 and I’ll happily translate it for everyone! 📝✨

Just a few chapters left to wrap up this beautiful journey… 💫
Happy reading! 📖💕

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Chapter 67: They Now Had A Pair Of “Matching Scars”

This was the first time Jiang Qi had seen Zhiming Lin and Mei Ran since graduating from elementary school. Counting the years, it had already been a decade.

It was also their first time… having a meal together, almost like the illusion of being a “family.”

But the meal wasn’t pleasant. Everyone was silent, each feeling like they had something stuck in their throat.

Mei Ran even felt a bit upset—she was supposed to be the one feeding Zhi Qi, but after Jiang Qi entered the room and casually said, “Please eat,” he picked up a bowl of small wontons and began feeding Zhi Qi himself, one bite at a time.

He did it so naturally, completely taking over what should have been a mother’s role.

This made Mei Ran feel uncomfortable, especially seeing how Zhi Qi didn’t object and obediently ate whatever Jiang Qi fed her.

Could this be what people mean when they say, “Daughters grow up and drift away”?

Mei Ran felt a chill in her heart. She awkwardly held a shrimp dumpling Jiang Qi had bought with her chopsticks, but couldn’t bring herself to eat it.

When the awkward meal finally ended, Zhiming Lin, watching Jiang Qi carefully feed Zhi Qi, asked thoughtfully, “Xiao Jiang, you stayed here all night yesterday. Aren’t you going to go home and get some rest?”

It was basically a polite way of asking him to leave, but Jiang Qi didn’t catch on. He just shook his head sincerely and said, “I’m not tired.”

…

Zhi Yu coughed awkwardly and frowned at Jiang Qi. “Come outside with me for a moment.”

Jiang Qi put down the plastic bowl and followed him out.

“What’s your deal? Are you planning to just stick to my sister forever?” As soon as they stepped out of the hospital room, Zhi Yu got straight to the point. “You staying here all the time—how do you expect our family to act?”

Being in the same room with a “boyfriend” they didn’t acknowledge made things awkward. Zhi Yu could tell his parents were extremely uncomfortable—what kind of parents just stand by helplessly while a man they don’t approve of takes care of their sick daughter?

But given how sick Jiang Qi looked yesterday, neither Mei Ran nor Zhiming Lin had the heart to say anything harsh.

Still, things couldn’t go on like this. After thinking it over, Zhi Yu figured he was the only one who could play the bad guy and make Jiang Qi face reality.

But Jiang Qi pressed his lips together, a flash of embarrassment in his pale eyes, and stubbornly said, “I have to take care of her.”

Zhi Yu replied, “Our family can take care of her. You’re a guy—it’s not appropriate.”

Jiang Qi frowned and repeated, “I have to take care of her.”

Zhi Yu got angry. “You—”

“I’ll go back for now,” Jiang Qi interrupted calmly. “I’ll come back later.”

This could be considered giving Zhi Qi and her family some time alone.

Zhi Yu was speechless, watching the thin figure of the young man turn and walk away after speaking, wanting to say something but stopping himself.

Jiang Qi was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, with a vivid bloodstain on his knee. He hadn’t treated it, and with all the photos taken of him running frantically to the hospital now circulating online, he seemed even less inclined to deal with it.

Since that’s the case, there was no need to say anything more.

Zhi Yu shook his head and returned to the hospital room.

Zhiming Lin and Mei Ran were surrounding Zhi Qi, asking question after question—all about Jiang Qi. Zhi Qi didn’t want to answer, so she pretended to be in pain and groaned. When she heard the door open, she looked over.

Zhi Yu clearly saw the girl’s eyes light up, but when she realized it was him entering, her disappointment was obvious.

…

He suddenly felt strangely disliked, and it made him angry.

He walked over and, suppressing his frustration, said “considerately,” “I told him to go clean himself up first. He’ll come back to see you later.”

Zhi Qi paused, then obediently replied, “Oh.”

Mei Ran couldn’t hold back anymore. She asked, “Zhi Qi, what exactly is going on between you and Jiang Qi?”

“Mom,” Zhi Qi took advantage of her illness—knowing they wouldn’t scold her—and smiled without restraint. “I told you already, we’re dating.”

She had told them this a long time ago.

The room fell into an awkward silence.

After a while, Mei Ran sighed. “But I remember we also said we couldn’t approve of this.”

Zhi Qi lowered her eyes and said nothing, looking completely unfazed, like a pig unafraid of boiling water.

She knew they didn’t approve, but… she could only drag things out like this. Her pale face looked pitiful, and with the small wounds on her body, she resembled a fragile, broken lily—young, innocent, and heartbreakingly delicate.

Zhiming Lin and Mei Ran exchanged glances, both turning their eyes away with complicated expressions.

Aside from feeling sorry for Zhi Qi, Jiang Qi’s behavior from yesterday to today had also left a deep impression on them.

That boy was still the same as when he was young—cold, like he was covered in thorns that no one could get close to, dark and unruly.

But they had seen his devastated state with their own eyes. Unless they were blind, they couldn’t ignore how Jiang Qi had become almost “possessed” because of Zhi Qi.

If Zhi Qi hadn’t woken up, it was as if everything in Jiang Qi’s world had disappeared.

They naturally knew that their daughter liked him—a lot, and had liked him since she was young.

With two people like this, could they really be separated? Or rather, was there any point in trying to force them apart?

Zhiming Lin and Mei Ran stayed with Zhi Qi at the hospital until the afternoon. Remembering that Zhi Yu had said Jiang Qi would come by later, they left with heavy hearts—for now, they still couldn’t fully accept him.

Zhi Yu waited until Jiang Qi arrived before leaving. He couldn’t stand watching this guy fuss over his sister like a lovesick fool, so he figured it was better not to see it at all.

“They’ve all left,” Zhi Qi said with a bright smile when she saw Jiang Qi. “Did you make something yummy for me?”

Her taste had been spoiled by Jiang Qi’s cooking—if it wasn’t made by him, she didn’t enjoy it as much.

“The doctor said you can only have porridge and soup for now,” Jiang Qi replied. He seemed to have showered and changed clothes. His hair was fluffy and slightly damp. Sitting on the chair beside the hospital bed, he opened a thermos and poured her a bowl of porridge.

It was fragrant preserved egg and lean pork congee. The preserved egg was translucent, the pork tender, and the aroma quickly filled the room.

Jiang Qi scooped a spoonful, blew on it gently to cool it down, and held it to Zhi Qi’s mouth. “Just eat this.”

Zhi Qi had already been drooling. Like a kitten, she opened her mouth and bit the spoon, happily fed.

But her appetite was small. After finishing just one small bowl, she felt full. When Jiang Qi tried to feed her more, she lazily shook her head and murmured, “I’m full.”

Jiang Qi frowned. “You only had a small bowl.”

“…I ate earlier today,” Zhi Qi said, curling up under the blanket like a little quail. The blanket covered half her face, and her big dark eyes shifted. “I’ve just been lying in bed without moving, of course I’m not hungry.”

Jiang Qi didn’t respond, but he still felt she hadn’t eaten enough to truly nourish her body.

Still, he knew she had a small appetite, and forcing her to eat more would only upset her stomach. So he quickly finished the rest of the porridge himself.

“Zhi Qi.”

After their barely-there “dinner,” Jiang Qi thought about what Zhi Yu had said earlier and hesitantly asked, “Do you feel uncomfortable with me taking care of you?”

According to Zhi Yu, there were boundaries between men and women, but…

“Nope! I’m really happy you’re here with me at the hospital,” Zhi Qi blinked and said cheerfully. “Besides, who’s more skilled at bathing me than you?”

In their shared home, they had already tried all kinds of “couple baths.” Jiang Qi liked holding her, liked helping her bathe and dry her hair. He was far more skilled than any caregiver.

Even more skilled than Mei Ran.

Since Zhi Qi said that so openly, the invisible knot in Jiang Qi’s heart instantly disappeared.

He smiled slightly, and though his light-colored eyes seemed bottomless, he looked at the bandage on her forehead and said softly, “Zhi Qi, just hang in there for a few more days. We’ll be discharged soon.”

He knew she didn’t like staying in the hospital—she never slept well at night.

Earlier, when the doctor came to disinfect and change the dressing on the wound on her forehead, Zhi Qi saw the small stitched cut left by the glass and couldn’t help but sigh, muttering gloomily, “Will it leave a scar?”

Girls always care most about their faces.

Although Zhi Qi didn’t wear heavy makeup often or go shopping for beauty products every few days, she was still a girl who loved looking good.

Jiang Qi heard her and didn’t want to lie with something like “It definitely won’t.” He simply said, “It’s okay if it leaves a scar.”

Even if Zhi Qi had a scar on her face, she would still be the most beautiful girl in his eyes.

Zhi Qi, being naturally cheerful, wasn’t upset for long after hearing that.

Instead, she playfully touched the old scar on Jiang Qi’s forehead with her fair fingertip and smiled with curved eyes: “Jiang Qi, do you think this counts as a couple’s scar? It’s in the same spot.”

Jiang Qi couldn’t respond, nor could he bring himself to laugh along.

They didn’t have matching rings, necklaces, shoes, or even couple outfits… but they already had a pair of “couple scars.”

But that was okay—those things would come in time.

The boy lowered his eyes, long lashes casting shadows, making his gaze even deeper. He gently played with the girl’s soft fingers and casually said, “Zhi Qi, I’ll give you a gift after you’re discharged.”

“What is it?” The quiet atmosphere made the girl a little sleepy. Leaning against Jiang Qi’s chest, she yawned and asked drowsily, “Can’t you give it to me now?”

She was curious—after all, discharge was still more than ten days away.

“No,” Jiang Qi chuckled softly and kissed her cheek. “I’ll give it to you after you’re discharged.”

Because he still needed time to prepare—and he wasn’t sure if ten days would be enough.

After coaxing the girl to sleep, Jiang Qi’s slender fingers unconsciously rubbed his phone. After a while, he quietly left the hospital room.

Earlier, Shen Lei had called him. They’d exchanged a few words before Shen Lei had to hang up. Now, Jiang Qi was returning the call out of courtesy.

“Ah Qi,” Shen Lei had just gotten off work, his voice clearly tired. “How are things over there?”

“Zhi Qi’s doing okay,” Jiang Qi paused before continuing, “I asked Director Qu for half a month off.”

…

There was a long silence on the other end before Shen Lei sighed helplessly. “Qu Heng really spoils you.”

Jiang Qi didn’t respond. He knew he was being a bit willful.

What he was about to say next was something that would make it hard for him to be this “willful” again—a suggestion, or rather, a decision.

Jiang Qi’s slender fingers unconsciously gripped the hospital corridor railing. In a low voice, he asked, “Brother Shen, that movie script you mentioned wanting to sign me for… do you still want me for it?”

Chapter 68: Shen Lei Was An Expert—He Could Tell Whether The Pastry Smelled Good Or Not…

After Jiang Qi returned to the entertainment industry, not only did media and entertainment companies want to sign him, but many film offers also came pouring in.

However, Jiang Qi didn’t even have a manager, so the producers had nowhere to send their scripts. For a while, many people reached out to Shen Lei and Qu Heng, leaving both of them amused and helpless. They also tried to persuade Jiang Qi to sign with a company.

If you want to have a long-lasting career in the entertainment industry, you need backing. Even top-tier celebrities rely on their company’s PR team for protection—let alone Jiang Qi.

Although Jiang Qi had many haters, his controversial and dramatic persona guaranteed high traffic and value, giving him plenty of options.

Whether it was companies or scripts.

For example, a few days ago, a well-produced script wanted Jiang Qi for the lead role. Unable to contact him directly, they called Shen Lei instead.

Shen Lei had received so many calls like this that he went from being amused to actually listening.

If the script looked poorly made or unreasonable, he wouldn’t even mention it to Jiang Qi—but this particular historical film offer, Shen Lei did bring up.

The reason was simple: the production team was top-notch, the lead character suited Jiang Qi, and the story focused on the male lead’s journey and growth, with minimal romantic scenes.

From every angle, Shen Lei felt this was worth mentioning to Jiang Qi.

At the time, Jiang Qi didn’t pay much attention to it. But after the recent incident with the young girl, and after meeting Mei Ran and Zhi Minglin… Jiang Qi suddenly realized he needed to be more career-minded.

So, he came to Shen Lei to “humbly ask for advice.”

“Of course,” Shen Lei replied without hesitation. “I know the director of that film—Old Linzi. He’s always said you’re his top choice.”

Old Linzi’s full name is Lin Qihang, a typical “commercial director” in the industry. His films are grand and box-office hits. He loves casting big stars and usually doesn’t care for unknowns. So when he contacted Shen Lei saying he wanted to meet Jiang Qi, Shen Lei was quite surprised.

Jiang Qi absentmindedly tapped the railing with his fingers. “When can I audition?”

“You want to go? That’s rare,” Shen Lei chuckled. “Old Linzi said he’s been holding auditions in Hengdian these past few days, but it depends on your schedule.”

Shen Lei knew that in Jiang Qi’s heart, Zhi Qi was the most important. Right now, the young man was taking care of Zhi Qi in the hospital and had taken half a month off from the film crew… Could he really “make time” for an audition?

But Jiang Qi replied, “I’m free in the afternoon.”

He had already discussed it with Zhi Yu—every day from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., their family members would take turns accompanying Zhi Qi. Mei Ran and Zhi Minglin didn’t want to see him.

So, he should naturally avoid that time.

That left his afternoons free, which meant he could do something else.

A few days later, one afternoon when Shen Lei was free, he personally drove Jiang Qi to the film set.

As soon as Jiang Qi got into the car, a document was tossed onto his lap, accompanied by Shen Lei’s casual voice:
“Take a good look. Perform well later—don’t embarrass me.”

…

Shen Lei always had that domineering “protective boss” vibe.

Jiang Qi didn’t respond, silently picking up the document to read.

It was a synopsis of Lin Qihang’s upcoming project, “Sovereign at the Gates.”
Before casting is finalized, no one gets access to the full script—only a character summary for audition purposes.

In addition, Shen Lei had marked the specific audition scene chosen by Lin Qihang for today.

Sovereign at the Gates is a typical commercial blockbuster. It tells the story of the Liang family army, once powerful during the Wu Dynasty, being destroyed by imperial power due to fear and jealousy. The only survivor, Liang Jieyu, wanders in exile, carrying deep vengeance. He infiltrates the military, rises through the ranks, and eventually becomes a great general. The story follows his journey of revenge, usurpation, and confrontation with royal authority.

It’s a classic male-lead revenge drama. The protagonist is dark and extreme, blinded by vengeance, using everyone around him as stepping stones to power. Only after he seizes the throne does a trace of tenderness remain.

Audition scenes for this type of drama usually test whether the actor can embody the charisma and ruthlessness of a rising anti-hero—

For example, a triumphant scene where Liang Jieyu leads an army to crush foreign invaders, or the chilling moment when he points a sword at the emperor’s throat, smiling coldly as the ruler kneels before him…

But the scene Shen Lei highlighted was surprisingly simple:
“Liang Jieyu, after ascending to power, sits on the dragon throne and looks at the court.”

Jiang Qi’s eyes darkened. He realized the director was likely testing the actor’s true depth.

Because whether it’s youthful arrogance or cold cruelty, those are surface-level emotions that any young actor can portray.

But Lin Qihang chose the moment when Liang Jieyu first sits on the throne—a scene that demands the actor interpret the character’s inner complexity based only on the synopsis.

At this point in the story, Liang Jieyu has endured thirty years of hiding and scheming. His life has revolved around revenge. Now, having succeeded, he’s also become a traitorous usurper. How conflicted must he feel?

Jiang Qi pondered this deeply, remaining silent even as Shen Lei pulled up to the set.

Only when Shen Lei tossed him a mask and said, “We’re here,” did Jiang Qi snap out of it.

There were many actors auditioning for Sovereign at the Gates—fifteen just today.

Despite Shen Lei accompanying him, Jiang Qi received no special treatment. He queued up like everyone else, ignoring the curious or probing glances around him, fully immersed in his thoughts about the script.

And in that moment of quiet reflection…
Jiang Qi understood.

He understood.
Jiang Qi now knew how to portray Liang Jieyu’s psychological state and how to interpret the audition scene.

As a man burdened with deep vengeance, yet who had grown up serving the Wu Dynasty and receiving its rewards, Liang Jieyu was inherently conflicted. He had to seek revenge and usurp the throne, but as the protagonist, he also had to see himself as a loyal subject of Wu—otherwise, he would simply be a traitor.

And in that moment when his lifelong wish was finally fulfilled, beneath the surge of triumph, there would be nothing but sorrow.

A sorrow that no one could understand, and no one could share.

So when Liang Jieyu sat on the dragon throne, gazing at the blood-stained court filled with bones and shadows of blades, his heart should be filled with melancholy—and loneliness.
A loneliness born from being misunderstood.

Liang Jieyu was a dutiful son avenging his family, but he was no hero. At best, he was a warlord in chaotic times.

Jiang Qi closed his eyes. He knew how to act it now.

That day, he was the 13th actor to audition. The ten before him mostly chose to portray Liang Jieyu with bold emotions—laughing wildly, expressing joy or sorrow with dramatic flair.

But Jiang Qi’s performance was restrained.

His Liang Jieyu was a cold and lonely emperor. With barely any expression, just sitting on the dragon throne, he made the entire room feel steeped in sorrow.

As if everything had happened out of necessity. As if he hadn’t wanted it to be this way.

Even in his moment of triumph, Liang Jieyu’s thoughts would be:
“Fate is the cruelest villain.”

Otherwise, why would he have spent thirty years scheming, only to become a traitor?

Coming from the bottom, even after reaching the top, he would still empathize with those below. He would possess a kind of imperial compassion.

Jiang Qi captured this layer of Liang Jieyu’s psyche, portraying his loneliness—because in that moment, Liang Jieyu had become emperor. And the path of an emperor is always lonely.
There’s only room for one.

No one knew how long it lasted before the director behind the camera finally called out, “Cut.”

Jiang Qi snapped out of character.

The emotion in his eyes vanished, replaced by his usual cold indifference. He stood up and walked out of the audition room.

Only when the door clicked shut did Shen Lei come back to his senses. He looked at the tall young man and said:
“You acted well.”

Actually, it was very well—but Shen Lei wasn’t used to praising someone before the results were official.

Even though he felt that Jiang Qi was already a near-perfect fit for the role.

Interestingly, the two actors who auditioned after Jiang Qi also tried to portray Liang Jieyu’s “lonely sorrowful” side.

But their imitation was too obvious—like poor copies of something great—and ended up looking laughable.

After the auditions ended, as expected, the producer came over to Jiang Qi.

“Mr. Jiang,” he said with a smile in front of everyone, “Director Lin would like to see you.”

This basically meant the audition had a result.

Beside him, Shen Lei finally unclenched the fists he’d been unconsciously gripping and let out a breath of relief. He couldn’t help but smile and pat Jiang Qi on the shoulder, saying just two words:
“You did great.”

Jiang Qi stood up amid the sharp, envious gazes surrounding him and followed the producer, unfazed by praise or criticism. He replied calmly to Shen Lei:
“What’s there to prove?”

Nothing was set in stone yet—there were always unexpected turns.

Ever since his last emotional breakdown, Jiang Qi had come to believe that nothing in this world was guaranteed.

Even a duck already in hand could still fly away—let alone something that was barely beginning to take shape.

What Jiang Qi didn’t know was that he was the duck now—and the production team behind Lin Qihang was afraid he might fly away.

They moved quickly, almost desperately, to sign a preliminary agreement with him.

This was the new “offer” officially on the table.

Shen Lei, being an industry insider, knew how valuable this opportunity was. He threw an arm around Jiang Qi’s shoulder, excited:
“Come on, let’s go grab a drink!”

This was a big deal—definitely worth celebrating.

Jiang Qi glanced at his watch. It was exactly 3:00 PM. Zhi Qi’s parents were likely still at the hospital.

The audition hadn’t taken too long. He still had two hours to spare—technically, he could go for a drink.

But he didn’t smoke or drink anymore. If Zhi Qi’s sensitive nose caught even a trace of alcohol, she’d feel uncomfortable.

So Jiang Qi, choosing love over friendship, coldly brushed off Shen Lei’s arm.

The young man said calmly:
“I’ve quit drinking.”

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