MACRM Chapter 90

The [Serving the Sovereign] set was brightly lit, preparing for the final night scene.

Zhong Yao had just hung up the phone. He looked so radiant that Director Jin Zhenbo found it irritating no matter how he looked at him. Only after making him rehearse the dry run twice under strict supervision did Jin’s expression finally improve a little.

It had to be admitted that some people were simply born for this profession.

Zhong Yao didn’t rely on pre-built emotional preparation to act. The moment filming began, no matter how intense the scene, he could immediately lock onto the right emotional state.

Even Jin Zhenbo, who had scolded Zhong Yao countless times for all sorts of baffling reasons, had to grudgingly admit that no matter what trouble Zhong Yao caused, he was still the most reliable person on set once filming started.

This night banquet scene was a crucial turning point in the story’s flashback timeline. During the banquet, an urgent memorial from the frontier requesting grain arrived. The old emperor, muddle-headed and indifferent, casually ordered it dismissed.

The Crown Prince’s Tutor, played by Zhong Yao, pleaded three times and offered a death remonstration, all rejected. Palace guards forcibly dragged him out of the palace gates.

This scene marked the tonal turning point of the entire drama.

From that day onward, the once spirited young minister who had ridden proudly through the streets knelt at the palace gates and struck his head three times against the ground, burying all his ideals and clarity of purpose upon the white jade steps outside. Step by step, he began walking the path toward becoming a ruthless and domineering power minister willing to use any means necessary.

Jin Zhenbo’s standards were high, and the crew’s preparations meticulous. Once filming began, everything went unusually smoothly. By the time the scene finished in one sweeping take, even the production staff watching nearby had unknowingly reddened eyes.

The assistant director, still stirred by the three kowtows just now, rubbed his eyes. “Zhong-laoshi is incredible…”

Jin Zhenbo stared at the monitor and snorted. “Passed. Prepare to shoot detail inserts.”

Zhong Yao’s performance was nearly flawless, but unfortunately the always-upright Director Jin had earlier glimpsed those vividly illustrated “study materials,” and now regretted it so much he wanted to buy eye drops.

No matter how well Zhong Yao acted, Jin Zhenbo couldn’t stop those bizarre images from resurfacing in his mind.

He glanced toward the edge of the set and spotted Lin Zhu, who had just arrived and was being held back by staff under his instructions.

Still a child. Far too young.

Guanyin sitting lotus… old man pushing the cart…

Absolutely inappropriate.

Jin Zhenbo decided he would look up some calming herbal remedies for suppressing desires later, gave a few instructions, and turned back into the studio.

The footage looked excellent. The main sequence didn’t need adjustments, just a few additional shots and they could wrap for the day.

It was freezing outside, and the elderly actor playing the emperor couldn’t risk catching cold, so the crew escorted him aside to warm up while quickly resetting the set for the next shoot.

Zhong Yao still didn’t know Lin Zhu had arrived. Having just been helped to his feet, he leaned beside the camera reviewing playback.

The previous scene demanded extremely precise emotional control. The camera had been tight on his face. He needed to show the complete collapse of the tutor’s belief in a wise ruler and strong ministers. Even the slightest micro-expression had to be perfect.

Zhong Yao waved off the water offered by staff, thanked them gently, and adjusted the playback timeline.

He usually exited a role quickly, but today his breathing still hadn’t fully settled. The three kowtows had been real impacts; even with protective padding, the blows were not light.

Combined with the lingering redness in his eyes, he looked exhausted and desolate in a way that perfectly matched the character.

The agent who had effectively been held hostage nearby could no longer sit still.

The moment Jin Zhenbo looked away, Lin Zhu slipped out of the studio and jogged over.

Zhong Yao, discussing reshoots with the assistant director after spotting a few minor imperfections, suddenly felt something and looked up.

His eyes lit instantly. Smiling, he opened his arms and pulled Lin Zhu to his side.

“Why did you come so quickly? Did you eat anything?”

He lowered his head, intending to ruffle his manager’s hair, but Lin Zhu was bundled so tightly there was nowhere to touch. He settled for adjusting the scarf instead.

“I ate! On the way!” Lin Zhu hurriedly nodded. “I also bought milk tea for the crew, and it’s already been handed out. Yours is with me. I added triple taro… though it might be too thick to drink now…”

Zhong Yao couldn’t help laughing and cleared his throat. “That’s fine. Find me a spoon later, I’ll just eat it.”

Lin Zhu was warmly dressed, a soft flush on his face. Seeing him like that made Zhong Yao happy. He stopped Lin Zhu from taking off his coat and walked with him toward the side of the set.

“They won’t film for a bit. Don’t take it off or you’ll catch a cold.”

Lin Zhu’s ears warmed. Taking advantage of no one paying attention, he gently covered Zhong Yao’s hand, chilled by the night wind.

“I got here earlier! Director Jin said if your acting wasn’t good, he wouldn’t let me come out…”

On the way over, he’d remembered he’d stood up the publicity team, hurriedly sent red envelopes to appease them, and listened to their report again, otherwise he could’ve arrived even sooner.

He mentioned the award discussions casually.

“Awards…” Zhong Yao smiled after hearing him. “Let them judge however they want. If I win, I win. If not, then not. Their prestige only goes so far anyway. It doesn’t matter much.”

Lin Zhu had expected that answer. “That’s what I told them too. I won’t interfere. Let things happen naturally. If they want publicity, fine. But no need to operate behind the scenes.”

Domestic awards had steadily lost authority under capital influence. Even audiences no longer took many of them seriously; there was no point exhausting themselves fighting over them.

And despite spending years in this restless entertainment industry, Zhong Yao still retained a slightly stubborn, almost outdated professional integrity.

His Best Actor titles had been earned step by step through real work. He had already won nearly every award he should, with the exception of one global big-screen award he’d been forced to withdraw from three years ago due to that accident.

He wanted only to act well. He accepted endorsements for career development and variety shows as experiments, but refused to add even a hint of unfair advantage to competitive awards.

If winning required maneuvering or connections, Zhong Yao wouldn’t want it.

Lin Zhu looked up, lips pressed together slightly.

Zhong Yao hadn’t removed his makeup yet. His costume hung loose, a strand of hair falling across his face, the robe torn open as part of the scene. The disheveled look added a weary elegance, though his back remained perfectly straight.

Lin Zhu spoke softly, eyes shining. “Focus on films… save your strength. Act in more good productions. Next year, we aim for Cannes.”

They reached agreement without needing further words. Smiling, Zhong Yao lowered his head and held Lin Zhu’s hand — one he had meant to release once others were around — and led him into the rest area.

Jin Zhenbo’s eyes hurt even more.

Lin Zhu, unaware of the earlier chaos, stayed glued to Zhong Yao’s side. After borrowing medicated oil from the crew, he knelt on a chair and carefully massaged Zhong Yao’s forehead.

The production team, worried the two might have fallen out, kept inventing excuses to walk past and secretly observe.

The production manager personally delivered two untouched prop dishes and returned to report, “No problem. Their relationship is great, holding hands and chatting.”

Everyone finally relaxed. “Thank goodness…”

Relieved, the crew returned to preparing the next shot.

The industry still wasn’t fully accepting of relationships like theirs. Jin Zhenbo was still preoccupied with figuring out how to cover things up for Zhong Yao, and he could only stand there speechless.

The rest of the night’s filming went smoothly.

The production team, blinded by concern, didn’t keep Zhong Yao long. Shielding him from the director before he could discuss tomorrow’s scenes, they practically packaged him off into Lin Zhu’s nanny van.

Lin Zhu hadn’t gone out for days. Staying up late after finally leaving the hotel, he grew drowsy again once the warm air filled the car.

Though he’d already slept plenty, he didn’t want to miss the rare chance to talk and leaned against the window.

“Ge, the variety show discussions are almost done. Is late in the year okay? We can choose, countryside or travel…”

As the car rolled over a bump, Zhong Yao’s hand reached out just in time to cushion the back of his head.

“Anything’s fine. I’m free whenever.”

Smiling, Zhong Yao pulled him into his arms and gently rubbed his neck. “That depends on you. Where do you want to go?”

Lin Zhu blinked, momentarily unable to think of an answer.

Being with Zhong Yao already felt so unreal that he sometimes had to pinch himself after waking just to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. Asking him to imagine something more felt beyond his imagination.

He tried to recall something Zhong Yao had once mentioned. “Finland…? I heard you can watch the aurora while soaking in hot springs…”

Zhong Yao chuckled softly and kissed his manager’s eyes. “Winter actually has lower chances of seeing the aurora. Autumn is best. It’s too late this year, so we’ll go next autumn.”

Places that cold regularly dropped to −20 or −30°C. With Lin Zhu’s current health, even walking around the Arctic Circle would likely make him sick, let alone outdoor hot springs.

Zhong Yao planned to spend the coming year helping him recover properly. Holding him closer, he offered alternatives calmly:

“Want to see where I lived these past three years? Broadway? We could sneak in after a show ends, ask the lighting technician for help. I’ll recite poetry for you.”

“Or the countryside,” he added. “Interested in my hometown? I might even find the ditch where a cow kicked me into once. I wonder how the old house looks now.”

His family had moved abroad years ago. Zhong Yao had left home alone at 20 to act. Though he kept in touch, he rarely had chances to visit.

Looking at Lin Zhu, he smiled and lowered his voice.

“And my family… want to meet my parents? They’re both literature scholars. Very gentle people. I’m sure they’d like you very much.”

Lin Zhu’s eyes quickly grew dazzled by all the options, and he sighed gloomily. “I’m done for…”

“Want to go everywhere?”

Zhong Yao chuckled softly, rubbed his ear, and seeing that the car had arrived at the hotel entrance, took his scarf and wrapped it securely around him. “Then we’ll go one place at a time. I’ve already planned all the way to our 50s.”

Lin Zhu’s face instantly heated. He tried to hold it in, but the corners of his lips still lifted uncontrollably as he hid deeper inside the scarf.

The smile in Zhong Yao’s eyes deepened. Saying nothing more, he opened the car door for him, and the two got out together and returned to the hotel.

It was late at night again. Both Zhong Yao and Lin Zhu had been extremely busy and hadn’t slept well for days. After quick showers, they lay down together on the bed. They exchanged a glance, and unexpectedly both burst into laughter.

“This won’t do,” Zhong Yao sighed comfortably, pulling Lin Zhu protectively into his arms and kissing him lightly. “I can’t believe this already feels like something I’ve been deprived of for ages. There should be a law that says when you’re dating, couples must sleep together at least three days every day… otherwise it’s unbearable.”

The room was warm, familiar warmth seeping through thin layers of clothing. Lin Zhu’s heartbeat quickened as he tilted his head up, obediently letting soft kisses fall like raindrops.

“Then… what about after dating?”

“After dating, of course you stay together every day. Otherwise how could you sleep?” Zhong Yao smiled. Seeing the faint blush spreading along Lin Zhu’s neck, his chest stirred as well, and he tightened his arms. “I wanted to give you a surprise, but Director Jin interfered and delayed things a bit… give me a little more time?”

Lin Zhu had long stopped expecting anything specific about the car and assumed Zhong Yao was preparing something else. He nodded obediently. “No rush. Being together is already—”

He coughed lightly, embarrassed, burying his face in Zhong Yao’s chest. “Being like this… is already a big surprise.”

Just knowing this wasn’t a dream was already enough.

Zhong Yao lowered his head and gently kissed the top of his forehead.

Lin Zhu shifted into a more comfortable position. He still wanted to talk more, but after days without proper rest, even though he’d slept half a day, he still hadn’t fully recovered. Warm in Zhong Yao’s arms, he soon grew drowsy.

Zhong Yao was exhausted too, yet didn’t close his eyes immediately. He checked Lin Zhu’s forehead and found he had no fever. Then he confirmed there was no cold sweat before finally relaxing.

Then he quietly got up and took another cold shower.

---

The next morning, Lin Zhu sat on a small stool at the edge of the set, thinking carefully for an entire morning. In the end, he concluded that aside from briefly soaking in what felt like a Finnish hot spring in a dream, he hadn’t dreamed anything else at all.

This troubled him.

Sleeping beside Zhong Yao made him feel too safe and steady. He could barely continue reading the subconscious memories of Song Tianlang’s agent. Without accessing those subconscious fragments, what had really happened back then might never be known.

Memory capacity was limited. If he delayed longer, his impressions would inevitably fade.

This matter couldn’t simply be brushed aside.

After weighing it for the whole morning, Lin Zhu finally informed Zhong Yao and returned to the hotel to take a nap.

To minimize Zhong Yao’s influence, he deliberately booked a new room. Not long after lying down on the unfamiliar bed, fragmented, overlapping images began flashing back through his mind.

Lin Zhu shut his eyes tightly. A thin layer of sweat formed on his forehead.

Manipulating connections everywhere, bribing Zhong Yao’s assistants, organizing internet trolls and paparazzi, fueling public opinion and smearing reputations…

From the previous incident alone, Song Tianlang’s manager had already been sentenced to death in Lin Zhu’s mind. But whether Song Tianlang himself knew about or participated in these actions remained unclear.

If nothing unexpected happened, once this storm passed, Song Tianlang might suffer some impact but wouldn’t necessarily be ruined. With the right maneuvering and clean scapegoating, he might even portray himself as a victim and rise again.

Although the dirt thrown at Zhong Yao years ago had eventually been cleared, Canxing’s crisis PR back then had actually been sloppy, leaving loopholes that malicious people could exploit. Unless they completely uncovered what had happened and who truly targeted Zhong Yao, the past could resurface at any time.

As Lin Zhu sifted through the manager’s memories, scenes flickered rapidly. Then his heart suddenly skipped.

Song Tianlang sat at a hotel dining table, his manager beside him, exchanging toasts amid sharp-eyed company. Speaking evasively, he said, “I don’t really know… I’ve only worked with Zhong Yao a few times, we’re just acquaintances. Some things are true, especially regarding his personal conduct, but those are private matters, not convenient to discuss…”

Lin Zhu’s brows tightened.

There had been many accusations against Zhong Yao back then, but rumors about “personal conduct” were something even Lin Zhu had never heard.

An artist shouldn’t necessarily bear responsibility for their agent’s actions. Because Zhong Yao had once been implicated by association, Lin Zhu had always drawn a clear line between the two. Even if Song Tianlang had benefited from that incident three years ago, as long as he hadn’t participated, Lin Zhu wouldn’t go after him ruthlessly.

But, if Song Tianlang still held undisclosed black material and refused to let go, then this time, while dealing with the agent, Lin Zhu would have to remove Song Tianlang from the entertainment industry entirely and send him somewhere quiet to reflect.

Focusing his mind, Lin Zhu prepared to read further when his phone alarm suddenly rang, pulling him out of the half-dream state.

He had set it himself. Several interview outlets wanted to meet Zhong Yao for programs, and he had scheduled preliminary meetings he couldn’t delay.

Pressing his temple, Lin Zhu gathered his thoughts, exhaled softly, and returned to his room to change clothes.

There were several unread messages on his phone, all from Zhong Yao chatting casually. The familiar tone gradually grounded him again, easing his tension. He smiled faintly and quickly replied.

During lunch break, Zhong Yao had no scenes to film and responded quickly, even sending two edited selfies.

Lin Zhu laughed aloud, saved both photos, then hesitated before sending Zhong Yao a warning in advance, telling him he would be staying in a separate room for the next couple of days and couldn’t sleep together for now.

He needed to uncover the truth. Two days would be enough. Once this mess was completely resolved, he could peacefully accompany Zhong Yao through filming and variety shows again.

The mind-reading ability couldn’t be openly discussed, and anyone might handle Zhong Yao’s phone. Since Zhong Yao already knew the truth, Lin Zhu didn’t explain details in the messages, just briefly reported his plans before hurriedly leaving with his assistant.

---

On set, Zhong Yao looked at the message on his phone. His heart tightened, and his expression gradually turned serious.

Director Jin’s prophecy had come true.

If his agent went even one day without “communicating with him physically and spiritually,” he would abandon him.