Ever since the New Year, when a historical xianxia romance drama unexpectedly went viral, the Huaxia Cultural District at Gudong Film Base—known for specializing in fantasy period dramas—had been fully booked. Every production team was scrambling to rent a spot. Most were low-budget web series hoping to ride the wave of the xianxia craze and grab a share of the audience while the trend lasted.
Among them, the fastest-moving crew was that of Moonlit Heist, which completed filming in just two months. At this moment, they were holding a lively wrap-up ceremony.
“One, two, three—cheese!”
“Happy wrap!”
“Yay!”
In Area A of the Huaxia Cultural Scenic Site, in front of a rather shabby palace set, a red banner reading “Moonlit Heist Wrap Party” hung prominently. The main cast and crew squeezed together for one final group photo.
As the female lead, Liang Yan naturally stood in the center of the front row. She wore a long black down coat over her white costume, a bouquet of flowers in her arms, and flashed a dazzling smile at the camera. Honestly, even if she weren’t standing front and center, she’d still be easy to spot in the group—her porcelain skin practically glowed, and her striking proportions made her stand out among the regular crew members. One glance, and you could tell who was truly born to be on screen.
After the group photo, people split into small groups to take selfies and candid shots. Two months wasn’t a long time, but enough for bonds to form—especially on a film set, where cooperation and connections were everything. In this industry, the more friends you had, the better.
Liang Yan handed her bouquet to her assistant, Jiang Mu, and asked him to take a photo of her with the director, Zhou Dajiang. After snapping the picture, Zhou Dajiang scratched his head awkwardly.
“Liang Yan, I’m really sorry about what happened the other day. We were so close to wrapping, and that accident still happened. Honestly, I feel terrible. Do you need to go back to the hospital for another checkup?”
Liang Yan instinctively reached up to touch the back of her head, bowing slightly before offering Zhou Dajiang a small smile. “No need, Director Zhou. The doctor said it was nothing serious.”
“Alright then,” Zhou Dajiang nodded.
Just then, two extras working with the crew mustered the courage to approach. After greeting Director Zhou, they shyly asked if they could take a picture with Liang Yan.
Liang Yan nodded. “Sure!”
They beamed and quickly took their places on either side of her, flashing peace signs. Zhou Dajiang quietly stepped out of the frame and watched as Liang Yan smiled politely between the two young actors. He narrowed his eyes slightly.
In all his years directing, he had never met an actress as easygoing as Liang Yan.
Moonlit Heist was a low-budget web series. Just the title alone screamed melodramatic Mary Sue. The production was tight on funds and expectations were modest. Aside from the male lead and supporting cast—mostly unknowns fresh to the industry—the biggest name on the roster was Liang Yan. And even she was, at best, a third-tier celebrity in the entertainment world.
Everyone in the industry knew: it wasn’t always the A-listers who were hardest to work with. The real headaches were often the second- and third-tier actors with just enough fame to throw their weight around—especially the ones with connections. Sometimes even directors had to tiptoe around them.
So when Zhou Dajiang first learned Liang Yan would be starring, he was less than thrilled. After all, any woman who could win over Lu Lincheng—the elusive god of the entertainment world—and get her name on his household registration, couldn’t possibly be some innocent little sweetheart.
But the past two months had completely changed his impression of her.
Liang Yan always came to set with her lines perfectly memorized. When she messed up a scene and caused delays, she bowed and apologized to the crew. Both she and her assistant were unfailingly polite and courteous. On nights when filming ran late, she would often treat the crew to milk tea or snacks—out of her own pocket.
Zhou Dajiang let out a sigh of regret.
To be honest, he thought it was a shame. Liang Yan had the looks and acting chops of a top-tier star, yet she was still stuck in the third tier, leading roles in low-budget dramas with no hope of making it onto major networks. If he hadn’t witnessed it himself—the marriage announcement two years ago that literally crashed Weibo—he wouldn’t have believed that Liang Yan was Lu Lincheng’s wife.
It was honestly a pretty heartbreaking situation if you really thought about it. Zhou Dajiang stroked his chin thoughtfully—while Lu Lincheng was out there filming blockbuster after blockbuster with top-tier directors, racking up Best Actor awards one after another… his own wife was still stuck playing leads in low-budget web dramas. Were these two even living in the same world? Even ordinary friends knew to give each other a hand now and then.
In the two months that Liang Yan had been filming with the crew, Lu Lincheng hadn’t shown up once—not even for a quick visit. From the first day of shooting to the final wrap, he didn’t even send her a token flower basket. Clearly, Lu Lincheng avoided mentioning Liang Yan in public, and in private he kept his distance too.
No wonder he could stay married for two whole years and still maintain an army of devoted female fans—fans who treated him like the perfect bachelor. Zhou Dajiang’s own daughter was one of those diehard fans. The first thing she did every morning was check in at the Super Topic #DidLuLinchengGetDivorcedToday?
After taking a photo with the two extras, Liang Yan watched them run off excitedly. For a moment, she saw a bit of her old self in them—the her from just three days ago.
She pulled out her phone and glanced at the date, confirming once again a fact so melodramatic it felt like it had come straight out of a soap opera:
She… had amnesia.
Not full-on K-drama-style memory loss, though—she’d only forgotten the last three years of her life.
According to her assistant Jiang Mu, it all started three days ago during a shoot. She had taken a misstep during blocking and gotten hit on the head by a falling light tube from above. She was rushed to the hospital, and though all her tests came back normal, she’d inexplicably lost the past three years of memory after waking up.
The doctor explained that while post-traumatic amnesia wasn’t unheard of in medical history—and there was a chance her memories might return—there wasn’t any effective treatment available. Modern medicine couldn’t do much.
But Liang Yan actually took the news surprisingly well.
Her mind was still stuck three years ago—right after she had graduated from the film academy. Back then, she had no sugar daddies, no industry connections, and was barely surviving by playing walk-on roles in obscure productions. But now she’d woken up to find herself upgraded from a complete nobody to a third-tier actress—still far from stardom, sure, but she was headlining her own show. A legit female lead, even if it was a web series!
Tell her this wasn’t winning the lottery. This was exciting!
The first thing she did after learning about her memory loss was Baidu herself. She wanted to know exactly how she had clawed her way from background extra to third-tier star. Clutching her phone in one hand and pinching her thigh with the other to stay grounded, she eagerly tapped on her own Baidu Baike (Wikipedia) page and began scrolling.
Name: Liang Yan
Gender: Female
Date of Birth: 199x.xx.xx
Height: 169 cm
Spouse: Lu Lincheng
…………
She stopped cold at the word Spouse.
Suddenly, she couldn’t read another word.
Frozen in place, she stared at the screen for a long time, mentally preparing herself. After taking a few deep breaths to calm down, she finally—hand trembling—tapped the name Lu Lincheng.
Calm down, she told herself, clutching her chest, which was rising with nervous anticipation. It might just be someone with the same name.
But when the photo loaded and she saw that face—the one that had made millions of girls fall head over heels—her breath caught in her throat. The phone slipped right out of her hand.
Nope.
It really was…
Lu. Lin. Cheng.
LU LINCHENG!
What the… what the hell was going on?!
Had the whole world gone insane?!
Liang Yan spiraled into a mini-meltdown right there in the hospital room before finally pulling herself together, propping herself up and grabbing her phone again. With barely concealed excitement, she dove straight into searching for gossip—specifically, anything about Lu Lincheng… and herself.
Lu Lincheng had debuted as a singing-dancing idol, skyrocketing to fame with his debut single. In less than a year, he became the most popular male celebrity of the time, his star power unmatched. And like every idol in the country, the final career destination was always acting—especially someone with Lu Lincheng’s god-tier visuals. So naturally, after reaching the pinnacle of the idol world, acting was next.
Liang Yan’s last memory happened to be from just around the time Lu Lincheng made that transition. His first acting gig was an indie art film called Youth, directed by a rookie filmmaker. Given how previous idols-turned-actors had all ended up as walking memes and punchlines for their tragic acting skills, both industry insiders and even Lu Lincheng’s fans were nervous. Liang Yan, back then a casual fan, had adopted a wait-and-see attitude about his acting debut.
But three years later, his Baidu Baike page said Youth had been a runaway success, both at the box office and in critical reception. His acting was widely praised, and he’d swept nearly all the Best Newcomer awards that year. Since then, Lu Lincheng’s career had taken off like a rocket. He had become a rare breed in the entertainment industry—someone who had both star power and real talent, looks and ability.
Liang Yan scrolled through his dazzling list of awards and achievements, saw his astronomical follower count and engagement ratio on Weibo… and couldn’t help furrowing her brows, a growing sense of unreality wrapping around her like fog.
She knew how this industry worked. She wasn’t some clueless outsider—she’d even crushed on a few rising stars during her teenage emo phase. For someone like Lu Lincheng, who came from an idol background, no matter how successful his transition to serious acting was, his looks and age meant he’d always have a rabid fanbase. During his peak years, even a rumor of a girlfriend would cause mass hysteria in the fandom. But marriage? That was career suicide—pure self-sabotage.
So how the hell was Lu Lincheng still at the top of the game?
His fan activity levels didn’t look like those of a married man’s fanbase at all.
And more importantly—how had she, Lu Lincheng’s wife, not been torn apart by his fans and left to die in the street after the wedding?!
Just then, her assistant Jiang Mu—currently the only person who knew about her memory loss—walked in carrying a bag of fruit. He saw Liang Yan scrolling through CP (couple pairing) tags in Lu Lincheng’s Super Topic on Weibo and sighed.
He set the fruit down, pulled out his phone, and a moment later, Liang Yan’s phone buzzed with two new WeChat messages from him.
The first one was a screenshot from her Baidu Baike:
“Shanhuo Couple, the CP name for actors Lu Lincheng and Liang Yan. The name combines the characters ‘Lin’ (forest) and ‘Yan’ (smoke), implying that smoke in the forest means fire—thus, they’re called the ‘Wildfire Couple.’
Fans who ship this CP were considered a fringe group, often labeled a ‘cult’ within the larger CP fandom due to their opposition to mainstream fan culture. Their numbers were minimal and combat power negligible. Their Super Topic and Tieba forums were typically raided once a week by Lu Lincheng’s own fans, known as the ‘Fire Extinguishing Squad.’ The CP tag was currently on life support, barely surviving.”
The second message from Jiang Mu was a Super Topic recommendation:
#DidLuLinchengGetDivorcedToday?
With an overwhelming number of followers and daily posts, the tag had long dominated the top of the Relationships category. The activity on its forum outpaced even those of A-list celebrities. Fans and curious onlookers alike flooded in daily, all waiting for the day Lu Lincheng would finally dump his third-rate actress wife, Liang Yan.
They had even planned what kind of giveaway they’d do when the divorce was officially announced.
“………………”
Liang Yan stared at Jiang Mu’s message, her expression frozen.
Then, without a word, she tossed her phone aside, sprang onto the bed, and buried her head deep into the pillow.
She was done.
She quit.
T_T
***