Jiang Mu: “???”
He squinted at Liang Yan, thinking he’d misheard. “How much?”
Expressionless, Liang Yan repeated, “Eight million.”
Jiang Mu: “!!!” His legs nearly gave out as he stared at her in disbelief. “Yan… you—you didn’t go take out one of those shady nude loans, did you?”
Liang Yan: “………………”
She shot him a look, then explained what Lu Lincheng had said over the phone.
“You nearly scared me to death.” Jiang Mu let out a sigh of relief, then frowned at her. “Do you really hate owing someone a favor that much?”
To the point that she’d rather shoulder eight million in debt at her age?
Liang Yan wrinkled her small nose, clearly displeased at Lu Lincheng meddling in her business. “We’re divorced. Of course I don’t want to.”
The first episode of On Screen received great feedback, ranking top three in viewership that night. The campus short film featuring Xu Jiafan and Liang Yan had the highest online views, and with unanimous praise from the judges, the two advanced smoothly to the next round.
During the break between rounds, Liang Yan went off and divorced Lu Lincheng. Without the extra attention of being “Mrs. Lu Lincheng,” the production team was crestfallen. They’d thought Liang Yan’s career would cool off—true to her name. But then news broke about her vampire-like mother, followed by Liang Yan’s tragic yet faintly absurd childhood of weightlifting. For two days straight, she dominated the trending lists again.
After all, who doesn’t have a difficult relative or two? But for Liang Yan, that “difficult relative” turned out to be her biological mother. People were used to stories of girls abandoned as children, only for their estranged parents to resurface later, demanding recognition. Public opinion would force those girls to accept parents who had never raised them—parents they’d now have to support. Such news was endless, stoking people’s anger.
So when Liang Yan’s mother showed up asking for money, and Liang Yan responded with firm, no-nonsense rejection, the audience cheered. The pent-up frustration they’d long felt finally found release.
Liang Yan’s popularity with casual viewers skyrocketed.
By the second round of On Screen, she was the center of attention. Both fans and onlookers were eager, waiting to see her first public appearance since all the drama.
Meanwhile, Liang Yan looked at the buzzing activity on her super-topic forum and in the “Wolf Fang Fan Group” and felt a dull ache in her stomach.
She’d always preferred keeping a low profile, only to suddenly dazzle when people least expected it. But when anticipation built too high, with too many eyes waiting, the pressure could get overwhelming—and sometimes that pressure crushed performance.
Back at Fruit TV for the second round, Liang Yan drew a new script. Last time, it was a campus theme. This time: wuxia.
She’d acted in fantasy dramas before, but never wuxia. Despite only a single character difference in Chinese, the two were worlds apart. Fantasy dramas were all about the leads looking beautiful as they soared around on wires, battles staged at a distance, finished off with CGI effects. Wuxia, on the other hand, relied on real action scenes—maybe some wirework, but no flashy effects to lean on.
In a drama shoot, a stunt double could step in. But here, in a competition, that wasn’t an option.
The production team even filmed a shot of Liang Yan in the practice room, frowning in dismay.
Her partner this round was actress Zhou Yuqi, the same age as Liang Yan. Once a child star, Zhou Yuqi hadn’t been popular in recent years. She was half a head shorter than Liang Yan, pale-skinned with big eyes, her words lilting with a sweet Southern accent. She looked so delicate it made people instinctively want to protect her.
The two of them sat side by side on the wooden floor of the practice room, scripts spread out in front of them.
When Zhou Yuqi saw the wuxia script, she nearly cried. The story was about two swordswomen who both fell for the same man, leading to a major fight scene between them. The martial arts director even mentioned they’d probably have to use wirework.
Liang Yan nearly cried too. One glance at Zhou Yuqi—who looked like she’d shatter at a touch or topple in a breeze—and she thought, Of all the luck. Why couldn’t we have drawn a palace drama or a slice-of-life story? A wuxia fight? With Zhou Yuqi’s little frame, who could she possibly win against?
“Sister Liang Yan, what are we going to do?” Zhou Yuqi asked miserably. Growing up in the industry, Zhou Yuqi called everyone “jie,” though she was actually two months older than Liang Yan.
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Liang Yan forced herself to stay calm. She patted Zhou Yuqi’s shoulder and straightened her back like a man trying to hold the fort. If Zhou Yuqi was already falling apart, she had to keep it together, or else they were done for.
Liang Yan had no intention of going home this early. Aside from TV exposure, the competition offered tempting rewards. Midway through the season, the prize was acting alongside a mysterious superstar and filming an ad. The grand prize was a leading role in Fruit TV’s original drama.
Every single reward was irresistible. Ads came with endorsement fees. Leading roles came with hefty paychecks. And she still owed someone eight million.
The thought of money lit a fire in her. She pushed herself up, then turned and offered Zhou Yuqi a hand. “Come on, let’s go practice.”
Zhou Yuqi looked up at her, lips jutting in a pout.
Liang Yan smiled. “It’s fine. We’ve got a martial arts coach, don’t we? Come on—let’s give it our all and try to make it to the next round.”
Biting her lip, Zhou Yuqi reached out and clasped Liang Yan’s hand. With a firm tug, Liang Yan pulled her up from the floor.
The next day, On Screen officially began recording in Fruit TV’s Studio One.
With makeup done and costumes on, Liang Yan and Zhou Yuqi waited nervously backstage.
Both wore matching period costumes, the hems of their trousers tucked tight for the action scenes. The difference was in their hair: Zhou Yuqi’s was half up, half down, adorned with a gold hairpin, while Liang Yan’s was tied entirely atop her head, crowned with a small headdress.
After finishing her makeup, Liang Yan couldn’t help lingering in front of the mirror, admiring her reflection. The more she looked, the more she thought—she really did look dashing.
Not just pretty. Truly, handsomely dashing.
The previous group had just wrapped their performance, and now it was their turn. The wire crew was giving their final safety checks.
Zhou Yuqi grew anxious—she had messed up several moves in rehearsal, especially the sequence where she was lifted by the wires. She simply couldn’t keep her balance.
Liang Yan wasn’t faring much better. A glance earlier at the packed audience had reminded her that many were here just to see her. The pressure on her shoulders was no small thing.
The host finished his opening remarks, the set pieces were rolled into place, and the curtain began to rise.
Cheers erupted from the audience.
Liang Yan and Zhou Yuqi exchanged a quick look—a silent gesture of encouragement.
The first half was dialogue. Since both characters were martial artists, the scene was set on a rooftop at night. The “rooftop” was a raised platform lifted by stage machinery.
The male actor entered, sparking a quarrel between the two women. Their emotions escalated until tempers flared and swords were drawn.
On the rooftop, their fight flowed smoothly. Following the martial arts coach’s instructions, they countered and advanced with perfect rhythm, the duel growing more intense. Finally, Liang Yan retreated to the corner of the roof, then leapt boldly into the air. The wires caught her from behind, lowering her gently, and she landed flawlessly onstage.
Next, Zhou Yuqi’s character was meant to give chase.
She had rehearsed this part the most. Terrified of heights, her legs always went weak at the jump, but now—caught in the momentum of the performance—she clenched her teeth and sprang forward.
Liang Yan landed, steadying herself, and looked up just as Zhou Yuqi launched into her descent.
The stage props were far more realistic than the ones in rehearsal. Mid-jump, Zhou Yuqi’s flowing costume snagged on the corner of the rooftop prop.
Jerked sideways, her center of gravity faltered. Suspended awkwardly in midair, she lost control. The wire crew, unaware of the mishap from backstage, kept lowering her. Panic set in—her limbs flailed, and she was about to crash straight to the ground. Eyes squeezed shut, she braced for impact.
But Liang Yan had already noticed.
She sprinted forward—
The entire audience gasped.
Liang Yan, having just landed, spun on her heel, took two swift steps, and caught Zhou Yuqi cleanly in her arms as she fell.
Holding her tight, Liang Yan shifted her weight and, to absorb the impact, pivoted in a full circle on the spot.
She hadn’t expected Zhou Yuqi—slight as she looked—to actually be quite heavy.
Keeping in mind the scene wasn’t over, Liang Yan calmly set Zhou Yuqi back on her feet. Without missing a beat, she skipped the few fight moves they were supposed to do on the ground, raised her sword toward Zhou Yuqi, and launched straight into her lines.
Still a little dizzy from being spun, Zhou Yuqi quickly caught on the moment she saw Liang Yan’s cue and slipped right back into character.
With Dark Night Walk wrapped, Lu Lincheng was at Fruit TV recording a talk show.
During a break, he overheard staff whispering that his ex-wife was also taping a show next door.
Liang Yan?
Lu Lincheng remembered hearing she’d joined an acting competition show—and that in the very first episode, she and her partner had already been shipped as a CP.
The memory of the fan war—“Yan’s Fateful Collision” vs. “Liang-Xu CP Forever”—darkened his expression.
He pulled a black baseball cap low over his face and slipped into the darkened back row of the neighboring studio, intending to take one quick look before leaving.
One glance at the stage stopped him cold. He blinked, thinking he’d seen wrong, then narrowed his eyes for a closer look.
This time, there was no mistaking it.
So… Liang Yan was princess-carrying another woman on stage—while spinning in circles?
***