The days in America were quiet. Nan Chu rarely thought of Lin Luxiao, and she poured more of her energy into her studies.

Nan Yueru had enrolled her in a performance major as her primary course of study, and in her free time found her a floral artist to teach her flower arrangement.

Performance was her vocation.

Floral arrangement was for calming the mind.

The floral arts master Nan Yueru had found for her was from Japan — a very gentle woman named Muko. One day, upon learning that Nan Chu also practiced Zen meditation, Muko took the rare opportunity to strike up a conversation with her. “The Way of Flowers and Zen practice are one and the same,” she said. “Both are a cleansing of the soul. Most modern people, weighed down by the pressures of work and family, find their spirits suppressed. What everyone truly needs is an elevation of the soul — to quiet themselves, to seek the voice within their own hearts amidst the noise of the world, and to forget the troubles of mundane life.”

In truth, neither Zen meditation nor the floral arts did much for Nan Chu. If she was going to have insomnia, she had insomnia.

“Our floral arts grandmaster, Master Minggu, is also a follower of Buddhism,” Muko said, kneeling on the floor and speaking in Japanese. “If you’re interested, I can take you to hear his Zen teachings — he explains Zen particularly well.”

Nan Chu smiled warmly and replied in Japanese: “Perhaps next time.”

Muko studied her for a moment, then said slowly, “You’ve been smiling more lately.”

Nan Chu hadn’t noticed it herself, but she had grown considerably lazier.

“When I first met you,” Muko said, “I thought you seemed a little cold — like you were carrying a great many things in your heart. You seem so much better now. That’s what the Way of Flowers does: given enough time, a person gradually quiets down and finds their way back to who they originally were.”

After Muko left, Nan Chu leaned against the balcony railing and smoked. The house she’d bought was in a small town in the American Midwest: flowers and grass in the front courtyard, and two Siberian Huskies in the back.

Nan Chu had no affinity with cats or dogs — she was allergic to these long-furred creatures — and evidently the two drooling brutes were no more welcoming of their new mistress. When Nan Yueru and the housekeeper were away, Nan Chu spent most of her time at home, left to stare down the two Huskies in a silent standoff.

These two animals were Nan Yueru’s treasures, and on one night when malicious thoughts took hold of her, Nan Chu had considered secretly sneaking them out and abandoning them somewhere.

As it turned out, both dogs — enormous, lazy things — sprawled on the floor like puddles of mud, and she couldn’t even drag them an inch.

Nan Yueru had warned her repeatedly, in the sternest possible terms, not to do anything to those two stupid dogs, so Nan Chu ultimately gave up.

One day, Nan Yueru came downstairs and saw Nan Chu puffing away on the balcony. She strode over on her high heels, snatched the cigarette right out of her hand, and dropped it on the floor. “No afternoon classes?” she said coldly.

Nan Chu nodded.

Nan Yueru didn’t hold back in her criticism: “You should practice your lines. I’ve watched all your work, and your command of dialogue is far too weak.”

“Mm,” said Nan Chu.

“That one drama you took on was the only halfway decent one — aside from He Zhengping’s film, the rest of what you’ve been taking is a complete mess. Work on your lines. I’ll arrange the projects going forward.”

What else could she say at this point besides “mm”?

Although Nan Yueru had been out of the entertainment industry for a long time, she still had considerable resources. The projects she could secure were genuinely better than what Shen Guanzong had previously been offering. About a month later, she notified Nan Chu: go back to the country for an audition.

The director was quite well known — he had been the male lead in a drama Nan Yueru had once collaborated on, and had since transitioned to working behind the scenes, directing a number of critically acclaimed films.

It wasn’t exactly Nan Yueru who had made the introduction.

It was simply that during the Lunar New Year holiday, He Zhengping’s New Year’s film happened to be in theaters.

Nan Chu’s performance was strikingly impressive.

She had rendered Liu Yingying with extraordinary depth — poised in stillness, graceful in motion, every smile and every glance, every gesture and every movement, dripping with allure.

Especially the final scene of the film.

When Liu Yingying learned that the general had died in battle, she wandered back to the small shop in a daze. The neighbor auntie raised a hand and pointed. “The general came by — stood right there at the mouth of that alley, holding an oil-paper umbrella.”

Liu Yingying made her way to the alley entrance.

There, beneath the green tiles and stone bricks, she discovered a line of carved characters:

— A lifetime in battle — who waits with me — mountains and rivers together — love deep, devotion boundless.

Tears streaming down her face, her fingertips traced those uneven, chiseled words with trembling delicacy, as memories flooded back — the general galloping with her across the riding grounds, her bright, bell-like laughter ringing out.

That final weeping scene truly shattered the hearts of the audience.

One viewer commented: “After watching this drama, the only feeling I have is that Nan Chu is a national enchantress.”

“So beautiful in the qipao.”

She automatically ignored the less flattering comments — after all, critics were everywhere.

Clutching those two kind reviews, Nan Chu felt, for the first time, that her efforts had found someone who recognized them.

The official critics’ assessments were fair-minded.

Her acting had its merits and its shortcomings, and there was much room for improvement — but she had, unmistakably, brought Liu Yingying, a woman who wandered the ends of the earth, to vivid life.

The director, upon seeing that film, had proactively sought out Nan Yueru, who was vacationing abroad. He’d heard no small amount about Nan Chu, but at the very least he was willing to see what she could do. If she truly fit the role, he was willing to use her — because for an actor, the role matters more than the life they lead.

The role in question, however, was no easy one.

It was a period wuxia drama with fight sequences, airing in summer to coincide with the school holidays. That meant wearing thin, light costumes and being suspended on wire rigs in the middle of a winter forest.

Nan Yueru’s one and only requirement of her was that she use no stunt double for the fight scenes.

The director’s standards for action sequences were exacting — the fighting had to look both beautiful and genuine, with no visible tricks. Nan Chu’s posture was impeccable, and she looked magnificent in combat, but she lacked real force behind her moves — her body was too soft, the techniques too flowery and ornamental.

After several attempts, even the director’s patience wore thin. He waved his hand and told her to bring in a stunt double.

Nan Chu persisted. “Please film the next scene first — let me try again in a bit.”

The director lifted his megaphone and looked at her for a moment. He found this young woman to have a certain tenacious spirit, and gave a nod. “All right.”

The stunt actress she was sparring with was a young woman about her own age, trained in martial arts since childhood. After several sessions of practice sparring, she had grown clearly fed up — she sat off to the side with a pout, rolling her eyes in sulky discontent.

Nan Chu thought to herself: I may only be an eighteenth-tier celebrity, but is there any need to be quite this disrespectful?

Then again — fair point.

In the dead of winter, being made to wade through water while coaching an eighteenth-tier actress through a fight sequence that would probably get maybe three seconds of screen time, and for no extra pay — no one would be happy about that.

Then she reconsidered. At this point, she had to be at least sixteenth-tier.

On the thirty-eighth time she was knocked flat — face and body covered in mud, her feet so waterlogged that the skin had gone wrinkled and was peeling off in layers — Nan Chu finally began to grasp the essence of film combat.

Within a few days, her dedication had become too much even for the director to watch, and yet Nan Yueru still wasn’t satisfied, feeling that she lacked a certain sharp, formidable energy. The director privately couldn’t help but wonder: is this woman really her birth mother? He pulled Nan Yueru aside and asked quietly, “Is she actually your biological daughter?”

He was met with a withering stare. The two of them had a good personal relationship, so neither made too much of it — and then the director thought it over and concluded: this woman is that ruthless with herself, so of course she’d be even more ruthless with her daughter.

In her craft, Nan Yueru was genuinely dedicated. In all her years in the industry, having filmed over a hundred films and television dramas, every actor and director who had worked with her was compelled to praise her work ethic. Arrogant as she was, she never used a stunt double for fight scenes, demanded perfection from every shot, fully digested each role and transformed it into her own living spirit, sinking into her characters slowly — which was why every role she played left a deep impression.

Filming that drama, Nan Chu’s mental energy was stretched to its absolute limit, and she was flying back and forth between the United States and China. The moment filming wrapped and the tension snapped — she got sick.

Her body was covered in injuries from the wire rigging and the fight sequences.

Her feet had been submerged in water so long during the winter shoot that when early spring came, every rainy season brought terrible aching pain.

Exhausted in body and soul.

And yet, when the director sent over a few clips of the edited footage, the sense of fulfillment she felt was something she had never experienced before.

That feeling of sprinting headlong toward a single goal — she had never known it until now.

Perhaps there was no one walking this road beside her. But at the very least, she had taken one step closer to him.

Anjiang.

Lushan lay at the southernmost edge of the country — mountains layered upon mountains, winding and rugged, covered in dense, vivid green.

The peaks were high, the trees thick, the cliffs sheer and precipitous. The forest grew dense and lush in an unbroken stretch. Just before the new year, a heavy snowfall had blanketed the world in white, leaving the roads buried under several feet of clean, packed snow.

Deep in the night, all was still. A fire truck made its way along the winding mountain road.

The cold white headlights swept across the iron gates of the Lushan Fire Brigade. The guard on duty waved them through, and the truck rolled slowly in and came to a stop.

Seven or eight large-framed men in firefighting gear climbed down from the vehicle.

They stood by the equipment rack changing clothes and chatting in a loose, unhurried way.

“Getting up to that kind of business out in the field in the dead of winter — those two really had some nerve.”

“You single dog, keep quiet.” The one speaking was the square-faced, dark-skinned man standing second from last — Zhao Guo.

Someone else chimed in: “It’s not the outdoor part I object to — it’s how they managed to drive the car into a ditch and then get themselves locked inside from the outside. I genuinely have no idea how they pulled that off.”

Zhao Guo clapped a comrade on the shoulder and chuckled. “That’s because you haven’t seen enough. I’ve been on the fire service for years — there’s nothing I haven’t seen. I’ve seen stranger things than this.”

The group was still happily debating the matter.

The man standing at the front said nothing at all. His back was tall and straight, and he changed out of his gear in silence before heading toward the exit.

He was stopped by Zhao Guo. “Hey, hey, hey — Luxiao, tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve. Should we think about putting on some kind of program?”

Lin Luxiao had changed back into his camouflage uniform. Both hands tucked in his pockets, he cast Zhao Guo a sidelong glance. Before he could even say a word, the platoon commander Chen Xuchuan pressed a hand down on Zhao Guo’s head. “Stay put and behave yourself — always stirring things up!”

Zhao Guo rubbed the back of his head. “Luxiao’s first year doing duty with us — we should at least give him a proper welcome.”

Some welcome — he just wanted an excuse to have fun himself.

Zhao Guo was honest and down-to-earth — not one for causing trouble. He worked steadily, kept his head down, and counted on the unit to provide decent benefits that he could send home to his mother.

Lin Luxiao had only been there for about a month, and not only was he strikingly good-looking, he had been transferred from the Northern Xun side of things, and on top of that he rarely spoke.

The team members had initially taken a dim view of him — they saw him as putting on airs, and took every opportunity to find fault with him. Given that he had clearly come down from above, however, they weren’t sure of his background and didn’t dare push things too far, so they kept their harassment to the shadows. Zhao Guo, honest as he was, refused to join the others in their scheming.

No matter how the other team members egged him on, Zhao Guo simply would not be dragged into their games. First, he had no interest in making enemies. Second, he genuinely liked Lin Luxiao — found him quiet and not easy to approach, perhaps, but upright in conduct and completely free of the others’ underhanded tricks.

One evening, by a stroke of coincidence, the two sat together and talked. Zhao Guo said all of this to Lin Luxiao directly. Lin Luxiao lowered his head and smiled quietly, then leaned back, bracing himself on his hands.

If the likes of Big Liu ever heard that.

He’d probably be the first to disagree, raising a protest banner and proclaiming to anyone who’d listen: “He’s had the most underhanded tricks of any of us since we were children! Don’t be fooled by that straight-laced surface of his — this guy is full of cunning schemes!”

Zhao Guo came to respect him completely after one particular rescue operation.

Late in December, a mudslide caused a collapse that buried several households. Nobody knew where Lin Luxiao had gotten his experience, but he commanded the rescue operation more smoothly than the platoon commander — composed and decisive, making quick, accurate calls. Though some privately disliked him, when it came to the rescue everyone acted as one, in perfect sync, and solved the problem of timing efficiently.

After that, those who had been looking for trouble with him grew scarce.

When they crossed paths, they would call out with a respectful nod: “Luxiao — brother.”

Among men, that sense of pride in one’s bones matters more than anything.

Some of them privately challenged Lin Luxiao to a sparring match — and left thoroughly defeated. And then this group of early twentysomethings suddenly realized something.

A man at thirty — he really was a breathtakingly magnetic age.

Zhao Guo couldn’t help but say: “I hope that when I reach thirty, I can have even a fraction of Luxiao’s appeal.”

His teammate shot back without mercy: “Please. Do you have his face?”

Some things, in the end, were simply born into a person.

“One look at him and you can tell he’s no ordinary person.”

When spring came, they held an evening discussion meeting.

Zhao Guo announced mysteriously that he was treating everyone to a movie.

The eight men in the dormitory sat back with their hands out, waiting for him to hand out tickets.

Zhao Guo produced a gleaming white projector from behind his back.

The others groaned. “What is this?”

“If I had that kind of money I’d have sent it home to my mother ages ago,” Zhao Guo said. “The head instructor brought this along a few days ago to screen fire prevention educational content down in the villages — he left it with me. I just downloaded a great film. Come on, let’s watch it together.”

The others shrugged. “Not interested.”

Zhao Guo looked toward Lin Luxiao. The latter was lying on his bed fully clothed, holding a copy of Military Theory.

“Luxiao, are you watching?”

Lin Luxiao glanced up briefly, then lowered his head again. “You all go ahead,” he said evenly.

Zhao Guo kept at it. “It’s a fantastic film! The reviews online are incredible! It’s He Zhengping’s final masterpiece — his New Year’s release. The theaters were packed to bursting, supposedly. And I hear there’s a girl in it with enormous — are you watching or not?”

The key point: enormous.

The others: “Fine, put it on.”

Zhao Guo cheerfully went to set it up.

Lin Luxiao kept his head down over his military theory text and didn’t look up even once.

He Zhengping’s films never went too far in terms of suggestive content. The girl’s figure was indeed impressive — it was just tastefully concealed. Liu Yingying wore a qipao throughout, so there wasn’t much scenery to speak of, though every now and then the qipao parted enough to reveal a flash of leg, which left plenty to the imagination.

Especially the scene where she and the general rode on horseback together, the horse bouncing along with every stride.

The others: the figure really is remarkable — who is this woman?

Zhao Guo had no idea — he never remembered the names of actors. “Who cares who she is, just keep your eyes on screen!”

Then came the film’s one and only intimate scene. “Intimate” was perhaps overstating it — a curtain was lowered, and two silhouettes were cast upon it.

Beep.

The lights went out.

“Damn, she slept with the pretty-boy lead?!”

Lin Luxiao instinctively looked up from his book. His gaze swept the screen — and landed on Nan Chu’s face, lit by the projector to a glow of red lips and white teeth.

That deep teal qipao suited her perfectly, her figure sinuous and bewitching.

The next second.

The projector was yanked off.

“All of you, go to sleep!”