The next day, at Lixin Bank.

Kuang Zhilin walked into the office and set the stack of banknotes on Lu Shicheng’s desk the moment he entered.

“Young Master Cheng, Miss Wen had me bring this money back.”

Lu Shicheng’s pen paused. Kuang Zhilin unconsciously held his breath; for an instant the room fell so silent one could hear only the “tick-tock” of the Western clock.

After a moment, Kuang Zhilin coughed lightly: “Should I try to persuade Miss Wen to accept it again, Young Master Cheng?”

Lu Shicheng steadied himself and said calmly: “If she won’t take it, don’t send it again.”

Kuang Zhilin said no more.

Lu Shicheng signed a few documents, his expression composed as usual: “Since this investment money came from Wen Tingli, the profits should rightfully be returned to her. It’ll probably take Liu Menglin a few more days to bring over the contract — when the time comes, ask Wen Tingli’s opinion. If she agrees, the future profit share can be deposited directly into her account.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lu Shicheng fell silent again.

Kuang Zhilin sighed: “Such a large sum — I’d think even a film company boss like Liu Menglin would need several days to gather that much. Miss Wen managed to scrape it together all at once, though — in my view, this is quite suspicious… Young Master Cheng, are you still determined not to investigate her? Don’t forget, Miss Wen has already looked into your background herself.”

Seeing Lu Shicheng not respond, he advised earnestly: “Over these years, the Lu family has weathered countless storms, building up such an enormous family fortune only through the efforts of three or four generations. Just the tin mines and rubber plantations in Nanyang alone — countless people covet them in secret.”

He counted off on his fingers: “The local White Dragon Gang, the Nanjing side, the Northeast and the Shanghai-Wusong Garrison Command… All sorts of people come courting Young Master Cheng’s favor day after day — some openly currying favor, some shooting arrows from the shadows, one day persuading Young Master Cheng to donate airplanes, the next day pulling him to fund military provisions, using both soft and hard tactics, sparing no effort! It’s only thanks to Young Master Cheng’s constant caution that things have gone smoothly up to now — but no matter how careful one is, there are still moments impossible to guard against. I know, when it comes to Miss Wen, Young Master Cheng can never bring himself to be ruthless, because you refuse to believe she means any harm. But as the saying goes: you can know a person’s face, but not their heart.”

“Li Bingdi of Sichuan—” Kuang Zhilin continued, full of dread, “back in his day he killed no small number of revolutionary martyrs. To guard against assassination, he even brought bodyguards with him to the outhouse at night. Yet he died precisely at the hands of the attendant he trusted most — it’s said the assassin had once risked his life to save Li Bingdi, and lay in wait at his side for two full years just to take his life, finally succeeding in cutting off Li Bingdi’s head before vanishing without a trace. This case caused quite a stir at the time, and that was just the work of a few young hot-headed revolutionaries. If it were an agent sent by Nanjing or the Northeast, the methods would be far more elaborate — the honey trap, the beauty scheme, the self-sacrifice ploy—”

These words struck deep into Lu Shicheng’s heart; he suddenly cut Kuang Zhilin off: “Uncle Kuang.”

Kuang Zhilin choked back his words. Lu Shicheng gestured toward the mountain of documents piled on the desk, saying in a softened tone: “I still have a lot of work to do — why don’t you go attend to other matters first.”

Kuang Zhilin sighed and shook his head, but just as he’d risen from the sofa, he sat back down again.

“There are some things I’ve held in my heart for a long while now — since we’ve already gotten this far, let old Uncle Kuang finish saying it all. Actually, I’ve long felt that Miss Wen isn’t a simple woman. I remember when we first met her backstage at Gold Theater, she was still just a schoolgirl who’d cry at the sound of gunfire. How much time has passed since then, and she’s already become a peerless marksman? Who taught her to shoot? The night Young Master Cheng was in danger, why did she happen to appear at the White Dragon Gang’s abandoned factory at exactly that moment? Was it pure coincidence, or had someone arranged it beforehand? All of this proves whoever is behind her is no simple matter. Nanjing? The Northeast? Or even the Japanese side? Whichever party sent her, she’s worth investigating thoroughly.”

Lu Shicheng’s expression shifted, uncertain.

His mind right now was full of the scene of meeting her last night. Her tears hadn’t seemed to fall onto the back of his hand — they seemed to fall directly onto his heart, scalding, searing through him.

He’d heard her say behind him: “I love you!”

Ever since, all through the night, the warmth of her tears seemed to linger on the back of his hand; her voice filled his ears, keeping him tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

By now, his trust in her had shattered — yet deep down, a sliver of hope, one part in ten thousand, still remained.

Kuang Zhilin seemed to be asking him something, but the voice sounded as distant as the horizon; he knew his thoughts had drifted too far, and forced his mind back.

“Young Master Cheng, in these turbulent times, one careless misstep could sink the great ship of the Lu family along with you. Since you already know something’s off about Miss Wen, it’s not wise to keep contact with her — otherwise you’ll only bring danger upon yourself.”

Danger.

Lu Shicheng lowered his eyes, thinking to himself — Kuang Zhilin had always been swift and thorough in investigating people; once he started, he’d surely trace through Wen Tingli’s entire network of connections. No one could guarantee such an investigation wouldn’t alarm whoever stood above Wen Tingli — and whichever side she belonged to, once her identity was exposed, she’d inevitably become a discarded pawn.

And the fate of a discarded pawn was rarely good… whatever mission she’d come bearing, in the end, she’d never harmed him — how could he bear to let her face such danger.

After a long silence, he heard himself say: “Don’t investigate.”

Kuang Zhilin was startled. Lu Shicheng tried to calm his emotions, but a sharp pain still stabbed unbidden at his heart; he waited quietly for the ache to pass before saying, “I won’t see her again. You needn’t report any more news about her to me either.”

Kuang Zhilin felt somewhat relieved.

As he left Lu Shicheng’s office, Kuang Zhilin glanced back with complicated feelings, and saw Lu Shicheng, his arms resting on the desk, hands clasped together and pressed against his forehead, head bowed low, lost in thought no one could guess.

That heavy, gloomy atmosphere made Kuang Zhilin’s heart ache; he knew well that in all this young man’s life, the only truly happy months he’d ever known were those few spent with Miss Wen. Yet such good times were always so brief, slipping through one’s fingers in the blink of an eye.

He sighed bitterly. Ah well — such is life, rarely going as one wishes. When it’s time to let go, one must let go. He quietly closed the door behind him and withdrew.

After that night, Wen Tingli resolved firmly never to speak to Lu Shicheng again. Unlike her previous resolutions, this time her determination was harder than a lead weight, truer than gold.

She did quite well at it.

For several days in a row, she paid no attention to any news about Lu Shicheng — yet she couldn’t stop word of him from finding its way into her ears from all directions.

After the company accepted the Lu family’s investment, they immediately began rebuilding the new set. Liu Menglin took to calling Lu Shicheng “our company partner” at every turn, and made frequent trips to Kuang Zhilin’s branch office. Unfortunately, he’d miscalculated — however young Lu Shicheng was, he proved remarkably shrewd in business, and after several rounds of negotiation, Liu Menglin failed to gain even the slightest advantage.

In the end, both sides settled on terms drawn up entirely according to Lu Shicheng’s wishes.

On the day of the signing, Wen Tingli, standing outside Liu Menglin’s office, heard him roar in fury: “Swindler!”

Wen Tingli nearly burst out laughing — she never imagined she’d live to see the day Liu Menglin cursed someone else as a swindler.

Meanwhile, as the release date for Beauty of the Southern Land drew near, Wen Tingli gradually felt an invisible pressure building.

This was the film the company had pinned its highest hopes on — heavy investment upfront, a long shooting schedule, and during casting, to build buzz early on, they’d very nearly offended major stars like Yu Peiling, Xiao Diejun, and Zhou Manru.

For this reason, Liu Menglin and the others had long predicted this film must succeed and could not fail, or Gold Films would become the biggest joke of the film industry this year.

But everyone knew — no matter how many films a company had produced, or how skilled they were at guessing public taste, in the end there was no way to predict whether a film would sell.

Success or failure — it was entirely up to fate.

Under the influence of this tense atmosphere, Wen Tingli, who never had trouble sleeping, actually found herself sleepless a few nights.

Before long, it was the eve of the release.

That day happened to fall on the fifth day of the first lunar month; Liu Menglin and Huang Yuanshan led the crew to pay a New Year’s visit to Weng Weiyue, vice chairman of the Film Association. Weng Weiyue was a veteran producer and also a well-known film critic, long holding considerable sway in literary and artistic circles.

That day, as usual, the Weng residence was full of distinguished guests — among those present were Director Wang Lie of Yilin Film Company, the president of Hu Chun Daily, Boss Li of the New Guiyuan Opera House… and of course, the most conspicuous of all, the great star Yu Peiling.

She sat by the piano in the parlor, her every movement seeming to draw everyone’s attention. Her manager, a man named Chen Maoqing, was also there, currently busy chatting with Director Wang Lie.

“Old Weng, happy New Year.” Liu Menglin led the group forward.

The guests in the parlor rose one by one to greet them: “Boss Liu, Director Huang, I hear you have another new film releasing? Congratulations, wishing you a great success in advance.”

Liu Menglin cupped his hands in return: “Thank you all for your kind words. Premieres tomorrow night — everyone, please do come support us.”

Someone pointed at Wen Tingli: “Is this the leading lady your company finally settled on? Her name is—”

“Miss Wen Tingli.” Huang Yuanshan proudly patted Wen Tingli’s shoulder. “A newcomer, but tremendously talented. Our company thinks very highly of her — she’s just a bit inexperienced still, so I hope you seniors will give her plenty of guidance.”

Someone let out a snort of laughter.

Wen Tingli turned toward the sound, but unfortunately there were too many people around, and she couldn’t tell who had made the noise.

After tea was served, Huang Yuanshan and Liu Menglin each went off to chat with friends, leaving Wen Tingli alone in a corner. Fortunately, this didn’t faze her — her eyes sparkled as she looked for opportunities to make new acquaintances, but tonight, for once, she who was usually so skilled at striking up conversation kept hitting walls. Every time she tried to join in on a conversation, the other party would somehow always find a way to avoid her.

At first Wen Tingli thought it was just her imagination, but gradually she realized this group simply didn’t care to acknowledge her at all.

They formed their own circle, and she couldn’t break in.

Facing this kind of awkward situation for the first time, Wen Tingli felt somewhat at a loss. After thinking it over, she went to the washroom to freshen up her makeup, and on her way back, heard people chatting in the tea room.

“This little girl has no other talents, but she sure knows how to flatter people — look how she’s been sucking up to Old Weng.”

It was Chen Maoqing! He had a raspy voice and spoke quickly.

“So what? Doesn’t look like Old Weng cares to pay her any attention. In all my years in this business, I’ve never seen anyone nearly bankrupt a company the moment they debuted — I say she’s a living plague god. Bringing someone like that along on New Year’s visits, and Liu Menglin doesn’t even mind the bad luck.”

“I don’t know what’s going through Liu Menglin’s head, but doesn’t Huang Yuanshan still dote on this girl? Praising her as a ‘rare talent’ wherever she goes.”

“I’d say she’s a rare disaster star!”

Several people burst into unrestrained laughter.

“Earlier Director Wang Lie seemed to want to get acquainted with her — I pulled him aside right away and told him: if you don’t want to end up an unlucky wretch like Liu Menglin, better stay clear of her.”

“Maoqing, I heard a while back you were quite indignant that this girl snatched the lead role from Yu Peiling — you can rest easy now, I’d think. Everyone in Shanghai knows this Miss Wen’s nickname as the ‘disaster star’ these days.”

Chen Maoqing said smugly: “This is exactly what they mean by man proposes, heaven disposes. Liu Menglin just has no eye for talent, that’s all to blame. Our Peiling here is famous for making a hit out of every film she touches — a real little fortune star. And they insisted on making a big fuss over some disaster star instead — just watch, this film’s going to strip Liu Menglin down to his underwear, or my name isn’t Chen!”

Another burst of gleeful laughter followed.

Wen Tingli felt the blood rush straight to her head, but she remembered she’d come here to pay New Year’s respects to Chairman Weng — making too big a scene would only turn her into more of a joke. She had no choice but to swallow her anger for now.

But these words, however unpleasant, felt like a curse, etching themselves firmly into her heart.

She spent an unprecedentedly miserable evening at the Weng residence.

As the gathering broke up, Yu Peiling and Chen Maoqing were surrounded on all sides, as if the whole party had been held in their honor, while within three steps of Wen Tingli, there was no one but Huang Yuanshan.

Liu Menglin personally handed out tickets on the steps: “Good friends, tomorrow night at Empire Theater, bring your families to support us…”

Everyone agreed verbally, but the moment they turned away, most wore expressions of barely concealed amusement.

Wen Tingli saw it all, and it stung all the more for it.

That night, back home, she lay in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

In the past, the more others wished for her failure, the harder she’d have pushed to prove them wrong. But now, after all she’d been through, she’d gradually come to understand that so much depends on fate — timing, circumstance, and human effort must all align, and film especially so.

No matter how badly she wanted this film to succeed, it wouldn’t change tomorrow’s outcome.

If tomorrow’s box office turned out as poorly as Chen Maoqing predicted, would she still be able to act in films and commercials afterward? Probably not — at the very least, the label of “disaster star” alone would make people avoid her like the plague.

Yet there was nothing she could do about it now, except wait anxiously for dawn.

The next day, before the sun had even risen, the phone at the Wen household rang incessantly — it was Assistant Director Tan calling, saying two newspapers would be coming to interview crew members at eight o’clock, and urging Wen Tingli to hurry over to get her makeup and outfit ready.

That whole day, Wen Tingli remained in a state of constant, intense busyness.

By evening, she finally managed to change into the gown provided by the company, and, in full formal attire, accompanied the company’s senior staff, several producers, and crew veterans to Empire Theater for the premiere.

The neon sign for Beauty of the Southern Land was already lit up out front, the steps piled with flower baskets. The group, led by the theater manager, walked to their reserved seats, and before long, audience members began filing in.

Wen Tingli watched the screen intently, and the moment the title Beauty of the Southern Land slowly lit up on the curtain, she suddenly felt a cramping in her stomach, and rose in a fluster, saying to a colleague beside her: “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well, I need to step out for a moment.”

She dashed straight into the VIP restroom in the back.

She was too nervous — too nervous to sit there and watch the audience’s reactions to the film.

In that moment just now, she’d felt as though she were a prisoner about to be marched to the execution ground, her forehead burning, her legs weak, breaking out in a cold sweat — a feeling she couldn’t bear to sit through even a moment longer.

She had to get away for a while. Fortunately, there was no one in the restroom; she rushed to the mirror and turned on the tap, wanting to splash water on her face, then remembered her makeup and pulled her hand back, but her heart still wouldn’t settle. Instead, she pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes, breathing deeply.

Grown as she was, Wen Tingli never imagined she too would have a day of getting cold feet like this.

Outside, all was silent, but she had no mind to listen closely.

Right now, all she wanted was to get away from the crowd. There was a sofa in the dressing room; distracted, she walked over and sat down. Most of the time outside remained quiet, with only the occasional faint sound reaching her.

Wen Tingli sat curled up on the sofa, not making a sound. Strangely, no one came to use the restroom the whole time, and no one from the crew came looking for her either.

She had no idea how much time had passed when a series of strange sounds began coming from outside — like beans being sifted, or like a sudden downpour of rain. Wen Tingli stretched her neck to listen; the sound wasn’t brief, but persisted for quite a while without stopping.

Growing curious, and with a certain premonition, she slowly straightened up. The moment she opened the door, the wave of sound crashed into the room like a rising tide, instantly scattering her thoughts.

“Little Wen!” Someone came hurrying down the corridor toward her.

It was Assistant Director Tan, his face lit with a kind of wild joy.

“Stop hiding, quick! The audience has gone wild! They heard the leads were at the premiere and insisted they wouldn’t leave without seeing you.”

Wen Tingli’s mind was still somewhat dazed when Tan Guiwang suddenly grabbed her, and she stumbled forward, out of the room.

The lights in the hallway were all on now; the huge theater was packed solid with audience members. The moment Wen Tingli stepped into the light, someone pointed at her and shouted something, and then more and more people noticed her.

Soon, the crowd surged toward her from all directions.

Wen Tingli’s mind went utterly blank, as if washed clean, but suddenly a strange drumming sound rang in her ears, thump-thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump, pounding in rhythm with her racing heart.

It seemed a mysterious sound only she alone could hear.

Only later did she come to understand — that was the drumbeat of destiny, sounding in her ears.

Beauty of the Southern Land ran for seven straight days at Empire Theater, packed to capacity every showing.

Its second run at Park Theater and Hujiang Theater was equally sold out every show.

Then came the third run, the fourth run, the fifth run… (note)

Box office receipts climbed at an astonishing rate each day — five thousand yuan, twenty thousand yuan, forty thousand yuan, a hundred thousand yuan…

The level of popularity even startled Liu Menglin and the others.

The film’s influence wasn’t limited to Shanghai alone — theater managers from Beiping, Suzhou, Hangzhou, Wuhan, and other cities came to purchase prints to screen back home. (note).

Rave reviews poured in from every major publication, with veteran film critics offering assessments such as this.

【This film inherits the spirit of the New Culture Movement, using a delicate, everyday narrative style to tell, in tragic form, the lifelong experiences of a progressive-minded woman. The audience’s sense of helplessness and sorrow reached its peak at the moment of the lead character’s death; as the film drew to a close, everyone felt as though they had walked through an entire lifetime alongside Miss Nanqi, reluctant to leave even long after. This is an unprecedentedly successful literary film.】

【Lead actress Wen Tingli’s performance is divinely skilled — when she’s happy, her smile’s contagious energy seems to reach right through the screen, drawing the audience below into laughter along with her; but when she’s sorrowful, her fine eyes seem to hold boundless grief, moving people involuntarily to tears. Some audience members, having become so absorbed in the story, come daily to wait outside Gold Films’ offices for their beloved “Miss Nanqi” — for a new actress, this is nothing short of an extraordinary triumph.】

To keep up with the surging demand from all sides, the company worked overtime day and night — printing film copies, arranging interviews, holding receptions… endlessly busy.

Wen Tingli, entirely unprepared for it, found herself thrust into a whole new life.

Every day before dawn, the company car would already be waiting outside her home, not bringing her back until well past midnight. Day after day, she rushed from one place to another. Endless people to meet, countless gatherings, interviews she couldn’t decline…

Wherever she went to any event, she became the center of attention.

Some would call out at the top of their lungs, “Miss Nanqi!” Others would push through crowds of obstacles just to hand her a bouquet of flowers.

By now, Wen Tingli fully understood — a person’s success requires years of accumulated effort, yet becoming famous often happens in a single night.

Overnight, she had gone from an unknown minor actress to a red-hot star.

Her level of popularity far exceeded anything she herself could have imagined.