Chapter 11: Holding an Umbrella on a Rainy Night

After all, Shen Jixing’s team had a top-tier king in their ranks, and deep down, they still carried a certain pride. They hardly ever paid attention to other artists in the industry. But Fang Siqian was an odd one. Odd how? In Pei Ming’s words: disgustingly odd.

When Shen Jixing drove up to the scene, he happened to witness Pei Ming being turned away by a YC staff member. The male staffer, dressed in a tight-fitting suit with heavy makeup and a haughty expression, declared, “Sorry, sir, our Spokesman said he doesn’t like being disturbed before an event, so no entry for unrelated persons.”

Pei Ming was speechless. As a thirty-year-old straight man, he almost had his arthritis flare up from the chill in the air. Frowning, he asked, “Can’t you speak properly?”

The staff member shot him a glare. “What? You say that again?”

Pei Ming had no patience for his broken English. He retorted with a phrase so pure in its flavor, “You are a first-class idiot.”

The staffer acted as if he’d heard something unbelievable, stamping his foot and gesturing theatrically, “You, you…”

But the man was already striding away with his hands in his pockets, not sparing a backward glance. His tall, hardened silhouette was just a bit masculine; he pressed his lips together and snorted heavily as he strode off. Shen Jixing casually tapped his horn.

Pei Ming paused at the sound, then walked over, surprised to see Shen Jixing. He half-shielded the car window with his body and lowered his voice, “Damn, what are you doing here?”

Shen Jixing glanced at the people outside the event. They were all gathered at the livestream entrance; no one noticed this shadowed corner beneath the trees. He countered, “How could I not come?”

After all, such a fuss had been made—wasn’t it all to get his attention?

Pei Ming sounded irritable, “It’s pointless even if you’re here. He’s prepared everything; our team can’t get in no matter what we try.”

Shen Jixing looked at him. “Knowing you can’t get in, why did you try?”

Clearly, he had witnessed the whole thing, his cool, detached gaze tinged with amusement.

Pei Ming grimaced, unwilling to recall the scene. “Wasn’t I just giving it a shot?”

He opened the passenger door and slid in.

With a sigh, he muttered, “Your rival really has some tricks up his sleeve.”

Even with a heads-up from their deputy manager, it was useless. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment scheme—the guy had been planning for days, even partnering with brands that had previously rejected them.

“Rival?” Shen Jixing raised his eyes indifferently. “I have a rival now?”

Pei Ming suddenly found that tone oddly familiar.

Xiong Xiong returned to the car, hugging a hot breakfast. He handed it to the person in the front seat, then took a moment to glance at Pei Ming, blinking his big, innocent eyes.

He said, “Shen, you don’t know Fang Siqian.”

Pei Ming was taken aback. Xiong Xiong had made the same expression earlier. That morning, when he hadn’t heard a response over the phone, he’d asked nervously and softly, “Bro, what are you thinking about?”

Could it be that, this time, Fang Siqian had truly gotten under his skin?

After a long pause, Shen Jixing’s voice came through the receiver, calm and unhurried.

“I’m just wondering,” he said slowly, “who is Fang Siqian?”

Xiong Xiong was speechless.

As for Fang Siqian… Even Xiong Xiong, the straightforward, simple-minded assistant, found the man irritating.

Fang Siqian debuted two years after his older brother, but chose a similar career path. To put it kindly, they were alike; to put it frankly—well, Xiong Xiong decided not to elaborate.

At that time, their team hadn’t paid him any mind. The road Fang Siqian took wasn’t smooth; he poured in resources but failed to rise to fame, always living in the shadow of Shen.

Then, two years ago, he changed strategies and created a “warm-hearted man” persona. He skyrocketed after being photographed holding an umbrella for a blind girl on a rainy night.

He gained a massive following of devoted female fans and successfully ascended to the top tier.

“Holding an umbrella in the rain?” Shen Jixing suddenly let out a soft laugh.

Xiong Xiong nodded, leaning on the seatback. “Actually, that photo was quite moving. The lighting and timing captured a sense of fate and redemption. Who wouldn’t like an idol like that?”

It turned an obscure nobody into a trending star overnight.

Pei Ming rapped him on the head. “Whose side are you on?”

Xiong Xiong clutched his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

A fleeting memory of a wet, shattered rainy night flashed through Shen Jixing’s mind. He lowered his eyes calmly, took a small bite of his sandwich, his lashes casting a sharp, elegant arc as he spoke in a faint voice, “Go on.”

But it didn’t get any prettier.

Logically, after making it to the A-list, Fang Siqian should have felt he’d finally made it. But instead, he started pulling dirty tricks—paying for a slew of negative articles comparing himself to Shen Jixing.

Shen Jixing was indifferent and aloof; Fang Siqian, gentle and warm. Shen Jixing was reserved and silent; Fang Siqian, passionate and sunny.

Pei Ming was so furious he slammed desks and cursed in the office: “He’s not popular, but he sure loves riding coattails.”

And Fang Siqian’s image was too well-crafted, so plenty of people defended him. Shen Jixing’s status was too high for others to challenge casually. In the end, it was always the paid shills who bore the brunt of the scolding.

“That’s it?” Shen Jixing asked in return.

Pei Ming repeated, “That’s it? Isn’t that enough?”

Shen Jixing placed his half-eaten sandwich back in its bag and took a sip of warm milk. His tone was sparse and flat. “I thought it would be someone more formidable.”

Wasn’t that enough? Silently gathering dirt on them, exploiting rival brands for publicity—he was more insidious than a swarm of flies.

Shen Jixing gazed calmly out the window at the live event, where a swarm of reporters waited with cameras at the ready. He said lightly, “Isn’t this just the simplest thing—envy, jealousy, and resentment?”

The words sounded almost mundane, but coming from him, Pei Ming heard a certain transcendence.

“What do you mean?” Pei Ming didn’t get it.

Shen Jixing leaned back lazily, shifting to a comfortable position to watch the live stream. “Exactly what I said.”

Perhaps, at one point, Fang Siqian had truly admired him—wanted to imitate his every move, walk the same path. But the world of fame was unpredictable, a place of drunken excess and hidden storms. Few people could hold onto their true selves there.

They only forgot where they came from.

...

Pei Ming wanted to say more, but Shen Jixing’s gaze shifted outside. “It’s starting.”

Pei Ming had no choice but to fall silent.

Xiong Xiong gently nudged Shen’s shoulder. “Bro, you only ate half your sandwich. Won’t you have a bit more?”

Shen’s eyes met his earnest, worried gaze—then darted away. He refused. “It doesn’t taste good.”

“…”

“Welcome, everyone, to the second anniversary gala of YC Jewelry!” The host stood on the outdoor stage, microphone in hand, speaking fluently. “Let me warmly introduce our one and only YC brand ambassador—Mr. Fang Siqian!”

Thunderous applause erupted.

A man in a white suit stepped out from the shadows, his black hair neatly styled, the sunlight throwing a silhouette behind him that gave them all a strange feeling.

This look—he really did resemble the Film Emperor Shen.

But the moment he stepped from the light, everyone sobered up.

No, it wasn’t him.

That face—perfect beyond compare—had never had a rival in the entertainment world.

Fang Siqian took in their expressions, his own face cold and brooding, clearly furious.