Chapter 15: Sister, I

Hengdian, small grove

“…”

Qin Lan still couldn’t believe it; she glanced at the script again, then looked at Yu Yanli in confusion: “Are you sure you’re playing Yuwen Chengdu?”

Yu Yanli pointed at the lines on the script: “Isn’t it written right here?”

“But…”

Qin Lan stared at the dialogue, struggling to find a polite and appropriate way to describe it, finally blurted out:

“You really don’t pick roles.”

Yu Yanli sighed: “Just trying to make a living. The contract’s signed—I can’t just run away. Newcomers like me? Just being cast is a blessing.”

Hearing this, Qin Lan nodded with a sense of shared understanding.

Yuwen Chengdu wasn’t much of a role, but the character she played in “My Fair Princess 3,” Zhihua, wasn’t any better.

Outwardly frail, kind, and pitiful; inwardly cunning, cruel, and ruthless.

As for Qin Lan herself, she disliked the character intensely—even hated it.

Playing her felt unnatural: Zhihua spoke in an artificial, calculating way, utterly unlike Qin Lan’s own straightforward and cheerful personality.

But as a newcomer, Qin Lan had no choice. Even though she disliked Zhihua, she was secretly grateful and cherished the opportunity to act in Qiong Yao’s drama.

Qin Lan used herself as an example to comfort Yu Yanli, who then realized Qin Lan was also playing a villain.

Having seen Qin Lan’s costume in previous dramas—delicate and gentle—Yu Yanli had always assumed she played characters like Ziwei or Qing’er.

“We’re both fallen souls.”

Yu Yanli’s remark struck a chord with Qin Lan, stirring gentle ripples in her heart.

Both newcomers. Both playing roles they hated. Both sharing the same situation and emotions. And now, meeting repeatedly here and now.

With so much fate between them, could they really be just friends?

Yu Yanli didn’t know Qin Lan’s inner thoughts—he was focused mostly on the rehearsal.

The scene he needed to practice with Qin Lan was the one where Li Rongrong’s lines were being queued up—the part of Yuwen Chengdu he found most troubling and awkward.

As a film newcomer, Yu Yanli had little practical shooting experience.

In school, he’d played minor thugs who harassed women, but no teacher had ever taught—or dared to teach—how to portray a lecherous instructor leading a line.

So, facing this uncertain “big scene” for the first time, Yu Yanli resorted to his own clumsy method.

Practice it over and over until he knew it inside out.

This was a habit he’d formed at Beijing Film Academy: for any difficult skit or exam, he rehearsed repeatedly, refined endlessly, and grew more confident with each run.

So before approaching Qin Lan, Yu Yanli had already practiced this scene many times alone, even rehearsed with others—like Wang Xiu.

But this kind of scene still needed a female actor’s feedback and interaction.

Facing Wang Xiu’s bushy-bearded round face—and considering his sexual orientation—Yu Yanli simply couldn’t get into character.

The other female actors in “Sui Tang Heroes” were strangers to him, and this scene was too embarrassing to ask for help. If rumors spread, he’d be finished in the crew.

So he thought of Qin Lan.

First, they were at least friends—he could ask her without too much awkwardness.

Second, Qin Lan wasn’t part of the “Sui Tang Heroes” crew; at worst, she’d tease him privately, and it wouldn’t reach the set.

After prompting Qin Lan to familiarize herself with the script, Yu Yanli prepared to begin rehearsing.

Before speaking, he carefully scanned the surroundings, checking for anyone nearby or passing by.

Embarrassment was secondary—these lines were too explosive. He feared she’d misunderstand and think it was an assault, maybe even call the police.

…

The scene’s backstory: the female lead, Li Rongrong, failed to assassinate Yang Guang and was sentenced to death.

Before the execution, Yuwen Chengdu, captivated by her beauty, went to the prison and, with a mindset of frugality and avoiding waste, lined up his men to take turns.

Qin Lan leaned against a tree, pretending to be bound to the execution rack, feigning bravery—but her eyes betrayed her: she looked more like she was playing.

Yu Yanli, by contrast, was far more immersed: he designed a hand-on-sword gesture, nailed every detail, stood beside Qin Lan, and leered at her with a lascivious, greedy, lustful gaze.

“The Emperor was right—such a beautiful woman, if killed, would be a waste of heaven’s gift.”

As he delivered the line, he added motion: he gripped Qin Lan’s chin and turned her face toward him, his fingers brushing lightly.

Hmm, smooth.

Since this was a rehearsal, Yu Yanli didn’t apply pressure; Qin Lan cooperated well—she turned her head the moment he moved, blinking her big eyes at him.

Yu Yanli: “…”

Too cooperative. At this point, the heroine should be angry, even struggling.

But she was helping him—he couldn’t demand more. A rough approximation was enough.

Though Qin Lan wasn’t fully in character, she still remembered her lines: “What do you want?”

“What do I want?”

Yu Yanli sneered, his gaze openly predatory: “I, Yuwen Chengdu, hate wasting things…”

After a few lines, the queueing began—General Yuwen Chengdu, of course, took the first turn.

Finally, the real moment arrived. Qin Lan reacted: her face flushed with fear: “You… you guys aren’t human! Help!”

“Call out. Scream louder.”

Yu Yanli wrapped both hands around Qin Lan’s neck, leaned in close, inhaled deeply at her throat, his face twisted with evil and ecstasy.

“I, Yuwen Chengdu, despise begging. Ha ha.”

In Yu Yanli’s vision, Qin Lan should have been furious, desperate, terrified—her body and face writhing as he approached, forcing him to press forward, heightening the tension.

At first, Qin Lan did well, struggling a bit—but then, somewhere in the middle, her movements gradually weakened.

When Yu Yanli sensed something was off, he released her and looked up—her face was flushed, her beautiful eyes shimmering with moisture.

“…”

Yu Yanli couldn’t help rubbing his head: “Sister, I’m the villain oppressing the innocent—don’t make it look like flirting, okay?”

“Who’s flirting with you?!”

Qin Lan, furious and embarrassed, stomped her foot toward his, but no matter how angry she acted, the redness on her cheeks refused to fade.

Seeing this, Yu Yanli offered: “Maybe we should just drop it. This scene’s a bit too bold—I’ll find someone else to practice with.”

“No.”

Qin Lan immediately objected, then realized her reaction was too strong and tried to backtrack.

“I can’t just eat your food without helping. I promised—I won’t break my word.”

Yu Yanli hesitated: “You’re sure?”

“No problem.”

Qin Lan gave him an OK sign: “I just wasn’t ready. Give me a moment to collect myself.”

Seeing her determination, Yu Yanli waited. Qin Lan stepped aside, took deep breaths, calmed down for two minutes, then walked back, nodding at Yu Yanli.

“I’m ready.”

“Shall I start again?”

“Go ahead.”

After restarting, Qin Lan’s performance improved noticeably—she was clearly more in character, and it pulled Yu Yanli in too.

Acting is like this: your partner’s cooperation matters. It can elevate each other. If one is a lifeless post, even the best actor loses three-tenths of their power.

“Call out. Scream louder. I, Yuwen Chengdu…”

Yu Yanli grew more animated, pressing his face against Qin Lan’s neck, nuzzling. Qin Lan responded well at first—fearful, struggling.

But as Yu Yanli’s long, strong hands gripped her chin, his rugged, heroic face drew closer to her cheek and neck, nearly touching, Qin Lan could distinctly feel his warm breath on her skin.

Somehow, her body went limp, her face burned fiercely, and her heart trembled…

(End of chapter)