Nana Toki’s sword flashed like cold moonlight. It was about to pierce Chen Ke’s chest when the assistant director’s megaphone cracked the air like thunder: “Cut! Chen Ke! I want a deadlock, not a one‑shot by Qiao Wan!”

Steel halted mid‑flight like a hawk folding its wings. In the waterfall’s mist, the black‑clad woman spun a pretty flower of steel, then sheathed with rain‑slick grace.

“Heh. This is the award‑winning Wushu major? What a joke,” she said, voice like frost over a stream.

Suspended by wire, her pressure hung like a storm cloud. Nana Toki dropped steady as a falling leaf and looked at Chen Ke with eyes that sliced like wind.

Chen Ke’s face went ugly, then white as paper. For a heartbeat, fear crashed through him like a wave—he thought that prop sword would really take his life.

“If you can’t hack it, swap in your stunt double,” she said, smile like a blade’s reflection. “At least they’ve got basics. I won’t KO them in one move.”

She twisted the knife with sugar on it. “I’d hate to misjudge my strength and ding you up, delay the shoot,” she added, breeze‑light, thunder‑dark.

Inside and out of the set, silence fell like a sheet of snow. In this circle, only Qiao Wan dared suggest Chen Ke use a double.

The fight choreographer watched through the monitor, eyes like a whetstone. Her moves were the real thing, not Chen Ke’s ribbon‑bright stage flurries. They were kill‑cuts.

Who opens a scene by driving a blade straight at the heart? That wasn’t a drawn‑out duel. That was a viper strike.

“Heh. I messed up once. It’s not that serious. Run it a few more times and it’ll pass,” Chen Ke said, stiff as dried bamboo, pride brittle as porcelain.

“I’m fine either way,” Nana Toki replied, lazy as a cat in sun. “I just worry your twiggy arms might bump and bruise. Right, Assistant Director?”

“…” The assistant director swallowed, sweat like dew. Don’t drag me into your storm.

They rested, then rolled cameras again. The moment action cracked like lightning, Nana Toki went full fire—no scabbard, no mercy.

Her prop sword moved like it had eyes, slipping through blind angles like water seeking cracks. Prop or not, the strikes bit like hail.

She picked spots no one would see—under ribs, behind the arm—rain on shadow, pain without mark. Several takes later, Chen Ke barely kept afloat.

His body was leaden, tide‑dragged, every muscle sour as unripe fruit. Her hits landed heavy as stones, yet never bloomed into bruises. He had no excuse to call cut.

“That’s it for today. Good work, everyone.” The assistant director watched the day’s haul, waves of fatigue easing. Satisfied, he let the crew drift like birds to roost.

He saw clearer than Director Zhang. Qiao Wan had beef with Chi Mu and Chen Ke. With others, her scenes were smooth as silk. With those two, she pressed like a mountain.

He’d tried to help Chen Ke and Chi Mu, but every time, Nana Toki cut him off with iron wrapped in reason. “I’m not here to be their foil.”

“This is my career. I take it seriously. If you’re outmatched, train. The sky doesn’t rain meat pies,” she said, voice like flint, point like ice.

Everyone present was a quick study. She’d laid it out as plain as daylight on snow. No one brought it up again; the wind moved on.

By the time the shoot wrapped, dusk pooled violet like ink—seven, maybe eight. Shuyao Qin left the film base with Nana Toki, head full of waterfall light.

That razor‑bright gaze, that flying hair like a raven wing—each detail hit her buttons like rain on a drum. Every beat sank sweet.

Mm. Turns out the actress I’m “keeping” has a breathtakingly cool side. The thought blossomed like a red flower.

President Qin suddenly felt that maybe being the one “kept” wasn’t so bad either. The irony tasted like wine.

“Qiao Wan, your acting’s amazing,” she said back at the crew hotel, voice a soft bell. “If I’m free next time, can I come watch again?”

“Of course,” Nana Toki laughed, spring‑warm. She pinched her little lover’s cheek, soft as fresh tofu. Shuyao Qin flushed, peach‑pink.

They strolled, stopping and starting like fireflies. After a while, they reached their floor and saw a crowd buzzing around their door, talk like sparrows.

Nana Toki frowned, wind‑sharp. She strode closer to ask, and caught sight of a familiar face arguing with the hotel boss, like thunder under a calm sky.

“What are you doing outside my room? Planning a robbery?” she asked, tone light, edge cold.

They’d been in the hall a moment already. People sensed two beauties like lanterns at night and parted like a tide, leaving a clear path.

The headliners had arrived. A good show was in the offing; the air smelled like storm.

“You’re the guest in 203?” The good‑looking man frowned, even his displeasure polished like jade. Shuyao Qin blinked, then spoke, voice tight.

“Chu Jinghe, why are you here?”

Huh? Chu Jinghe? The scumbag? The name clicked like flint. Why here?

Nana Toki was blank for a beat, then spotted, not far away, the Protagonist’s Lady. Clarity slid in like dawn. Oh. Of course.

He must be the patron behind Chen Yu Ru Shuang. No wonder the Protagonist Lady snagged the role like a leaf caught by the breeze.

She remembered the breakup “fee” he’d tossed Shuyao Qin like a bone. Pieces aligned like stones in a stream. It all matched the current.

No wonder he felt familiar. She’d seen too many pretty boys lately; faces blurred like rain on glass.

Tsk. Looks like the heroine just got discharged. The Protagonist Lord brought her back to set, maybe to sniff out who sent her to the hospital.

Perfect timing. She’d been wondering how to pass the night. When the leads deliver themselves, why not grind their halo till it squeaks?

In the crowd, Chi Mu spotted Nana Toki. She shrank behind the man beside her like a rabbit ducking a hawk’s shadow.

“Shuyao Qin?” Meeting someone unexpected made Chu Jinghe lift a brow, a ripple across still water. “What are you doing here?”

“What’s it to you?” Nana Toki stepped forward, aura rising like heat over stone. “This is my room. What do you want?”

“And you are?” His gaze cooled, then slid away like a knife changing grip. “Forget it. Name your price. I want your room. How much to swap?”

“Why should I?” Her smile curved like a hook. Her eyes flicked, unhurried, to Chi Mu behind him. “There are other rooms like mine.”

“You just had to like mine. Coincidence?”

“Because I feel like it. Problem?” Chu Jinghe’s stare was a winter blade. “It’s not like I’m taking it for free. Why be stubborn?”

“I don’t care about your little compensation.” Nana Toki tilted her chin, moon‑cool. “Tell you what. Buy the hotel.”

“Make the owner an offer, take the whole building. Then pick any room, and we won’t have to keep butting heads.”

“President Chu doesn’t strike me as short on cash.”

“…” Chu Jinghe’s silence was a dry laugh. Even with money, who buys an out‑of‑town hotel on a whim? Madness.

“You won’t? Then that’s that. It’s late, and I need to rest with President Qin.” She slid an arm around Shuyao Qin’s waist, a willow bending to wind.

She smiled at Chu Jinghe, eyes crescent‑soft, gaze winter‑cold. The temperature dropped like a shadow crossing the sun.

“President Chu, we’ve still got vacancies,” the hotel boss murmured, bowing like grass in wind. “Shall I arrange another room?”

“You really won’t give me this room?” His face darkened like stormglass. She seemed to know he backed Chen Yu Ru Shuang. Why give him no face?

“Are you deaf? I said no.” She spun the keycard on her finger, smile sweet, words poison. “If you don’t move, I’ll move you.”

She bit down on “move” like a tiger on bone. A chill ran through the onlookers like frost over water.

They remembered the afternoon—Chen Ke getting drubbed like a drum under rain. Qiao Wan might actually lay hands on Chu Jinghe.

“Touch me and see what happens.” He tugged a half‑smile and stepped forward, a wave rising.

The world blurred like heat over sand. In the blink of an eye, Nana Toki held a long sword from nowhere, tip kissing his throat like a snowflake’s sting.

“Gladly,” she said, smiling like a crescent moon. “You said it.”