The attitude of bystanders often reveals the true status of the speaker. As soon as Tong Shao spoke, the few people who had gathered earlier exchanged glances and quickly slipped away, as if eager to avoid getting involved.

Tong Shao paid no attention to them. His eyes remained fixed solely on Kang Yao, the intensity of his gaze so scorching it felt as if it might burn a hole through Kang Yao’s face. “You were already told there’s no place for you on tonight’s stage. Why are you still here? Are you trying to embarrass yourself? Or are you deliberately here to get on my nerves?”

There was a guardedness in Tong Shao’s eyes, along with an unmistakable hostility. Kang Yao found it amusing, and relaxed even more, taking the opportunity to examine the other man’s features—or more precisely, his appearance.

From what others said, even their classmates and professors back in university only knew that Tong Shao came from a wealthy family, while Kang Yao came from a humble background. The two had often clashed professionally, but few knew that beyond their rivalry, they actually shared something much deeper—they had the same father.

They were half-brothers, born of different mothers.

Unfortunately, one was the child of a college fling, born out of wedlock to a fellow student, while the other was a little prince, the beloved son from their father’s later marriage, when he married into a wealthy family and took on his wife’s surname.

Their life circumstances couldn’t have been more different.

“Kang Yao” was born just half a year before Tong Shao, but their lives had diverged so drastically it was as if they belonged to two separate worlds.

Which wasn’t hard to imagine. A man who had used his looks to marry into wealth would hardly have defended this extra burden from his past in his new family. And the powerful woman who had accepted such a man into her home was even less likely to show “Kang Yao” any kindness.

After years of living under someone else’s roof, “Kang Yao” finally moved out of the Tong household in his sophomore year of college, choosing to support himself and earn his own tuition.

But for a dance major who was aloof and withdrawn, making ends meet wasn’t easy. Eventually, he was taken in as a stand-in and kept by Xu Yao.

Back to the topic at hand—when it came to looks, it wasn’t that Tong Shao and Kang Yao were identical. In fact, they couldn’t look more different.

Tong Shao was decent-looking on his own. He had trained in dance since childhood and grown up pampered by wealth, so he carried himself with a certain charm. But when it came to facial features, the difference was stark. Kang Yao wasn’t being vain—it was just that he’d heard praise from all corners of the world since he was young. Whether he was good-looking or not, people never stopped telling him so.

Kang Yao had looked enough. He didn’t respond to Tong Shao’s earlier jab. Instead, with a faint smile, he countered, “Is that outfit comfortable on you? I’m a bit taller—hope it’s not too tight?”

Tong Shao was momentarily stunned. He hadn’t expected such a strange, off-topic remark—laced with that sarcastic undertone. His face darkened. “That’s the lead dancer’s costume. It’s not yours.”

Kang Yao raised his brows slightly, looking genuinely surprised. He responded with casual certainty, “Isn’t the lead dancer supposed to be me? Since we were kids, in any place I’ve been, have you ever beaten me even once? I injured my leg, not my brain—you don’t have to lie to me.”

Tong Shao’s expression instantly shifted, as if struck in a sore spot. His face turned unpleasant.

From what he could recall, no matter how quiet or timid “Kang Yao” had been, when it came to dancing, he never backed down. Others would try to convince him to underperform and make things easier for himself, but he always refused.

Kang Yao was no longer that “Kang Yao.” The original might never have said something like this to mock Tong Shao—but the current him was all too happy to do it. With a malicious glint in his eye, he added, “No way, no way. Don’t tell me you really think, if it weren’t for my injury, you’d actually be able to win this lead spot on merit?”

Tong Shao was so furious that his muscles tensed, his voice brimming with anger. “It’s not like I pushed you! You got hurt on your own—why shouldn’t I be allowed to take the lead dancer’s spot?!”

It was true that “Kang Yao’s” injury had resulted from a sudden dizzy spell caused by low blood sugar—it wasn’t anyone’s fault directly. But Tong Shao had been right there, just a few steps away. He hadn’t pushed him, no, but he also hadn’t reached out to stop him. Even though he clearly knew that falling off that platform could result in serious injury.

Still, Kang Yao couldn’t be bothered to argue the details. He waved a hand and smiled, “Mhm, mhm. Congratulations. Make sure to dance your best later. After all, chances like this don’t come often. I’m giving it to you out of kindness.”

The word “giving” was particularly humiliating—light as a feather, yet it swept away all of Tong Shao’s hard work over the past weeks like it meant nothing. His jaw clenched with rage, and for the first time, he realized how venomous Kang Yao’s sharp tongue could be.

He wanted to retort, but Kang Yao didn’t give him the chance. He turned on his heel and walked away.

Leaving the fuming Tong Shao behind, Kang Yao’s mood lifted considerably. As he passed the dressing room mirror, he stopped to adjust his outfit. His reflection in the mirror wore a simple white shirt—no accessories, nothing flashy.

Kang Yao wasn’t too pleased with this plain look. Fortunately, even without embellishments, his face and the physique he’d cultivated over years of ballet were striking enough. Even without elaborate costuming, he still looked far more graceful and refined than Tong Shao.

More importantly, the “main character” preferred his type—someone like a pure, untouched moonbeam in his heart.

Fine. He could bear it.

Kang Yao ran a hand through his hair, leaving it artfully tousled. Just before leaving, he cast a longing glance at the hairspray but restrained himself from picking it up and giving himself a few spritzes.

After leaving the backstage area, Kang Yao didn’t go far. Instead, he circled around to the entrance, where the formally dressed event coordinators were busy guiding the audience to their seats.

Kang Yao stood in line without a hint of guilt. When it was his turn, the usher glanced at him and asked, “Student from this school? What year are you in?”

“First year,” Kang Yao replied.

“There aren’t any reserved seats for freshmen,” the usher said. “You’ll need a ticket.”

Kang Yao blinked innocently, his voice calm and unbothered. “I have one—I just left it in my dorm.”

Hearing that, the usher looked even more distressed than him. “How could you forget your ticket? The show’s starting in ten minutes. Is there time to go back for it? What’s your name? I’ll check the list.”

“Tong Shao,” Kang Yao answered smoothly.

The usher only had a list of names and details—no photos. After confirming the name belonged to a student in the dance department and giving Kang Yao a quick once-over, he nodded and let him through, pointing out the seat.

Kang Yao walked right in and took Tong Shao’s seat without a shred of hesitation. Tong Shao had a performance and wouldn’t show up for the first half of the show. Kang Yao felt absolutely no pressure playing the cuckoo in another bird’s nest.

Compared to the Xu family’s top-tier wealth and prestige, the Tong family’s name barely registered. This seat was decent though—he could clearly see the back of the main character Gong, Xu Yao’s, head.

With time to kill before the show began, Kang Yao leisurely tested out two new mobile games. Time passed in a flash, and then, the venue’s lights dimmed.

The graduation showcase of the C-Dance Academy had officially begun.

The school had spent a fortune designing a special holographic projection—brimming with futuristic vibes and an immersive atmosphere that was impeccably done. Only then did Kang Yao’s attention drift away from his phone as he took a moment to appreciate the spectacle.

Soon after the opening concluded, new performances began rolling out one after another. Kang Yao, however, had no interest in any of the carefully prepared acts. His gaze was fixed solely on that head in the center of the front row.

Roughly ten minutes later, his target moved. Xu Yao’s tall figure stood up and began making his way out. The faint glow from his phone screen suggested he was heading out to take a call.

Kang Yao’s lips curled into a smile, suppressing the urge itching beneath his calm expression. He got up as well and murmured to the person beside him, “Excuse me, sorry—let me through.”

He made his way down the aisle, his pace calculated to perfection.

Just as Xu Yao was about to pass through the hallway, Kang Yao stepped out ahead—right on cue—colliding into him with pinpoint accuracy.

A dull thud.

Xu Yao crashed straight into the figure emerging from the back row. The impact struck his shoulder, and his phone slipped from his fingertips, flung forward by the force. It hit the floor in the dark, and its screen dimmed instantly.

The irritation Xu Yao had been holding in for the past hour suddenly found the perfect excuse to surface. His brows furrowed tight, and he took a deep breath to stop himself from snapping then and there.

He never should’ve come here.

This had nothing to do with anyone else—Xu Yao had been irritated from the moment he arrived at the venue.

C Film Academy was Lai Xingwei’s alma mater, not his. He had just returned from abroad and taken over his father’s company, MaxStar Media, barely a few days ago. His hands were full, so much so that he didn’t even have time to sit down for a proper meal, let alone the headspace to attend some graduation performance.

But Lai Xingwei just had to call him during this time, saying he wanted to discuss the purchase of some rights and needed to meet in person.

Xu Yao had been trying to break away from the usual formulas and personally build a few top-tier IPs, so he forced himself to carve out time for Lai Xingwei. But after meeting up, he was abruptly told that they were going to watch a performance tonight—and just like that, he got dragged here to C Film Academy.

Xu Yao and Lai Xingwei had grown up together. He knew exactly what that guy was scheming without even needing to guess.

It wasn’t about the performance.

It was clearly because Lai Xingwei had taken a liking to some student from C Film recently and wanted Xu Yao to see them—hoping he could pull some strings and get them signed into the company.

Since the show began, several calls had already come through on Xu Yao’s phone, but Lai Xingwei kept shamelessly rejecting them for him. He’d finally had enough and stepped out to take a call, only to miss it anyway.

Stifling his frustration, Xu Yao lowered his head to pick up his phone. But before he could touch it, a hand reached out and picked it up in front of him.

“Sorry—hopefully it didn’t break,” said a young male voice.

Xu Yao took the phone from him, barely sparing a glance. But just as the screen lit up with a soft yellow glow, his eyes caught sight of a mole on the left corner of the boy’s upper lip.

The placement of that mole was simply too perfect. Even a slight shift in position, and it wouldn’t have had such a captivating effect.

But it just so happened to be exactly there—a spot that made one feel both a sense of detachment and something faintly suggestive. So much so that it flung open the doors of memory, and instead of anger, a far stronger wave of emotion surged up and swallowed Xu Yao whole.

“…Yan Lai?”

As he called out the name, Xu Yao’s voice carried a trace of daze. But only for a moment. He quickly came back to himself and took a proper look at the other’s face.

It wasn’t Yan Lai. Truth be told, this young man was even more beautiful than Yan Lai—his features were so flawless that there was almost nothing one could find fault with.

Of course. How could Yan Lai be here?

In Xu Yao’s brief hesitation, the boy’s expression shifted subtly—just a flicker of displeasure, but sharp enough for Xu Yao to notice. Maybe it was his staring that made the boy uncomfortable. The boy gave him a quick glance, clearly uninterested in any interaction, and turned to leave.

Xu Yao followed half a step behind, intending to stop him. But the boy, seeing him follow, quickened his pace with obvious determination to shake him off.

At that moment, Xu Yao’s phone rang, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked down and answered.

It was his assistant. Once Xu Yao picked up, the assistant immediately launched into a report about tonight’s meeting. This was the call Xu Yao had been waiting for, and yet now that he was finally taking it, he found himself utterly distracted.

After listening for a moment, Xu Yao gave a few instructions, saying he’d be there in an hour, and then hung up. He looked again in the direction where the boy had disappeared—but there was no sign of him.

Xu Yao stood there for a while without knowing why. Eventually, he returned to his seat, but before sitting down, he instinctively glanced toward the row where he’d bumped into the boy.

One seat was empty. The boy hadn’t come back.