The Cold Queen is My Exclusive Little Snack - Chapter 25

With each autumn rain, the chill deepened. After several days of drizzling showers, time quietly slipped past the Winter Solstice.

Zuo Xingning still couldn’t figure out if she and Chu Shiyin had ever met before. If they had, when could it have been?

Chu Shiyin’s aloof demeanor made it impossible to pry any information from her. Asking Zuo Minglan yielded only a vague “I don’t know.”

As Zuo Minglan put it, “Once children grow up, they’re like free-range chickens—you never know where they’ll pop up next.”

The only encounter she could confirm was at the full moon celebration. As for whether Zuo Xingning had ever crossed paths with her Familiar elsewhere on Earth, she had no clue.

Unable to find an answer, Zuo Xingning had no choice but to shelve the question for now, hoping that one day her thick-haired brain might have a sudden epiphany, just like that bald-headed monk who could find enlightenment simply by sitting cross-legged and drawing circles on his head.

But even as the gingko trees shed their leaves and the days dwindled toward late November, Zuo Xingning’s “eureka moment” remained elusive.

Three days until Chu Shiyin’s birthday.

Zuo Xingning sat on set, waiting for her scene. The weather wasn’t yet bitterly cold, so she wore only a cloak over her ancient-style costume, its pristine white fur collar framing her face in a soft, fluffy halo.

She cradled her phone, replying to Chu Shiyin’s messages—or rather, sending them.

She sent photos of a stray puppy she’d encountered, a surprisingly decent boxed lunch, a uniquely shaped leaf, and a heart-shaped stain on an old wall.

These trivial details formed the fabric of her days and nights, tucked into the envelope of her photo album. After work, she’d bundle them up and send them via the “WeChat postman” to Chu Shiyin, waiting for her to check them.

The wait varied, sometimes short, sometimes long, with no predictable pattern.

Both women were busy with work, making it difficult to find overlapping free time. Yet Chu Shiyin always replied when she saw the messages.

Beyond replies, Chu Shiyin rarely initiated conversations. The only exception was her daily schedule, which she shared without fail. Zuo Xingning didn’t need to check; she always knew which city Chu Shiyin would be in and what activities she’d be engaged in.

If Chu Shiyin was resting at home, there was even less to say. Zuo Xingning simply had to open her phone to find fresh photos of Tuantuan.

During the past month and a half on set, their conversations had been utterly trivial. Yet every night before sleep, Zuo Xingning would pore over these messages again and again.

Chu Shiyin messaged today to say she had a play to perform on the 23rd and 24th. She asked Zuo Xingning for the hotel address, promising to have tickets delivered by a local courier in a couple of days.

Zuo Xingning sent the address as requested and checked the theater’s location. It was conveniently close to the hotel arranged by the film crew, less than a twenty-minute drive away.

The play Chu Shiyin was starring in was titled Ephemeral Bubble, and it was touring six cities.

Zuo Xingning had missed the first five performances due to her foot injury and filming schedule. This was her last chance to see it, but unfortunately, timing remained a challenge—

She might not finish filming by the 24th.

The reason was simple: recent shoots had been going poorly. Not only had the number of takes increased, but Zuo Xingning herself was struggling to grasp her character’s psychology.

No one blamed her for the delays; instead, they often came to comfort her when she seemed down. Yet Zuo Xingning remained fiercely determined, spending her downtime either studying the script or shadowing the screenwriter to probe her character’s motivations.

Zuo Xingning’s character was named Gu Rong, an assassin.

Gu Rong had been taken and raised by an assassin organization since childhood. After a decade of honing her skills, she had become the organization’s sharpest blade.

At seventeen, Gu Rong’s first mission upon leaving the mountains was to infiltrate the Martial Alliance’s headquarters, assassinate their leader, and retrieve a peerless treasure.

But she arrived too late, finding only a raging inferno.

Of the hundred-plus people in the Martial Alliance’s headquarters, only one survived: a woman in red robes hidden in the lotus pond. The woman identified herself as Fuyi, Miss Jiang’s personal maid.

The maid wasn’t her target, so Gu Rong let her go, as casually as sparing an ant.

The treasure had vanished in the flames, its whereabouts unknown. After days of fruitless pursuit, the mission was declared a complete failure. Gu Rong was imprisoned in a water dungeon for forty-nine days. When she emerged, not a single patch of unblemished skin remained on her body.

Knowing Fuyi must be the key, Gu Rong, clinging to her last breath, tracked down the maid and drew her sword.

Before they could exchange more than a few strikes, another group suddenly appeared, their target also Fuyi.

Gu Rong refused to let anyone else claim her prey. Within the time it takes an incense stick to burn, she had cut down all the annoying flies buzzing around her. But she had forgotten that things were different now.

Her wounds, large and small, had reopened, bl00d soaking through her robes, blurring the line between friend and foe. As Gu Rong closed her eyes, she saw only a corner of crimson fabric—a corner of fabric redder than bl00d itself.

When she awoke again, she heard Fuyi introducing her to others as her bodyguard.

It was just a playful lie, and no one took it seriously.

Yet, by some twist of fate, the words became a prophecy.

From then on, Gu Rong truly did protect Fuyi every step of the way.

Fuyi had nothing of value to offer as payment, so she gave Gu Rong a promise: to celebrate her eighteenth birthday.

The promise was never fulfilled. Gu Rong died just before dawn, at the age of seventeen.

The filming schedule of the television series deviated significantly from the script’s timeline. Gu Rong’s scenes within the assassin camp were concentrated toward the end of production.

This was the part that stumped Zuo Xingning. Before meeting Fuyi, Gu Rong’s most defining trait had been—

Her murderous aura.

A killing intent forged in mountains of corpses and seas of bl00d.

Acting methods generally fall into three categories: Method acting, Stanislavski’s system, and Expressionism.

Zuo Xingning was a Method actor. She could perfectly capture the subtle shifts in Gu Rong’s emotions toward Fuyi at different stages, but she couldn’t summon the character’s most chilling killing intent.

If the passing grade was sixty, she could only portray the early Gu Rong at a seventy at best.

Naturally, Zuo Xingning wasn’t satisfied with this. Yet, for the first time, the perfectionist director relaxed his standards.

The character of Gu Rong was inherently difficult to portray. During casting, Zuo Xingning had insisted against casting veteran actors to play the role of a young girl, already anticipating this outcome.

In fact, Zuo Xingning’s performance had far exceeded expectations.

For a television drama, post-production editing was crucial. With the right atmosphere and music, the final product could easily score in the 80s or 90s.

The remaining gap was left for the newcomer’s potential for growth.

Unfortunately, while the Director had come to terms with this, Zuo Xingning remained stubbornly fixated on perfection.

After replying to her messages, she handed her phone to Lizi for safekeeping, closed her eyes, and tried to immerse herself in Gu Rong’s mental world.

This was incredibly challenging. Born in an era of peace, ordinary people’s “killing intent” was usually directed at mosquitoes or cockroaches—pathetically weak.

To overcome this, Zuo Xingning had devised a “twisted plan”: she studied real-life fugitives, attempting to identify common traits and mimic their gazes.

“Xingning.”

Her concentration broken, Zuo Xingning opened her eyes and looked at the speaker.

Xu Yang, who played a minor role in the drama, was also her university classmate.

Although they weren’t roommates in college, Xu Yang was close to one of Zuo Xingning’s roommates, so they could loosely be considered “friends”—the kind diluted with plenty of water.

A year after graduation, their relationship had grown even more distant. Now, they were barely acquaintances, more like “strangers who recognized each other.”

Seeing Xu Yang call her name and then fall silent, Zuo Xingning took the initiative. “Is it my scene?”

“…Ah, not yet,” Xu Yang replied, snapping out of her daze. She avoided Zuo Xingning’s gaze and sat down beside her.

For a moment, Xu Yang had felt like she was being stalked by a bloodthirsty wolf.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Xu Yang forced a casual smile. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

“I am,” Zuo Xingning replied. Her scenes were only scheduled for the morning, a fact easily discovered through casual inquiry, so she saw no reason to hide it. “Why?”

“I have a personal favor to ask,” Xu Yang said, clasping her hands together and looking at her pleadingly. “I need to meet with a director tomorrow night, but you know how the company doesn’t really prioritize me. I’m always alone when I come to shoots.”

Her words rang true. In the week since joining the production, Zuo Xingning hadn’t seen Xu Yang’s manager, and even her assistant had only appeared on the first day.

“Tomorrow’s dinner… I actually secured this opportunity myself, it’s not a company resource. But I’m a little nervous going alone. Would you… accompany me?”

Xu Yang’s cheeks flushed crimson as she made the request, her voice tinged with embarrassment. “I know it’s sudden, but my family and friends are all far away. You’re the only person I know here…”

She trailed off, her gaze fixed on Zuo Xingning with cautious hope, her posture humble.

“Where are you meeting?”

Xu Yang named the venue, anxiously awaiting her response.

After a moment’s thought, Zuo Xingning nodded. “Got it. Send me the time and address.”

“Okay!”

The two had already connected on WeChat back in college, so there was no need to exchange contacts again.

As they finished their conversation, a crew member called Zuo Xingning to get ready. She excused herself, leaving with Lizi.

Xu Yang remained behind, her slightly long fingernails tapping rhythmically against her phone screen.

After filming these scenes, they could wrap up early today. Zuo Xingning didn’t rush to leave. Clutching her script, she glanced around, searching for the figure who should be near the Director.

She had a few new questions about Gu Rong’s character development that she wanted to discuss with the screenwriter.

However, before she could find the screenwriter, someone else found her first.

“Teacher Zuo,” a short-haired girl called out, dimples flashing as she smiled, a cup of milk tea in her hand. “Your friend is here visiting and looking for you.”

Zuo Xingning froze. A friend visiting? Who could it be?

Could it be…?

No way!

She nearly jumped for joy. She hurriedly asked the girl for directions, then swiftly removed her cumbersome cloak, cradled it in her arms, and dashed off.

Reaching the designated spot proved challenging. Staff members, each holding a cup of hot milk tea, were scattered in all directions, forcing her to weave against the human current.

Finally, after brushing past the screenwriter, whose expression darkened at the sight of her, Zuo Xingning stopped.

She had arrived.

She draped the cloak back over her shoulders, steadied her breathing, and squeezed through the crowd.

“Teacher Zuo’s here! Quick, make way, make way…”

Someone called out, and the crowd waiting for milk tea parted instantly, like the Red Sea before Moses, creating a meter-wide corridor. The corridor began with Zuo Xingning and ended with…

Zuo Xingning closed her eyes briefly, gritting her teeth. “Jiang… Shu… Qing.”

“…Yes, it’s me. What of it?”

Jiang Shuqing, clutching a hot water bottle, leaned back in her chair, her body tensing for a moment. “What are you doing here? Don’t say I didn’t warn you—milk tea is loaded with calories, you know.”

Ignoring her antics, Zuo Xingning strode forward. “Weren’t you the one who came to visit the set?”

“Xu Yang’s here too. Maybe I came to see her,” Jiang Shuqing retorted stubbornly.

“Oh,” Zuo Xingning crossed her arms, the hilt of the prop sword hanging at her waist nearly brushing Jiang Shuqing’s face. “Then I’ll leave?”

Jiang Shuqing fell silent.

An hour later, in a private room at a high-end restaurant near the film set, Jiang Shuqing lay slumped across the table, not uttering a word.

Zuo Xingning, unusually impatient, pressed her. “What do you want to say? If you don’t speak up, I’m leaving.”

“Then leave,” Jiang Shuqing said, turning her face away.

Zuo Xingning stared at her, speechless. If she hadn’t known how notoriously difficult it was to book this restaurant, she might have thought Miss Jiang had only come for the air conditioning.

Resigned, Zuo Xingning began to piece together the situation herself. “Could it be… you really did come to visit Xu Yang?”

And then, while waiting, couldn’t resist secretly comparing yourself to me again, leading the staff to misunderstand?

The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. “I’ll call Xu Yang over. There’s no night shoot today, so she should be wrapping up soon…”

Before she could finish, Miss Jiang straightened up abruptly, her tone sharp. “Why would I want to see her? Am I crazy?”

Zuo Xingning asked sincerely, “…So seeing me wouldn’t be crazy?”

Since both options were equally crazy, Jiang Shuqing fell silent. After a long pause, she finally blurted out, “Why do you keep bringing up Xu Yang? Don’t you know she hates you?”

“I do,” Zuo Xingning nodded readily. Her overwhelming popularity upon entering university had inevitably drawn resentment. “But didn’t you used to gossip about me with Xu Yang back then?”

“That’s a lie!” Jiang Shuqing’s face flushed crimson. “If it weren’t for gathering information… who would want to talk to her?!”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, making the last part of her sentence inaudible. Before Zuo Xingning could ask her to repeat it, Jiang Shuqing squeezed out, “Anyway, stay away from her.”

For Jiang Shuqing, this was already a sign of concern.

Zuo Xingning appreciated the sentiment, but replied, “It’s too late. She invited me to a dinner tomorrow.”

“You accepted?”

Zuo Xingning nodded and recounted the afternoon’s events in detail.

After hearing the story, Jiang Shuqing slammed her hand on the table, her voice ringing with conviction. “There’s a trap! It can’t be this simple!”

“Of course I know that,” Zuo Xingning said, resting her chin in her hands. “But it’s also true that the company doesn’t value her, and she’s all alone. What if…?”

Jiang Shuqing fell silent for a moment, then muttered, “You’re too soft.”

“Being soft is still being good. I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zuo Xingning replied, unfazed. “The meeting is at a Zhongli Family property. I need your help with something.”

Even if Jiang Shuqing hadn’t suddenly appeared, Zuo Xingning would have asked her anyway, knowing she’d agree.

“Why would you need me for a Zhongli Family property…?” Jiang Shuqing feigned indifference, but her tone softened. “Fine, what do you need?”

“Nothing much,” Zuo Xingning said, ignoring her theatrics. “Just ask the staff to keep a closer eye on things.”

Jiang Shuqing nodded. “Got it.”

“Now that I’ve finished…” Zuo Xingning glanced at her phone. “Shu Qing, it’s time to get to the real topic. What’s going on between you and Zhongli Yan?”

Jiang Shuqing froze.

Poof! She transformed into a blushing pink tomato. “Who said… who said anything’s going on between us?!”

“Oh, well then, I’m really leaving now.”

“…You can’t.”

After much hesitation, Jiang Shuqing finally confessed the truth.

In short, Zhongli Yan had been chasing her all over the country lately, engineering “chance encounters” every time she stepped outside.

After today’s show, Jiang Shuqing desperately wanted to avoid seeing his face, so she wandered around the film set.

But aimless wandering wasn’t ideal, and it was freezing outside. She asked a friend on the Fuyi crew and learned that Zuo Xingning had already wrapped for the day.

Assuming they wouldn’t run into each other, Jiang Shuqing brazenly used Zuo Xingning as an excuse, claiming she was visiting the set to pass the time.

Little did she know, she’d evaded Zhongli Yan only to be caught red-handed by Zuo Xingning herself.

Forced into the role of “emotional mentor” over dinner, Zuo Xingning ate her fill and returned to her hotel.

With an early start planned for the next day, she decided to rest early and recharge. After showering, she noticed two unread messages on her phone:

I’m here. Why did you call out and then go silent?

Are you done filming?

Both messages were from Chu Shiyin.

Zuo Xingning scrolled up to find she had sent a single message that afternoon:  Jiejie!  followed by nothing else.

At the time, she had naively assumed Chu Shiyin, who was visiting the set, had sent the message and then forgotten about it after being interrupted by Jiang Shuqing.

After a brief explanation, Chu Shiyin steered the conversation back to the day’s events.

I asked someone at the theater to deliver tickets for you. They should arrive in about half an hour. Don’t fall asleep.

Tickets… She really did want to go.

Zuo Xingning sighed and sent a voice message: “Let’s forget about it, Jiejie. I might not be able to make it, and it would be a waste.”

It wouldn’t be a waste if they’re for you.

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Zuo Xingning smiled and replied with a similar emoji.

Well, maybe I can catch at least a little bit of it?

Zuo Xingning didn’t have to wait long. Exactly thirty minutes later, she heard a knock at the door.

But even before the sound reached her, Xingning had sensed her arrival.

It was a mystical sensation, a stirring in her fangs and bl00d.

A strange fragrance permeated the air, tendrils of it seeping through the door’s cracks and into her nostrils.

Knock, knock, knock—

“Open up.”

Through the door, Xingning heard the voice that haunted her dreams, hazy and indistinct.

She rose from the bed, still unable to believe it. “Who is it?” she asked, checking again.

“A delivery person,” the voice replied with a smile. “Here to deliver your tickets.”