9

Taipei. Inside the building of the Xingye Control Corporation.

The building’s exterior walls were painted a pale gray. Its sign displayed Japanese characters alongside Chinese characters in bold lettering, symbolizing the contradictions and integration inherent in the colonial system. Women dressed in Western-style dresses and men in suits passed in and out through the entrance, moving about hurriedly and with focused expressions.

Lü Heruo emerged from a narrow corridor, carrying a stack of scripts in both arms. A trace of fatigue showed between his brows, yet his expression remained resolute. Behind him, a group of young men and women who had come to audition for acting roles stood in line, their voices rising and falling in the background.

“Next, please!” a staff member called out coldly.

A young woman walked in. She wore a light green qipao, her figure graceful and slender. Her eyes revealed an unmistakable mixture of nervousness and anticipation.

“Are you here to audition?” Lü Heruo looked up, his gaze settling on the young woman’s face.

“Yes.” She nodded slightly before adding, “My name is Su Yulan.”

“Miss Su.” Lü Heruo smiled and gestured toward the chair across from him. “Please, have a seat. Have you prepared an introduction or a passage to perform?”

“Yes, I have.” Su Yulan sat down, gripping the hem of her skirt tightly with both hands, as though trying to calm her nerves. She took a deep breath and then fluently recited a monologue from The Death of the Swan. Her voice was mournful yet clear.

Lü Heruo’s expression gradually became more attentive, and admiration showed in his eyes.

“You have a very good voice, and your delivery is full of emotion.” Lü Heruo placed the script on the desk, his tone expressing genuine approval. “But onstage, it’s not just about words. You also need to express yourself through your body. Are you willing to undergo training?”

“Yes!” Su Yulan’s eyes suddenly brightened, her voice filled with eagerness. “I’m willing to learn anything.”

Lü Heruo smiled and nodded. Without realizing it, he let his gaze linger on her for a moment longer.

10

Several months later. An apartment in the suburbs of Taipei.

The apartment was simply furnished. An old piano stood in front of the window, and posters for plays and operas covered the walls. Lü Heruo sat at the desk revising a script, while Su Yulan leaned against his shoulder, holding a booklet of theatrical dialogue in her hands.

“Heruo, I still can’t memorize this passage very well.” Su Yulan frowned and placed the poetry collection on the desk. “Could you teach it to me again?”

“Of course.” Lü Heruo smiled, reached out, and put an arm around her shoulders. His voice was gentle. “The emotion behind these lines isn’t anger. It’s a struggle against despair. Try to feel it from within rather than simply memorizing the words.”

Su Yulan nodded, closed her eyes, and tried hard to absorb what Lü Heruo had told her.

“By the way.” Lü Heruo raised his hand and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her forehead. His voice softened. “You’re making progress very quickly. You’re even better than I expected.”

“It’s all because you’ve been teaching me.” Su Yulan opened her eyes, a smile of affection and dependence spreading across her face. Suddenly, she took Lü Heruo’s hand. “Heruo, I really wish... that days like these could go on forever.”

Lü Heruo’s smile froze slightly. He turned his gaze toward the window, as though avoiding something. His voice grew low. “Yulan, some things... simply cannot last forever.”

Su Yulan froze for a moment, then managed a faint, forced smile. “I know... But at least for now, I want to hold on to this moment.” She gently rested her head against Lü Heruo’s shoulder. The two sat in silence, watching the sunset outside the window.

11

Inside a theater in Taipei. The night of the theatrical performance.

The auditorium was dimly lit, and only a few dozen audience members were scattered throughout the seats. The shadow of war hung over all of Taiwan. The days when cultural activities had flourished were long gone.

Lü Heruo stood backstage, his hands clasped in front of his chest, watching the curtain with a focused expression. Su Yulan stood beside him, unable to conceal her nervousness.

“This performance is very important,” Lü Heruo said quietly, turning his gaze toward Su Yulan. “You’ve practiced very well. Have confidence in yourself.”

“But... there are so few people in the audience. Does this performance really mean anything?” Su Yulan bit her lip, her voice revealing uncertainty and hesitation.

“Of course it does.” Lü Heruo’s voice was firm, and his gaze was as sharp as a sword. “Art is not just for others. It is also for yourself. As long as you stand on this stage, your soul is real and free.”

Su Yulan took a deep breath and smiled. “I understand. Thank you, Heruo.”

As the curtain slowly rose, the spotlight fell on Su Yulan. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage that belonged to her.

12

A street in Taipei, winter 1945.

The wind carried the lingering smell of the ashes left behind by the smoke of war. Pedestrians hurried along the streets, their faces reflecting a mixture of anticipation and unease. Streets and alleys were covered with proclamations and slogans symbolizing the new political regime. The slogan of the Three Principles of the People could be heard everywhere.

Wearing a dark Sun Yat-sen suit, Lü Heruo stood in front of the activity office of the Three Principles of the People Youth Corps, his hands tucked into his sleeves. Outside the entrance, voices filled the air as numerous young people eagerly registered to join, filled with boundless hopes for the new era.

“Mr. Lü, welcome aboard.” A young man in uniform enthusiastically extended his hand. “We need intellectuals like you here.”

“Thank you.” Lü Heruo smiled and shook his hand, but he could not conceal the uncertainty and hesitation in his eyes.