Wang Yibo’s comeback announcement dropped on Weibo at exactly 8:08 PM — a lucky, intentional time. His post was simple, understated, almost frustratingly subtle: just a clean photo of him in a traditional hanfu fitting room, long white sleeves draped over his arm as a stylist tied his belt.
The caption read: “新作品见。Romance genre. 请多指教。” (See you in my new project. Romance genre. Please take care of me.)
China exploded.
Wang Yibo? Romance? In an ancient period drama, after years of motorcycles, variety shows, dance practice, intense schedules… and absolutely zero dating rumors?
People didn’t know whether to scream or faint.
Speculation about his co-star kept trending for hours. Nobody got it right.
Because the moment the production studio dropped the official poster — your name shot to the top of Weibo’s hot search.
Wang Yibo as Li Qingxian, the cold young general. You as Yun Qianyu, the court musician forbidden to love him.
Comments went wild:
“YIBO in a romance??? I’m shaking???” “HER??? THEY LOOK SO GOOD TOGETHER BYE.” “If this flops I’ll fight the director myself.”
As usual, Yibo didn’t say anything else. He didn’t comment, didn’t reply, didn’t clarify. He just liked the post once and vanished.
Classic.
First Day of Filming — Hengdian World Studios, Zhejiang, China
Morning mist clung to the stone pathways like something out of a historical painting. Lanterns swayed lightly in the breeze. Extras in layered hanfu hurried around, clutching props and script pages.
You arrived in a pale jade costume, hair pinned with silver blossoms, sleeves embroidered with delicate patterns that shimmered under the light.
Assistants fussed over your outfit when you saw him.
Wang Yibo stepped out from behind the makeup tent curtains — and time paused for half a second.
His long hair was half-tied with a warrior’s ribbon, falling near-perfectly past his shoulders. His hanfu was white and black, embroidered with cloud-like strokes. A sword hung at his waist, as if he’d actually trained with it his whole life.
He looked like the kind of general legends were written about.
“早。” (Morning.)
His voice was low, soft. A polite nod accompanied it.
You bowed slightly. “General Li.”
A tiny curve touched his lips. “Not yet. We’re still ourselves for now.”
Before you could reply, the director shouted for actors to take positions.
Your first scene was simple — Yun Qianyu playing guqin in the imperial garden, Li Qingxian walking by without saying much.
But rehearsing with him was anything but simple.
When you positioned your hands above the guqin strings, he stepped into frame with quiet confidence, stopping exactly where the markers were laid out. Yet the moment his eyes met yours, something in his expression shifted — a flicker of warmth breaking through the coldness of his character.
“你的姿势很自然。” (Your posture looks natural.)
You smiled. “Thank you. You look like you’re actually from ancient China.”
He huffed softly — the closest thing Wang Yibo ever had to a laugh. “Hope so.”
The crew adjusted lanterns; the director raised his hand.
“Quiet on set. Ready… and action!”
The garden glowed gold under shifting sunlight. You began playing, fingers gliding across the strings with soft precision.
Yibo walked past — steady, composed — but then he paused.
Not scripted.
The script said he should continue walking. But he stood still, turning his head slightly, letting his gaze linger longer than the blocking required.
He stepped closer.
Only a little. But enough.
Enough for the air between you to feel suddenly alive.
His line was delivered barely above a whisper:
“姑娘，琴声…很好听。” (Miss… your music is very beautiful.)
Your breath caught before you answered, “将军过奖了。” (General, you flatter me.)
His eyes softened — not Li Qingxian’s. Wang Yibo’s.
Then—
“CUT!”
Crew members released the breaths they’d been holding. Someone murmured, “That wasn’t in the script, right?” Another whispered, “Why did he look at her like that…”
You exhaled, trying to regain composure. Yibo didn’t move away.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.