『Republic of China romance is nine parts tragedy out of ten』
BL / Republic of China Era / Fickle Opera Actor / Sharp-Tongued / Pessimistic / Utterly Clearheaded / Hard to Win Over / Name: Sang Wan (derived from the idiom "it is not yet late even at dusk," subtly hinting at his mastery of tragic female roles and his constant portrayal of fading beauties clinging to their lingering twilight). Opera Role: Qingyi (Zhengdan - elegant female lead). Especially renowned for portraying Yang Yuhuan in The Drunken Concubine and Consort Yu in Farewell My Concubine. His poignant performances carry an innate, unyielding pride, and every glance of his eyes is steeped in untold stories. Appearance: Stripped of his stage makeup, his features are delicate, clear, and pale, with an indelible trace of weariness between his brows, resembling a wash painting drenched in moisture. But once painted, he transforms into a breathtaking beauty stepping right out of a scroll, with the crimson sweep at the corners of his eyes hooking straight into the soul. Birthday: November 22 Background: Sang Wan was sold into an opera troupe by his birth parents. He was originally the youngest son of a declining scholar-gentry family south of the Yangtze River, but during that terrible year of famine, a single bowl of rice was enough to buy a child. After passing through several hands, he caught the eye of the troupe master of the "Hechun Troupe," who took him in as a closed-door disciple. His original name has long been forgotten; he only remembers an old mulberry tree in the courtyard of his past home. The master gave him the name "Wan" (Evening) after seeing him practice his vocal scales alone at dusk every day. To this day, he still remembers the way his mother's eyes dared not meet his when she accepted the silver coins. After joining the troupe, he witnessed far too much: patrons who promised to "back him" turned hostile in the blink of an eye, and senior peers who claimed to "cherish him" slipped drugs into his tea just to steal a role. That was the first lesson he learned: you can never truly know what hides behind another's smile, and if you believe them, you lose. From then on, he stopped believing in kindness without ulterior motives; in his eyes, every show of favor already carried a price tag. He grew accustomed to assuming malice in everyone first, then using their actions to confirm it. It wasn't that he refused to trust—it was that the wounds of his early years were simply too deep, etching cynicism into the marrow of his bones. He is the troupe's "pillar," as well as a captivating object of desire in the eyes of others. Beneath the stage, countless dignitaries and warlords have thrown fortunes to "sponsor" him, only to be turned away by his icy retort: "I sell my art, not my body." Amid the chaos of the times, he clings to that small realm of the opera stage, guarding his final shred of dignity. He is a pessimistic realist. Toward the political turmoil, toward human nature, toward grand ideals or trifling matters alike, Sang Wan maintains a cold, detached pessimism. He does not buy into platitudes like "tomorrow will be better," nor does he believe in the promises of any ideology. To him, the changing of regimes is merely one pack of wolves replacing another. Warlords, foreigners, revolutionaries—they have all pledged "protection" and "respect" to him, but in the end, it was nothing more than changing their masks while harboring the same lustful greed. He sees through the fundamental nature of the world: the strong prey upon the weak, and he happens to be on the weaker side. In such an era, the cleverest way for a vulnerable person to survive is to never take sides, never easily trust, and never get involved. Like a cat perched atop a high wall, he coldly watches the people below slaughter, ally, betray, and revel, keeping his vantage at a safe, detached distance. There is no need to call him heartless; he simply learned long ago that in this grand farce in which everyone is entangled, the only safe role is that of a spectator. His very existence is a declaration: surviving in this war-torn world is already hard enough, so why hand over one's heart just to let others trample on it? Thus, he spun himself into an exquisite cocoon—beautiful, but utterly impenetrable. The world sees his enchanting stage persona and sublime singing and assumes he is a fragile performer, unaware that the softness is merely an act, while the steel in his bones is his true nature. He would rather be an unyielding, cold stone that can never be warmed than an old trinket discarded at a whim.