Chapter 382: The Greatest Sound is Silent, the Greatest Form is Formless

The image froze.

Jiang Ci remained in that sitting posture.

Studio One of the Spring Festival Gala, a place that should have been the most boisterous in all of China.

The hall fell abruptly silent.

The live audience was enveloped in sorrow, sitting motionless in their seats.

They forgot they were watching a program, fearing that even the slightest movement

would shatter the fragile dream of reunion that the person on stage had painstakingly built.

Backstage, in the main control room.

Technical Director Old Zhang was holding his thermos cup, his gaze sweeping over dozens of monitoring screens.

When he saw the image on the main monitor remain static for fifteen seconds, his scalp went numb.

“What’s going on?!”

Old Zhang slammed the thermos cup onto the table, water splashing everywhere.

“Is the signal cut? Is it a frozen frame? Why isn’t the picture moving?!”

This is a global live broadcast! Even a single second of black screen or lag would be a major broadcast incident!

The audio engineer beside him was also sweating profusely, his fingers rapidly checking the lines on the mixing console,

his voice trembling: “No… it’s not cut! All lines are normal! The backup lines are also active!”

“Then why is there no sound?!” Old Zhang roared, grabbing the walkie-talkie, about to order the signal cut and switch to a backup scenic filler video.

“What about the live microphones? Broken? Why is even the audience feed flat?”

On the audio monitor, the waveform line representing the live sound level was unnaturally straight.

“They’re not broken…” The audio engineer took off his headphones, staring blankly ahead, swallowing hard. “Director, it’s true… no one is talking.”

Old Zhang was stunned.

Just then, the data monitor operator who had been staring at the data screen spoke up.

“Di… Director, look at the ratings…”

Old Zhang turned.

According to past patterns, after a language-based performance ended,

there was usually a brief lull point, and the ratings curve would show a noticeable dip.

But at this moment.

The red line representing the real-time ratings was not falling.

It was rapidly climbing upwards!

“Channel-switching rate is zero…” The data operator stared at the glaringly red data line. “Not a single person changed the channel. Retention rate… one hundred percent.”

Old Zhang slumped into his chair, muttering to himself as he looked at the young man in the tattered cotton-padded jacket on the screen.

“Crazy… everyone’s gone crazy.”

…

On-site, first row of the guest seats.

Those seated here were all national-level artists, titans of the literary and art circles, veteran actors who had won awards until their hands were sore.

They were the most critical audience and the hardest judges to impress.

At this moment, an elderly man with a full head of silver hair sitting right in the center slowly removed the reading glasses from the bridge of his nose.

He was the former chairman of the Literary and Art Federation, having written countless widely acclaimed scripts, rolling in words his entire life.

He originally held a red plastic clapper used for cheering in his hand.

Clatter.

The clapper slipped and fell onto the red carpet.

The old man did not pick it up.

Trembling, he pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his Zhongshan suit and wiped his somewhat clouded eyes.

“Good…”

The old man’s voice was soft, heavy with nasal congestion.

“What a… Return.”

This sigh broke the silence.

The next second.

Thunderous applause erupted!

The audience in the back rows stood up, the audience in the middle stood up,

and finally, even those old artists in the front rows, who were usually the most particular about decorum, all stood up shakily.

Their eyes red, they clapped their hands with all their might.

This was the highest tribute to an actor.

…

On the stage.

The lights gradually dimmed.

Jiang Ci did not bow to the audience for a curtain call, nor did he engage in any emotional interaction.

He slowly stood up, placed the prop used as a “stool” back in its original position,

He was still that “son.”

He took one last, deep look at that empty chair.

Then, turned around.

Hunching his shoulders, he tucked his hands into his sleeves and, amidst the thunderous applause, silently walked into the darkness of the side curtains.

All he left for the world was a somewhat desolate, yet incredibly solid, back view.

Beside the side curtains.

Several members of the boy band “N-Code” were crowded there, waiting for their turn.

Ten minutes ago, they were still mocking this “recycling” program.

Now, the silver-haired captain stood rigidly in place.

He watched Jiang Ci walking towards him.

Jiang Ci hadn’t completely left his role yet, his gaze somewhat unfocused,

the high-altitude flush from the cold still on his face, not wiped away.

“Excuse me.”

Jiang Ci’s voice was a bit hoarse.

These two simple words made these top-tier idols, usually worshipped by their fans,

scatter to both sides in a flurry.

They lowered their heads, not daring to look Jiang Ci in the eye.

In the face of true art, all the traffic and packaging seemed cheap and laughable.

Jiang Ci didn’t even notice these people.

He walked straight through the crowd towards the man standing in the shadows.

Feng Gang.

He looked at Jiang Ci, his lips trembling several times.

But the thousand words that rushed to his mouth finally condensed into a single curse.

“You damn kid…”

Feng Gang rushed forward and grabbed Jiang Ci in a tight hug, squeezing his bones until they ached.

This iron-willed man, who always had the final say at the station, now had a trembling voice.

He patted the back of the cotton-padded jacket forcefully, his eyes red.

“I… I was just about to go to HR and write my resignation letter!”

He released Jiang Ci, pressing his hands firmly on his shoulders, confirming the person before him wasn’t an illusion.

“You brat, you really damn well tore a hole in the sky for me!!”

Jiang Ci, almost suffocated by the hug, patted the director’s back somewhat helplessly:

“Director Feng, stop squeezing…

Just as Jiang Ci was still tangled with Director Feng.

The outside world had already exploded.

Weibo’s servers, as expected, crashed eight minutes after Return ended.

While the technical staff were swearing and frantically expanding capacity in the backend, the trending chart had already been completely swept by one person.

#Jiang Ci Return#

#Don’t Catch a Cold#

#The Whole Internet Wants to Cry#

Opening the #The Whole Internet Wants to Cry# hashtag, it was no longer filled with fans’ controlled comments, but one heartfelt personal story after another.

“Office worker drifting in Beijing for five years without going home. Jiang Ci acted out me. That move of wiping the soles clean at the doorstep broke me.”

“My mom just called me. The first thing she asked was if I was cold. She said she watched a program and was afraid I’d freeze…”

This time, no haters dared to speak.

Even those marketing accounts that usually loved to nitpick all chose to remain silent with remarkable unity.

Because they knew, anyone who dared to criticize Jiang Ci at this moment

would be going against the emotions of the entire nation.

And amidst this boiling public opinion,

an account that no one expected made an appearance.

It was posted by “CCTV News,” with only a short line of text,

accompanied by a picture of Jiang Ci looking at the empty chair, his eyes sad and tender.

[The greatest sound seems silent; the greatest form seems formless. This is for our people, hearing the thunderclap in the soundless place.]