Chapter 392: Shocking! The Film Emperor Uses a Bundle of Scallions to Rebuild the Film Crew's Worldview!
Outskirts of the capital, an abandoned textile factory.
A cold wind swirled withered leaves, whipping them into a frenzy across the cement floor.
The filming location for ‘King of Extras’ this time was all about saving money and desolation.
A black business van drove straight into this dilapidated scene.
The door slid open.
Jiang Ci climbed out.
He wasn’t wearing any high-end private couture; he was still bundled in that military coat that made him famous backstage at the Spring Festival Gala.
This look, paired with the derelict factory building behind him, made him the spitting image of a migrant worker returning to his hometown.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the Film Emperor who had just dominated the entire internet’s praise.
“This wind is brutal.”
Jiang Ci sniffled, shivering from the cold.
He had imagined the film set would be in complete chaos right now.
Set assistants cursing, lighting technicians smoking, Director Gu Zhiyuan yelling through a megaphone—that was the daily norm for this ragtag crew.
However, no.
Jiang Ci looked up and froze.
Not far away, dozens of crew members, from lighting to props, were standing in perfect, orderly rows.
The burly guys who usually squatted by the curb picking at their feet were all dressed respectably today, some even with shiny hair gel slicked on their foreheads.
They looked at Jiang Ci with solemn, reverent expressions.
“Uh…”
Jiang Ci felt a chill run down his spine at this spectacle.
He pulled a few items of local produce from the trunk and nodded toward the head set assistant, Old Zhang.
“Brother Zhang, Happy New Year. Scallions from home, super sweet. Share them with the guys?”
If it were before, Old Zhang would have already sidled up with a cheeky grin to snag a couple.
But today, Old Zhang trembled all over.
He hurried forward and used both hands—both hands!—to accept the bundle of muddy scallions, bending his waist a full ninety degrees.
“Th-thank you, Teacher Jiang!”
Old Zhang’s voice shook, his eyes slightly red-rimmed. “You’ve worked hard, Teacher Jiang.”
Jiang Ci: ”?”
He had carried cement, carried sandbags on his shoulders; what was half a bag of flour to him?
“Happy New Year, Teacher Jiang!”
Behind him, dozens of people bowed in unison, the wave of noise shaking the heavens.
The corner of Jiang Ci’s mouth twitched violently.
He turned to look at Lin Wan, who was standing to the side with her arms crossed.
Lin Wan wore a black trench coat today, her expression also not great, as she rubbed her temples with a headache.
“What’s going on?” Jiang Ci moved closer, lowering his voice. “Are these guys possessed?”
“Pretty much.”
Lin Wan sighed and pointed at the staff members who didn’t dare breathe too loudly.
“The aftereffects of ‘The Lurker’ are too strong.”
“They think the current you belongs to the nation, belongs to the hall of art.”
Lin Wan spread her hands helplessly. “They’ve been frantically conducting a ‘hygiene campaign’ these past few days.”
“Even cigarette butts on the ground have been picked clean, terrified this ragtag crew isn’t worthy of you.”
Good lord.
Jiang Ci looked at the scallions in his hand.
So he had become the biggest source of pressure for this crew.
“Where’s Director Gu?” Jiang Ci scanned the surroundings.
Given Gu Zhiyuan’s usual nature, shouldn’t he be standing on high ground right now, directing the show with a megaphone?
The director’s chair was empty.
“Over there.”
Lin Wan tilted her chin slightly, pointing toward a corner behind the monitor.
Jiang Ci followed her gaze.
In the corner, Gu Zhiyuan was hunched on a small folding stool.
Unshaven, clutching a stack of storyboard drafts tightly in his hand.
The once great director Gu who vowed to make a film “immortalized in cinematic history”
now hung his head in dejection.
Jiang Ci walked over.
Hearing footsteps, Gu Zhiyuan instinctively tried to hide the storyboard drafts in his arms.
He tried to stand up, but his leg caught on the stool, nearly causing him to fall flat on his face.
“Jiang… Ci.”
Gu Zhiyuan’s eyes darted around, not daring to look at Jiang Ci’s face at all.
“The thing is, the script… I’ve been thinking, it still needs revisions.”
He stammered, speaking rapidly. “How about… you go back to the hotel and rest first? I’ll keep polishing it…”
Everyone around held their breath.
They were waiting, waiting for this “artist” to lose his temper, or to turn and leave in disappointment.
Thud!
A dull thump.
Jiang Ci let go, and the half-bundle of scallions landed directly on the muddy ground in front of Gu Zhiyuan.
Dust flew up, making Gu Zhiyuan cough violently.
“Cough, cough… Teacher Jiang, what are you…”
Jiang Ci couldn’t be bothered with explanations. He turned and ran back to the car.
A moment later, he carried out that blue thermal food jar and slammed it onto the monitor with a clang.
Click.
He unscrewed the lid.
An authentic scent of pork and scallion filled the entire film set.
Jiang Ci didn’t mind getting dirty, didn’t wash his hands.
He directly reached into the thermal jar, pinched a cold, slightly sticky dumpling.
“Open up.”
Jiang Ci commanded.
Gu Zhiyuan was stunned. “Huh?”
Just as he opened his mouth, Jiang Ci, quick as lightning, accurately stuffed the cold dumpling inside.
“Mmph! Mmph!”
Gu Zhiyuan was force-fed the whole thing, forced to start working his cheeks.
The dough skin was a bit tough, but the filling was generous.
It was that taste only a mom could make, the kind you only get when going home for the New Year.
Jiang Ci also pinched one for himself and stuffed it into his mouth.
Chewing, he cursed indistinctly:
“Don’t give me all that pretentious nonsense.”
“My mom made these. I’m asking you, is it delicious or not?”
Gu Zhiyuan swallowed the dumpling with difficulty, nodding blankly. “Delicious.”
“Good, that’s right.”
Jiang Ci pointed at the bag of flour on the ground, then turned and yelled at the staff members frozen in place:
“This is flour my grandmother milled! No additives! The crew is having dumplings for dinner tonight!”
“Anyone who dares not eat is disrespecting me, Jiang Ci! Got it?!”
This roar was brimming with genuine energy.
There wasn’t a trace of Shen Qingyuan left; he was the spitting image of the village idiot neighbor who came home for the New Year loaded with local produce.
The crowd was stunned for three seconds.
Set assistant Old Zhang looked at the bundle of muddy scallions in his hand and suddenly burst out laughing.
“Alright! Teacher Jiang! I’ll go borrow a pot right now!”
In that moment.
That weird atmosphere of “strangers keep away, the artist belongs on the altar” was utterly shattered by the scent of pork and scallion.
Everyone suddenly remembered—
This is freaking Jiang Ci!
The Jiang Ci who would sneakily play with props on variety shows, who would argue back with black fans!
Gu Zhiyuan sat on the folding stool, the taste of pork and scallion still lingering in his mouth.
He wiped his face; the inferiority complex that made him want to crawl into a hole just moments ago was choked down by a dumpling.
“Alright, enough howling.”
Jiang Ci quickly took off his military coat and casually tossed it on the ground.
Underneath was an old sweater.
He bent down, rummaged through the prop box, pulled out the ill-fitting suit jacket belonging to the character “Chen San,” and threw it on.
He adjusted the collar and hunched his neck.
His originally upright posture immediately became somewhat stooped.
The sharpness of the Film Emperor vanished from his eyes, replaced by a fawning look mixed with cunning and servility.
Jiang Ci nudged Gu Zhiyuan’s folding stool with his foot.
That “Shen Qingyuan” was dead.
What was alive now was the desperate-for-fame extra “Chen San.”
“Director Gu.”
Jiang Ci wore that infuriating, cheeky grin on his face:
“How do we shoot this scene? I just ate, I have the energy to get beaten up.”
Gu Zhiyuan looked at the person before him.
He took out the storyboard drafts soaked with sweat again.
His DNA stirred.