Chapter 401: Jiang Ci, With Only One Costume
The meeting hall of the Haoting Grand Hotel was filled with nothing but oppressive low pressure.
This was the film set, yet it was eerily silent.
Gu Zhiyuan sat behind the monitor.
The cigarette in his hand had burned down to the filter, the heat making his fingers twitch.
But he didn’t throw it away, just kept staring at that small screen.
“Clear the set,” Gu Zhiyuan’s voice rang out again. “Except for the core creative team, everyone else out.”
The group of university students and miscellaneous onlookers who had been watching were ushered out.
Only the lighting crew, camera crew, and a few burly men remained on site.
Jiang Ci sat in front of the makeup mirror.
He was still Chen San.
Holding that worn-out, tattered script in his hands, he was mumbling lines under his breath.
He was smiling.
That kind of foolish grin of someone about to reach the peak of their life, about to see the great wide world.
“Scene 190, Take one.” The clapper loader’s hand was trembling as he clapped the slate. “Action!”
The door was pushed open roughly.
With a loud bang, it hit the wall, startling Chen San, who was memorizing his lines.
The veteran actor Wang Jianguo, playing Producer Zhang, walked in with a dark expression.
Behind him followed four bodyguards wearing sunglasses, and one other person…
That was a young man in his early twenties.
Skin so fair it seemed to glow, makeup meticulously applied.
He wore custom-made casual wear worth hundreds of thousands, holding a cup of iced Americano in his hand.
Upon entering, he first covered his nose with his hand, frowning slightly.
This was a genuine top-tier traffic star, the current hottest idol, Lu Ming.
A special extra cameo specifically found by Gu Zhiyuan, essentially playing himself as a “resource-backed star with nothing but a pretty face.”
Chen San hurriedly stood up, his knees habitually bending slightly again.
He plastered on an ingratiating smile. “Manager… Manager Zhang, you’re here? And this is…”
“This is the new male lead.”
In the script, Producer Zhang didn’t even give him a direct glance.
He pointed to Lu Ming beside him. “You can leave now.”
The smile on Chen San’s face froze.
“Manager Zhang… don’t joke with me.”
Chen San rubbed his hands together, his gaze shifting between Producer Zhang and Lu Ming.
“Didn’t we already finalize it? Sister Juan even said it was for… Besides, I’m already wearing the costume, I’ve memorized all my lines…”
“The investor added fifty million.”
Producer Zhang cut him off, his gaze cold. “That fifty million came with only one condition: the male lead must be Lu Ming. You? How much is your little bit of acting skill worth?”
Chen San’s mouth fell open.
A gurgling sound came from his throat.
He instinctively protected the script in his hand, then protected the suit on his body.
“This was given to me by Sister Juan…” Chen San’s voice trembled. “This is my role… I’ll even do it for free, just give me a chance, Manager Zhang, I can really act well…”
“Strip him.”
Producer Zhang waved his hand impatiently.
The four bodyguards swarmed forward.
At this moment, Jiang Ci’s performance didn’t use any technique.
It was pure instinct.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch my clothes!” Jiang Ci’s voice was hoarse, tearing like silk.
He clutched the collar of the suit tightly, the veins on his hands bulging.
“Riiip—”
The sound of fabric tearing.
One bodyguard pressed his head down, another forcibly pried open his fingers.
That was Chen San’s “skin.”
It was his dignity as an actor, his only hope of crawling out of the mire.
“Please… don’t strip it… this is my battle armor…” Jiang Ci struggled, tears and snot smearing across his face.
He was no longer that calm and composed Film Emperor; he was just a powerless, low-level insect.
The suit jacket was forcibly stripped away.
Then the shirt.
Buttons popped off, bouncing against the mirror.
Finally, Chen San was left with only a pilled thermal undershirt and a pair of loose suit pants.
He collapsed onto the floor, arms wrapped around himself, shivering violently.
A sense of shame, as if he had been stripped naked and thrown onto the street.
Lu Ming walked over.
He extended two fingers, picking up the freshly stripped suit jacket with disgust.
“Tsk.”
Lu Ming frowned, holding the garment further away, spraying perfume twice into the air near it.
“Smells entirely of sweat, how can anyone wear this? Director, don’t you have a new costume?”
This single sentence was more hurtful than the violent stripping moments before.
Chen San looked up.
Through his disheveled hair, he looked at that glamorous young man.
His gaze was hollow.
The light inside was gone.
“Cut!”
Gu Zhiyuan didn’t call it; it was Song Mei who shouted to stop.
Song Mei, playing Sister Juan, rushed in from outside the door.
In the script, she was supposed to argue on principle.
“Producer Zhang! What are you doing?!”
Song Mei pushed the bodyguard aside, stepping in front of Chen San, pointing at Producer Zhang’s nose and scolding.
“This is a role! Only he can play it! What are you bringing in a pretty vase for? To ruin my film?!”
“This is the investor’s decision.”
Producer Zhang straightened his cuff.
“Sister Juan, in our industry, money talks. If you don’t want to film, can you afford the penalty for breach of contract?”
Song Mei froze.
She looked at Chen San on the floor, at that once high-spirited “genius.”
Now treated like a pile of garbage, looked down upon.
Her lips trembled, a feeling of powerless anger.
Talent, in the face of capital, sometimes really isn’t worth a damn.
“Chen San…” Song Mei crouched down, wanting to help him up.
Jiang Ci avoided her.
He shrank back, as if afraid of dirtying Song Mei’s hand.
He slowly got up from the floor, picking up the schedule sheet that had been trampled several times.
It was the one he had specially printed this morning, with the words “Male Lead: Chen San” written on it.
Now, the paper was crumpled into a ball, stained with mud.
Chen San kept his head down, looking at no one.
Clutching that paper, he walked out step by step, staggering unsteadily.
As he passed by Lu Ming, Lu Ming was still holding the suit up to the mirror, checking the fit.
Muttering under his breath, “It’s a little too big, needs the waist taken in.”
Chen San paused for a second.
His back became even more hunched, as if he had aged ten years.
Walking out of the meeting hall door, he was on the streets of Yingshi City.
A bustling flow of traffic, a cacophony of voices.
Jiang Ci stood at the street corner.
Looking at the tattered paper in his hand.
Suddenly, he smiled.
The corner of his mouth twitched, the muscles near his eye jumping.
It radiated the absurdity born of utter despair.
“Cut!”
Gu Zhiyuan finally called for a stop.
He felt his heart was about to stop beating.
It was too oppressive.
No one on the film set dared to speak.
The young idol playing Lu Ming was so scared by Jiang Ci’s final look that he didn’t dare move, the iced Americano in his hand shaking.
A crew member wanted to go over and drape a coat over Jiang Ci, but Lin Wan stopped them.
Lin Wan was waiting.
Because she saw Jiang Ci hadn’t left his role yet.
Jiang Ci was still standing there, standing in the cold wind on the street corner.
He lowered his head, looking at the schedule sheet in his hand, his fingers gently rubbing over the printed words.
Suddenly.
He turned around. He didn’t head toward the rest area, but walked straight toward Gu Zhiyuan.
Those eyes were still lifeless, turbid and frightening.
“Director Gu.”
Jiang Ci spoke.
Gu Zhiyuan instinctively straightened his posture. “Wh-what is it? Was something not good about that take?”
“It was good.”
Jiang Ci nodded, staring directly at Gu Zhiyuan.
“But I think… Chen San shouldn’t smile at this moment.”
“Shouldn’t smile?” Gu Zhiyuan was taken aback. “Then what should he do? Cry?”
“Crying is weak.”
Jiang Ci raised his hand, lifting the crumpled schedule sheet before his eyes.
That was Chen San’s life.
Since his life was already gone, then…
“I think…” Jiang Ci licked his dry, cracked lips.
“He should eat this piece of paper.”